#mercy west forever

[beachy--head]

AU drabble set in season 9, because a) Mercy West forever, and b) both Jackson and April deserved to have friends they could confide in and that could have avoided us some angst.

___

He’s been an attending surgeon for a few months already, but Jackson still feels a little something when he sees his name and those of his residents class marked as lead surgeons on the OR board. Part of it is pride to have made it, part of it is just plain incredulity, like they’re all children playing pretend doctors for the day and are not old enough to be trusted with a scalpel. 

“Dr. Adamson.”

Next to him in the OR, Reed Adamson, old friend and brand new ortho attending, only grunts in response to his greeting.

“Hmph.”

Reed is often gruff, so he lets it slide, but she doesn’t say one word during their whole surgery, except when she answers the interns’ questions, and that is very uncharacteristic of Reed. Two hours later, they’re scrubbing out, and she still hasn’t said one word to him.

“Okay, spit it out.”

She gives him a dirty look that makes Jackson ever more annoyed.

“What?”

Reed rolls her eyes and turns to him.

“What are you doing with April?”

“What am I doing with April?”

“I spent last night at Joe’s listening to her rant, and she didn’t talk specifically about you, but the poor girl is so confused, and we all know it’s because of you.”

“Oh really?” he says sarcastically, because the last thing he needs is for Reed to get involved in his thing with April.

“You’re acting like children, and it’s going to end badly.”

“Because you’re such an expert in relationships and human connections?”

Reed ignores him.

“I’m just saying. Don’t break her heart.”

He stops rinsing his hands and shoots his friend an incredulous look, speaking before he can stop himself.

“‘Don’t break her heart’? How about she doesn’t break mine?”

Shit.

“What?”

Reed can be pretty perceptive (when she’s not busy staring daggers at you), and he’s just given her ammunition. Great. He has to backpedal, and fast.

“I’m just saying. Her heart is not breaking, she only wants sex.”

His friend is small, but fast. In one second, she manages to roll her eyes, finish washing her hands and whack him on the back of the head.

“Ouch!”

“Jackson. Are you actually really dumb and have been hiding it the whole time?”

“What?”

“How long have you known April? Type-A, neurotic, has-a-life-plan-pinned-above-her-bed April?”

“Isn’t she supposed to be your friend?”

“You think that suddenly, she’d be chill with a no-strings attached relationship? That sex with you is so good she’d throw away her wedding scrapbook, white-picket-fence dreams? I had to teach her what ‘friends with benefits’ meant, and now you think that’s her life goal?”

“I don’t know what she thinks, okay? It’s not like we spend our time talking, you know?”

Reed’s face contorts in a grimace of disgust.

“Okay, ew, no, I don’t know, and I don’t particularly want to. Despite what April is saying, I don’t need the visuals, thank you.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t know what goes inside her head!”

“Have you tried just asking her?”

“Have you tried talking to Charles about whatever it is you have with him?”

It's a low blow, but he's ready to try anything to change the subject.

“Leave me and Charlie out of it. Grow a pair and talk to her. We used to never be able to shut the both of you up. What happened?” 

What happened is feelings, very, very big feelings, feelings he’s not sure he’s ready to handle yet, because in his experience, people you love tend to leave after a while, and why would he put his heart in the hands of someone with the power to crush it?

Reed still seems annoyed with him, like she can’t believe her best friends can be so clueless, but seems to soften.

“You’re not teenagers anymore. I know you’re both afraid to ruin the friendship or whatever, but you’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later. Sooner would be better.”

Jackson sighs and passes a hand on his face.

“I know, I know. Thank you.”

Reed bends her legs in a mock curtsy, and he suddenly remembers something she said.

“Wait, April has been talking about me? What did she–”

“Talk to her, Avery!”

[seraphicsentences]

all mine (pt.2)

closeted/in denial abby anderson x reader

pt.1: you told me your new man don’t make you nut, that’s a damn shame.

please click here!

tags: sub!abby, dom!reader, experienced!reader, mentions of owen, tbh trauma from owen, strap-on sex, cunnilingus, 69ing, dry humping, grinding, nonexplicit masturbation, lowkey voyeurism+exhibitionism ish? there’s plot i swear.

A/N: im well aware that i apologize in every post i make and that its redundant, but im still sorry that i took forever to write.

so. some of this may sound a little familiar from the first part, but it’s simply just drawing parallels between abby’s and your stances on one another.

this gets gradually worse and worse. i think the quality started landsliding once i reached the smut. enjoy!

it’s been near ‘round a week later, and abby’s avoiding you like the fucking devil. in fact— by the way she’s been acting, you think she might even believe so. she’s never felt so inexplicably thrown off. clickers, bloaters… couple of well-aimed shots and they’re no deal. but you? the ghost of your touches haunt her day and night. she’s like a woman possessed. and she’s insatiable.

her once weekly visits to the chapel have become daily: hour-long stays spent on her knees, prayers whispered hastily under her breath, eyes darting to paranoically try to catch potential eavesdroppers.

even owen, the air-headed asshole, has been left victim, or perhaps victor, to the effects of your actions. in a desperate attempt to ease her whirling mind, or rather, to ease the painful throbbing between her thighs, abby’s seemed to have turned to her boyfriend as a last ditch effort.

abby’s newfound flood of arousal, pooling and pleading, only to be met by owen’s two incher every night have had his ego blowing up fucking obnoxiously.

“god, abby, you’re fuckin’ desperate for my dick lately,” he’d gloat, hilariously blind to his girlfriend’s infidelity.

unfortunately for abby, her pathetic resorts have done nothing to quiet the moaning mess of guilt-filled memories. if anything, they’ve done quite the opposite.

she’s been left to the mercy of her palm, heel of it digging into her clit while she’s beside the sleeping figure of owen, straining every massive muscle in her body to give her that orgasm she so badly needs.

it’s to no avail, though. stuck gasping and tearing up against a pillow, her poor pussy crying for some semblance of relief. and what’s left is a week-long edged abby anderson, ms. “top soldier”, who’s back to shooting no better than a freshly new recruit.

what’s up with that, hm?

~

2am now, in the isolated west dormitory’s showers, and abby’s at it again. her body starving for your touch; your sinful, corrupting, addictive touch, and she’s failing to appease her needs once more.

“mmph- fuck, ah-please,” abby begs into her forearm, groaning as two thick fingers plunge deep into her sopping hole, thrusting in and out messily.

it’s exhausting to fuck the way you do. even with her arms the impressive size they are, it’s impossibly demanding to reach every nerve you had reached, filthy sounds echoing along the tile walls, taunting her.

abby knows what’s coming, or really, the lack of it.

skin pink from the heat of the water, she abandons her effort, shutting the stream off with a squeak and ventures the locker room to get dressed for the night.

her mind wanders to you— that’s all it ever seems to do as of recently, and she thinks about how she almost misses your antics. she can’t place her finger on what it is exactly about you that makes her chase every teasing interaction so masochistically.

maybe it’s your lopsided smile that lures her in, or that glint in your eye she gets caught up in. or maybe it’s just that she knows she shouldn’t want you, and it’s so deliciously wrong, and that’s why she’s got to have you.

towel flung over her shoulder, abby makes her way out, only to stop in her tracks when she hears the loud slam of a locker door.

what the fuck? wasn’t the bathroom empty when she last checked??

cheeks burning at the mistaking of her privacy, she swivels the corner, furious to see who the fuck else is using the west dorm showers at this hour. of all the hours.

and, well, abby’s frozen in place when she’s met with the sight of a mystery someone’s bare back. but oh, how she recognizes you, you and your wet hair, slinging droplets down your smooth skin, trailing lower and lower and-

you cough, breaking her trance. baby blue eyes dart up, caught, as you slide your tank on, smirking.

“hey, anderson.”

that just about does it for her. abby slams an open locker door shut, almost sprinting out of the room.

and really, there’s no choice but for you to follow her, practically hunting her down as she sharply turns down random hallways, clearly attempting to outrun you. abby makes a wrong turn soon enough, and you honestly think you might burst out into laughter because of the funny way fate seems to string the two of you together.

the blonde’s backed herself into a corner, and it just so happens to be your residential corner. you can’t help but wonder if she already knew where your room was located.

“scared, anderson?” slips out of your mouth, and it feels significant, reminiscent of the week before. you stare her down, wet strands clinging to her skin to match yours, and it’s like the two of you know what’s to come with your words. the inevitable.

you’re not sure which one of you moves first, rubber band of tension snapping as your lips collide in a catastrophic sort of way. you’re scrambling to blindly dial your dorm code in and tugging abby by her shirt in a tangle of limbs and saliva.

“i’ll play nice,” you pant, “even after that disappearing stunt you pulled last week.”

abby laughs, whispering, “whoops,” under her breath before pulling you in for another dizzying kiss, tongue eagerly curling into your mouth like she’s been waiting years for a taste.

you wrap your fingers around her hair with a tug, and the low groan that escapes from the back of abby’s throat has you repeating the motion again and again as you veer her backwards to fall atop your bed. you follow, straddling her, not wanting to spend a second apart from the fucking drug that her mouth is.

your hips grind down on their own, burning and desperate for stimulation. abby, in return, wraps a strong hand around your throat, pulling you even deeper into a sloppy kiss to swallow your moans as she pushes her hips up to meet yours.

“fuck,” you gasp, clit catching against the seam of your shorts with every roll.

abby’s mind has gone blurry with arousal, drunk off the satisfaction of finally getting what her body’s begged for. every pretty noise that slips out of your mouth sends pulses of pleasure straight through her bundle of nerves, and every touch of skin has her feeling set ablaze.

but as always, she needs more.

she maneuvers you easily under her big frame, your head tipping back in a soft whine as she latches herself onto your throat, biting and soothing your skin over.

she’s lodged a leg in between your own, mimicking your position as she wildly bucks her hips down onto you. “please,” she breathes out, tears welling in her eyes with how foreign this feeling is. she can’t bring herself to care about how needy she’s acting, because to starve, is to take anything.

“just like that, baby, you’re soaking my thigh,” you coo, continuing to dry hump her leg like she’s nothing but a toy to you. the whimper she lets out at the name you call her is downright criminal, and the way her movements pick up have you groaning it out again. “c’mon baby, make a mess of yourself for me,” you grab her meaty hips, grinding her harder down against you.

“gonna-“ she gasps into your neck, before shuddering against you as she cums with a cry, muscular thighs holding you so desperately tight in place. you almost scream, caught in the iron grip she has your body in, stopped so close to your own finish. you dig your nails into the flesh of abby’s hips, hearing her moan as the pain mixes with pleasure, and echo the sound yourself as the burning in your core starts up again.

“just let me, for a minute- i need you- just stay here, shit,” you ramble, gripping her hair for leverage while you fuck yourself faster against her thigh.

every twitch of a muscle beneath your soaked pussy has you reeling, unable to wrap your mind around what a massive fucking crime it is, for another woman not to have experienced the absolute blessing it is to have abby anderson’s defined-ass thigh to grind on.

you glance down at abby, and the fucked-out expression she has on, all watery doe-eyed as she peers up at you, mesmerized, has you throbbing enough to match your heart rate.

curse after curse flies out of your mouth as she attaches her mouth to your neck again, biting down as you let go of that coil tugging on your navel.

abby’s no sooner clambering atop you, diving in to taste your sounds as she scoops you onto her lap, practically growling, “fuckin’ get over here,” under her breath.

as your vision returns, she attacks your mouth with a sloppy kiss, colliding teeth, and you’re unbearably hungry for more.

“let me- i’m gonna taste you,” you breath out, shoving abby’s back down with a push.

she falls back with a soft thud, eyes not leaving you once. “please, fuck- taste me, have me,” abby affirms, scrambling to tug her shorts off.

the massive soaked patch at the center her boxers have your eyes rolling into your skull. “shit, anderson,” you run a finger over her clothed slit, giggling as she jerks her hips up.

“shut up,” she rasps, her words harsh, but the small smile on her face says otherwise.

you grin up at her, “didn’t say anything,” before licking a fat stripe up her covered pussy.

her response is immediate, hands fisting into your hair to pull your mouth closer, actions the epitome of more, more, more.

you flatten your tongue, licking, and meshing her arousal with your saliva to entirely soak her boxers wet. you wrap your lips around where you guess to be her clit, based off the place her legs tremble when your tongue reaches it, and suck hard.

“there,” abby whines out, back flying off the mattress, and you’re so very desperate to see what other fun reactions she has in store for you, you grab at her waistband to unveil her pretty dripping pussy.

up close, face to face, you get to really admire the work of art she is. the divets of muscle adorning her thighs frame her pussy almost in a greek-goddess sort of way. light brownish-blonde curls of hair that reach out to your mouth, trying to pull you in closer. she’s beautiful. you’re in complete control of her right now, and holding the reins of such an unreal being has you groaning into her slick eagerly, hands holding her spread wide open while you feast.

you’re dipping your tongue into her sopping mess, teasing and thrusting, feeling her gummy walls flutter around every brush of the muscle. you dart a thumb up to circle her puffy clit, red, from her earlier actions, and the way abby’s legs kick up— almost hitting you in the face, has you giggling again into her pussy. the vibrations of your laugh make abby squeal, thighs clamping around your head, and then she’s tugging at your hair, chanting, “stopstopstopstop,” and you, of course, oblige immediately.

your face comes up covered in her wetness, arousal dripping from your chin as you lick your lips in an halfhearted attempt to clean yourself up. “sorry, sorry, i- did you want me to stop?” you ramble, concerned that you might’ve gone a little too far this time, getting yourself involved with a taken straight girl.

abby’s face flushes a deep red, even darker than it had been from your actions, as she catches her breath and looks away. “no, i- can you, uhm.”

you catch on to her hesitation, newer to sex thats more than just, well, dick. you rub her calves soothingly, “use your words, baby, you got it.”

she visibly gulps, thighs pressing tight around your body, “can i?” she asks, almost sulkily as her hands move to tug at your shorts.

“oh-!” slips out of your mouth, surprised, “yeah, yeah you can.”

she lets out a soft okay, tugging harder now, slipping her calloused fingers under your waistband as well so as to drag both down together. abby’s groans, low and heady, at the sight of your glistening pussy, practically dripping down your thighs from just getting her off. “this too,” she murmurs, sliding your tank off before you can blink.

she’s pulling you in closer, as if she’s in a trance, as she wraps her lips hesitantly around one of your perked nipples. the high-pitched sigh you let out is more than enough encouragement for her to continue, warm tongue flicking at it as she sucks around your breast. “is this okay?” she pulls away to whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she looks up at you, eyes wide.

“fuck- yes, just,” you push her head back in, her lips abiding immediately as they gently pull at your nipple, teeth grazing the most sensitive parts of your chest as you arch your back into it, quiet moans ringing in her air.

all of a sudden you’re being turned around, confused, until your hips are being lifted up towards abby’s stuck-out tongue and you’re shaking with your face pressed to her thigh while she experimentally kitten-licks around your hole, unknowingly teasing you.

her nose brushes ever-so-slightly over your pulsing clit as her tongue passes just over your dripping mess, and it has you crying out, “there, please- right there, please,” breath hot over her own throbbing pussy.

her hips jerk up at the sensation, and you take the hint— latching your lips around her own clit and stuffing two fingers easily into her hole, moaning at the feeling of her squeezing tight around you.

it’s no wonder abby’s the top soldier of wlf. for a girl who’s only ever been with the most lacking, vanilla man ever, she picks up fast. each action of yours is borderline self-serving, with the way abby’s mimicking every move not even a moment after, so adorably eager to please.

abby had this insistent need to pull every pretty sound from you, whether she got it through grazing her teeth against your clit, or curling a thick finger against your g-spot, she was determined to hear it— to the point where you thought she might’ve even needed it. and it’s what made sex with her so intoxicating.

she wasn’t like any of the other girls you typically hooked up with, and that’s not to say the girls you usually got with were bad to fuck… they just weren’t as invested in your pleasure as you were with theirs. and as the type to get off on giving rather than receiving, this was especially new. you’ve never been with someone like you. and god, does it take the cake.

abby’s really coming to terms with all the ways she can use her especially large everythings to make you feel good, murmuring into your pussy, “‘m fuckin’ splitting you open with my fingers, pretty,” as she pushes in a third finger to your sopping hole, relishing in the squelch that comes with the thrust.

your thighs shake around her head, stimulated beyond compare as you continue your ministrations on abby’s pussy, humming mhms into it to encourage more of her bolder ventures.

