acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war
chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 (coming soon)
pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader.
summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you?
a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3
warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst.
w/c: ~8.6k.
dividers by @saradika-graphics
taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)
“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.
“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.
Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.
“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.
His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.
“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”
Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.
Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.
The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.
After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.
At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.
The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.
The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.
So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.
Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.
“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”
You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.
“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.
“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.
Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.
“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”
His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.
“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.
“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.
“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.
“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.
Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.
“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.
Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.
“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.
“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.
Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.
“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.
You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.
Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.
Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.
So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.
The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.
It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.
“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.
His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.
“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.
Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.
The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.
But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.
He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.
Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.
“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.
Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.
“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.
His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.
Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.
There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.
Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.
“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”
Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”
Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”
The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.
“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.
“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.
Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.
The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.
“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.
“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.
“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.
“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.
Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.
Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.
But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.
Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.
He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.
“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.
“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.
“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”
The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.
Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.
At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.
Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.
So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.
When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.
Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.
In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.
With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.
The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.
“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.
Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?
When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.
“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.
A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.
Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.
Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.
Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.
You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.
Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.
Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.
You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.
“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.
You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.
You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.
“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”
“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.
Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.
“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.
“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.
You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.
“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.
“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”
He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.
You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.
“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.
You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”
Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.
“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.
If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.
“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.
Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.
Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.
There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.
Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.
Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.
“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.
Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.
Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.
With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.
Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.
With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.
“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.
“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.
A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.
Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.
“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.
“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”
Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.
“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.
“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”
“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.
“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.
Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.
“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.
“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”
The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.
The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”
Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.
The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.
“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”
“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.
An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”
Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.
“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.
“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.
“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.
Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.
“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.
“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”
He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.
When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.
“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”
“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.
“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.
“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.
He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.
“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”
“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.
“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”
“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.
You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.
“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.
“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.
“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.
His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.
“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”
You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.
“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.
“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.
“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.
“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.
Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.
You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.
So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.
Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.
“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.
The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.
Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.
Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.
But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.
“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.
You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.
“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.
You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.
Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.
He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.
“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”
Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.
“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.
“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”
“I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.
Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.
And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.
Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.
“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.
“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.
Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.
“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.
You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.
In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.
But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.
“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.
You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.
You nodded.
“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.
You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.
Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.
A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.
The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.
It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.
When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.
“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.
You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.
“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.
Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.
As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.
“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.
“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”
There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.
Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.
“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.
He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.
“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”
You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.
This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?
“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.
“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.
Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.
“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”
“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”
You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.
“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”
You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.
Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.
@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey
@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87
@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories
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Trouble in Paradise (Part One)
Pairing: DBF!Joel Miller x f!reader
Word Count: 3.4k
Summary: Of all the things you thought you might be doing on your summer break, falling in love with your father's best friend in Hawaii wasn't one of them.
Tags/Warnings: Nothing crazy yet! Some kind of maybe tension, pet names, talk of Joel knowing reader since she was small, reader has a dad, mom is not mentioned, yadayada
A/N: Hello my friends! I'm terribly sorry I've been away for so long. There have been a lot of...unsavory happenings lately. Want to say sorry in advance because I know this isn't my best writing, but i'm trying to get back into the groove of things. I'm hoping I'll be back to my scheduled programming (TTF, FB, answering requests) by the time this short series is done. Expecting it to be around 3-5 parts. Thank you so much for sticking with me <3
*******
You’ve been laying in your bed blasting your “chill” playlist through your earbuds since you got home from school around five. The last exhausting day of your freshman college year. Lana Del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Hozier, and the like have been floating lazily through your head as you watched the sun go down.
After a long day, you’d hung your head off the foot of your bed, intent to bask in the golden glow of the evening in a baggy T and your underwear until your eyes shut for the night. You were almost asleep when you were interrupted by a sound that didn’t quite go with “Wicked Game”.
You yank your earbuds out, sitting up on your bed. You don’t remember it getting so dark. Your cracked window allows the late summer breeze in to gently rustle the curtains framing it. Crickets and cicadas chirp loudly outside, creating a symphony to compliment the stars shining through the inky sky.
“Sweetheart?”
Your head swivels to look accusingly at your closed door. The name was shouted from the stairway. Definitely your dad.
You roll your eyes but get out of bed. The clock on your nightstand tells you it’s 8:02pm, so he’s probably calling you for dinner. You’ve told him before that it’s easier just to call your cell, but when has he ever listened? You pad to your door, crack it, and shout back.
“Be down in a minute!”
Getting no response, you can only assume he heard you. You close your door back and pick up the polka-dotted pajama pants crumpled into a pile beside your bed. You tug them on through a yawn, almost tripping a few times before they’re on all the way.
