#oaf rescue

[sassysophiabush]

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I never asked you to, you bumbling oaf.❞

[ Between advices and jealous-fraught fights, nestles your heart in red satin and ivory touch. Or, your marriage so far with the firstborn son of the King. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,901 ] | Aegon Targaryen II x Wife!Reader

contains— fluff & smutty - nsfw: oral (f receiving), p & v sex, creampie, breeding kink(?), - soft shit if aegon got to at least have a bit more agency lmao - jealousy - sorta angsty in the beginning but eh - your house is unnamed but you're a bad bitch - no use of y/n - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— it wasn't going to be a full smut, but aegon happened so here we are. comment, reblog & like at will, mwa!

Fraught might be a marriage arranged— cost and effect, weighed by titles and expectations of such matches made, emotion of either future spouse the least they weigh when they make their decisions — but you had grown to adore your husband.

You had been warned, of course. Gossip and small-minded chatter followed the firstborn son of the King. That despite the regality of Targaryen roots and colouring, he was a whoremonger, an addled-drunk, a monstrous caveat shrouded in dark green silk and iron.

You were called a victim, a damsel in distress meant to be saved before you had even met him. And yet not a single one of them batted an eye, much less offered a hand to rescue you from such turmoil. More than prepared to send you off. Others, of course, wishing for a prince to be married to their house, spit their scorn and irony.

The day you met him was a hot day. The sun basked the Crownlands with an almost venomous hatred, and it did not help your anticipation. Nor the long and arduous travel that turned the carriage into a hotbox meant to cook.

Your rear had ached in pain, almost as painful as your pinched cheeks that your grandmother had twisted unto your skin before you got out to meet the Queen, the Hand, and your betrothed, reminding you that a Princess Consort must always look her best, must appeal to her husband at all times "but must not be whorish! And sit straight, by the Seven, girl! Remember to exit gracefully! Like a swan, not a duck! Yes, there is a difference! Scamper your sarcasm!"— your gown was heavy, cinched tight and thick in beautiful fabric and small pearls and sapphires.

You had smiled prettily, bowed perfectly, and when you finally faced your betrothed, he was barely able to stand, pale as a sheet, and suffering from his cups the night before, sweat weeping on his brow.

It had sent a strike down your spine, irritation and anger spinning beneath pearly teeth. You bite down any word before they escape, forcing you to a perfect posture and a sharpened edge to your smile.

Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name, had taken a step back, almost subconsciously, as fear flashed in his darling blue eyes.

Your good brother, having found out of this first interaction, had not stopped teasing your husband for the next few moons. Your good sister, you were told much later, had hummed wistfully, fingers dancing between rings as if she knew much more than anyone else, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.

The memory makes you laugh now, warming your cold fingers against your first winter storm in Kings Landing. Snow torrents in whirlwinds and spikes, filling the Godswood in flurries and icicles.

Your Lady In Waiting, Emma Redwyne with her pretty Tully red hair and curled lashes that you had always found envy in, bows in greeting. You don't acknowledge her, which you recognise as nothing but pettiness, but you can't bring yourself to stop. You continue to stare forward, hand outstretched in the flurry of snow, when she awkwardly speaks.

"The prince is in your bedchambers, my princess."

You hum in acknowledgement, but no more. She shifts.

"He says he will not leave lest it is you who tells him so."

You turn to her, churlish in your expression of irritation and she winces, tucking her chin once more in false reverence before you sigh. The Lady Redwyne had been a friend once, an acquaintance really. Your grandmother had warned you that though you should have a good relationship with your ladies, it was best to keep them at an arm's length.

"Vipers and greed make stock in the centrefold of power, my dearest," she murmured, gnarled hands twinning your hair, a colour close to her own when she had been your age. You had been told you looked just like her, a gem in her era, her hand sought after by lords and princes alike before your grandsire made a weighty proposal to her house. "No matter what friendship you can build, all of it is but fat clouds and sandcastles. Pretty as they are, easily destructible by the next gust of wind."

"But they would be my ladies." The idea that the women closest to you should be kept with a good eye brought a weight to your chest. Trust is a hard thing to grasp in this place, you were fast learning.

You grandmother tutted, her hands cupping your chin, tilting upward until the same eyes met. One aged and knowing, another young and soon will understand the weight of life. Of the coat she bore with her husband's house in front of the Sept.

"Just watch and see, my sweet. Your future husband is a prince. They will try their damnedest. But you should not lose, for you are his wedded consort."

Now, your eyes linger on the cut of Lady Redwyne's gown. Far too revealing for the coldest touch of the year. The rogue in her cheeks, in her lips. There is a new necklace nestled on her bosom, no doubt an insistent gift from her father.

You wonder if your husband had stirred at the sight of her full visage. That if you had not been upset with him as it it, and have not abandoned your marriage quarters for three moons now, his fingers would have danced across her pale collarbones, fingering the dropped ruby at the centre of her throat. Pressing a light kiss on the gem.