“mm-fuck, can feel you choking my fingers. you gonna cum, hm?” she mumbles cockily, the high from your reactions sending her mind into a frenzy.

“shit, please, need it so bad,” you croak out, taking only mere seconds apart from tonguing down her puffy clit.

“ah- god, me too, pretty. cum on my tongue,” she says, and the fucking vulgarity of it, so downright shocking to hear from ms. straight christian prude over here, has you riding your orgasm out, trembling heat overtaking your body like a california wildfire. matched moans come from beneath you, as abby’s hips fuck up against your mouth, legs flexing deliciously as the two of you reach your peaks together, the world slowing.

you slide your body off of hers, turning around to be met with a sight to behold. your cum, all over abby’s mouth, shining on the tip of her nose, remnants leaked onto her chin— and you have not a doubt you look the same mess. you yank her into a sloppy kiss, fluids mixing in your mouths in the most animalistic nature.

“i’m not done with you,” you say, eyebrows scrunched as you take in her fucked-out expression.

“i know,” she whispers, “give me more,” she breathes out.

abby slips out of her tank, finally, using the cloth to gently wipe your face and hers, action a bit too intimate for what you guys have, but neither of you decide to call out on it.

“you gonna let me fuck you?” you ask quietly, running a hand over her chest softly, enamored, as abby shivers from your words.

“please fuck me,” she whimpers, tone all pouty and petulant as she watches your hand trace ambiguous shapes over her skin.

“so polite,” you tease lightly, pulling her in for a brief kiss before reaching over to your bedside drawer and pulling out your favorite strap, just the one for the special girl in front of you.

8 inches, hot pink, with a slight curve to it, but most importantly, never been used on anyone other than yourself, by yourself.

“it’s so-“ she stutters nervously, thighs rubbing together in anticipation as you secure the toy onto your hips.

“pretty?” you finish, unable to help your laugh as she looks at you, so clearly not thinking of your response.

“yeah,” she shrugs, “suppose it is.”

it’s quiet in the room as you finish latching the silicone dick onto yourself, the two of you settling into the weight of your impulse-fueled actions.

you gently pull open her closed legs, settling yourself between them as you tease her entrance with the tip of the toy, covering it with her cum. you then spit down onto it, twisting your hand around to coat, and hear abby ask, “what’re you doing?”

you continue to prep the toy with easy motions, committed by memory, “i know you’re soaked, anderson, but it’s still a dick you’re taking, baby.”

“i just mean- i, you know,”

you hum, “owen doesn’t put in the effort, huh? and i bet you’re not even a quarter as wet for him as you are for me,” scoffing.

“don’t-“

“it’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

“…yeah.”

“that’s what i thought.”

you thumb her clit in circles, using her slick as lube to rub over it smoothly, relishing in the way abby’s head falls back and her hips jolt up. “that’s it, ease up for me,” you murmur.

you prod again at her entrance with the toy, sliding the tip in slightly as she hisses, “‘m sti-still sensitive.”

“and you’re gonna take it like the fuckin’ slut you are, anderson, aren’t you?” you tsk, pushing a couple inches more into her.

“shit- yes, yes ma’am,” she whimpers out, legs threatening to close from the new stretch.

“because even after all that time in the shower, nothing can fill you like i do,” you finish, thrusting the full length of you into her tight pussy, abby nodding repeatedly as her back arches up.

her moans pick up alongside your hips, voice breaking with every thrust as you push into that one sensitive spot deep inside with obvious expertise.

“so, s-so go-od,” she cries, hands gripping into the bedsheets as she searches for some tie back to reality.

you smirk satisfactorily, fast pace fueled by the sight of abby’s open mouth, drool spilling out the sides as her voice grows hoarse from constant use. you fuck her hard, strength channeled from the anger you bore against her homophobic attitudes, and jealousy you garnered towards owen and his idiotic male self.

you lock your eyes with abby, sweat dripping down your face as you zero down on her, slamming into her pussy with no reprieve. “no more owen,” you say, each word punctuated by another deep thrust.

“this is so wrong, this is so fucked,” abby rambles, nervous eyes darting around the room so as to avoid your gaze. her eyebrows are tugged together, head shaking no: but no to argue your words, or no to agree with them?

“has something so wrong ever felt so good?” you pant out, “tell me baby.”

“i can’t, i can’t, i can’t,” she repeats, torn between what felt right in her head, and what felt so right in her heart. “turn me over,” she babbled, not wanting to head-on face the fucking sin-filled act she was committing.

“you tried running, baby. and how’d that work for you?” you ask, fed up. “you’re still back here, a fucking mess, and all for me.”

“what’s it gonna take for you to face the fact that you’re getting fucked by a girl, and it’s so much better than anything you’ve ever experienced?”

abby’s eyes scrunch tight, trying to tune you out, but her moans still wrench out from the back of her throat, guttural and unstoppable.

you slide out finally, earning you a soft whine of disagreement, toy dripping with her slick with the tip pressed against her folds. “look at me, abby.”

and fuck. she’s never taken notice to the fact that you’ve never said her name before—but god does it sound so pretty coming out of your mouth. and god is it enough to make her wrestle her eyelids open and stare you dead in the eyes, blue clashing with the darkness you reeked in.

“say that again,” she whispers, look full of pleading. 4 letters, 2 syllables, but it has her core tensing and her heart racing a mile.

“tell me you’re mine, abby,” you breath, and she almost finishes right there and then.

“i’m yours,” she says, a single tear breaking free from her right eye, baptizing her skin, absolving her of guilt.

“good,” you choke out, bottoming entirely into her as she releases a cry. your movements quicken, ravenous, chasing the sweet whines that fill the room.

abby’s tits bounce with each thrust, and you reach down to give her sensitive nipples a pinch, making her reach an all time new height of pleasure. her chest heaves, curses slur, as she squirms under your touch, nearing an unbearably overstimulated state.

“feels- gonna cum,” she moans, barely holding on.

“cum for me,” you demand, needing to see her fall apart now more than ever as you pound into her harder, fingers rubbing harsh circles into her clit.

“s-shit,” she gasps, throwing her head back as her walls tighten around the toy, “‘m- fuck, god- fuck! ‘m cumming!”

loud squelching noises overtake the room, complete with the sight of abby writhing beneath you as spurts of her juices drench your moving cock.

her chest heaves, mouth open in a silent scream as she comes down from her high, squirming with overstimulation.

you can see the moment her brain clicks, panic in her eyes clear as her skin turns pasty white.

“i’m so sorry i didn’t mean to do that i don’t know how-“

“abby.”

“-that happened ive never done that before, like who-“

“abby.”

“-fucking pisses on someone like that i’m so sorry ill clean it-“

“ABBY.”

her eyes shoot up to meet yours, frame cowering as she mumbles a quiet apology again, so obviously uneducated in the realm of half-decent orgasms.

“you squirted, abby, you didn’t piss on me for christ’s sake. it was hot. now don’t worry about it, i’m very honored,” you chide lightly, cradling abby’s heated face in your hand.

you stand up, grabbing a clean towel and wetting it with warm water from your kettle. striding over, you spread abby’s legs lightly, running the towel gently over her worked-out center, breath hitching, hips jerking with your touch.

“why are you- you don’t have to-“ abby stutters, grabbing your wrist.

you pause, confused. “abby, i’m not a fucking dick, contrary to belief,” you scoff.

she doesn’t let go. “no that’s not what i- i didn’t mean it like that, it’s just, you know.” she waits for you to look up at her, before looking away. “you don’t have to fuss over me.”

a laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “you mean owen doesn’t-? yeah, who am i kidding, of fucking course he doesn’t ‘do aftercare,’ god, what a dick!” you groan, facepalming.

“abby, baby, this is fucking normal. owen just sucks,” you smirk, her cheeks flushing at your words. “let me take care of you,” you continue more softly, nudging her grip off as you drag the towel over her sternum next, cleaning off any remnants left from the two of you.

abby’s quiet now, eyes following your every movement, curious almost, a bit hesitant— as if she’s not sure what to do with herself in the meanwhile. she’s stiff to the touch, frame shrunken now due to the sheer vulnerability of it all. bare as the day she was born, and touched like she’s never done wrong a minute in her life.

she doesn’t know how to feel about it. wisps of hair tickle her nose, and so she scratches it, pushing her hair away, tugging it behind her ears. and you’re right there on it, wordlessly turning her around as you begin to comb through her hair loosely, pulling it into a simple braid. the same hairstyle she displays everyday, always done by her own hand: tight, knot-free, and burning into her scalp. a reminder to remain true to her virtues, live by strict rules, and not stray from the lord’s path.

but the way you braid is so different. you’re careful to tie in the tickling wisps, but not harsh. effective, but not pushing. with owen she feels like an accessory, but you make her feel like someone worth worshipping. and so, the only burning she feels is not on her scalp, but behind her eyes.

you do notice the subtle tremble in abby’s shoulders, droplets trickling down her cheeks as you weave her hair through, but you make no comment on it. certainly not with the way your own hands fumble her golden strands, fingers shaking into the knots. you tie the end of it up.

“i should go,” abby whispers, standing to grab her scattered clothes.

you remain seated, mouth opening and closing like a fish, as your lips struggle to wrap around the words your heart is singing out for.

you settle on one.

“stay,” you blurt, louder than you intended, the word ringing in the tense air.

abby freezes, hand outstretched towards her tossed shirt. her head edged just the slightest bit towards you, like subconsciously, she was waiting for you to say something.

“just- stay,” you whisper this time, more unsure. waiting for the rejection you know is to come. and while your brain is screaming for you to let her go, your eyes are hooked onto abby’s figure— searching intently for the smallest signal of her response.

you see her breath catch in her throat.

“okay,” she whispers back, and her head turns just enough for your gazes to lock, matched desperation surging.

she’s drawn back to the bed like a magnet pulled to its twin, the mattress dipping as she settles in the space beside you.

and abby feels the heat of your drilling stare, one she refuses to return. she has no more fire left in her, not for you, just contemplation. a longing for more, an urge to savor, an ache to feel.

so abby faces the door, and you face her back, waiting for the day she’ll turn around.

so what did we think guys?!?? this was 4.7k words. crazy.

ok. so notice the tear coming from her right eye during that whole end part of the sex. note that it came from her RIGHT eye. scientifically speaking, that’s a tear of joy. BOOOOOOM MIC DROP.

i, unfortunately, shot for the stars and tried to make this deeper. hard to do that when you’re not in touch with your emotions. so now you guys are stuck being confused. good luck!

anyways. the final scene is supposed to represent where they metaphorically stand in their relationship. reader is trying to bond with abby, or at least making an effort to, hence her facing abby. abby can’t come to terms with all this, but she’s trying! she’s not fully accepted the homosexual part of herself though, the side that comes out with reader, so she’s facing the door. FACING IT, not leaving through it. ;)

also, yes, owen goes in dry. it’s canon. do not come at me.

taglist:

@pricefieldsuperiority @heartlexs @graviewaviee @liaphrodite @k1ngpin42 @deadbolted @be3flow3r @mrsabbyanderson

@rob1nbuckl3ys @vivispace @bookpagecandlescent

@thelosstvalkyrie for photo creds ty baby <3

[macrolit]

The 100 Best Books of the 21st Century.

As voted on by 503 novelists, nonfiction writers, poets, critics and other book lovers — with a little help from the staff of The New York Times Book Review.

NYT Article.

*************

Q: How many of the 100 have you read? Q: Which ones did you love/hate? Q: What's missing?

Here's the full list.

100. Tree of Smoke, Denis Johnson 99. How to Be Both, Ali Smith 98. Bel Canto, Ann Patchett 97. Men We Reaped, Jesmyn Ward 96. Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments, Saidiya Hartman 95. Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel 94. On Beauty, Zadie Smith 93. Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel 92. The Days of Abandonment, Elena Ferrante 91. The Human Stain, Philip Roth 90. The Sympathizer, Viet Thanh Nguyen 89. The Return, Hisham Matar 88. The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis 87. Detransition, Baby, Torrey Peters 86. Frederick Douglass, David W. Blight 85. Pastoralia, George Saunders 84. The Emperor of All Maladies, Siddhartha Mukherjee 83. When We Cease to Understand the World, Benjamin Labutat 82. Hurricane Season, Fernanda Melchor 81. Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan 80. The Story of the Lost Child, Elena Ferrante 79. A Manual for Cleaning Women, Lucia Berlin 78. Septology, Jon Fosse 77. An American Marriage, Tayari Jones 76. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, Gabrielle Zevin 75. Exit West, Mohsin Hamid 74. Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout 73. The Passage of Power, Robert Caro 72. Secondhand Time, Svetlana Alexievich 71. The Copenhagen Trilogy, Tove Ditlevsen 70. All Aunt Hagar's Children, Edward P. Jones 69. The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander 68. The Friend, Sigrid Nunez 67. Far From the Tree, Andrew Solomon 66. We the Animals, Justin Torres 65. The Plot Against America, Philip Roth 64. The Great Believers, Rebecca Makkai 63. Veronica, Mary Gaitskill 62. 10:04, Ben Lerner 61. Demon Copperhead, Barbara Kingsolver 60. Heavy, Kiese Laymon 59. Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides 58. Stay True, Hua Hsu 57. Nickel and Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich 56. The Flamethrowers, Rachel Kushner 55. The Looming Tower, Lawrence Wright 54. Tenth of December, George Saunders 53. Runaway, Alice Munro 52. Train Dreams, Denis Johnson 51. Life After Life, Kate Atkinson 50. Trust, Hernan Diaz 49. The Vegetarian, Han Kang 48. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi 47. A Mercy, Toni Morrison 46. The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt 45. The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson 44. The Fifth Season, N.K. Jemisin 43. Postwar, Tony Judt 42. A Brief History of Seven Killings, Marlon James 41. Small Things Like These, Claire Keegan 40. H Is for Hawk, Helen Macdonald 39. A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan 38. The Savage Detectives, Roberto Balano 37. The Years, Annie Ernaux 36. Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates 35. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel 34. Citizen, Claudia Rankine 33. Salvage the Bones, Jesmyn Ward 32. The Lines of Beauty, Alan Hollinghurst 31. White Teeth, Zadie Smith 30. Sing, Unburied, Sing, Jesmyn Ward 29. The Last Samurai, Helen DeWitt 28. Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell 27. Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 26. Atonement, Ian McEwan 25. Random Family, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc 24. The Overstory, Richard Powers 23. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage, Alice Munro 22. Behind the Beautiful Forevers, Katherine Boo 21. Evicted, Matthew Desmond 20. Erasure, Percival Everett 19. Say Nothing, Patrick Radden Keefe 18. Lincoln in the Bardo, George Saunders 17. The Sellout, Paul Beatty 16. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon 15. Pachinko, Min Jin Lee 14. Outline, Rachel Cusk 13. The Road, Cormac McCarthy 12. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion 11. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz 10. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson 9. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro 8. Austerlitz, W.G. Sebald 7. The Underground Railroad, Colson Whitehead 6. 2666, Roberto Bolano 5. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen 4. The Known World, Edward P. Jones 3. Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel 2. The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson 1. My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante

[gilverrwrites]

*raises hand*

me! me! I am very interested in more wally west content! especially with dick/reader!! but also just wally cause powers alone can be put to use, like could you imagine??

like, I know there was the dick/reader/wally piece that showcased a bit of what wally could do with his powers, but not even oral focused alone. you could make a joke he only lasts a couple seconds but he also makes those seconds the best ones of your life.