You check your mirror before heading down. You look sleepy, not like it really matters. Your door creeks as you push it open again and make your way down the stairs. The soft carpet laid in the middle of the hardwood keeping your steps quiet. It’s about halfway to the kitchen that you hear a second voice to your father’s. It sounds vaguely familiar, and your heart skips a beat. Surely it’s not—
You climb down a few more steps and stop in your tracks at the sight of Joel Miller sitting at your dinner table. You haven’t seen him since at least your high school graduation. You’d harbored a small crush on him then, but that had to have been nothing compared to whatever the hell you’re feeling now. Your entire body seems to glow with some mix of embarrassment and surprise.
You really thought you’d gotten over this silly little crush. Then again, it’s hard to get over something like Joel Miller. High school boyfriends? Sure, no problem. But the classic DILF next door of a best friend your dad has isn’t so easy. He’s been a constant in your childhood, always kind and there for you even when your dad wasn’t. So, in other words, highly inappropriate for you to be so attached to.
It’s easy to say the years have been kind to him. He’s a few years older than your father, so probably about mid-forties now. He’s started to gray, a fine amount of silver peppered into his mousy brown hair. That beard of his has taken the brunt of it, though. That beard you’ve imagined between your thighs so many times.
His dark eyes seem to have become kinder thanks to the crow’s feet carefully etched into the corners. He’s wearing his signature T-shirt and worn jeans, his brown leather jacket and work boots likely disposed of near the front door.
He smirks as his brown eyes fall on your disheveled form, halted on the bottom step. You, in contrast to the god-like figure he’s sporting, must look like an absolute mess. Despite that fact, he looks at you almost in a different way than he used to. More intensely. It makes you resist the urge to squirm.
“Joel,” you finally manage to choke out. “Hi.”
Smooth, you think.
“Hey, trouble,” he returns, light amusement lacing his tone. It makes you nervous, like he’s clocked your little secret.
He gets up from his seat, and you can tell he’s going for a hug. You shock yourself into action and take the few steps to reach him. He envelops you in his strong arms just like he used to, and you take the opportunity to breathe in his scent. Smokey pine, whiskey, and a hint of mint—just like you remember.
You’re smiling like an idiot despite yourself as you pull away. Luckily, your dad makes an appearance before you say something embarrassing.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he teases. “You remember my buddy Joel, dontch’a?”
Joel scoffs before you can answer. “‘Course she remembers me, Scott, known her since she was damn near in diapers.”
Your dad rolls his eyes. “Well, just to ask,” he argues.
You shake your head. Same banter between those two for as long as you can remember. They’ve been friends since your dad’s freshman highschool year, and Joel’s senior. Everyone who knows Joel and Scott considers them to be brothers as much as Joel and Tommy.
Cheeks heated, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up while they’re distracted. You shut the door and comb through your hair with your fingers, straighten your tank top, and wipe away the smudged mascara you didn’t care to wash off earlier.
When you look half-decent, you wash your hands and walk back to the dining room, choosing to ignore the fact that you just tidied yourself for your dad’s best friend. Totally normal thing to do, right?
Joel is sitting back in the same spot as you found him the first time, your dad in the seat opposite of him. There are three bowls of spaghetti served, one in front of each man, and one beside Joel. You’re not going to complain about that.
You slide into the seat next to him, flashing him a quick smile when he turns his head to acknowledge you. You swear his gaze lingers for a second, but it’s probably just wishful thinking.
You look away and dig into your food, zoning out as Joel and your dad talk about work. Joel’s presence beside you fuels your daydreaming, his deep, drawling voice keeping it running. You wish so badly to lean into him, feel the comfort of his embrace. Maybe more. You wish, not for the first time, that he would look at you the way you looked at him. You wish he would—
You jolt when you hear your name in conversation, your spaghetti-filled fork halfway to your mouth.
“No, I don’t think she’d mind at all, would’ya, honey?”
Your dad looks expectantly at you. Your eyes dart between him and Joel.
“Uh, sorry, what?” You ask, your cheeks heating for the second time tonight.
“Helping Joel out. I know it’s been some years, but it’s just basic stuff. Plus, it’ll be in—”
“Really, Scott, you don’t have to volunteer her if she don’t want to—”
“No, no,” you interrupt. “I don’t mind at all.”
In all honesty, you didn’t think your answer through. You have no idea what you just signed up for. Though, if it’s with Joel, it can’t be too bad.
“No, really, sweetheart,” Joel interjects. “I wouldn’t wanna have a pretty ‘lil’ thing workin’ away on her summer vacation.”
You turn to look at him, flashing him your sweetest eyes. He called you pretty—you feel like you might explode. “I really don’t mind.”
He waits for a moment before he clears his throat and turns back to your dad. “Alright then,” he says before taking a sip of his drink. “We leave for Hawaii next Tuesday.”
You just about choke on your dinner. Your dad laughs.
“Told you, Joel, she doesn’t listen to a damn thing we say.”