The fornicated memory brings nausea and anger, but you are not new to your role, much less the greed of others, even those closest to you, so you strangled it with will.

If Aegon had dared to mock you anew while you were both in cold waters, he has been too aware now of your anger and what it means for him.

You look back at the peek of red leaves still attached to the tree, almost a stubborn refusal to move with the order of the gods, and you smile despite yourself.

"... My princess?"

Your annoyance spikes.

"And if I tell you to tell him that I will sleep in another chamber, mayhaps upturn a chamber meant for guests, will he then rot forever in my bedchamber?" You turn to her, eyebrow arched. "Will he not be accosted for leaving his duties undone? Must I treat him as a babe throwing a tantrum? Soothe him?" You step toward her. She flinches, a bird wanting to take flight but knows better than to move without her mistress' orders. "Or have you already tried so, to soothe the prince, and have been told to scram, to fetch me, for you are not his wife?"

Her eyes flutter, chest heaving. "My Princess, please—"

"Enough," you say primly, gathering your skirts. "Come to my chambers before dinner but no earlier. The only reason I haven't sent you back to the Reach is by grace and no more."

"My princess." She bows again and you don't miss the clenched jaw as you leave in a flutter of your bloodred gown and arched chin.

You have only just turned a corner when you hear a voice, soft and silky, familiar for many moons now.

"That was harsh of you, good sister."

You pause and spin, letting out a small laugh at the appearance of your good brother. Tall and princely in visage, he inclines his head in greeting while you bow.

"You are mistaken, my prince."

"Hm?"

You smirk. "That was kindness on my part."

He hums, fighting off a smile. Or what you think is a smile. Prince Aemond is still a mystery to you, but he is polite and you find yourself in good ease with your good brother. Unlike your husband, he wears his duty like armour and wield it like a sword. More than once, you are made to imagine what it would be like to have been married to him instead of your husband, and you blanche at the thought.

Though there is complications and evergreen misunderstanding with your husband at most turns, you cannot find yourself happy to the idea of being married to the One-Eyed Prince. There is nothing to say of his scarred appearance— as it does nothing but exemplify his gifted wielding of the sword, but being so honour and duty bound as you, it would be a cool, crisp marriage wheeled on routine and silent understandings.

A monotonous life might be a mercy to most, a dream to some even, but it brings hives to your skin at the mere idea.

Silent dinners and polite conversations are one thing. A marriage built on everything but... it would unsettle and madden your soul.

He offers his arm. "May I escort you to your chambers and my sad sack of a brother?"

You temper your giggle, taking his elbow. "I would be delighted."

Quiet pinches both of your measured footsteps, but you revel in its serenity. Maegor's Holdfast is stone and steel in the winters, fewer bodies lingering in corridors and corners to stave off into rooms with heat, but the rest that do are about, bow at your persons.

"I see you are adjusting well," he finally says. You turn, eyebrow arched. "As a princess consort of the realm."

"Was I so unprepared in my earlier moons?"

"In a way. Helaena says you are still comely and kind, despite being married to my brother."

"I am satisfied in my marriage, Prince Aemond," you say, unable to stop your raised hackles and need to defend your husband. "My duty to the realm is not strained in the least, and I... care for him."

He gives you a long look but you refuse his stare. He hums again, and whatever topic is breached is dropped. The quiet follows up until the doors of your chambers where he stops.

"Thank you for escorting me, my prince. I know your duties occupy your time."

"A duty of mine is to ensure my good sister is in safe hands." He gives a beckoning bow, notching an eyebrow at the door. "And I wish you ever happiness with your marriage to my brother, the Seven knows your duty is harder than mine."

Before you can retort, he is gone, and you are left with a sigh before you push through.

Though a prince, there is nothing princely of Aegon's sprawl on your bed. His gold, silver spun hair like a halo akimbo his face. Warmth emanates from the fire while he plays with his fingers atop his stomach.

"I thought you will ignore me once more, my wife," he speaks to the air, face still straight to the ceiling.

As you close the doors, a nod to your sworn shield, your straightened shoulders hunch as you relax. An unladylike snort breaking through the quiet. You don't see it, but Aegon smiles at the sound, a pang hitting his chest at the sound of comfort that he misses so.

"These are my chambers, husband," you say. "Unless you are meaning to kick me out of the Keep in total, I think my appearance in my own is not a totally shocking thought."

You sit beside him but do not lay down, giving him a good look as he stares up at you with a vacant expression. He is sober, in a way that there is a glassy sheen to his mullish blue eyes the colour of lightning and thunderstorms. His pallour is pale and his clothes are rumpled, but there is no near stench of wine or woman.

In fact he smells like Aegon on his good days; dragon and grime at the edges, soot and wind.

"I have not been to the Silk Street since we have been married," he says as if reading your thoughts. "I have not, and will refuse, to stray from our marital chambers." He gives you a poke. Like a child. "Unlike you."