Right! And let's be honest, you might only last a couple of seconds, but he can and will keep going.

Just imagine the first time things get hot and heavy with him. Skirt hitched up as you straddle his thigh, his warm hands itching to grope at your ass or your tits but he's playing it safe, holding your hips as you make out.

And he's fun to make out with, unable to keep from grinning and laughing against your lips. Those bright green eyes gaze back at you with fucking reverence when you peek at him. Every time you brush against his crotch he grips you a little tighter, rolling his hips and moaning into your skin until you're riding his thigh. Rutting your hot, leaky cunt on his jeans, moaning and whining, and kissing his soft, smiling lips like your dear life depends on it.

Wally is having the time of his life. So much so that he barely registers when his bouncing leg begins to vibrate. Not until he finally grabs your ass to stop you from arching your back right off of him. He watches in awe as your whole body shudders in time with him. As your quiet purrs turn into loud, animalistic cries. As you go from 0 to 100 in less than 30 seconds, dissolving into mindless babbling, riding wave after wave of pleasure as you cum over and over, drenching his thigh with your juices until you're clutching his shirt and begging him to stop.

“No more, mercy, Wally, please!”

“Fuck, but that was so hot, cmon just one more?”

Or telling him you've never reached climax from penetration only. You’ve basically just handed him his new mission in life; fixing that.

The first chance he gets to put you on your back he takes it. Keeping your legs together, resting them on one of his shoulders so you can feel every inch, every pulse of his fingers as he buries them knuckle deep in your pretty pussy.

Even though you're already twitching around him, his eyes are fixed on your face. On the way your lashes flutter when he presses another digit between your hungry walls.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he asks between an impish grin, watching as you sink your teeth into your bottom lips, barely holding back a moan as he grows closer to finding your sweet spot.

“Only a thou-” You're cut off by your own sob, cunt clenching around his fingers, greedily trying to suck him in deeper as red-hot tension begins to coil in your gut.

“Is that it?” He’s not expecting an answer, already thrusting in and out of you at an impossible, frantic pace. Hitting your g every time. “Feel good, baby?”

He knows your climax is coming before you do from the way your body subconsciously prepares for it. His dick throbs as he senses your muscles growing tight and tense, as your eyes struggle to stay fixed on him and your toes begin to curl. Your mindless, “yesyesyes” chanting is mouth-watering music to his ears.

An’ to top it all off, as he steers you over the edge, he curves his hand just right, ensuring the stream of release that gushes from your cunt does so in pornographic, squelching, arch. Not only is he the first to make you burst from penetration alone, but he made you squirt. He’ll be riding that high forever.

“Holy shit, we’ve gotta do that again!” You’re already twitching and cooing, watching him through heavy lids as he slides the tip of his cock between your soaked and sensitive folds. Even though you’ve made no objections he feels the need to praise and plead, still awed that he got so damn lucky. “You gonna let me fuck this perfect little pussy? Please, babe? I’ll love you forever.”

Plus, if any body keeps trophies, it’s this guy. You let this man take your panties off of you, and you’re never getting them back. He’s not subtle either, keeping them hooked over his headboard for you to see the next time he gets you between his sheets.

And this is all just the sex. Wally is a beaut with a 5⭐ personality to boot.

[izvmimi]

the god of the riverbanks takes his sacrifices drowned - young girls, once sweet, bright-eyed and naïve in the morning sun, in exchange for bountiful harvests, rain and the promise of floods kept at bay. there are rumors that they turn up unaccompanied and unharmed in villages afar, hair just slightly damp and smelling as fresh as the sea, with their memories lost yet their smiles forever just as cheerful as the jade green dragon himself who glides just below the visible depth of the wide seas.

in contrast, the god of the skies, of sun and snow, is thought to take his sacrifices burned at the stake and yet no one has seen their bodies past their first cries and coughs. young women with strange burns they do not remember abound in a country far west; perhaps their voices reach the heavens and he shows mercy towards them, allowing them to ride on his back that glitters with a mosaic of white and red scales, and see the world from above, their scars bold but their minds purged of their pasts by flame and soothed by gentle ice.

however, nothing will give you solace, because you are to be sacrificed to the god of the mountains and the earth, who is war and strife itself. the blindfold that keeps you helpless is thick, the ropes on your wrists tight and cutting into your skin. the god offers your village protection from calamity and invasion; he promises your country strength and thus your gift is necessary.

you doubt you'd be a worthy meal but there was no one else to offer up, and you hope he swallows you up quickly; the pain could be immense, but not worse than the pain in your weary heart. your chest aches as you think of your family, aches further when you realize you will never have the chance to find purpose or find love.

the mountains are still and quiet as you wait, bound helplessly to the stone shrine. there is no escape.

time passes both slow and fast as you breathe in deep and exhale half as long until your chest hurts with the stacking of breath expanding your weary lungs.

you hear a sigh.

"sick of this shit."

your eyes widen at the gruffness of the man's voice, but you can see nothing. he tuts, and you can hear a presence move around you, the stinging warmth of a flame too close to the sensitive skin of the underside of your arms. the same sensation is quickly felt in your bound legs before you before they are free.

the blindfold falls and you're staring into a set of red, inhuman eyes. vertical slits. dragon eyes.

but your visitor is a man, somewhat, even if he is practically three times your size. your breath holds as you take more of him in, sharp eyes and even sharper cheekbones, golden hair, a gaze that is less curiosity and more exasperation. there is a soft glow to his skin despite the dusky overtone of the sky and his lips are soft appearing and pinkish red, almost feminine, in contrast to the soft bristle of fair, coarse hair on his chin. smoke still comes from the corner of his mouth as he speaks, and you see flashes of fanged teeth intermittently.

"i'm taking you to the other side of the mountain, got it?" he asks.

it's a statement that is given like an order and you're too dumbfounded to speak, forgetting how to make use of your no longer bound arms and legs.

"i won't eat you. got it?" he repeats, louder. your head swims.

he doesn't wait for your answer regardless, and his wings spread - deep crimson, orange and yellow, brilliant like the crackles of a large bonfire. you're dragged into his arms without protest and cradled like a small child despite his annoyed expression, you take to the skies, your fate uncertain.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

Hello! Have you any haikyuu fics u recommend? :)

oh boy i do (all on ao3)

literally everything by snoqualmie but esp cotton breathing, routine, untilted (<- iwaoi), mixed signals and mint and pine (<- kyouhaba)

birdcat dude their fics wreck me Every Time, like that shit touches me at my Core esp: mercy is a shade of blue and the north : south : east : west series (<- iwaoi)

also literally everything by deathbelle esp the loyalty of a traitor!!!!!!!!!!1, lockdown (<- iwaoi), burden of blame, different kinds of dysfunctional (<- sakuatsu), liminal space!!!!!!!!!, the monster of shiratorizawa, true colors (honestly the whole plumage series tho), where you've been (is who we are) (<- tensemi)

fairycake as well, absolute forever fav will be insert coin to play, also red dahlia and three sheets to the wind (<- sakuatsu)

desperado (and the prequel teenage fever) by verbrennung (iwaoi)

the courtship ritual of the hercules beetle by kittebasu (iwaoi)

stumble into the sun by sunsmasher (iwaoi)

also i could have sworn i have some kuroken and matsuhana bookmarked but apparently my dumbass didnt but if i find them ill repost and add them but that's it for now<3 (more recs are very welcome ofc!!)

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

😱The creepiest adventure the Doctor's ever had

Think the Weeping Angels are creepy? The Vashta Nerada? Psh, child's play. This is the story of the Face-Painter.

Imagine being led through the streets of West Hollywood every Thursday afternoon, wrists tied together with bright handkerchiefs to your companions, and not a single face among you. That's the Doctor's life now, along with two others—Jamie and Victoria. They don't have faces, just smooth, pink, egg-like heads. As their handler Rachel describes them: 'They're OK from the neck down... But what can you do with the heads?'

Despite having no eyes, no noses, or mouths, they can see, breathe, and speak—though the words come out muffled, like 'they're chewing' or gagged. It's surreal and disturbing, but no one looks too closely. In this part of West Hollywood, Rachel notes, 'No one looks too hard at no one for long, unless they want trouble.'

Each week, they visit the Face-Painter on Santa Monica Boulevard. 'So what's it gonna be?' he asks, but he doesn't ask them—he asks Rachel, as if they're not even there. Victoria always requests the same face, sketching it out with care. But this time, the Face-Painter plays a cruel trick, painting deep folds into her face like the crumpled paper she drew on. 'She looks like she's been in some real bad accident,' Rachel reflects as Victoria cries without tears.

Jamie, meanwhile, shrugs off the whole thing. When asked who he wants to be, he says he doesn't care. Rachel jokes, 'Make him Brad Pitt,' and the Face-Painter obliges.

And the Doctor? Silent, distant. He doesn't ask for anything, so the Face-Painter goes rogue and paints a giant sunflower on his blank head. The Doctor just sits there, helpless.

The real horror is that they're trapped. Rachel is paid to keep them locked in her basement, like prisoners. 'None of them say much,' she muses, 'but they know I look after them.' They live in silence, with Rachel mocking them as boring when they don't respond, but in reality, they're completely at the mercy of whoever is keeping them. Victoria can barely contain her despair, whispering, 'I can't bear it... these dreadful, shapeless clothes, greasy, sickly food...'

There's something even darker beneath the surface. Jamie wonders if their faces might be stored somewhere, like in the jars Rachel keeps in her apartment. The Doctor, always the optimist, tries to reassure the others, 'We're suffering from some kind of illusion, a spell that's been placed on us somehow.' But even he is unsure. As Jamie rages, 'How can it be? Why are we being kept here, week after week?' There are no answers—just a grim routine, the threat of something worse if they try to escape, and the chilling possibility that their faces—and their lives—are slipping away forever.

(Face Painter from Short Trips: A Universe of Terrors)

Whoniverse Facts for Friday by GIL

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴

[senka-mesecine]

Could you maybe write a oneshot for Barnes catching a runaway reader? With maybe a little nsfw if your comfortable with it, thank you ♥️

Gung Ho.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

--- ‘Gung ho’ describes a soldier who is excessively enthusiastic about military life, serving in combat or killing the enemy.

---

gif by the wonderful @woman-with-no-name -

The motel hallway feels slightly surreal after 365 days spent in the jungle.

But the seaside season in Hà Tiên is relatively quiet considering what you left behind on the Viet-Cambodian border barely thirty miles north-west to retire here post-closure of your year served to do the mundane task of hauling groceries up the corridor to your room on the third floor --- the old elevator being defunct; perhaps of little consequence considering what you've gone through that walking up a flight of stairs seemed like a keen pleasure in ways. How funny it seemed. Indulging day-to-day tasks. The truth is, in a sense, you ran out here with the intent to temporarily hide and you could acknowledge that to yourself now that the frontier seemed somehow far and away. That he seemed so far away. Connections made during service, you knew, either lasted a lifetime or they irrevocably broke ties and faded away the second someone was transferred somewhere else or they finished their time in the bush and got sent home. The whole issue with Barnes, and yes, it was an issue, is that things got too intense. Distance was necessary. Only sane. It was either that or something terrible would've happened. To you. People surrounding you.

He was a powder keg. Best left unlit.

Sweat lines your brows once you cross the threshold of the final step leading to floor three, the air in the foyer heavy and stifling, like someone residing in one of the many rooms adjoined to your hallway took a profuse smoke break that left the cloud of nicotine lining the moisture filled walls mingling with the indoors humidity accumulated by the monsoon season as you hauled two bags, with not a 'no smoking' sign displayed anywhere in sight; why you needed this much bagged shit bought was beyond you. You weren't planning to stay here forever, god. You should've been on the fast track out to Saigon and from there on a plan fucking out of here but you supposed a part of you wanted to punish yourself. You left without saying goodbye, after all. Practically jumped into that chopper. Of course, Barnes undoubtedly had to see the approval to that, but you knew that the gesture itself, leaving so coldly, was, for lack of a better word, a bitch move to make. That you've merely been breezing through the motions since, eyes fixated on the carpet pattern, mutely nodding to the elderly laundress pushing a cart of bedsheets beside you, only to catch the source of all the smoke with your heart nearly jumping into your throat.

Jesus Christ, were you hallucinating him too now?

He was standing by your doorway, shoulder leaning on the wall.

Cigarette in his mouth, his gaze delightedly taunting once you meet his eyes.

-"Hey there, little girl? Daddy gone and left you all alone?"-

The nightmare apparition drawls with a tilted head and if this was any other person alive, you would've set down your bags and ran as far as your legs carried you, but with Barnes, it was the end of the line. He would've caught you in ten seconds flat. He could've demolished half of the establishment to do it. Kill everyone in sight. Set the fucking motel on fire. So you consciously, willingly walk towards him, slowly, like a deer caught in the hunter's crosshairs with his finger on the trigger. The little grey haired lady was still pushing her squeaky, sheet filled stroller down the corridor; the last thing you needed was for someone to sense you were in danger and put themselves in danger through you. -"Have mercy. Please."- You whisper quietly, desperately, with zero pretense once you're standing close enough to be face to face with him. He seemed so pleased with himself, meaty lips unfurled into a grin, a cigarette hanging sideways from his mouth. It felt like being smiled at by a tiger as you fished your key out of your pocket to silently unlock your door while he stood there, profusely observing the gesture like it was of some profound interest to him. By the time you're inside the room with him at your back, bags forgotten by the entrance, you're covered in cold, shivering sweat.

-"God, how did you find me?"-

You murmur hoarsely, pleadingly, the floodgates finally opening.

His arms are on either side of you, pressing you up against the door.

Trapping you there.

-"You upset or sumn'?"-

He inquires, clearly mocking, clearly seeing you were more than upset.

You were befuddled.

You say nothing, unsure where to start.

Even that seemed like it pleased him more than anything in the world.

That you were speechless.

-"Hmm?"-

He presses on, though, inquiring further with nothing but a deep, self content hum emanating from his throat as he cocked his head to the side, still grinning and seeking out your gaze. Truth of the matter was seeing Barnes outside of the jungle, outside of the context of the army, of war, in a civilian setting, surrounded by patterned beige motel wallpapers, shelves, towels, bedsheets and the nuances of day-to-day mundaneness was as alien as seeing an unleashed tiger riding around in a rickshaw down the streets of Saigon in broad daylight.

-"Been thinkin' how that sack of shit oaf Redneck couldn't possibly stop humpin' the boonies to go lookin' for your sorry ass?"-

He gets close as he speaks, his breath laced with the pungent aroma of tobacco and what's worse, he entirely guessed your train of thoughts like someone capable of reading minds. You didn't think Barnes would be the type to leave the war, his war, as he had the tendency of referring to it, behind long enough to seek you out anyhow. Man never even went on R&R; at least not that you ever remember him doing so. You hold your breath, feeling guilty. Called out. Caught.

-"Too gung ho, 's that it?"-

He prods, grinning, looming over you.