*****
Hawaii? For two weeks? With Joel? What do you even pack?
You stare at your suitcase, waiting for your closet to help you out and throw something in there. Should you bring sundresses or work clothes? Both, right? Probably both. Maybe more work clothes. You said you’d be helping, after all. But with what?
God, you should have just paid attention to that damn conversation.
It’s late Monday night, and you haven’t been able to pick up on enough over-the-phone conversation to get the gist of it. You need to stop being such a wuss and just ask. But that would mean calling Joel. Do you really want to call Joel?
Well, yes, of course you do. But do you really want to sound awkward around Joel? No, no you don’t. And you know that’s exactly what would be happening over the phone with a man you’ve never talked over the phone with.
You groan, flopping yourself onto your bed to stare at your ceiling and overthink. You don’t want to overpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you overpacked. But you also don’t want to underpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you underpacked, either. This really shouldn’t be that hard. You’re about to get back up, say screw it, and throw a mixture in there, when you hear a knock on your door.
“Come in,” you call, unmoving.
“Hey, honey,” your dad says as he creeps in. “Just got off the phone with Joel.”
You sit up at this. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, he figured you might want some advice on what to pack.”
Oh thank God.
“Said he’s gonna be puttin’ you to work, but to bring some pretty clothes if you want. There’s a pool at the place you’ll be workin’ at, and a beach nearby.”
You nod along, thanking all that is holy that Joel had the idea to give you some input.
Your dad eyes your empty suitcase and raises a brow in your direction.
“He’ll be here around 4:00am, so be ready by then.” He looks back at you. “I love you, sweetheart, I’ll see you when you get back.”
He gives you a hug and closes your door.
You take Joel’s advice and pack mostly for work—with a few pretty things just in case.
*****
As expected, Joel’s truck is in your driveway at 4:00am on the dot. You’re in the passenger seat and headed for the airport by 4:03.
The ride is less tense than you thought it would be, mostly because the two of you are so tired. You’re practically in a coma against the window, the dull classic country music playing quietly from the old truck’s speakers lulling you to sleep. Joel is in about the same mindset, the lazy drumming of his fingers against the wheel the only thing convincing you he’s still awake.
Buildings pass in a dark blur, everything mushed together into one big half-dream. Joel’s scent fills the cab, sealing the state you’re in. You glance at the clock: 4:48. You blink, and it’s 5:20, the truck is stopped at the airport, and Joel is gently nudging you awake. You squint at him, the cab light rudely intruding, and you can just barely make out the faint smile on his lips. You have a strong urge to lean forward and kiss him, but thankfully you’re conscious enough to not make a complete fool of yourself right now.
“C’mon, darlin’, we got a plane to catch.”
You nod, trying to get your bearings. Joel slides out of his side of the truck, and you follow out of yours, getting a good stretch in before leaning back into the cab and retrieving your suitcase from the narrow backseat. When you make your way around the truck to Joel, he gently grabs it from your hand.
You look at him, mouth open and ready to argue, but he gives you a look that makes you shut it just as quick. Your stomach flutters at the gesture, and you kind of want to slap him for it. Or maybe yourself. Either way, you keep close to him until you’re entering through the sliding doors out front.
It only takes about an hour to get through TSA and in line to board the plane, but you’re wide awake by then. And hungry.
“Hey Joel,” you whisper. He hums at you but doesn’t look down.
“I’m hungry.”
Now he looks at you. “I don’t think we got time to grab anything now, darlin’, but we should have a layover at LAX in about three hours. Think you can hold tight ‘till then?”
You nod, trying not to overthink the conversation. It was literally a few words exchanged between the two of you, but it might be the first time you’ve conversed alone outside of your dad’s house. It felt domestic to you in a way that makes you feel like an idiot. It was one conversation.
Of course, you have to ruin the moment by humming “Party in the USA”. I mean, it’s Joel’s fault. He was the one to mention LAX.
He laughs and nudges you. “Quit that,” he commands, though you can tell he thinks it’s funny. You giggle but indulge him.
“Fine,” you draw out. “Somebody hates fun.”
He scoffs another laugh, but says nothing.
Finally, the two of you are next to board. You stop around the middle of the plane, and Joel hoists your bags into the compartment above your seats. Then, he moves aside to let you in first.
“By the window, darlin’,” he says.
You smile with excitement and settle in, Joel sitting next to you a second later.
“Your dad said somethin’ about it bein’ your first time flyin’, so I figured you might want a window seat,” he explains.
Your heart warms at this. Why does he have to be so thoughtful?
“Thank you, Joel,” you say genuinely, flashing him a smile. It may be the lighting, but you swear you see his cheeks pink up just a little before he nods and faces forward.