You know he is telling the truth. He made the vow to you on your marriage bed, hands intertwined, fresh purple blooms appearing on your throat as he bore crescent shaped moons on his back.

You had to wear high-necked collars for two weeks. In the summers. It was impossibly awful, but the memory of your first night is one you cherish. What you go back to when tempers flare and sadness beckons in corners.

He had spent that first night worshipping you, ensuring you are more than sated before he had taken his own pleasure.

"But women who want you need not be whores to tempt you to their beds," you finish softly, unable to stop yourself as you take one of his hands to your lap, spinning the silver ring he keeps on his last finger.

"My wife, dearest to my heart." Your eyes flutter close at the endearments. It was a running joke to both of you, a joke that evolved with sincerity and... well, you hoped was love.

"I had tea with your grandmother, wife."

You looked up from your lunch, lips thinning at the joke and excitement nestled in giggles he was holding back. "Oh no. I knew I should have sent her back home the minute our vows were over."

He laughed then, taking the unoccupied seat across from you as he pressed his lips to your head. It made your heart flutter, even more so as he plucked a berry from your tart and offered it to your lips. He looked with insistence so you ate it. He pressed a thumb to your bottom lip before pressing a soft kiss to his own lips. You tried not to furiously blush.

"What has she told you?"

"Many a topic." He laughed again at your groan. Aegon had found himself enamoured with you as days past. Learning how you act less primly and more comfortable in his presence had brought him a good sense of happiness. Something he thought he lost forever. And he found, the happier he made you, the stronger the happiness in himself grew. It was an addicting feeling.

"But the prime idea were endearments."

"Endearments?"

"That a husband and wife with a pretty marriage such as ours, as we are royals, must show hope and perpetual peace for the people."

You frowned. "And... endearments give perpetual peace to the people how?"

"A show of the stability of our marriage. Of fondness. So now, I shall call you my dearly beloved heart."

You made a strange, strangling sound that had your husband giggling in surprise. "Pardon me, my prince. I—"

"Your precious honey bee."

"... Excuse me?"

"Babycakes?"

"Are you ill?"

"The darling of your eye, then."

You blinked. "Pardon?"

"What you call me," he teased.

"I refuse."

"You refuse?"

"Yes." You fought your own smile. "You are not the darling of my eye, and calling you thus, will make me a liar."

The pinched expression of jealousy made you bite your lip. "And who is, pray tell, the darling of your eye?"

"My grandmother."

You pressed your lips together. Aegon blinked in shocked. Then the both of you burst out in hard laughters, holding your chests and stomachs.

"We shall find an endearment for your beloved husband then," he announced after he had gasped for breath, dabbing the tears collected from his eyes. His smile enchanted you, wide and beautiful, upturned with a gaze as if he was beheld by the most darling of creatures. The urge to skip over him, drape yourself on his lap, and kiss him silly was an urge you pushed down.

"The... babe to my wondrous bosom?"

"Aegon!"

"So in counsel? That is not a definite no."

"My love?" he calls now, bringing your shared hands to his lips. "Lay down with me."

Before you can retort, he pulls you down to him until your warmth is shared, burning in a single flame. A sigh leaves your mouth, and the sound urges him to pull you impossibly closer.

"Women may find themselves in our bed, but unless they are you, they are nothing," he says after a minute. You tense up and he rubs your back. "I have made a vow."

"I will not hate you if you do. Anger is sordid, but I know my role. I know that is common practice for husbands, and as Princess Consort—"

He pulls you to him, your chest pressed against his as he held your face in his hands. His eyes are sad but his gaze is firm. "Your role as my wife does not mean you stay silent in your anger. Fight me. Make as much ruckus as you want. Tell Sunfyre to burn me to a crisp. You know as much High Valyiran as I at this point."

You laugh, forehead falling on his chest as you feel the burn in your eyes as tears escaped you. "I am no dragonrider."

A laughter rumbles his chest. "Could have fooled me," he teased.

"What?"

When you look up, he is smirking. "You've ridden me before."

"Aegon!"

He noses your jaw, kissing the edge of your chin. "The lemon of your tart, you mean."

"No, I do not." A sigh leaves you as his kisses turn into suckles, his hands holding you steady, rubbing circles against your skin.

"I think... I am fully forgiven now? For you have slept far away from me—" You yelp as he bites your ear, "— for too long a time. And for spending more time with my brother than you have of me in a while. Truly unfair punishment."

"He has only escorted me."

He flips you both, unlacing the front of your bodice with adept fingers while he leaves a trail of bites at every exposed skin. "While I wait by your chambers like a lovesick fool?"

"I never asked you too, you bumbling oaf."

He huffs a laugh, ripping down the front of your dress as you shriek, eyes meeting your own with a dark glint, before his hot mouth envelops your pert nipple. You keen.