-"I wasn't thinking that."-

You gulp, lying. Lying pretty badly at that.

You hold your arms against the door like your last resort life raft.

Focusing on the collar of his fatigues; the neck behind it.

His rolled up sleeves. His trousers tucked into his boots.

Anything but on his face.

-"Sure fooled me lil' ol' me."-

He teases cruelly but you aren't fooled, lulled into a false sense of safety or feeling any less tense when he moves about an inch back, giving you space to breathe again as he paced around the room, looking around with legitimate curiosity like he was examining the perimeters, looking for an ambush. Old habits sure died hard. Could take Robert Barnes out of the jungle but the jungle sure wasn't coming out of Robert Barnes. -"Cos you should've gone further. Gone faster."- He remarks matter-of-factly and he's right, as always; every instinct inside of your entire being has been screaming at you for days and days and days to leave. Board the first plane and go. Now, the very man you ran from in the first place was in your motel room, bending down and scrutinizing the contents of your grocery bags like he was a drill sergeant going through a routinely bunk inspection. Was surreal; Barnes holding a can of soda and reading the letters on it seeming somewhat unimpressed, with an odd air of haughtiness, like all things civilian where somehow beneath him or maybe it was the simple fact that the writing on the can was in Vietnamese. Nonetheless, he opens it and downs it in one very impressive gulp, leaving the remains on the table. -"If you knew I was comin', you shouldn't've stayed in this two-bit shithole."- He pokes, peeking up at the ceiling, scrutinizing the quality. There was a dried up wet patch that left behind a blotchy stain; the remanent of an old leak having gone dry once upon a time. You knew the accommodations didn't bother him in the least bit, in fact, this was The Four Seasons compared to where you both came from. Man was used to sleeping in some of the worst places imaginable; he just wanted to be overly prideful for its own sake. -"Truth is, you've been here thinkin' you outran my ass."- Another low blow that was truthful; you look away, trying to hide the blood that seeped into your cheeks, brining on the heat of shame.

-"Well, you didn't."-

Final verbal nail in the coffin. At this point. You wanted to jump out the window.

Not caring if a fall from the third floor will kill you or at least break all of your bones.

You make a move on towards the shutters on the other end of the room like someone hypnotized into having a death wish only to be grabbed by the elbow and squeezed so hard you hiss in pain. How and why was this asshole still grinning? Something funny about this!? Your suppressed anger overrides your primal fear and there you are, seething to his face against all better judgement. If he came here to do something bad to you he might as well go on and do it because you knew running and trying to fight the process was futile anyhow. Might as well take what was coming for you and take it with some sense of dignity, runaway person or not. You weren't his slave.

Often times, you imagined running from Barnes including a feverish sprint through the woods as far as your legs could take to you, reaching the brink of all physical endurance while he pursued like the great big hunter --- like the devil himself; turns out it could be as prosaic, anticlimactic and hackneyed as him cornering you in a motel room somewhere, gloating over your entire situation.

-"So, what now!? You're gonna shoot the place up!? Set the room on fire!? Kill everyone in the vicinity!? Get yourself arrested!? Have me shipped out of here in a body bag to prove a point!? Orchestrate a murder-suicide!? What!?"-

You froth through gritted teeth, allowing yourself the courtesy of being at least a little blunt and mean especially when he seemed as nonchalantly amused as he was by it all, eyes revealing something downright putrid, like he was contemplating and weighing every option you just listed in your rage, hissing in a hushed tone to avoid upsetting the inhabitants of any of the neighboring rooms. Barnes didn't seem like he minded anything you just said. In fact, he appeared like he would do anything from the offered options, in fact, you knew he would, so casual about it he found enough gusto to be apparently absent mindedly fiddled with the edge of your shirt's collar drenched in rainwater and sweat.

-"Let me go. Please. You're hurting me."-

You plead weakly.

Not only referencing your wrist squeezed in his vice grip.

You wanted to be let go in the general sense. Set free. Of this. Of him.

As was his general habit, Bob says nothing, instead, it's his eyes that do all the talking, his fingers, unbuttoning the edge of your blouse so casually and in a way so unfettered it might as well have been his god-given right to do so, his hand still gripping yours to the degree you'd be certain the imprint of him would bruise by tomorrow as an assurance that this wasn't a dream. -"And stop undressing me."- You whisper. As if commanded, his hand halts. -"Stop."- You repeat yourself softly, voice barely above a murmur; if he continued, you figured, you weren't certain if you'd be able to stop yourself either and that would've defeated the purpose of all of this. His smile is fully unfurled then, baring teeth, the tip of his nose pointing behind you.

-"That's a bed for two. Been cravin' me, hmm? We've done more with less."-

He hums, something in his eyes sparkling.

Referencing every time spent on bunk beds, in bunkers, in foxholes.

-"No."-

You lie again.

Nobody was convinced you didn't crave him. Not him. Certainly not you.

-"So why you still in-country?"-

His face practically beams up, standing close enough to you where you could read the mischief etched into every pore and scar on his face like he just knew he posed a million dollar question. Why were you still here? How could you tell him you were here dreaming of him every night since you were deployed out of the bush and that everything inside of you was still pinning you back here; to him? The room suddenly feels so small. Stifling. Like a hare trap. -"You like bein' chased?"- More of an assessment than an actual inquiry on his behalf as he spoke so close to you his mouth was practically moving against yours, sounding as pleased as ever. Yes, yes, yes, every impulse in your body begs for you to say, instead, you push the instinct down, feeling your own voice crack inside of your throat.

-"When will you let me go?"-

You whimper needily, knowing the answer was never as Barnes's hand pushed you to the squeaking bed behind you.

[verecunda]

To the dismay of those that stood by, about the body of Saruman a grey mist gathered, and rising slowly to a great height like smoke from a fire, as a pale shrouded figure it loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered, looking to the West; but out of the West came a cold wind, and it bent away, and with a sigh dissolved into nothing.

There's something quite sad about this line, something wistful about the way Saruman's spirit glances back towards the West, as if, just at the very last, he repents of his fall and all the evil he did. But in vain: the wind that blows him away is certainly sent by Manwë, and it's an emphatic rejection.

Then there's the description of Sauron's end:

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.

What if that hand isn't reaching out towards them, but beyond them, towards the West? Maybe, too, at the end of all things for him, he also reaches back to the home he forsook, a regret truer than any of his previous gestures at repentance, in the moment before he, too, is banished forever.

And I can't help but imagine that these are sad days in Valinor. For Manwë, whose first instinct was always to be merciful, and for Aulë, who must know that two of his best and most beloved apprentices are now truly gone beyond recall.

[chromiumagellanic06]

Just Me and You

Aegon I Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen

Summary: Aegon betrayed Visenya when he wed Rhaenys; She finds a way to do something about it. Pre-conquest.

Warnings: some NSFW, Incest, (vague) sex, Blood Magic, Sibling Incest, Jealous rage, alcohol, etc.

Disclaimer: All rights for the characters belong to GRRM and company. img credits to Pinterest.

Word Count: 4.4k

"Don't look so glum," Visenya told her brother, kicking his leg, "You're frowning like a man sent to the gallows." They lay on the garden grass, behind a curtain of wild roses none ventured into, a place they had made their own. 

The setting sun shone red and blushed orange in the sky as night tugged at the other end of the horizon, and the autumnal lights, the day's golden sun, made Aegon's face glow admirably. 

He laughed through his nose, "I lose my boyhood on the morrow, do show some mercy, dear sister." She laughed at his jab, and propped herself up on the grass to gaze at his face. 

His silver hair fell tardily across his brow, his lilac eyes watching her, touched with jest but drowned in hesitation. 

“I lose mine girlhood on the morrow also, brother,” she smirked, though she was unsure of herself, “I do not imagine it to be so dull myself.” Then she leaned close, trying her best to conceal the tremor in her frame, the hesitancy in herself. 

He sighed, reached for her lips, and her fear burned away, their noses brushing, and for a moment there was only silence in the garden, quiet and the smell of pine and rose and steel. 

When she laid back on the grass, both their faces were red, his more so than hers, but it was he who crept a lone hand to his side to hold hers. 

“You are right,” he tutted when his breathing levelled, “as usual—”  

She kicked his leg again, her words sharp despite his pained laughter, “Do not jest now.”

He quieted a second later, his hand tightening around hers, and she felt relieved instantly. He was there—he had been there, for as long as she could remember. Aegon and Visenya, meant to be wed, meant to be one, by the old ways of their homeland that was lost. 

They were their legacy, silver hair and lilac eyes. They were meant to wed since the day Aegon was born.

“It was all leading up to this, I know,” he sat up this time, “Our lives lead up to tomorrow, I just know it, Visenya,” and then, he leaned over Visenya's face, noses again touching, eyes again fixed. She smiled, eyes sparkling despite herself.

“We were always meant to be together, Aegon,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his neck.

Aegon smiled, “Just me and you,” brother and sister, husband and wife, lord and lady. 

He kissed her, tongues dancing, eyes flickering close, breaths mingling, and when he laid back down on the green grass, he said, “It shall be divine indeed, dear wife.” Dear sister, dear wife. She chuckled.

The fire was lit on the volcanic coast of Dragonstone, the company had gathered—people of their ancestry, an array of white hair and lilac eyes—Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, even the occasional Volantian, all wrapped in dark tones, for only Aegon and Visenya wore white. Orys Baratheon stood alone with a head of dark hair, smiling throughout the ceremony, ignorant of the whispers that rang among the people of his paternity.

Aeron’s bastard son, they rumoured, before the rituals began.

A priest of the old faith stood presiding. He read hymns in the tongue of the dragon, declarations of purity, of love, of spiritual binding.

They cut the other’s lip with a shard of black dragonglass, stained the other’s forehead with a drop of their blood. Bled into a cup as dark as Valyrian Steel, drank from it, and swore allegiance to the other.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Sēpar ao se nyke, Visenya.

Just you and me, Visenya against the world of the West. Ambition shall be our only limit, he promised.

Visenya soared through the skies on Vhagar’s back, holding onto the reins and saddle of her friend, urging her to gain speed. She had no wish to remain in her home that night.

She wore silks, a gown of black and red, rubies to match—as had Aegon, she recalled. Even after all this treachery, he was the other half of her soul. He wore ash black, his cloak as red as blood on the inside, the picture of their union—black and red, fire and blood, even as he took Rhaenys to wife.

Rhaenys. White wrapped and adorned in flowers. A disgrace to the dragon.

Rhaenys. Her tit-flashing, whoring little sister. Sister.

Visenya scoffed at the winds, felt her hair whip behind her, delighted in the world’s cold embrace which served to quell the fire within her. She should have known that her sister wouldn’t leave anything for her—her Queen that was her beauty had slain Visenya’s bishops, her rook, nearly all her pawns. It was horrid enough that every man or woman who visited the isle preferred her company to Visenya’s, that songs were sung of her art and beauty, her glory, rather than Visenya’s skill with the sword, but this had been too far.

She had taken her Aegon.

She had taken her husband.

She had taken her soul.

She should have known, Visenya chastised herself, shaking her head against the sky and the clouds, feeling the rush of flight, the risk of the moment. With every low curtsy, with every loud laugh at his less than funny remarks, with every zealous stare of her sister’s as Aegon returned to Visenya’s chambers every night, she should have known of her scheme—a net to entrap her knights, a trap to make her yield.

She should have known that Aegon was weak—weak to his dreams, but weaker still to his desires.

She should have known that he would fall to their brazen slut of a sister, rather than keep his vows to her.

Just you and me, the liar had promised three turns ago, and she, the fool, had believed him. She was wrothful of her tears, but held them regardless.

Visenya was a warrior. She wouldn’t weep over lost love.

When clouds came, and night fell, Vhagar plummeted from the skies, the flapping of her wings near silent, as was her general call. She landed in a forest, of all places, shoving her rider into a low-lying branch.

Visenya fell to the ground, brushing leaves out of her braid when she realised that the familiar heft at her waist was lost. She had left Dark Sister in her fury. Vhagar had made herself comfortable, and looked ready for slumber, curling into a canopy’s shadow till only her reptilian eyes blinked ominously in the darkness.

She crooned, growled. Hungry.

Visenya sighed, mindful that she had fetched her friend before the eve’s meal and had indeed forced her to miss her luncheon of cows and goats—she had been insistent, in her brooding rage before the wedding rituals, to smell only of fire and brimstone. If she couldn’t scream her ire, she’d make it be known in another way.

Visenya trailed out of the woods, finding a large village nearby. She recognised the grassy fields, the edge of forest, the dusty streets well enough. She was near the Dothraki Seas. As she treaded the village’s main pathway, passing homes lit with candles, happy families chattering within, Visenya nearly forgot her anger. It was dusty, even in the night’s darkness, and only a few walked the village at the hour. Most of them gathered around a well near the centre of the village. It had caught her attention by then.

She stopped at the periphery, watching the scene. Men, women, children, whole families, dropped gold, silver, jewels into the well, and joined their hands, bowed their heads and left. She followed suit, staring into the dark well. It was new, lined and well spent on, but jewels and ceremonial sacrifices floated on the surface. Jewels floated.

Visenya roped up a bucket of the water, and examined it. Salty. She cupped a handful and drank it.

She spat it out instantly. Inanely salty. The well had gone brackish when it was grounded. She threw the bucket back into the dark well, continuing her search.

So much for her interests. Unfaithful brothers and brackish wells.

She had walked to the outskirts of the village before she found any sheep. A whole herd, white and large, being handled by a boy too young to have gathered it all alone. He led the flock from a field to a pen beside a small, compact hut.

“You there,” Visenya called, and the boy shut the pen’s door firmly before greeting her. She must have looked odd, she realised. A white-haired woman in a black and red gown, gracing his doorstep an hour past sundown.

“I wish to have a half dozen of your sheep—”

“Not mine, lady…” he glanced at the hut. Just then, the door to the hut slammed open. Out of it hobbled an old woman, wrinkled and hunched, a shrivelled soul in a black tokar with a head of hair as silver as hers.

“Do as the lady says, boy, get six sheep,” the old woman ordered.

Strange…Visenya shook her suspicions away. Things were different this far east, she reminded herself.

“How do I pay you?” She asked the old woman as she took the reins for six sheep from the helper boy. “I have some gold, I believe.”

“A drop of your blood shall do.” Her voice was scratchy, her green eyes twinkled strangely.

“My blood?” Visenya raised a brow, unsure.

“Valyrian blood has power; this shall do a world of good for this village,” the old woman struggled towards her hut, returning with a discoloured glass vial. “Come you from across the Narrow Sea?” Visenya considered the exchange. Her heritage was guessable, a young face with silver hair, her lilac eyes, would give away her bloodline easily. Why blood? She had heard tales of maegi sorcerers who used blood to regain youth, used flesh to cure illness.

“Volantis,” Visenya lied, sure that her silken robes would let her pass for one of those worthless diluted slavers. “The Walled City.” She unsheathed a dagger, iron, not steel, to not give herself away, and struck a gash across her palm.

“Now, now,” the old woman smiled, her face wrinkling further, yellow, broken teeth glimmering in the dark evening, and gathered the blood in her vial. “You need not lie to me, Lady Visenya.”

Lady Visenya.

Visenya tightened a grip on her blade, cursing herself for having left Dark Sister behind on Dragonstone. Levelling her voice to dampen her alarm, she asked, “How do you know who I am?”

The woman corked her vial with an old piece of resin-laden wood, and waddled back into the hut, throwing the words behind her as she walked, trapping the door to her home open, “I see much that others may not.”