The flight goes by relatively quickly. Joel does some sort of paperwork on the little desk in front of him, and you pop your earbuds in and listen to a downloaded playlist while you read. The light romance you chose was cute, but it failed to distract you completely from the hunk of man beside you.
You’re not sure how many times you caught yourself staring at the flex of his wrist as he wrote whatever down. It was maybe once or twice that your eyes found their way up to his bicep, possibly a few times that they landed on his lower lip, his teeth bitten into it in concentration. You definitely got heated more times than you would’ve liked. And as your book started heating as well, you had to put it down. You really hope it’s not just you that feels this new tension.
For the last twenty minutes or so, you’ve been looking out the window, content to listen to your music and watch the land go by. For the last five, you’ve felt Joel’s eyes on you. You refuse to look back at him, though, just in case it’s your imagination.
But you swear you can feel the weight of his stare. You fidget, trying to ignore the feeling as you stare out the window and at the clouds. Then you hear a sharp sound from the speakers
through your earbuds.
You take them off and look back at Joel as the pilot informs you that you should be landing in about ten minutes.
He was staring at you, and he didn’t look away. You don’t look away now, either. You don’t say anything.
“Thank you for comin’ with me, darlin’.”
You’re taken aback. Of course you would go with him.
“It’s no problem, Joel,” you say. He gives you a short smile. “I mean, really,” you joke. “You’re the one taking me on a free vacation.”
He smiles fully this time and rolls his eyes. He tends to do that a lot with you. It makes you smile too.
The speaker dings again:
“Should be some light turbulence, but we’ll be on the ground soon, folks.”
Joel looks away after the announcement, gathering his work to put back into his bag. You shake yourself off and choose not to acknowledge whatever the hell that was.
******
You knew LAX would be busy, but. Holy shit. This place is insane.
You keep close to Joel as he navigates the two of you through the crowds and to your next gate. He keeps slightly in front of you, and you keep getting the urge to grab his hand to keep up, but you don’t. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this many people in one place—and you thought the Austin airport had been overwhelming.
There are a million shops and restaurants and gates as you make your way down the massive hallways, up and down the escalators, and through trains. It takes an hour and fifteen before you can even see the sign for your gate. Your legs hurt from walking, and your head hurts from all the noise.
You keep an eye on some of the closer restaurants you pass so that you can backtrack to them and grab a bagel or something before you have to get on your plane. You catch a glimpse of a Burger King when you’re suddenly slammed into.
You gasp as you’re sent flying onto your ass by a man who couldn’t be bothered to glance your way to see if you’re alright. Joel whips around and sets the bags down, quickly helping you up.
“Shit, are you alright, darlin’?” he asks, a deep concern in his eyes. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment even though it wasn’t your fault.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Joel looks you up and down to make sure as you stand on your own two feet. He turns around, trying to scope out the man who bumped into you, and turns back when he finds that he’s long gone.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he finally says. “People don’t give a rat’s ass here.”
You nod, smiling at his choice of words. “I’m alright, Joel.”
He sighs and picks his bag back up, slinging the large weight over his shoulder, and then picks your suitcase up in one hand. WIth the other, he grabs onto yours. His hand is rough but warm and comforting.
“Just stay close ‘till we get to the gate.”
Practically glowing, you hold onto him and let him lead the way. It only takes a few more minutes before he’s telling you to sit down at the waiting area.
“I’m gonna grab you somethin’ to eat, ‘nd I’ll be right back.”
You decide to read while he’s on his errand, picking your book back up to a particularly smutty part. You’re not going to pretend like you aren’t picturing the characters as you and Joel as he eats her out on a countertop. You bite your lip, consuming each word with fervor.
You’re just finishing the chapter when Joel strolls up with two breakfast sandwiches, a coffee, and an orange juice. He hands you a sandwich and the latter drink, and takes the seat next to you with a groan.
“Probably have at least thirty minutes,” he grumbles.
You nod as you thank him and unwrap your sandwich. It’s silent for a few minutes, before you can’t bear it and break the peace.
“What all are we going to be doing?”
Joel looks at you, almost flustered. He must have misheard you. “Huh?”
“Like when we get there, what are we going to be working on?”
“Oh, uh,” he clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee. “Mostly flooring ‘nd some drywall, but there should be somethin’ to do in the kitchen if I’m hearin’ right.”
You nod and take a bite of your sandwich. Joel continues.
“Should have a few days to relax, though, if we get everythin’ done in time.”
Your stomach flips at the thought. A few days to relax with Joel.
“Sounds easy enough,” you say.
Joel nods again. “Atta girl.”
“Flight 332 is ready to begin boarding.”
You and Joel take the last bites of your sandwich in silence and stand up to get in line once again. This flight is going to be longer, about six hours.