"I am still a-angry with you," you sigh, running your fingers through his silver locks. When your body adjusts, seeking to pleasure the warmth between your thighs, he moves lower as if he can read your mind, read your wants, and when you make a roll of your hips right against his tenting manhood, his groan vibrates against your breast to your ribcages.

"I understand." He leans back on his hunches, smile sweet, before he shuffles around and underneath your dress, past your small clothes, and takes a slow swipe of his finger against your warm, wet folds. Your hips buck, a gasp leaving your throat, and he breathlessly laughs.

"Your beloved honey bee would like to taste the nectar between your thighs that you have so graciously held against me for so long."

You groan, suppressing a shiver as he holds your thighs steady with his own laughter. "The urge to kick you is strong, my husband. Enough to risk the Lord Hand's ire. And your mother's."

He groans, stilling in the midst of pushing your skirts up, he pops his head back toward you. "Please, owner my beating heart. The fire to my dragon. The lemon cake to my tea—

"— that one is your least creative one so far —"

"— Let us not speak of my mother, gods forbid, my grandsire, while I am between your legs. For the good of the realm."

"The good of the realm?" You scoff. Then yelp as he bites your thigh, soothing it with a lap of his tongue.

"Yes, my sweet, the good of the realm." He pops back to you, hair askew, eyes devilish, as he grins. "It is common knowledge that heirs are for the good of the realm. And I cannot bring you pleasure if you keep mentioning people I'd rather not imagine while doing so. And your pleasure, from what your grandmother had told me from our many afternoon teas, my sweetest, golden love, is important for my heirs."

Your giggles turn breathless when he disappears beneath your skirts once more. "I surrender then... apple of my tarts."

The sound of his giggles underneath your skirts soon grow muted against the sound of your pleasure. The thing about Aegon, is that pleasure is meant to be savoured. So as he slowly tears through your own clothes while he makes you reach your peak once, twice, thrice— your skin drenched in sweat, rose blush bloomed your face and neck, arms weakened and thighs unable to hold steady — you turn to your husband, the haze of your orgasm clouding any rational thought as you beheld him, still fully clothed with your juices on his face, a proud smirk twisted on his lips.

"Are you okay, beloved?" He rests a hand on your face and you nuzzle against him. "Shall I call for a bath now?"

"Later," you pronounce breathlessly. "If you do not find yourself inside me in the next second, I shall curse you for evermore."

He laughs, giving you a languid kiss before he steps back and strips.

He does not make a show of it, as harried and hard for you (no catching of his pleasure against the bed could ever compare to thrusting inside of you), and you watch his weeping cock with an unbashed hunger of your own, as he pumps it a few times, eyes staring at your visage as you widen your legs, holding your thighs to give him a sweet view.

He groans. "What Silken Street whore could be compared to my wife so willing? What lady would be enough?"

"I swear to the Seven, if you do not end your blasted soliloquy—"

His laughter rings, body covering your own before he slides in your warm, wet cunny. Blasphemy spills his tongue as a softened sigh leaves you. Though he is not lengthy, his girth stretches, thrilling the nerves up to your throat. The ease is given by your wetness, but he is slow, making sure you felt every ridge and vein until you cry softly at your abused pearl rubbing against his body.

"I will not last," he half spits, jaw clenched. "I will have to- I'm sorry but—"

"Do it," you whisper, locking your ankles on his ass as much strength as your legs can allow. "Pound me into the matress."

"Fuck," is the last thing he says before he follows your orders, each hit against your cervix building your own peak. "Pretty wife, darling pearl, the sexiest— fucking—" spills and spits between groans and cries, chasing his high brings your own.

"A-aeg, I—"

He kisses your mouth, effectively shutting you up as he slides a hand between your sweaty bodies, finding your pearl and circling hard. As soon as you're cumming to the high heavens, tightening and twitching, a garbled scream out of your throat— he slams once, twice, as his own high entangles your own, a punctuated moan breaking out of his throat.

His seed spurts, floods, before his cock turns flaccid inside you, and you feel warm and full underneath him.

He presses his forehead against your collarbone. "Maybe we should fight more oft, nectar of my obsession."

"Sure," you say. "I will spend more time with Aemond then."

He punctures a groan as you giggle.

[rimouskis]

could you explain more about what you view as the before era and what you view as the after? i need to learn my herstory

I think this requires a more detailed and educated/researched answer than I can give after an exhausting workday and an after-hours work event, but I'm going to do my best and also open up the floor in reblogs for people to chip in their thoughts

foremost: a DISCLAIMER that this post does not aim to shit on writers from the "before" era. there are many classic fics that I love and enjoy, even if I consider their characterizations to be "less accurate"* than the ones we have in the after era.

*aside to say: accuracy is based only off of literal media accounts we have of these men; we do not know them, we should not claim to know them, and they have had different comfort levels with the media knowing selective truths about their lives [sid out of choice, geno out of media xenophobia] than they did when these early fics were being written.