She took the sheep, convincing herself against seeking the old woman out further, and retraced her steps to the woods. She found Vhagar exactly as she had left her, and even after she roasted the sheep with a spell of flame, chewed on their flesh and spat out the bones, she wouldn’t budge.

“Soves, Vhagar!” She struggled atop her saddle, trying in vain to coax her beast to take flight. Vhagar only grumbled in her throat, shaking her rider off with a flick of her tail. Visenya rolled on the ground as she fell, unhurt but distraught.

“Fine,” she said, insulted and angered, and walked to the edge of the clearing. She laid down on the patch of moss there, gasping from the fall still and frustrated by Vhagar’s antics. She didn’t quite catch her sleep taking her.

She dreamt of flames, and scales. A dragon’s egg, in her grasp, warm from the embers she had found it in, the gash in her hand bleeding, bleeding, bleeding over ash and dragon scales, a mangled wyrmling in the distance—its scales and wings torn and bloody, twisted and knotted like some horrendous image from her sister’s poor childhood sketches come to life.

When she awoke, Visenya was grateful to the strange woman. However strange she had been, she had distracted the warrior enough for her rage to cool. But now, she knew not where to place her efforts.

“You are a pain, I hope you know that!” She screamed at Vhagar, who remained in the shadow of the woods’ canopy, slumbering in peace, unaffected by her rider’s rage, unresponsive at her attempts to force her beast to fly, for fuck’s sake, fly! She stumbled back to the village, dusty streets filled with people now, young children chasing each other through the fields.

She passed the ill well from the previous eve, raised an eyebrow at the people who huddled around it. A hoard of women chattered aloud, Westerosi mixed with lower Valyrian, some dialects of Dothraki and Pentoshi tossed around in the hubbub. They were filling water from the well, large barrels and wooden buckets laid out in rows.

“You there,” she beckoned to a young girl, barely ten, with pigtails and an ugly yellow dress, “The well had gone brackish,” she did not ask.

The girl shrugged her shoulders, “The priests have done rites for a sennight past. It worked.” Visenya needed to hear no more. She followed the cluttered houses and long alleys to the home of the old woman. Blood had power.

She found the desolate hut again, but no helper boy and no swine nearby. Climbing the three clayed steps to the closed door, she knocked—three raps with her fist, and the door swung open.

She took a careful step inside.

The woman’s hut only smelled of honey and metal, sickly sweet and bloody, though Visenya wasn’t sure if it was her gashed hand that stank of blood, for it had started bleeding again and profusely. The home was comfortable, with a familiar stench of old wine and everything inside the low-lying hut was warm and red and brown, lit by gold candles as the windows were curtained with dark, heavy velvet.

The old woman was no where to be seen.

In front of the flames, however, sat a young, rather beautiful lady, clad in red and gold silk. Her ebony hair was braided with intricacy, piled atop her head in the classical sense of the Ghiscari. Visenya recognised her robes to be resembling a tokar, and found her eyes to be a familiar green.

No.

A chilled breeze crept through the open door, leaving Visenya with a wave of shivers.

“Cold outside, isn’t it?” the beautiful woman read her mind, staring at Visenya with a crystal-clear interest through her shimmering green eyes. She waved a hand at the fireplace. Bizzare as it was, and quite shockingly also, a flame spluttered alive amidst the wood. Visenya backed away from the flames, turning to the door to find it shuttered close.

She turned back with trepidation, dagger in hand, “You’re a witch.”

“Yes,” the young woman stood, smiled in a way so dazzling that she’d put Rhaenys to shame, “I must thank you for yesterday. The villagers much appreciate your kindness.” Valyrian blood has power. “As do I, as you must concur,” she curtsied, her tokar catching orange in the light of the flame. She had used her blood for the gift of youth? The witch inched towards Visenya, “But you are not here for gratitude.”

Visenya considered the woman, the meaning of all this. Would he return to her? In one fluid motion, she sheathed her blade and addressed the witch, “No.”

“No,” she smiled, lips morphing red, teeth glinting white. It reminded Visenya of the old woman—same woman, she reminded herself. “No, you want knowledge,” she turned on her heel, her silk robe brushing against Visenya’s red and black gown. “It would be my pleasure to reteach the craft to one of your kind.”

“Reteach?” She followed the woman through a door, short and cramped such that they both had to bow to miss the head, into a poorly lit room with cabinets upon cabinets filled with jars and herbs and strange, browned fluids. Visenya saw the vial that had contained her own blood, empty save for a thin sheen left on the glass, next to old yellowed parchment with strange writings.

“Your people were the inception of sorcery, Lady Visenya,” the witch told her, standing far too close for Visenya to find agreeable, “But the craft has been lost to your people, as has your home.” Valyria’s gone. They belonged nowhere, Aegon had reminded her constantly.

She placed a candelabra on a rickety wooden table, clicking her pale, slender fingers to light the wicks, and asked for Visenya’s hand. Visenya watched, with bated breath, as her hand was held atop the flame. It didn’t burn, fire doesn’t burn a dragon, but her blood sizzled in the golden glow.

Aegon. She closed her eyes, brow scrunching, resolve hardening. They were meant to be together. Just them. Aegon and Visenya. A tale written in stone.

“You know what it is that I desire.” She harshened her voice.

“Yes,” the witch handed her a tome, old and wrinkled, the pages blanched and yellowed. “I return the knowledge of your ancestors to you, Visenya Targaryen.”

She didn’t stay long enough to ask why.

Three links of silver, blood drawn from iron and fire—Visenya reached for Aegon’s Dagger, taken from his solar without his notice, and she balanced the light, sharp blade on her lap as she read on, A circlet of ash, an object of desire, bound by a hymn that Meleys shall answer.

Dragon’s blood had power, but a god’s had more.

Visenya sat on the floor of her chambers, the hour of the bat bringing strange whispers with the ocean winds, whispers that rang strangely along her windowpanes, undrowned by the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Her legs ached from the harsh marble against them, and her chest heaved rampantly under her thin white shift.

Visenya sliced her thumb on the sharp edge of the dagger, staining the jagged curve with her blood, the blood of the dragon, then traced the dripping red across the three silver links in front of her. Visenya took a deep breath, shuddered, and sang a song, the likes of which had not been sung within the Keep of Dragonstone for years long passed.

“Oh, Meleys, jaesa hen jorrāela,” Oh, Meleys, goddess of love, she began, and voiced a testament to her power, against her own nature. She was Vhagar, the goddess of war, but all was in love also.

She threw the links in the flames, and sang the song again, her words echoing through the stone halls of the Keep to ring pure and melodious in the ears of Aegon, stark awake as he was at the balcony of Rhaenys’ chambers, eyes fixed westwards.

Queen takes queen.

A knock at her door—and Visenya stumbled towards the doors she had bolted shut. Her hand had been liberal in the pouring of wine. She sat alone, as she had every night since her return from Essos. Three nights spent alone—suppers missed, mornings lost, only flames and blood and spells and Vhagar in her days. Anything to allay herself of the pain of seeing Rhaenys and Aegon, the latter all but drooling over her tits at every stupid remark she made.

Gods, how foolish she felt, running from them, hearing her sister’s ugly lies of destiny and love. Grab any man by the cock that hard and he’ll dream himself a love story.

She opened the door a fraction, surprised to find her brother outside. Pawn forward? He looked the same, and it hurt her. The same silver hair, the same posture, the same expression on his face as whenever he treaded close to her—calm, calm, eternal calm, for they were one soul, so what had he to fear or reproach? Visenya ventured back inside, and he followed, bolted the door shut as though the rooms were still his. Ha. She supposed that he had never renounced her aloud.

“Quite soon of you to bore of the woman who warms your bed,” she remarked, gulping down wine from a silver goblet, caution thrown to the wind as anger surged through her again. She would not take the name of the woman she had once called sister, not to him. “Took you three years to bore of me, thought she’d last longer.”

That angered him, just as she knew that it would. His jaw tightened, eyebrows cross, “What are you implying, Visenya?”

Implying. Poets and dramatists implied. They twisted their words to reflect pesky things like sentiment and beauty. She was no beauty, preaching the arts. She was war.

 “I am implying nothing, brother. I am not a frolicking maid to dance around the truth, forever oblivious of how foolish she seems. Why the fuck are you here?” She threw the chalice in his general direction, missing by a considerable edge.

She expected him to rage after her, to scream, to argue, to order her to submit, ha, to fall to her knees in reverence of her lord husband—he did so adore the western ways.

He did not.

And it was then, that she wondered, whether the spell had indeed worked. Aegon embraced her, as drunk and writhing as she was, held her close, black and red—ash and rubies—fire and blood, and she lost her breath.

“You ran from me, Visenya,” Aegon whispered in her ear, his hands holding her tight, “Left me alone to face the day.”

Visenya laughed, bitter, mocking, more sobful than amused, “I left you?” She wished she could push away, keep her dignity, denounce his impish desire for both her and Rhaenys. She couldn’t. Between the nights he spent away and the atrocities she committed to regain him, she could not push him away, even if he burned her pride and turned her to ash.

“Did you not see me wear our colours for you?” En Passant. He wounded in passing, intention drowned by sheer will of might.

He kissed her, and she clenched her eyes shut to stop her tears from flowing. Red and Black. Targaryen colours, not their colours, but, yes, he had defied tradition. He had not worn cream or white to meet Rhaenys, had not claimed to be hers alone. But he had taken her still.

“I saw you wed our sister,” and she cringed at how high her voice sounded. Shrill and broken. A helpless damsel weeping for her losses. That she will not be. Visenya pushed Aegon away, turned away, walking to the gallery, gazing at the ocean and the night, unable to face him, to show him her weakness.

She heard him breath, heard him approach her, unsure, hesitant as he had been that sunlit eve in the gardens.

She scoffed, anger and confidence filling her again, “Was it all a lie, brother? All your proclamations? All your love?” He snaked his arms around her waist, wet lips touching her shoulder, her ear, her cheek. Visenya threw her head down, struggled out of his reach, refusing to let him have the final word, refusing to let him win her over that easily.

I am war.

“Was it funny for you?” She asked, “To flirt with her half our lives and come fuck me when night fell? Did it please you to use me?” Fool, she was. The greatest fool. Convinced that Aegon would be immune to her sister’s wiles, convinced that he’d put her first.

“I cannot say that I do not love her,” he admitted, and she watched the stars, blurry eyed, not trusting herself to speak and not weep. “You and I are one soul, Visenya,” he sounded wistful, as broken as she was, “When you ache this way,” he turned her forcefully, caught her face in his hands, though only inches below him she stood in stature, and she could see his eyes glisten, “I wish to bring the skies down to see you smile.”

To be as they once were—one heart, one soul, one flesh, one life. Dragons meant to be one for eternity. Balerion and Vhagar. Aegon and Visenya. His vision since boyhood broken in the face of another’s beauty.

“Then renounce her,” she confessed her wish, her voice loud and clear despite the treachery in her words, “Be mine, Aegon,” she buried her face in him, “Just you and me.” For eternity.

Aegon sighed, eyes again caught onto the horizon. Aegon gazed across the Blackwater, to the land ripe for conquest, his dreams returning to him. Dream of ice, dreams of blood. He told her, “I cannot.”

Visenya laughed, broken forever, and banged her fist against his chest in sync with her sobs that had finally broken free. He held her, his older sister, more torn apart by his fault than he had ever seen her before—and the thought crushed him.

What have I done? He dared ask, but he couldn’t—Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys. Music for laughter and blossoms for smiles. He couldn’t let her go.

When her tears ceased, her eyes were red. She left his embrace, left him cold, and turned the bottle of Arbor Red over her mouth. She gulped the sour wine more out of necessity than desire, unable to face her failure or the fact that he wished to amend their bond. Knights defend.

When the glass bottle emptied its last drop on her tongue, she fell on her bed, dizzy, warm, hot, burning. Her final move, in this game of chess against Rhaenys, where Aegon was both prize and puppet.

“Come here,” she beckoned to her brother. Aegon followed her words, stood beside her bed, took her hand and let her lead it to her heart. She told him, in drunken ecstasy, her eyes unfocused and words slurred, “I am not her, Aegon—but I am still yours,” and she heard her own heart’s beat, its thrum, its drum within her as frantic as her thoughts’ run. Oh Meleys, grant him lust. Her eyes closed.

She remembered screaming, but not out of pain, remembered him promise to honour their vow also. She felt his skin against hers, the heft of his flesh moving, shifting, rhyming with hers. She remembered little, other than the warmth of his lips on her breast, the shivering feel of his seed dripping out of her cunt, oh, so familiar.

When she awoke, she found her voice almost entirely lost. Her head ached, worse than it had in a long time. She recalled no dreams, found her bed empty—but her skin littered with bruises and bites, a milky mess between her legs.

Visenya fell back on her bed, relishing in the feel of that moment—pained, tainted, claimed.

Checkmate.

[moobloom-mention]

On the Road Again

Summary: Wukong's come to enjoy his life as a small town sheriff. It's quiet, the townsfolk are kind (for the most part), and he's got a fresh cup of coffee every morning.

That doesn't mean he'd turn down an opportunity to deliver cattle to a town a week's ride south, especially not when MK's excitement is so contagious over it.

Content Warning(s): Cursing

Word Count: 1828

What do you mean it's November already.

----------

Of all the things he could've grown into, Wukong never thought it'd be the shoes of a small town's sheriff.

His youth had long shaped his life to follow the guidelines of a nomad of the eastern countries, forever drawn to the calling of the wind and the grass stomped beneath the hoof of a rust-colored horse. After all, he had little but the soft hiss of sand within his hourglass of life to worry about- a force that'd kindled his rising desire to experience the world.

Er, at least the "world" that was western America.

But Wukong had never taken much interest in the eastern states anyway. He'd long heard tales of the culture there, one that frowned upon the thrills of what life could offer to those willing to risk their young life. He'd much preferred the west's strong ties with nights full of gambling and drinking, of the days he could wake just shy of noon and only concern himself with packing up camp before finding a new road to travel down.

He swears he still has a handful of maps he'd constructed that detailed the best towns to visit from California's southern coast to Wyoming's new northeast border and everything in-between. The more northern-oriented maps hadn't been used often even back then; the risk of winter's fury became far too unpredictable further up the country.

Not that he'd ever need an excuse not to visit a town. Life had given him the mercy of freedom to do as he pleased. If avoiding the north and eastern areas of the country was what he wished to do, so be it.

Yet decades of living life without roots began to chip away at its charm. No longer was it a thrill to ride atop a horse's back for long periods of time- not with the way his saddle would burn at his thighs or how the natural sway of his ride would twist his stomach into knots.

Instinct's call for stability sang its tune sweeter and sweeter, an oasis in a land that had only ever known of sand and heat. It became only a matter of time before he'd surrender to such a saccharine song.

And so now, at the ripe age of forty, he sits in a chair tipped back just enough to allow his boots to settle on a desk made of pine and a mug of fresh coffee in his hands. It's hardly a relaxing morning despite the peaceful picture it paints, only a thinly veiled mask of calmness beneath the foamed rivers of anxiety.

Wukong lets himself bask beneath the office's air of restlessness, the atmosphere mostly stirred in the occasional pacing his deputy takes up between his readings of mail. It's certainly a reaction he can't blame Azure for.

A town down south- Tucson, the mailing address had read -was inbound for an emergency cattle trade. Apparently, autumn's beginnings hadn't been too kind to the livestock of the town and spurred frantic letters requesting cattle at any cost.

While a damn shame for a town Wukong is fond of for his own reasons, the news had been taken quite well when delivered to a cattle ranch only a five-minute ride from his office.