Joel throws your trash away and comes back to grab your bags. Same as last time, you have a seat by the window. Not like it matters much in the long run, because just after Joel takes his seat and the plane takes off, your head falls onto his shoulder, and you promptly fall asleep.
******
Thank you for reading!! Part two should be coming soon.
Itty bitty mini taglist: @callachloe @kewwrites @casa-boiardi @pastawench (love you guys)
Pls let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt. 2!
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Transformers One: Is It Good Or Nah?
Hello, hola、こんにちは。So…it’s been 84 years since I’ve last written on this side of the Hundred Acre Woods. For that, I do deeply apologize for my absence aksksksjsjsj. Anyways…so the Transformers franchise, in terms of the movies, has a very shaky history.
We all know the Transformers movies; it’s pretty known by now that the movies are just a rollercoaster of quality. For every Bumblebee, there will always be a Revenge of The Fallen. When it comes to me specifically, I have a very complicated relationship with this aspect of the franchise for a better part of my life. The original G1 movie is okay. The first movie is alright, ROTF is Satan’s spawn, DOTM is good, AOE is a chaotic mess that I both hate and love, and the less said about TLK, the better. Then, a miracle happened in the form of Bumblebee (2018) and it sets the path of redemption for these movies. It continues with Rise of The Beasts and while it’s an 8/10 movie for me, it’s still a great movie that continues the momentum. Now, it brings us to today.
I wanna bring this up before talking about Transformers One because you will not believe me when I say that this movie is EVEN BETTER THAN LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE FILM SERIES. YES, IT OUTDID EVEN THE GREATEST TRANSFORMERS MOVIES BY A FREAKING LANDSLIDE. JUST…how did we even get a movie like this? The fact that it exists is truly the most mind boggling, yet pleasant surprise so far in the series to date. Words cannot describe the experience I have gone through at this moment. Just…what did we do to get something this incredible and this damn good. Amazing is an understatement; Transformers One is easily the best Transformers movie to date.
The way it gives us genuinely some of the best moments in Transformers history is an indicator of the majesty they wanted to make. Sure, no movie is truly perfect. However, for this one, the amount of things to discuss and think about is something that rivals even the most complex media such as Earthspark and Animated. So what am I doing here standing around for? Let's talk about a movie about two bros chilling in an Energon mine, five feet apart cause they’re not gay! :D
For this review…I’m going to give this movie’s pacing the respect it deserves (due to how crucial it is to the story) by highlighting the most important details I want to talk about in order. After we get the nitpicks and other good stuff out of the way, I’m so excited to unleash all the inner brainworks in my head at the moment. So let’s goooooo.
3, 2, 1, Pingu.
(Also, I will be going into spoilers, so Sparknotes version: it’s a rare 10/10. ✨)
The Good, The Bad, and The Badassitron
Let’s go get the nitpicks out of the way. I say nitpicks because they thankfully don’t drag down the movie for me. First things first: I wish that the main trio of Decepticons (Doritoscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave’s boobs) play a much bigger role here. I felt like how we got from Starscream in charge to now all of sudden loyal to Megatron after having the crap beaten out of him is where the movie could benefit from a few minutes more to the runtime. To me, their loyalty to Megatron by the end is something that needs to be earned. However, like I said, it didn’t bring the movie down for me because they’re not the focus here, The focus is on Megatron’s relationship with Optimus. We’ll get there when we get there. Bee’s fine for what he is, but I feel like he can be cut out of the movie and replaced with someone else. The story would be as it is, like he really doesn’t have much of a reason to be here. However, like I said, he’s fine for what he is. The only other nitpick I have is that it’s weird that the Quintessons have little to no direct involvement in the main conflict, since it’s their rule that led to this mess in the first place. However, since we’re getting two more movies, I’m curious to see how this is gonna play out in the future. Anyways, that’s all I have to say about the issues I have with the movie, so let’s get to the good stuff…EVERYTHING ELSE.
Oh my god, the music score? Easily among my favorite scores in Transformers media to date. The way it not only incorporates music from shows such as Transformers Prime so beautifully, but it gives the world so much life and majesty that is straight out of a Biblical epic. The ending song at the credits reminds me so much of On My Soul, just what an utter bop. Of course, I also need to mention the biggest highlight of this movie…the animation. Oh my god, this movie is utterly gorgeous. Not only are the settings so vibrant and brimming with life and personality, but I absolutely adore the facial expressions on the characters. I’m glad that it’s emotive enough to not fall into the Uncanny Valley, and the characters felt so real. I especially love Orion’s facial expressions, because of how well they convey his growing heartbreak and loss of innocence over the course of the story that we’ll discuss later here. Overall, the music and animation are good enough reasons why you need to see this movie on the big screen. Just…MMMMMMM. Delicious food.