"before" fics (which I tend to refer to as "classic" fics, and had their heyday in 2012-2013 but continued up until 2016ish) tended to have more regimented roles for sid and geno. sid was usually the protagonist; geno was the love interest.

this came with a cascading set of characteristics assigned to each guy. sid was poor-little-meow-meow'd. geno was the pursuer in the relationship. sid usually bottomed. sid had the whole spacetoaster moment (he was the inspiration for the term, haha). there wasn't much a/b/o fic but sid was, like, the omega-fied one and geno was alpha-ized.

something I've been thinking about more recently is how 2012-2013 era sidgeno displayed signs of Migratory Slash Fandom. I don't think of MSF as an inherently negative/condemning thing, but I think it's a phenomenon that deserves to be mentioned/analyzed, yeah?

MSF thrives on big character differences.... like, grumpy/sunshine, sarcastic/broody, genius/empath. it's all about emphasizing disparate archetypes to create natural tension in a story. this works really well in most romance novels! I love it!

the issues arise when people try to make characters fit into these preset dynamics. and, frankly, when sidgeno first got big, we straight-up didn't know as much about sid and geno. I mean that. despite sid being EXTENSIVELY covered by media from age, like, 14, he was really tight-lipped compared to what we have now.

and geno was.... there. I don't mean that as a diss—he was INCREDIBLE, but the media totally passed him over again and again. or they helped contribute to stereotypes of him being a dumb oaf who didn't know english.

aside: ironically I think that helped in creating sidgeno and not, like.... sidflower or sidtanger. geno was so "DIFFERENT" from sid (aka: russian, characterized by media as not knowing how to speak [in comparison to sid's highly curated media soundbites]) that it meant he was the best candidate for A Ship with sid.

a lot of the really big writers who got into sidgeno were fandom veterans with lots of experience in other big fandoms. to me, that means MSF had a hand in all this. and we should be grateful, because it led to the BOOM of hockey fic, and of sidgeno fic specifically. modern hrpf wouldn't exist without it.

that being said, those template ship dynamics, plus the media's attitude then towards sid and geno in its coverage, led to those characterizations of whiny soft sensitive boy sid who needed to be rescued even though he was the best hockey player EVER, and geno as the lumbering tall strong alpha not-that-bright Love Interest Man.

this isn't to say every fic was this way, or that this is BAD. I, uh, love poor-little-meow-meow-ing sid and omegafying the hell out of him. what I'm saying is that it was a near-ubiquitous characterization across the board.

that all changed in 2016-2018. I personally wholly credit sevenfists, though I imagine it's more nuanced than that, but: my blog, I make the rules here. I don't know if sevenfists was psychic or just highly observant and absolutely excellent at reading people (and that's basically the same thing, right?), but characterization shifts began taking place in fic....

and the coolest thing happened, in that those characterizations were seemingly reinforced by more media coverage. the back to back cups brought with them TONS of interviews with and media about the team, and sid and geno in particular. the coolest part of it was that sid had loosened up a LOT and geno had gotten more comfortable (and had gotten a reporter firmly on his side).

the interviews about sid post 2016 were just SO different. so much information started coming out, and a LOT of it conflicted with Ye Olde Characterizations. as it turned out, sid was deeply one of the boys. he was funny. everyone liked him. he loved hosting. he was insanely comfortable around almost everyone, including strangers, because he's a little freak who's kind to everyone. he can make smalltalk like no one's business. he's kind of gross. he likes to giggle and be in on jokes and get into the thick of it. he isn't some blushing virgin bride sold off of mario's doorstep, yeah?

and geno, too, was finally getting the coverage he deserved. and his personality was both fortified by age and better shown to us through media. as it turns out, he isn't some happy go lucky oaf. he's mercurial and intensely aware of what others think of him (and he CARES). he's sensitive and thoughtful but also can lash out at random times. he has a wicked sense of humor that he uses as a defense mechanism and as a surefire way to get people to like him, which matters to him. and, as everyone says, he is SMART.

if you had to boil it down, I'd say that post-2016, it became clear that SID is the confident one and GENO is the insecure one. and fic caught onto that with a miraculously fast pace. also: they're more alike than they are different, but I still think romance inherently feeds off of difference and tension, so we still exaggerate things to make the stories ✨WORK✨.

I'm not going to give examples of pre- and post- era fics, because I don't want to point any fingers and say someone was doing characterization "wrong." that's not the takeaway I want anyone to have here.

fandom attitudes have changed. it's been 10 years since that first wave of fics, and while I don't think that's very long, it's a hell of a long time on the internet, and in a niche internet community. what was once the standard for fics (and what was well-read, and what people gravitated towards) was different. not worse—different.

I think it's fair to say the "after" era of fics is more "accurate" to what we know of sid and geno. it's also fair to say that this is only the case because we have a WEALTH of information, character-revealing interviews and videos and anecdotes, that Ye Old Authors could only dream of getting.