"We wouldn't mind helping at all!" the wife there had chirped, pleasant as ever. "Don's been meanin' to get rid of some of the cattle anyway."

The corners of his mouth twitch downward, his frown hidden behind the lip of his mug. The couple had asked far too many questions about Tucson's desperation for their livestock and even more follow-up questions about the price the town was willing to pay.

As if a town's livelihood meant nothing if it didn't make them a pretty penny. Such a sentiment had left a taste as bitter as the coffee he now sips on.

He presses two fingers between his eyebrows, squeezing the skin tightly as if it'd do away with the memory. He has better things to concern himself with anyway.

Like making sure he hadn't missed anything for the trip today.

The horses had already been tacked up, their saddlebags chalk full of rations and an array of gun ammunition. He'd even packed an extra rifle, one whose rattle had spooked the other horses in the barn.

The only thing Wukong couldn't account for was a toolkit for cattle hooves. Only the gods knew how frequently those creatures managed to dig a rock too far into their hoof or turn the nail terribly crooked at the most inopportune moments.

Still, it isn't like he'd had normal access to such a kit anyway. He'd left that job to-

"Kid's here."

Wukong's barely able to lift his mug from the table before the office's door swings open, its wood slamming against the doorframe with a force grand enough to rattle the old building. Just as expected it jostles the table beneath his feet in a true testament to MK's excitement.

With his mug back in hand Wukong manages one last swig of his drink, its liquid thick and warm against his tongue. Gods he'll miss it.

"Sheriff!"

"Kid," Wukong greets with a tip of his head. "Ya' ready to head out for the cattle?"

"Yep! Already talked to the Cullens and everything. They've got the herd in a pen just outside of town. We just need to unlatch the gate."

Wukong's eyebrow lifts. "They didn't hold you up, did they?"

"No, but-"

MK pauses, gaze turning curious. Wukong knows the question before it leaves his throat.

Thankfully the sheriff beats the kid to his next words. The last thing he needs is town gossip that he's grown a distaste for the family before he leaves for a month.

"I'm glad," Wukong grins, raising a hand to ruffle MK's hair. The kid only makes an indignant huff amidst his attempts to fix what Wukong had ruined. He can't find himself to feel too guilty about it- a hat will hide whatever MK isn't able to correct on his own.

Speaking of, Wukong snags his own hat from his desk before he stands, gesturing MK towards the door. He doesn't want to linger in town any longer than necessary, especially with such a long ride ahead of them.

"I saddled up Bessy this morning," he tells MK. "I know you don't like her, but she'll be better for you during the trip."

Wukong watches the way MK's face pinches into a grimace despite his attempt to look thankful. Not everyone is born with a poker face, he supposes, though it's something MK will have to learn eventually.

For now, Wukong only clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Don't give me that look," he chides, no true heat beneath his words. "You'll thank me later."

"Maybe when I'm sixty like you," the kid grins. A small attempt at rebellion so reminiscent of Wukong's youth.

"Sixty, huh?" Wukong echoes, pitching his voice high in faux offense. "If I was sixty I would be in a rocking chair, not taking you outta town."

MK shrugs. It's his smile that gives away his facade of nonchalance.

Behind them the office's door swings open and Wukong can't help but glance from MK to see why.

Azure steps onto the porch, arms crossed as he leans against one of the balcony's poles in a manner that makes his presence blaringly obvious.

The edges of Wukong's patience wane. He's not sure why he'd ever thought today would go completely smooth- gods know this town isn't the type to let people leave without the burden to guilt. Especially not the town sheriff.

"Sheriff?"

Wukong lends himself a thin smile, tipping his hat back toward MK. “Say, kid, why don’t ya’ go grab Bessy and Whiskey from the barn? I forgot to give Azure something.” 

Much to his own surprise MK doesn’t question being sent off, the kid’s expression one of understanding before he nods and wonders off toward the town’s main barn. There’s a piece of Wukong that feels both relief and the thin rounding of sadness, certain MK had a similar conversation with his father this morning. 

With a sigh Wukong lets himself turn back toward Azure, slipping his hands coolly into his pockets. When the deputy offers no words, he forces himself guide the conversation. “Fine morning to be setting off at.” 

Azure nods, though his jaw sets itself tight. “A brisk one.” 

Now that sends Wukong’s eyes rolling. Calling today’s morning cold would be like saying he’d never run into a scorpion before. Nothing but a shameless lie. 

The sun will only lift itself higher and cast harsher rays- ones that’d already begun to warm the edges of his jacket. Any reprieve in the form of a gust of wind is still as sparring as ever and tinged with the dry heat of the desert. 

“Winter isn’t for another month or two,” he dismisses with ease. “The trip should take three weeks at its best, maybe four at its worst.” 

“Still cutting it close.” 

“Listen, I hate setting off this late too. But those cattle aren’t gonna move themselves and those folk in Tucson aren’t going to wait past winter for them.” 

They couldn’t, not from the letters Wukong had been looking over. 

“There’s just...” Azure’s brows furrow and Wukong gets the sense he’s not quite sure how to voice his opinion. “A lot of things could go awry.” 

He keeps his grin firm, even as he tucks the sentiment away for reflection. Sure, cattle were unpredictable at times, but he doubts there’ll be much trouble with two extremely qualified people herding them. 

As such, he snorts. “It’s just a herd of cattle,” he echoes, and then for good measure tacks on, “The kid’s a natural with them too, you should see his work on his old mans’ ranch.” 

Yet Azure’s stare remains pinning, shadows casting his expression into one of graveness. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” 

Wukong barely manages to keep himself from frowning. Azure can’t be too worried about it if he waited until the morning of the trip to bring his concerns to light. 

“You’ll be fine,” he decides after a moment. He even offers a pat to the other’s shoulder, a movement that sends the blue tassels at the deputy’s shoulders into motion. “You know just as well as I do that this town doesn’t get much trouble. ‘Sides, what can happen in the three weeks we’re gone?” 

“You getting stuck in the snow till spring?” 

Wukong lets himself laugh as he beckons MK to finally approach with the horses. Getting stuck in the snow definitely sounded like an adventure reminiscent of his younger years but he supposes that wasn’t here nor there. 

He wouldn’t pull such a stunt with the kid at his side anyway. Especially not on MK’s first trip outside of town. 

And yet Azure’s composure slips to reveal something unimpressed. Wukong almost takes enjoyment in the doubt his deputy has over his sheriff’s timely return.

“Three weeks,” Wukong reaffirms as he casts a leg over the saddle of a rust-colored horse. It isn’t until MK settles himself in his own horse that the sheriff pulls at his reigns. “Not a day later.”

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Give Thanks to the LORD, for He is Good

1 Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endures forever!

2 Let the redeemed of the Lord speak out, whom He has redeemed from the hand of the enemy, 3 and gathered them from the lands, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south.

4 They wandered in the wilderness on a deserted path; they found no city to dwell in. 5 Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them. 6 Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distresses. 7 He led them on a level road, that they might go to a city to live in. 8 Let them praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the people! 9 For He satisfies the longing soul and fills the hungry soul with goodness.

10 Some sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, being prisoners in affliction and irons, 11 because they rebelled against the words of God and rejected the counsel of the Most High. 12 Therefore He brought down their hearts with hard labor; they fell down, and there was none to help. 13 Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distress. 14 He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death and broke apart their bonds. 15 Let them praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the people! 16 For He has broken the gates of bronze and cut the bars of iron in two.

17 Some were fools because of their transgressions, and because of their iniquities they are afflicted. 18 They loathed all manner of food, and they drew near to the gates of death. 19 Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and He saved them out of their distress. 20 He sent His word and healed them and delivered them from their destruction. 21 Let them praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the people! 22 And let them offer the sacrifices of thanksgiving and declare His works with rejoicing.

23 Some went down to the sea in ships, to do business in the vast waters; 24 they saw the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep water. 25 For He commands and raises the stormy wind, which lifts up the sea waves. 26 The sailors went up to the sky, they came down to the depths; their strength melted because of the great danger. 27 They reeled to and fro and staggered like drunken men, and were completely confused. 28 Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and He saved them out of their distress. 29 He made the storm calm, and the sea waves were still. 30 They were glad because the waters were quiet, so He brought them to their desired harbor. 31 Let them praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the people! 32 Let them exalt Him in the congregation of the people, and praise him in the assembly of the elders.

33 He turns rivers into a desert, water springs into dry ground, 34 a fruitful land into salty wasteland, because of the wickedness of those living there. 35 He turns a wilderness into pools of water, a parched ground into springs of water. 36 There He makes the hungry dwell, and they prepare a city to live in; 37 they sow fields and plant vineyards, and yield a fruitful harvest. 38 He blesses them, so that they are greatly multiplied, and He does not let their livestock decrease.

39 But when they are diminished and brought down through oppression, affliction, and sorrow, 40 He pours contempt upon princes, and causes them to wander in a wilderness with no road; 41 yet He raises up the poor from affliction and cares for their families like flocks of sheep. 42 The righteous shall see it and rejoice, and all evil people shall stop their mouth.

43 Whoever is wise let him observe these things; let them consider the lovingkindness of the Lord. — Psalm 107 | Modern English Version (MEV) The Holy Bible, Modern English Version. Copyright © 2014 by Military Bible Association. Published and distributed by Charisma House. Cross References: Genesis 11:4; Genesis 12:2; Genesis 13:10; Genesis 14:3; Genesis 17:20; Genesis 35:3; Leviticus 7:12; Numbers 9:23; Numbers 14:33; Numbers 15:31; Deuteronomy 30:3; Deuteronomy 32:10; 1 Samuel 2:8; 1 Chronicles 16:34; 1 Kings 17:1; 2 Kings 3:17; 2 Kings 10:32; 2 Kings 19:29; Job 12:25; Job 33:20; Psalm 22:11; Psalm 22:22; Psalm 22:25; Psalm 29:3; Psalm 44:25; Psalm 49:15; Psalm 50:15; Psalm 64:9; Psalm 68:6; Psalm 77:3; Psalm 78:42; Psalm 111:4; Psalm 111:14; Psalm 148:8; Isaiah 24:20; Isaiah 29:17; Isaiah 50:2; Jeremiah 28:13; Jeremiah 30:14; Jeremiah 31:5; Jonah 1:6; Jonah 1:14; Matthew 5:6; Matthew 8:26; Mark 4;39; Luke 1:79; Luke 13:16; Romans 3:19

Spurgeon's Treasury of David—Psalm 107

[waywardsalt]

uhhhhh a bit ago for a class i had to write a short story and then i wrote 20 pages in like three weeks which i havent done in forever. and i like it too so. heres what i would consider the 'final' fully edited version of that short story

Miséricorde

(Includes brief animal death and self-harm)

                Misericorde, misericorde. A sleek dagger with a long, slim blade. The weapon of a mercy killer, secured firmly to the traveling surgeon’s belt.

The surgeon held tight onto the misericorde’s polished hilt, gazing into the passing trees as she walked. With night soon falling, a place to set up camp was sorely needed. Collecting water was also appealing— a lake or a river would be nice. She’d been on the road for hours.

The surgeon sighed to herself. She started going through the pouches at her belt. Vials, her jar, her tools… She straightened up as she heard the distant creaking of wheels. She began to jog back the way she came and spotted a carriage pulled by a pair of large horses. Likely a merchant company, she realized, seeing crates in two of the three carriages following the first.

The leading carriage neared her, and the surgeon raised an arm and shouted, “Hoy there!”

The coachman jerked his head up and tugged the horses to a slow stop. She strode over, giving a short bow. “Apologies for any inconvenience, sir. Are you the leader of this…”

She trailed off, and the coachman, a gruff-looking man with tanned skin and a bushy beard, said, “Caravan. We’re a caravan, miss. Travelin’ merchants. What d’ya need?”

The surgeon clasped her hands behind her back. “Nothing urgent, sir, I merely just wish to ask if I may join your company for a time.”

“Ah, well.” The coachman slid off the bench and onto the ground to stand before her- he stood just a few inches shorter than her. “’m sure he’ll wanna know why we stopped…” He looked sheepish, then eyed the surgeon suspiciously. “Who’re you? ‘m name’s Kestral.”

“A traveling doctor, heading from town to town to aid any in need,” she briskly explained.

A man hurried over; Kestral stepped aside as an older man with close-cropped hair and a stern face reached them and peered at the surgeon. He narrowed his eyes at her, then at Kestral, who shrugged. “She says she’s a doctor, askin’ to travel w’ us.”

“I’m Elric,” the man simply said to the surgeon. “You certainly look the part of a traveling doctor. We aren’t opposed to picking up hitchhikers, so long as you earn your keep.”

“Oh of course, Elric sir.” The surgeon bowed again. Her hair was tied tightly back, and with her deeper bow, it fell into her face. She paused to brush it behind her shoulder before continuing. “I will offer my services freely when they are needed— I’ve just been walking a long while.”

“W-well.” Elric crossed his arms, looking a bit off-put. “Ma’am, you’re free to stay with us, so long as you cause no problems. Come, come with me, you look… exhausted.”

The surgeon was led to the second carriage and invited on, and hardly a moment after she laid eyes on her companions, the carriage began to move. She gave Elric a thin smile and turned to the others in the wagon. “I am pleased to meet you all.”

They stared at her, and Elric cleared his throat and introduced her quickly. A young man— vaguely resembling Elric— sat up. “Greetings, miss. You can call me Tash.” All of those in the carriage began to introduce themselves, and the surgeon patiently took note of all of their names and faces. Tash was a brown-haired youth, appearing related to Elric in some way. Sitting close together were a pair of ordinary merchants; West, a man looking to be nearing old age with graying hair, and Jassine, an older woman with world-weary features. The final two passengers were a pair of lightly armored women standing at the end of the carriage. One was Emm, with short black hair and her arms crossed over her chest, and the other was Lissen, red-haired and with an almost dreamy look in her eyes— the two caravan guards, Elric explained.

The silence returned when the introductions were finished, and the surgeon turned her gaze to the landscape they passed. The sunset painted the sky with fiery hues, and she found herself drawn to the deep reds she could see closer to the horizon.

“Uh, miss?” The surgeon turned; Tash was peering at her, leaning closer. The others in the carriage were looking at her. She felt a faint spark of dread. “You didn’t tell us your name.”

Ah. She shut her eyes a moment and suppressed a chuckle. She opened her eyes and shook her head. “You may just call me ‘doctor’. Through all of my travels, my name has admittedly been worn away and eroded from my memory.”

An easy, rehearsed lie. She privately judged their reactions. Tash looked curious, still, but satisfied. Elric had fixed her with a hard, inscrutable stare, and both Emm and Lissen raised an eyebrow. West easily accepted her answer and Jassine just gave a short hum. None of them pried further, and she turned her gaze back to the sky.

It was late in the night when they stopped. The front horses were kept reined to the first carriage, while the extra brought along by the back of the caravan were given a great deal of slack to wander. The surgeon trailed after the group when they dismounted the carriage and began unloading items from the third wagon. Sleeping bags, foodstuffs, a variety of items to set up camp. She helped without a word, and Tash thanked her when she joined him in starting the fire.

She used her misericorde to cut short some twigs they used. The dagger’s blade gleamed, but Tash’s eyes were drawn to the strange greenish hilt, dotted with specks of red. “I’ve never seen a tool like that,” he whispered. “What’s it made from?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the surgeon lied. “I picked it up in a town a few months back.” She tightened her grip on the bloodstone hilt. “It may be polished and painted wood, for all I know.”

Talk around the fireplace was lively. West prepared a meal for the merchants, and Elric discussed trade with Jassine. The surgeon listened in— they were textiles traders, starting from the far-off town of Corphen on a southern island. A few times, the topic of religion came up.