The characters are also really likable and enduring. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna like Badassitron going in, but honestly, he’s a Bumblebee done well. He has plenty of funny moments and jokes, and I like how they don’t have him make quips during the more serious moments here and there. He is the comic relief done right. I’m pleasantly surprised by how they handle Elita’s character. At first, based on the promos, she seems to be the Ultra Serious Girlboss who girlbosses her way into the Elita One we all know and love. However, as it turns out, it’s revealed that she’s a neurotic, yet well meaning dork and I love that for her akskssk. I especially love how her relationship with Orion develops over time as they went to find the One Piece. She went from being irritated with his tendency to cause mischief at work and ignoring protocols to warming up to him because of his resilience and optimism (no pun intended) of their people being freed. Honestly, it’s so refreshing to see a flawed, yet likable Elita here and she’s perhaps one of my favorite iterations so far. Moving on, and oh man…where do we even begin with our good buddy Sentinel Prime. Not only is he one of the evil ass motherfuckers in the franchise so far, but he is a fantastic main villain. Just seeing this despicable bastard manipulate his way into power makes you love to hate him, he’s also pretty funny, and the way he poses a threat to our heroes provides enough interesting groundwork for the conflict between two of our main amigos. Also, shoutout to Jon Hamm. He did an excellent job at portraying Sentinel as this smug, arrogant little bitch. Just, amazing. And speaking of portrayals, the entire voice cast did an amazing job here. You can tell how much they clearly respect the characters they’re portraying while also breathing new life into them. This is what animation studios need to do; hire actors that suit the characters well DAMMIT. Other positives I have is the amount of neat cameos of our favorite blorbos in the background, the comedic timing is excellent thanks to the voice actors’ deliveries and banter with each other, and in spite of the darker tone the more it progresses, it also has a very cozy, fun feel to it due to one of the movie’s main central themes. And speaking of themes…this is where we will end the section here.
Now…I am saving the best for last. What I mean by that is that there are two characters that manage to be my favorite aspect of the movie overall. So…let’s go talk about them.
A Tale of Two Friends:
I’m struggling to use the right words to describe how I feel about Orion and Megatron. To me…they’re the true standouts in the movie for me. Their relationship is portrayed with so much care and gravity that they both felt like real people. Not only are they both likable and charming, but seeing their relationship break apart over the course of the movie is hauntingly beautiful and tragic. Trust me, it’s not the shipper speaking here. It’s so refreshing to see them together in the big screen for the first time since The Last Knight, but it’s also so interesting seeing them in a different light than what other Transformers media did. I’m starting in the order of the movie because the movie’s pacing is perfect. Every scene connects to each other perfectly and it makes room for the wild ride we’re in for.
First, let’s start with Orion.
We start the movie off with Orion breaking into the Iaconian Hall of Records and search for anything on the status of the One Piece. Then, he gets caught by some guards and a chase ensues. Right away, we get a good idea of his mischievous, yet curious personality and his determination to discover more about the surface world. He won’t take no for an answer and while it does lead to him getting in trouble often, it’s genuinely admirable to see him have the initiative to make the best of his situation in life. Then, right before he gets caught, Megatron comes in with a cart that serves as a distraction for Orion to slip away and they both head to work.
Right off the bat, we see that Megatron is the more relaxed, more cautious out of the two. He tries his best to stay out of trouble and to keep his good ol unhinged buddy alive due to his wacky shenanigans. At the same time, he also has the same kind of energy he shares with Orion in that they both keep their heads up in spite of their circumstances. Adding to the layers is Orion bringing him the Fallen sticker, which is how we get a good idea of how much they care for each other. True, they have their own frustrations with each other. Megatron is frustrated by Orion’s tendency to get in trouble, along with not recognizing his discomfort with some of the things he drags him into such as the Iacon 5000, and Orion is frustrated by Megatron keeping his head down to avoid trouble. However, they always have each other’s back and they are each other’s equals.
We also see that they’re both kindhearted people who will stand up for the little guy through risking their lives to save Jazz from the collapsing Energon mine, even though it resulted in Elita being demoted. From the start, their desire to make their world a better place is set in stone there. This is furthered strengthened by Orion standing up for Elita by flipping off Darkwing and both him and Megatron needing some milk afterwards. Also, quick side note: Orion’s sass and dynamics with the other characters is so damn refreshing. I love how he literally has no chill in speaking what’s on his mind, and I especially adore how he interacts with Elita. Pure malewife material aksksksz.