I really love the story of how everything has changed, and it's a fabulous microcosm of fandom evolution and how approaches to fanworks have changed and grown with fandom, and I think it's all so so cool.

[lethalchiralium]

No More | [3] | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

a/n: i think i have a storyline. i’m winging the SHIT out of this y’all it’s not even funny. (…maybe a top gun-ish au but we’ll see) I LITERALLY CANNOT FIGURE OUT HOW TO KEEP THIS GOING BUT I KEEP FINESSING??? WHAT IS HAPPENING. this sucks too but whatever. i love it. messy is messy and i love it

warnings: angst, cussing, MEDICAL ATTENTION/INACCURACIES, cerby being both useless and useful but we love him, MENTIONS/ALLUSIONS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE (NOT ABOUT ANYONE FROM 141), cussing, violence, trauma, Top Gun ;)

summary: It takes time heal a wound that big. Alejandro and Soap are big oafs, you have unwanted conversations in person and in text, one with Keegan and one with your elusive best friend back home.

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Against Simon’s best protests, you found yourself sitting at your desk on base, already gone over files you meant to before the mission. Your pen hadn’t stopped writing as you signed off on patient notes, confirming what you had put down when you examined them.

It was nearing ten in the morning when your personal phone began to buzz. You glanced up from your notes, grabbing it and looking at the notifications.

ROOS: Alive?

It was your best friend. He texted you every few months to make sure you were, indeed, alive. He fought you tooth and nail about you joining the 141, that’s why you don’t talk as often as you used to.

YOU: Maybe. What’s up?

ROOS: Just checking

YOU: You okay?

ROOS: Had a bad dream.

ROOS: Are you okay? Are you safe?

It wasn’t often that Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw asked if you were safe. It wasn’t often that he texted you at all. Your nightmares were about surviving a plane crash, eating dinner next to frozen and rotting corpses in a town in Ukraine - his nightmares were of flying back day after you crashed to explode your plane so the enemy had no access to the technology, his nightmares were of the weeks of mourning he did of you because your rescue was a classified Special Forces op. That and sometimes, it was of the night you two don’t speak about anymore. He’s protective of you.

YOU: Yes, I’m safe. And at work. I’ve got like 10 guard dogs.

ROOS: Okay

YOU: One of them’s a real dog

YOU: Are you okay? Do you need me to call you?

ROOS: No

YOU: Was it about Ukraine or about Nevada?

ROOS: Nevada

Well, there goes the not talking about that specific traumatic night.

YOU: Do you want to talk about it?

A knock sounded at your door, you glanced up from your phone to let out a calm, “Come in.”

The door opened quickly as you heard the clack of claws on the concrete, you pushed your chair away - a smile invaded your face. Cerberus yapped like a puppy, his front paws coming to set on your thighs as you took his face in one hand, scratching his head with the other while still holding your phone. “Hi, baby.”

The German Shepherd shoved himself forwards, his wet tongue licking your nose and cheek - you pushed him down and laughed, “No kisses, honey, we’re working.”

“He likes you a lot more than he ever will me.” You looked up to see the familiar cloth skull mask of Keegan, his hands shoved in his pockets. You smiled at him.

“How’s your chest? Doing okay?”

Keegan nodded, moving forwards to place Cerberus’s blue leash on your desk. He shrugged, crossing his arms.

“Just came to say thank you.”

Your eyes widened a fraction, hands stopped petting Cerberus - who whined in annoyance. His wet snout pushed underneath your hand, trying to get you to continue to pet him. “I just did my job.”

He sighed, going to pull the chair opposite of you out. He sat down quickly, hands wringing each other. “You didn’t-“ He paused. “You almost died.”

“Part of the job.” Your eyes glanced at your files on your desk before you set your phone on your desk.

“I remember how bad your nightmares were when you first joined us.” He recalled, hands settling on his thighs before he finally locked eyes with you. “Just wanted to make sure you’re gonna be okay before we leave.”

“So soon?” Your eyes widened with surprise. “I thought Price was keeping you guys here for a couple more months.”

“That plant they’re building is something big. Caught the eyes of the US Navy, which means-“

“Top Gun.” You finished for your friend, he gave you a knowing look. The only thing he knew was that something bad happened to you on a mission in Top Gun, he knew about the nightmares.

“Look on the bright side,” Keegan’s voice pulled you from almost jumping off the precipice into what could happen. Your hands clenched into fists. “You’re a very important medical Captain, and you’re not under their jurisdiction anymore.”

You would think. You wanted to say that Laswell kept you as a standby pilot, even though she promised you she’d never make you fly. So, in the eyes of the US Government, you were still a Top Gun asset. A damn good one at that, to the point you knew that Top Gun was pestering Laswell for you back. You wouldn’t tell Keegan that though - he’d rip someone’s throat out with his teeth.

Keegan cleared his throat. “You don’t ever have to fly again, Mercy.”