Tash was sitting apart from the rest. The surgeon settled down next to him. “You are Elric’s son, are you?”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. There is a resemblance. I’ve an eye for such things.”

“Oh.” Tash studied the grass at his feet. “You’re a doctor?” He stared at her clothing. “Is the white so it’s easy to see blood?”

“So it’s easy to see grime. I require my equipment to be clean in order to effectively treat wounds.” She brushed dirt off her jacket. “Foot travel is unappealing to me, as you can imagine.”

Tash was open with her as they conversed. The surgeon idly rubbed the bloodstone pommel of her dagger. He seemed the kind of person vulnerable to the harsher aspects of the world, but he was a kind soul without question. And yet his father’s eyes periodically fixed upon the surgeon for mere heartbeats at a time. Tash’s open kindness was certainly not an inherited trait.

They slept under the stars and woke with the rising sun. The two guards seemed constantly alert. Jassine returned to the carriages to check on the merchandise, and Kestral was off inspecting the horses. Tash was the last to wake, and Elric took him to the second carriage. The surgeon watched them go, then turned to West.

“How did you happen to acquaint yourself with Elric?”

The older man grunted in a good-natured manner. “Elric’s decently known ‘round these parts. We’re on the way to Nariko City, o’ course, and he ‘n his son hails from there. Bit of an up-and-coming name. Figured I’d get t’ know him in case he strikes gold.”

The surgeon nodded sagely and raised an eyebrow as she caught a glimpse of the skin uncovered by West’s rolled-up sleeve. “That’s a fresh-looking cut you have there.”

He blinked and peered at it. “Eh, this? It’ll take more than that t’ stop these old bones, nothing t’s worry about, miss doctor.”

“Know that I can tend to it if it becomes worse.”

“’Course. That’s your job, ain’t it?”

Tash and his father stayed in the second carriage for the rest of the day. The caravan moved on and the surgeon settled into the third carriage with the others. Jassine was the one to spark conversation with her, the surgeon careful with her words while they seemed to tumble out of Jassine, the woman having been an adventurer in her youth and now uses her experiences to craft unique textiles.

Still, at no point during the day did the surgeon feel particularly welcome in the group. They stopped for the night and again Tash struck up conversation with her. She was merely passing through, and despite her indulgence of Tash’s extroverted traits, was uninclined to share much about herself, as with Jassine.

The next morning, while helping inspect the carriage wheels, Jassine brought up the subject of gods.

“I take it you’re a religious woman?” Jassine asked, causing the surgeon’s heart to skip a beat. “Most people are. I’ve yet to meet someone who altogether denies the existence of the gods.”

“It’s only logical,” the surgeon quietly replied. “The magic in this land is the easiest proof, and we have those able to channel the power of their patron gods when needed. Why ask? I believe in these gods, but in my time traveling, having brushed against so many religions that I find it difficult to commit to one.”

Her words were lies, and they were ones that made her shiver. Her flesh, her blood, her bones, they knew her words to be lies, but they were lies that made her inwardly shudder. The weight of misericorde at her hip brought her back from her brief despair— it was silly to worry about such things, not when she so dearly believed in forgiveness.  She took a deep breath. “Are you a religious woman?”

“I am. A believer in the mother of the arts, the weaver of textiles and the painter of canvases and the writer of tales. You’ve heard of her?”

“Of course. I hear of many gods and beliefs in my travels.” The mother of the arts. An admirable goddess; the surgeon, on occasion, provided offerings to the mother of the arts, as someone with an earnest respect for creative pursuits. “The mother of arts suits you in your trade. Was there a different god you paid respects to in your time of adventure?”

Jassine scoffed and shook her head. She rubbed her fingers against a wheel spoke, then sighed, “Perhaps, but I didn’t pay as much mind to gods in those times.” She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, “I never told this to Elric, truthfully. I doubt West would care much, bless his easygoing heart, and Tash is such a kind boy. But Emm and Lissen have worked for Elric for years, and Elric himself is pious to a fault. Not the most tolerable man, really.”

“I know the type,” the surgeon murmured, her careful tongue slipping and allowing the depths of her misery and spite coat her words. The look Jassine gave her was thankfully understanding. The surgeon’s hand curled around the misericorde’s hilt, and she recomposed herself. “In any cause, Kestral will be pleased to know that the wheels are in perfect condition.”

It was that night, as they were preparing to sleep, when West pulled the surgeon off to the side. He didn’t speak, but the surgeon already knew what was on his mind; she’d treated enough patients to know the look of a man with a soured wound. He rolled up his sleeve and she recognized the look of a blossoming infection and guided him to lay down in one of the carriages.

She alerted the rest of the caravan before she began— there were looks of worry, the oldest member of the caravan having a wound nearing infection, but Jassine and Tash appeared to have confidence in her as she announced that she would tend to him to the best of her ability.

Elric followed her back into the carriage to watch.

She’d had audiences for her surgery before. Even audiences as stern as teachers strictly grading her work, and audiences as primordially observant as her goddess.

Before she laid out her supplies, the surgeon mouthed a prayer to her goddess.

Mercy, please, grant him mercy.

Bottles, syringes, jars, scalpels… all items from her pouches that she laid out on the carriage floor, all items that Elric eyed with suspicion.

“Have you never seen a surgeon work?” she asked, unable to hide her amusement at his scowl. “I should hope a merchant such as you would be at least familiar with some of these tools.”

“Just get to work,” he gruffly mumbled, and the surgeon did just that.

Her hands were steady and experienced. The last tool she withdrew was her misericorde with the bloodstone hilt, the polished silver blade glinting in the moonlight. West looked nervous; Elric stared at it with an unreadable expression. She set it down next to West’s arm and got to work on the wound.

She soaked a rag in disinfectant and cleaned the wound, ignoring the man’s pained groan as she soaked his cut and cleared away any dirt. It was a simple treatment, and she felt calm and comfortable picking through her bottles of ointment and stock of bandages. The wound was clean and needed to be dressed and wrapped, but before she moved on, the surgeon lifted her misericorde. “I need to create a small cut to help the infected blood escape.”

“Go ahead, ma’am.” West looked away, and the surgeon opened a small cut just below the bottom of the gash with a precise flick of her wrist. Blood leaked out, and she desired to ask him if she may draw extra blood with a syringe, but it was not the appropriate time. So, she moved quietly on to the final wound-dressing.

The ointment was meant to be cold against skin, and West hissed as she spread it in and on the wound. Once his skin was slick with the medicine, she began to wrap his wound in bandages.

“I need to check on this every night until this heals. If we reach town and it is still healing, find a doctor there to check on it.” West nodded obediently, and the surgeon tied off his bandages.

She gathered up her supplies and sheathed her misericorde, feeling Elric’s eyes follow her every movement. His suspicion hung over her for a long while after that night she treated West.  

A few days later, it was pouring rain. The horses pulling the carriages were large beasts with thick fur, bred for strength and stamina, animals the surgeon had scarcely seen.

But they were horses all the same.

So, when the trail became wet and slippery, and one of the horses stumbled at the edge of the ditch and fell, the crack of a broken bone reaching those in the second carriage, the surgeon prepared herself to carry out her misericorde’s core purpose.

Elric and the two guards hopped off the carriage, and the surgeon followed with her hood pulled on. Kestral was cursing, having stopped at the edge of the ditch. The horse writhed in the mud, its eyes rolling wildly in pain and distress. One of its forelegs was bent at an awkward angle. Elric scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, and Lissen sadly murmured, “Poor thing. Kestral, I’ll help you situate another horse.” The coachman grunted and started to cut the fallen horse’s reins.

“Will you just leave it?” the surgeon asked, innocent curiosity in her voice.

“Nothin’ else t’ do,” Kestral grumbled, straightening. “The weather’s too bad t’ stick around.”

“I can dispatch it quickly.” The surgeon crouched at the edge of the ditch. “No point in leaving it to suffer.”

“…Go for it,” Kestral responded with a shrug. “’m sure it’ll thank ya.”

There was no further discussion, and the surgeon was left with the dying horse. The rain would make it nearly impossible to salvage any parts of the animal once it was dead, but it deserved mercy nonetheless. She carefully slid down into the muck beside the animal, careful to stay out of the way of its hooves and sat by its head. She removed the glove from her left hand and laid her bare palm on its neck. The horse stared up at her with glassy eyes.

The surgeon raised the misericorde and made a thin cut in the horse’s neck, and she pressed a finger against the cut. Blood welled up around her finger and she shut her eyes, focusing on the animal’s blood. Her own blood seemed to burn in her veins as it dimly communed with the horse’s.

Be at peace. I will grant you mercy, as is my sworn duty.

The horse slowly relaxed, its eye still fixed on her, but it quieted and stopped thrashing so much. The surgeon kept her fingers pressed against the cut, and she calmly positioned the misericorde’s blade above the horse’s eye. The blade was thin and long— designed for a swift and decisive kill.

The thrum of the rain seemed to dim around her as the surgeon drew in a deep breath and plunged the misericorde deep into the horse’s eye. The animal thrashed once, then went still. She gently ran her fingers through its soaked mane, then slowly drew the dagger’s blade out of the eye. As it exited the wound, the gleaming blade was coated in blood, but the rain washed that blood and gore off the metal, leaving the blade as clean as though it had been freshly forged.

A new horse was attached to the front carriage as the surgeon sent a prayer along with the dead horse’s soul. Forgiveness to the broken bone that had led to its merciful death— it had been a loyal and proud animal, the blood had told her.

Tash’s voice rose above the rain, calling to her that they were going to get going again. She called back that she would catch up to them.

The caravan traveled on without her, and the surgeon removed a jar from her belt- a jar the size of her hand, three-quarters full of blood. She wasted no time— she slashed the horse’s throat with the misericorde and held the jar up to the wound to collect blood. It was blood that carried the life of the horse and was shed as a result of mercy. Once the jar was full to the lip, the surgeon screwed the lid back on, stood and bowed deeply to the dead horse, and ran to catch up with the caravan. Misericorde, gleaming blade of mercy, was returned to its sheath.

They slept on the carriages as the rain continued, and the topic of religion returned. The surgeon rolled onto her side at the edge of the carriage and feigned sleep. Jassine, Emm, West, and Elric talked, while Tash was snoring softly and Lissen was alert at the edge of the carriage.

“I reckon the church in town oughta like our stock,” West declared. “I’ve heard they have a few churches in town, I might visit and pray to th’ god of trade.”

Jassine laughed. “Of course, gold and demand are at the forefront of your mind. I might see if they’ve got an altar to the goddess of the arts.”

“I’ve no need for churches,” Emm muttered. “I do all my praying on my own— Don’t give me that look, Elric. I know the father of battle is a touchy subject, but it’s what I believe.”

“Be careful with that,” Elric tersely replied. “You’ve heard about the crusades.”

The conversation quieted. The surgeon willed her breathing to slow. Elric spoke up. “We should go through our stock in the morning. Make sure there’s nothing that could be seen as blasphemous or profane. The word of the lord of law is spreading, as it ought to.”

Emm didn’t respond; the surgeon heard her stand and join Lissen. The surgeon knew of the lord of law, and he was a stern, strict god, hands-off with his belief of respect and hierarchy. It was while hoisting banners of the lord of law that soldiers had run her and her fellows out of their homes and decreed their beliefs as heretical. The old surgical scar on her abdomen itched.

Gods of law, goddesses of nature, lords and ladies of trade and art and speech and government. She’d studied as many as she could, and found that the wider a deity’s domain, the wider the reach of their religion. But the narrower that domain, the more intimate the prayer.

In the following morning, she observed Elric’s prayer for the first time. He prostrated himself on the ground, his flesh, blood, and bones belonging to his lord and therefore something not to tamper with. Many religions held that view. Your flesh, blood, and bones are sacred and therefore are not to be touched, altered, or manipulated.

It was understandable why he was so suspicious of her. A doctor, a surgeon, meddling directly with the flesh, blood, and bones, though, so far, with little tampering that crosses the lines etched by his beliefs. Doctors in service to the lord often worked with potions and tinctures; surgeons, at most, usually just stitched up wounds. Deeper meddling was frowned upon. The body was a sacred temple, not to be breached or split open under decree of the lord of law.

The surgeon, as everyone else was busy, declared that she needed to wash, and walked off into the forest to find a pond. The lord of law was not her lord. She prayed to the mother of blood and so worshipped the body in a different way— a way in which touch, alteration, and manipulation was forgiven and celebrated when it granted mercy, in whatever form it took.

She found a clean pond and stripped naked, laying everything at the base of a tree. The water was cool and reached up to her knees at its deepest point. Her first job after taking to the roads was to remove a tumor from a priest of the lord of law. He was an old man who knew who she was, but did not care. Much of what she did to cure him went against the popular doctrine, but as he’d said, there are many gods in the land, and to unflinchingly treat the word of the lord of law as stone-faced fact was plainly ignorant.

He'd spoken his mind. There had been a passion to him; a passion more suited to a follower of the mother of blood than the lord of law, though the surgeon knew herself that her cold demeanor was at odds with her beliefs. When she’d become a proper blood-sworn, there had been frenetic partying and celebration with her peers, but her own emotions had always been subdued and measured.

The surgeon had brought two items with her into the pond— her misericorde and her jar of blood. She would wash in the aftermath of her ritual.

Her first ritual was an anxiety-ridden one, but no more anxiety ridden than her first surgery or her initiation. The coven she’d lived with had been gentle and reassuring every step of the way. The surgeon sighed and shut her eyes as grief washed over her. As a blood-sworn she was bound to forgiveness, but she doubted she could find it in her to forgive the people that had driven her from her home and killed her brothers and sisters.

The jar and the misericorde lay on a half-submerged log. The surgeon unscrewed the lid of the jar and lifted it. The blood inside was from a myriad of sources; the dead horse, a bandit she’d killed, a company of patients she’d treated at the last town. Humans and animals, blood of the healthy and sick and dead. She lifted the jar and tipped her head back and drank the blood.

It was warm and thick, the metallic taste more than familiar to her after her many blood-sworn years. She started with small sips, then took larger gulps— drinking deeply until the jar was empty. Not a drop was wasted— though, if the ritual went well, she would be forgiven for any waste.

She traded the empty jar for her misericorde and straightened her back. The wind sent a chill through her body, and the surgeon eyed her surroundings, looking for the slightest rustling of a bush. More so now than ever, uninitiated witnesses would not be tolerated— if not just for her nudity, then for the way her practices had been marked as deeply profane. She lifted her misericorde and admired the shining metal and the dark stone handle.

Her skin was tanned, and her forearms and hands were riddled with small scars. Old cuts and slips of the hand from her time learning to use the scalpel and misericorde in surgical acts. The surgeon held her left arm straight out, and she rested the tip of the misericorde on the underside of her elbow.

She drew in one last long breath, and tore the sharp blade through her arm, slicing it open from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed and pain shot through the limb, but she remained on her feet. Blood streamed down her skin and poured into the water around her, the cut so deep that in some places the white of bone shone through besides the glistening skin and muscle.

She bowed her head and watched the blood dissolve and disappear in the water as accepted tribute. The pain in her arm faded, and the wound was perfectly closed with nary a scar when the surgeon lifted her head. The mother of blood had accepted her ritual and blessed her with healing and the knowledge that she’d been aptly merciful in her work.

The surgeon waded into a deeper part of the pond and quickly washed herself, then hurried back to dry herself off and redress herself. It would be unwise to be gone for too long. The jar returned to its spot on her belt and the misericorde was returned to its sheath.