Back on track, he then drags Megatron into the Iacon 5000 so that they can prove themselves to be just as worthy as the upper class racers in the game. As they fly through the race track with mere jet packs, their fellow miners cheer for them and they were pretty close to finishing in first place had it not been for the combo of an injury Megatron got and the first place winner coming in. I’m not gonna reveal who won the race, but let me say that who won it is a pleasant surprise. Anyways, this earned the attention of Sentinel Prime and he went down to their recovery ward to personally congratulate them on their boldness in participating. He even offers them a nice ol place in his crib, which they might've accepted if Darkwing didn’t throw them down into Undertale due to his jealousy and anger. Throughout this scene, we see Orion and Megatron being validated by the Prime they’ve admired for so long for breaking out of the status quo and it lays the foundation for later on. Eventually, they met Bee, found the map to the One Piece, and ventured into the surface world while accidentally dragging Elita along for the ride. Pretty landscapes and peril later, they end up in the cave where the bodies of de Primes are at. They wake up Alpha Trion and he reveals the bitter truth:
Uh oh, it turns out Sentinel Prime is a LIAR and that he betrayed the Primes in order to be in charge of the Cybertronian population. Here…we see the innocent viewpoints of Orion and Megatron shattered permanently from here on out. While Orion reacts with anger as he should, Megatron is utterly furious with this horrific revelation. The Prime he has admired for so long, the Prime who just gave him an opportunity to move upwards just minutes ago…turns out to be a cowardly, spineless fraud that took away their autonomy to having basically a crucial organ in their bodies and to make choices for themselves. It isn’t helped by Sentinel giving up the Energon (that they risked their lives in mining for) to the very evil overlords that are responsible for their people being this way for so many generations.
What happens back in the cave is one of three excellent scenes that is borderline uncomfortable due to how realistic it is. We see Megatron essentially having a mental breakdown from finding out his life is a lie and Sentinel is a big stinker. When Orion tries to calm him down, he finally vents to him about his frustrations with Orion’s tendency to cause trouble over the years and calls him out for not thinking before acting on his impulses. It also helps that we see his patience starting to be worn thin earlier in the recovery ward and when Darkwing threw them both in the Undertale. Then, he finishes his breakdown with one simple, yet effective confession: he doesn’t want to just take Sentinel down…he wants to kill him. To say that hearing Megatron say this left me and the theater in shock is a massive understatement. It genuinely caught me off guard, but in a good way. We finally saw Megatron at his breaking point: his entire life, including being worked to death, has been for nothing. It’s a great scene because it’s an argument where you understand both perspectives here. You understand Orion’s bewilderment at Megatron’s unhinged behavior and wanting him to take a deep breath so he can clear his head while you also understand Megatron finally having enough of being a doormat for too long and Orion putting his own wants before others. Neither side is right and wrong, and I appreciate how Orion’s and Megatron’s emotions are valid here. From this point on, all hell breaks loose.
After they gain their T-cogs and the recording to cancel Sentinel on Twitter by Alpha Trion, the main amigos enjoy the euphoria of transforming for the first time. However…we see Megatron enjoying the euphoria of having the T-cog too much. After fighting off one of Sentinel’s soldiers, he forcibly takes the callout post and vows to make Sentinel pay for his crimes. When Orion tries to protest, Megatron coldly tells him to step aside or else there’ll be a problem between them. Orion’s expression here is why I love his facial expressions the most as mentioned earlier. You can see all the thoughts he’s having right now, especially the shock of seeing his best friend giving into his darker thoughts expressed back at the cave. Now, the coin is flipped. Orion is the sensible, level headed one of the two while Megatron is the impulsive, stubborn one that he always scolds Orion for being so in earlier scenes.
As they make their way back home, they ended up captured by some Decepticons and are being interrogated by Starscream and his band of mean girls. When Megatron walks away from the interrogation nonchalantly, Starscream tries to assert himself as the leader. However, it ended up breaking into a fight that quickly went HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HE NEEDS SOME MILK when Megatron overpowers him. We see a horrified Orion in the crowd and they can only look at each other. Their friendship will never be the same after that…especially now that Megatron finally got a taste of power that’s been denied to him all his life. I know that this is probably gonna be a point of contention for some people with how Megatron’s turn to the Dark Side is portrayed here, so let me provide this perspective:
How long did Megatron have these thoughts?
Given presumably how many times he had to bust Orion out of trouble, and having to keep quiet just to stay alive, you have to wonder how long he kept quiet about his frustrations and hidden rage at the circumstances of his life. From that angle, giving into his intrusive thoughts is inevitable. He just needed the push to act on them. Essentially…the poor guy needed therapy, and sadly, there are no therapists on Cybertron. 😔
Eventually, Megs and Badassitron got captured along with Starscream and several other Decepticons by Airachnid. It’s now up to Orion and Elita to team up with the remaining Decepticons left and YOU GOTTA HELP US. Here, we see Orion finally realize how badly he screwed up for not understanding how his actions affected the people he cares about over the years. It got through his head that he didn’t appreciate Megatron’s patience and willingness to protect him from the consequences. While he means well, he doesn’t realize how selfish he’s also being with the things he does in his overactive ways. Upon realizing this, he takes responsibility for the amigos being in this mess…a mess that happened because of him. That was his mistake. He is now left with no choice but to go forward and make things right by his friend and the people they love. Then…we get another one incredible scene and that is Elita’s pep talk to him.