Before Ghost, there was Keegan who woke you from nightmares. Sure, he wouldn’t hold you but he’d sit next to you and quietly talk about something random, something informational - like the design and sinking of ships. If you put thought to those talks, you would be able to talk about his favorite ships. He was a good friend, incredibly loyal. You were the same.

You nodded, hands going back to pet Cerberus, whose head had settled on your thigh, eyes gazing up at you. You looked at him and smiled, scratching behind his ear. He let out a happy little yap before you looked back at Keegan, a solemn nod came from him.

“You know my number, Mercy.”

“Rest up, Sergeant.” You commented, he stood then.

He walked towards the door, opening it before he took a brief pause, looking back at you. “Be careful with Ghost.” And with that, he was out the door and had shut it behind him. Your eyebrows furrowed.

Keegan had known you two had been together since… you got together. What does that mean?

Cerberus whined, making you look back at him. He raised his paw and smacked your leg, you pet him with one hand as you grabbed your phone again, seeing more messages from Rooster.

ROOS: Trying to wake you up in your apartment. Then it was me running to the ER with you in my arms.

ROOS: I hated that feeling

ROOS: I still hate it

ROOS: I’m sorry I’m bothering you

ROOS: Please don’t tell me if you have a boyfriend again

You internally groaned, knowing how incredibly protective he got of you because of your last relationship - which was almost five years ago. You kept scratching behind Cerberus’ ear, his leg thumped against the floor.

YOU: …Surprise?

ROOS: I think I’m going to have a heart attack

ROOS: I’m gonna throw up

YOU: If it makes you feel any better, we’ve been together for a year and a half and he hasn’t done anything to me other than make me overthink things. He loves me and I know he does

ROOS: It does not make me feel better you ass. YEAR AND A HALF AND YOU HAVEN’T TOLD ME

ROOS: And stop fucking saying shit like ‘oh he loves me, he loves me not’ . That’s exactly what happened last time, you’re starting to fucking freak me out

YOU: I don’t know what else to tell you. He’s a good man.

ROOS: Last time you said that I broke my entire hand in a man’s face. Please tell me you’re safe

You wouldn’t have taken that shit from anyone else. If anyone snapped at you like that in person, they’d be on their back with a knife on their throat. By you or your guard dogs - Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Alejandro; Rudy, if you asked nicely. All the men you’ve grown to cherish their companies.

You began to type to Rooster again when there was another knock on your door, three in rapid succession. Your eyebrows furrowed, slightly annoyed. “Yes?”

The door flung open, Cerberus whined when you stopped scratching his ear as you stood, seeing Soap stumble in with a hand on his head. You flung your phone onto your desk, eyes widened. Right behind him was Alejandro and, unsurprisingly, Ghost. You were immediately around Cerberus and your desk, reaching for Soap as he groaned in pain. “What the Hell happened?!”

“Muppets got too involved in their trainin’.” Ghost growled, Alejandro gave you a smile to which you noticed the bloody gash on his forehead.

“You’re both idiots.” You grabbed Soap’s arm and pulled him towards your cot, motioning Alejandro to follow. Cerberus weaved through your patients effortlessly, immediately going straight for Ghost. He pawed at Ghost’s leg while you forced and Sergeant and Colonel to sit on your makeshift examination table. Both of them stared at you, Soap looked like he was out of it. You grabbed a pair of medical gloves, pulling them on quickly.

“Also might be nursin’ a hangover.” Soap mumbled, you rolled your eyes. Of course he had gone out last night. You would have smacked him upside the head had he not been cradling it. You forced him to move his head, seeing the bloody gash on the back of his head near his mohawk.

“Christ, how hard did you headbutt each other?” You mumbled, going to grab your med kit.

“Was his fault.” Alejandro murmured, closing his eyes. “Feels like he cracked my head open like a coconut.” You pulled out your pocket flashlight from your vest, making Soap face you again.

“Keep your eyes open and look at my nose.” The Scot blinked a few times before staring at your nose, you flashed the light into his eyes - they were both reactive, so there wasn’t brain damage. You held up your finger. “Follow my finger.” His eyes followed your finger back and forth, he was responsive so you weren’t worried. You put the flashlight back in your vest before moving Soap’s head again to look at the gash. “Helluva hit, fellas.”

“Thanks.” Both Soap and Alejandro said, the Colonel laughed.

“Didn’t mean to hitcha that hard, hermano.” Soap mumbled as you moved to Alejandro, instructing him the same way. Look at my nose, follow my finger - his coffee like eyes were sinkholes, he did as you told him. If you had taken a moment to set back, you would’ve said that he was your new version of Rooster. A Special Op Limited Edition, with better maintained hair and great jawline.

If you weren’t so enraptured by Simon, you would’ve dove for Alejandro the second he gave you any sort of glare. But no, you’d choose your ice cold boyfriend over a cowboy casanova. Maybe in another life.