A bush rustled, and the surgeon shot up and tore the dagger from its place and didn’t relax as Tash sheepishly showed himself. “What do you think you’re doing?” the surgeon demanded.

“Y-you’re a follower of the mother of blood.”

“Give me a good reason not to slit your throat where you stand. What do you wish to do with that information? Trade it off to your father so he can have me executed as a heretic? Use what you’ve seen as blackmail? Speak.”

Tash held up his hands, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I was just curious. I have no grudge against you. I don’t pray to any gods, and you’ve helped us so far. I promise to keep it a secret.”

The surgeon kept the dagger pointed at his chest and advanced closer to him. “See that you keep your word. You seem a kind soul; I hate to rid the world of your presence. Just know that while I am merciful and forgiving, that mercy can be ruthless.” She slowly put the dagger away, and they silently headed back to the caravan.

Neither of them spoke. Tash kept glancing her way, but with more curiosity than suspicion. The surgeon kept her eyes forward. There was a hitch in their step as the sounds of shouting drifted their way, and then they set off sprinting through the trees. Tash half stumbled through the undergrowth and the surgeon quickly left him behind with her more graceful dash.

The surgeon burst from the tree line upon a scene of bandits accosting the caravan, Emm, Lissen, and Kestral battling with them. The surgeon rushed to the nearest bandit— already engaged with Emm— and she wrapped an arm around his neck and sank the misericorde deep into his side. He grunted and fell as she released him with withdrew her blade, and Emm just gave her a short nod before joining Lissen. There were only a few bandits, but something about the weapons they wielded sent a shiver down the surgeon’s spine. Lissen had the sense to keep her distance.

Tash rushed into the carriage for safety. The surgeon slashed at the nearest bandit and managed to nick his throat- deep enough to reach the artery and cause blood to spray out. she breathlessly turned to Lissen as the bandit collapsed. “When did they show up?”

“They just got here, cocky bastards.”  Lissen sheathed her sword and nodded behind the surgeon. “Hardly capable. We’re already done. Thanks for your help, doctor— hm. Kestral looks hurt.”

The pair of them jogged over. With the body of a bandit slumped close by, Kestral was sitting against the first carriage. The surgeon lowered herself to the ground near him. “Let me see your wound, Kestral.” The coachman just groaned, and the surgeon gently lifted his hand away from his side. She hissed once she saw the wound. “Emm. Bring me one of the weapons.” The guard complied, and the surgeon started mentally considering her options.

When Emm presented the surgeon with the weapon, a plain dagger with a strange sheen, she scowled. “Ah, they used blessed weapons, wonderful. It would be helpful to know which god blessed them, that’s a waste of time now.” Kestral’s wound already had the smell of infection coming from it, and the skin and veins around it were turning a sickly green. “If I don’t work on this soon, he’ll die- please make sure I have space for this. I may need to operate on him— it looks like parts of that blade may have chipped off in the wound, likely another part of that cursed blessing.”

The surgeon hastily began setting out her tools, and ordered, “Find a cloth for him to lay on. I’ve seen such wounds before; there is only so much time before only magical solutions will work.” Emm complied and ran off without a word, while Lissen hung around. The surgeon glanced over at her. “Help me out here.”

Emm quickly found a plain cloth and laid it on the grass, and Lissen helped the surgeon move Kestral onto it. The two guards eyed the tree line, and the surgeon felt dread creep up on her as she cut away at Kestral’s shirt. “Please trust me, sir, I have the abilities to save you.”

He just nodded slowly, grimacing. The surgeon tensed as she heard footsteps behind her, but kept her focus on sorting her tools and thinking of how a normal surgeon could handle this— if even possible. Her eyes flicked up to Kestral’s pained face, and she tightly gripped her forceps and scalpel. With or without an audience, she would need to call on her blood-sworn blessings.

“Trust me,” she repeated, her voice strained as she became more aware of the rest of the caravan watching. She knew to inspect the wound- the basic treatment of applying disinfectant and numbing cream, and carefully checking the depth of the wound and extracting any metal. She’d treated wounds caused by blessed and cursed weapons before— her blood-sworn abilities gave her an advantage in meddling directly with her patients’ blood.

Once the wound was cleaned, the surgeon ‘accidentally’ slit one of her fingertips open. She could practically feel Elric leaning over her. Jassine and Tash sat on either side of Kestral. West was quietly tending to the horses. The surgeon drew in a long breath and worked faster. The poison was spreading quicker than expected, and she started to make small cuts with the scalpel along the infected veins, just barely remembering to numb each area— she would have to thank Jassine for talking to Kestral while she worked.

“Prayer may help,” Elric murmured, and the surgeon glanced briefly back at him. He shuffled over to sit next to her, in his hands a small white totem of the lord of law. “This poison is not natural to his body, and therefore throws off the law. The lord may help.”

“Sure,” the surgeon hissed, resolving to ignore him while she continued to open new cuts and apply medicine.

Nothing was helping.

Her hands stilled, and the weight of misericorde at her hip reminded her of her oaths. Of what she’d pledged herself to all those years ago, the god that she swore to provide mercy and forgiveness in the name of, the very reason why she’d made the ultimate show of faith and operated on herself in return for greater ability.

She met Tash’s eyes and reached for the dagger.

Mercy on this injured man, and forgiveness to the flesh that ails him.  

The surgeon drew the misericorde and deepened the cut in her finger, whispering, “Mother, aid me in my work once more.” Blood streamed from the cut, more so than was naturally possible. It didn’t matter who saw at this point, so long as they didn’t stop her.

She traced the coachman’s wound with her bloodied finger, a spark shooting through her arm as visceral connection was established. Kestral’s eyes shot open and met the surgeon’s, but through his blood she felt his tentative trust. She could trace his veins, find the path of the poison, and sense every detail she may need for her work. She doubted she would truly need to cut into Kestral’s body, instead just communing with his blood and flesh.

There was a furious bellow beside her, and Tash lunged past her to restrain his father. The surgeon steeled herself, blocking out the pious merchant’s angry shouting. The speed at which the vitriol towards her faith had spread still haunted her but she had rarely come into contact with anyone who harbored that vitriol and knew what she was.

She would have to thank Tash— no, not just Tash. Kestral, Emm, Lissen, Jassine, and West. Filtering out the poison and ensuring that it stayed out, she urged Kestral to stay still, continually impressing upon him that she only wished to help him. She traced the wound with her misericorde, and located the poison, dark blemishes among the vitality of the blood. Bizarre curses and blessings, highlighted by her desire for mercy. The desire that pulled her forward and kept her focused inward on the wound and the blood, compelling it to take ahold of the intruding poison and carry it back out.

Elric’s fingertips brushed her back, and she resisted the urge to turn and chastise him. Already she was seeing progress, a sheen joining the blood leaking from Kestral’s wound, and she quickly dabbed it up with a disposable rag. The cursing from Elric and the muttering from Tash urged her to work faster. “The poison is almost out,” she tensely reassured Kestral.

The color of the injured man’s veins returned to their normal color, and the surgeon kept her focus sharp until no more poison was extracted by the blood. She let out a shuddering breath and removed her bleeding finger from the wound. Kestral and all the others watching seemed to relax- Elric’s cursing had slowed down. She glanced back at him, taking in his scandalized expression. She turned back and sighed. “Kestral.” He winced. “I’m going to stitch up your wound.”

No protest. The surgeon got to work much more quickly than before, calm enough to talk. “When you reach the city, find a doctor and have them take a look at you. I promise you’ll live, but you will need to take care of this as it heals.” She paused, then added, “Do not tell them anything about me aside from my being a doctor. I am sure you know why.”

“Of course,” Jassine answered for him.

The surgeon stitched dutifully for a moment longer, contemplating what to do next. Threaten them? The reputation of her faith was bad enough. No, she would have to hold out hope that these good people would not sell her out. Elric, on the other hand…

Once the basic stitches were in place, the surgeon turned to face Elric, still held back in Tash’s embrace. The man began to speak, but she cut him off. “I care not what you think of me. Neither do I consider you to be in my debt. Understand that due to my faith, I am a woman of mercy and forgiveness, and I shall therefore forgive you for any hatred you hold towards me, despite the unfoundedness of that hatred.” She turned away and started to wrap bandages around Kestral’s waist, not wishing to waste any more breath on Elric.

She was pledged through the flesh, blood, and bones to heal in the name of the mother of blood, and her patient was more important than a man whose faith had turned him against her.

They reached Nariko city three days later. Kestral moved gingerly, but had, with the help of West and Jassine, taken good care of his wound. Elric had not spoken to her since she’d made her blood-sworn faith obvious— not that she wished to speak to him, anyways. Emm and Lissen flanked her as she stepped out of the carriage onto the city streets. Emm smiled at her, and Lissen just gave her a reassuring nod as she started off to leave.

She’d gotten where she needed to go and would move on once her job was done in the city. There was no reason to stick around with the caravan. It would likely pose a risk to her and her identity if she lingered.

The surgeon set off to find a hotel. She had messages to send and equipment to clean. She’d hardly taken a few steps as a hand on her shoulder prompted her to turn around. She was met by Tash’s melancholy smile. “…Thank you for saving Kestral. And… helping us. I’m sorry about my father. I swear to make sure he doesn’t endanger you and your identity.”

“Don’t be sorry. I forgive him, as I should. I hope you are successful in any of your future endeavors. I suspect you are one with a bright future.” With that, she turned back and walked off, adding over her shoulder, “Worry not about your father sharing news of a wandering blood-sworn surgeon. There are many like me, and you don’t even know my name.”

[godbeautyorder]

The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in mercy. He will not always contend with us, nor will He keep His anger forever. He has not dealt with us according to our sins, Nor punished us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.

Psalm 103:8-12

[beachy--head]

We don't talk enough about the fact that in the If/Then episode in season 8, Charles is the one who's into April. I've read maybe one fic in which this was explored. Ugh, the Mercy West gang really had so much potential, in canon or fanon.

(but also I'm forever in love with the fact that when Meredith tells April "you are going to find someone", the camera pans to a grinning Jackson. In every universe, right?)

[sylvia-on-the-run]

In the Name of Allah, the most Gracious, the most Merciful, “Permission to fight is given to those who are being fought, because they have been wronged. And indeed, Allah is competent to give them victory.”

One Year Since the Al-Aqsa Flood: The Resistance is United and Will Triumph

O great Palestinian people… O masses of our Arab and Islamic Nations:

A year has passed since the start of the Al-Aqsa Flood Battle, which ignited from the Gaza Strip on October 7th and whose impact has reached every corner of the earth. The free peoples of the world rose up, each resisting as they could—some supported our people's resistance with arms and combat, while others protested, demonstrated, and provided political support, which is the least they could do.

The crossing on October 7th, and what followed, was a defining moment in our people's and our nation's struggle. It will be recorded in history as a major turning point that tarnished the image of the usurping entity and forever shattered the deterrence theory it had tried to impose since its establishment. This event opened the door for the free resistors of the Islamic Nation to unite with the Palestinian fighters as a step toward the liberation of Palestine by the hands of the free.

The occupation and its arrogant leadership were struck by the shock of the Al-Aqsa Flood. How could a besieged people with limited means, confined to a small area with no resources for resistance, bring a well-armed entity to its knees? They crushed the [IOF] Gaza Division, considered the strongest in the enemy’s army, the most disciplined and vigilant. This unexpected blow shocked the occupation’s leadership, its security apparatus, and its army. There is much more for the enemy to witness in terms of strategic consequences in the coming days, months, and years, with the will of Allah.

Our people’s anger and the resistance’s fury reached their peak on October 7th last year, with the escalating aggression against Al-Aqsa, the rapid steps to desecrate and divide it, both temporally and spatially, and the unprecedented actions preparing for its demolition to build the alleged temple, all while the world remained silent. Meanwhile, in the occupation’s prisons, crimes against prisoners reached intolerable levels under the measures of the extremist fascist Ben Gvir. The Gaza Strip, choking under siege and condemned to a slow death, and the West Bank, where annexation and settlement expansion were accelerating, added fuel to the explosion of our people's resistance, who fought their oppressors with whatever they could, knowing that the price of freedom is steep.

The unity of the fighters in the field over the past year, through relentless combat and heroic defense against the aggression, has been remarkable. It added strength to all resistance forces, which supported each other with information, weapons, men, and combat, standing shoulder to shoulder, inflicting heavy losses on the enemy’s soldiers and vehicles. They set traps in every street, neighborhood, and alley, sending a clear message to the enemy: Our people and factions are united in adopting resistance as the destiny of all occupied peoples and their sacred right. These fighters are the sons of our great people, our selfless families, our steadfast clans, and our proud cities and villages. Without the support of our people for their fighters and heroes, without the steadfastness of our people in the face of unprecedented aggression and genocide, and without their rejection of displacement plans, the fighters would not have been able to withstand the enemy’s overwhelming military force.

The enemy, failing on the battlefield and unable to achieve any of its war objectives, resorted to waging a genocide war against civilians, killing tens of thousands of martyrs and injuring many more, destroying homes, trees, and infrastructure, targeting shelters and medical centers, showing no regard for any sanctities, all in hopes of breaking our people or distancing them from the resistance. Yet, contrary to what the occupation hoped, we saw our people rushing to join the ranks of the fighters, before and during the war, to engage in this sacred battle.

Our brave West Bank did not hesitate to join this Flood that shook the pillars of the occupation.

Its courageous fighters rose against the occupation’s army and its military outposts and settler gangs. They executed heroic operations in the West Bank and within the occupied territories, establishing fortified bases in several Palestinian cities and camps, where resistance fighters from all factions collaborated, developed their tools, and confronted the occupation forces that sought to uproot them and punish them for their resistance.

They inflicted heavy losses on the enemy, and they are still preparing for more. The best is yet to come from the heroes and fighters of the West Bank, with the help of Allah.

O people of our free nation,

It is with great pride and honor that we witness the fighters from Lebanon, Yemen, and Iraq joining forces with the fighters of our people, supporting them by directly engaging in the battle, targeting enemy forces and military bases, and inflicting losses. Likewise, the powerful strikes carried out by the Islamic Republic of Iran against the zionist entity announced their solidarity with our people and their support for the resistance. All of these fronts have sacrificed martyrs and made great sacrifices on the path to Al-Quds. The blood of their fighters and leaders has mixed with the blood of our people, leaders, and fighters, affirming the unity of purpose, blood, and destiny. Palestine is not alone, and this battle, which ignited from Gaza, will change the face of the region, paving the way for the liberation of Palestine and the defeat of the occupation, Allah willing.

The leadership of the Palestinian resistance factions, represented by the Joint Operations Room, stands united in its decision and vision. We have fought every stage of this battle as one, conducting indirect negotiations for months with a unified and agreed-upon approach, and we will remain so in loyalty to the blood of the martyrs, the suffering of the afflicted, the displaced, and the prisoners. We will continue to defend our people with all the strength we possess, never abandoning our duty. We remain committed to stopping the bloodshed, but not at the expense of our people's legitimate rights.

You, O people of Palestine, deserve so much. We have resisted together, offered martyrs together, and we will overcome this ordeal together. We will rebuild what the occupation has destroyed together because you are part of us, and we are part of you. The blood of the leaders and fighters that has been shed is a sacrifice for you, and it is part of your own sacrifices. Rest assured that Allah will not let these sacrifices go in vain, but rather, they will bear the fruits of goodness and victory for our people and our nation, even if it takes time.

Mercy and eternity to our righteous martyrs… Freedom to our heroic prisoners… Healing for the wounded and injured… And freedom to our great people.

Allah is the Greatest, and victory belongs to the resistance.

The Joint Operations Room of the Palestinian Resistance Factions October 7, 2024