While it starts off a bit comedic due to how this is clearly Elita’s first time with cheering someone up and Orion pointing it out, it then leads to her expressing how she always admire his optimism towards a better future for their kind and his refusal to back down in the face of struggle. It’s the embodiment of the movie’s most important message: having hope even when the odds are against you. That fact that we have such a strong theme in a turbulent era we’re in at the moment is why this scene works so well. Change starts with one person, and then becomes bigger and stronger when they continue to fight against injustice and inspire others to do the same. Thus, Elita’s pep talk gave Orion the drive to get back up and keep moving forward by teaming up with the Decepticons, go back to Iacon, and free their buddies. The theme is furthered strengthened by Orion rallying the other miners into helping him, as he now has the power to make things better for his people.
Quick side note, but Elita is an interesting foil to Megatron’s in terms of how they react to Orion’s unhinged sassy king energy. While she’s also annoyed by his tendency to get in trouble a lot, she has also admire his ability to remain optimistic even with their shitty conditions. Once he takes responsibility for his decisions, she softens up towards him and she remains his dearest friend by the end. In contrast, by the time he has apologized for his mistakes, it’s too late for Megatron. It’s clear that these two are what shaped Orion into Optimus, for better and for worst.
Meanwhile, Megatron gets tortured by Sentinel after repeatedly defying him. Then, he gets the Decepticon symbol carved painfully into his chest by the blue son of a bitch. That essentially became the straw that broke the camel’s back and it ultimately drove Megatron into a point of no return. After the other main amigos rescued the other amigos and a ROBOT FIGHT occurs, Megatron now has the opportunity to finally show Sentinel that his day of reckoning has come. Now, he must die. However, after putting the callout post on Twitter, Orion realizes what his bestie is about to do and tries to stop him. However, Megatron quickly overpowers him and prepares the final blow to Sentinel. Then…what happened next left me and the entire theater in stunned silence for a good few minutes up until one point. At first, I thought to myself:
“Ain’t no way he’s gonna do this. There’s no way they’re bold enough to have Megatron do this.”
But then…it happened. The shot from the fusion cannon meant for Sentinel ended up hitting Orion instead, sending him flying near the entrance to the planet’s core and hanging on for dear life. The moment he cries out to Megatron for help…I bursted into tears right there. His innocent perspective has been destroyed permanently, and he’s now a broken shell of his formerly spunky self. To add more salt to the wound, Megatron reaches for him…only for him to declare that he’s done saving him from trouble after one too many times. Then, he sent him falling into the core. Megatron has crossed the line, and with eyes now red with hate and pain, he finally killed Sentinel in front of a now devoted group of followers who will obey his every word. He has now become the person he has sworn to destroy…
As that’s going on, Orion’s broken, lifeless body is gently brought down inside of the core and it’s revealed that he is the one who is destined to receive the One Piece…aka, the Matrix of Leadership. Thus, he is now reborn as the Optimus Prime we all know and love. The use of a theme from the G1 movie is the cherry on top of an utterly haunting, yet powerful scene that needs to be seen on the big screen.
After he has risen and put an end to Megatron’s madness, he decides that the best option for them both is banishing Megatron and his followers from Iacon. The fact that he chose this option instead of simply killing his former best friend really speaks a lot about not only his character, but also how much their relationship has essentially been ruined by how different they are in terms of wanting change. Alas, Megatron goes off into the sunset with his followers and Optimus is left there…mourning the death of their once great bond. When it showed a memory of how they met afterwards, it made me sobbed uncontrollably. At this point, you’re left with one question:
Will they ever go back to where they were at before?
Thus, we end on a bittersweet ending…an ending of two former friends who were torn apart by the sins of the fathers and the aftermath of said sins. All there’s left to do is wait and hope that everything will be okay soon.
Overall…Orion and Megatron are what makes the movie for me. Their chemistry, their character development, and the phenomenal performances of Chris Hemsworth and Brian Tyree Henry are what makes them the most layered, most complex iterations of the characters respectively.
Conclusion: IT’S SO GOOD, YOU GUYS.
Words cannot describe how Transformers One is a phenomenal love letter to the franchise I hold very dear to my heart since I was a kid. Overall, this is a fantastic movie that you will love.
It has phenomenal characters, gorgeous animation, an amazing score, and a powerful story of how you have the power to change the world and make it better. For the very first time since Cyberverse, I award the very rare 10/10 to this film.
Please check it out. I applaud everyone involved in this project for making it a beautiful work of art for the fans. It is indeed more than meets the eye.
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