You moved the Colonel’s head towards you. It was a thin cut on his forehead, jagged but nothing a small bandage can’t fix. You turned around, peeling off your gloves before grabbing your phone. You opened it, amazed at how many texts Rooster had sent.

ROOS: Please don’t ignore me right now I will get Ice on the phone this instant

ROOS: I mean it

ROOS: Sorry you’re probably busy

ROOS: Just stay safe please.

ROOS: I can’t have a repeat of that shit .I’ll lose my mind

ROOS: Call me when you’re free

ROOS: Please

ROOS: I really don’t want to have to go detective on you and show up at your doorstep like a dog

ROOS: Cause I will

ROOS: You’re worrying me, please don’t make me have to call Mav. If I have to call Mav you will never hear the end of it I SWEAR IT. YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT IT UNTIL YOU’RE DEAD

YOU: I’m working, I’ll text you later

“Dramatic bitch,” You mumbled to yourself before turning your phone off. You moved across the room to your sink. You began to wash your hands as Cerberus poked you with his nose. You glanced down at him. “Go play with Dumb and Dumber, buddy. I’ll be a minute.”

The dog whined, pawing at your leg and poking you with his snout again. He wasn’t alerting, he was trying to get your attention. A search and rescue dog like Cerberus had no job right now since he was on base, except to sometimes get in your way. You gave him a sharp glare. “Now.”

Cerberus let out a loud whine of annoyance before he huffed, walking away towards Alejandro.

“Don’t have to be mean to the poor dog, lass.” Soap commented, you shot him a glare when you dried your hands with a paper towel. He threw his hands up.

“He knows I’ve got stuff going on, he likes to be bothersome.” You pulled on new gloves and grabbed the equipment you needed, moving your chair over to the cot with your foot. You sat down gracelessly, setting bandages and hydrogen peroxide on your lap. You pulled a cotton swab from your vest, opening it and then dousing it in the peroxide.

You took Soap’s head in your hand and moved it again, letting the light shine into it as you dabbed on the peroxide - the man flinched.

“You’re usually chatty, hermana - what’s wrong?”

You glanced at Alejandro, tossing the swab into the garage can behind you. “Friend texted me. Chatted for a while.”

“You not like her or somethin’?” Soap asked, you settled the small adhesive bandage over his injury, sticking it to his shaved head with firm pressure. “You mind not pressin’ that hard?”

You smirked, waving him off. “You’re done.” The Sergeant smiled and stood, walking away from the cot while you faced Alejandro. “Bit of an argument, nothin’ new. Happens when you’ve known them your whole life.”

“Oh?” Alejandro smiled. “Like me and Rudy.”

You shrugged. “When I say my whole life, I mean as soon as I was brought home, I had a best friend.”

“Ah, not like me and Rudy.” He chuckled then, you cleaned the wound with another cotton swab and some peroxide - he didn’t even react.

“Not even close. I didn’t get a choice.” You threw away the swab, opening another bandage.

“You always have a choice in the people you keep company with.” Alejandro closed his eyes as you opened the bandage.

“Not when you’ve both put your lives on the line for each other without question, like I would all of you.” You mumbled, securing the bandage a lot softer than Soap. “Maybe not to the length I would for Roos, but it might be near it.”

“Roos?” Soap echoed, suddenly right next to you as you turned the opposite way to toss the trash into the bin.

“Nickname.” You shrugged, pulling off your gloves and standing. You gestured to the door. “You can leave now, just take some Tylenol if the pain persists.”

Cerberus whined as Alejandro stood, saying a quick farewell as he darted out the door - Soap lingered as you pushed your chair back to your desk. “You’re always so mean.”

“It’s,” You glanced at the digital clock on your desk. “almost eleven. I might just want to go get something to eat,” You sat down, throwing your feet up on your desk as you glared at the Scot. “Maybe I want to sit in silence like I was for the past five hours.”

“Aww, lass, you just wanna get railed by-“

“That’ll do.” Ghost’s voice boomed, making you jump a little as Soap whipped his head to look at his Lieutenant.

Cerberus found his way to you again, pawing at your leg. You reached forwards and scratched behind his ear as you watched Soap and Ghost have a small stare down. Soap backed down after a few seconds, glancing at you and then Ghost. “I’m going to take my leave.”

“As you should.” Ghost’s voice was low, both of you watched as he scurried out of the room, almost slamming the door behind him. You looked to Ghost, who visibly decompressed as he moved towards your cot in sluggish motions. He collapsed onto it, the cot let out a groan under his weight and his mask went straight into the white pillow you kept at the head of it.

You cocked your head to one side. “You hurt too?”

“No.” His voice was muffled.

“You’re just gonna sleep in here?”

“Yup.”

“Well,” You grabbed your phone again, hand leaving Cerberus as you pointed to Ghost. “Go lay down with Dad.”

The German Shepherd would never not take the opportunity to jump onto Ghost, even in a position like that. The dog sprinted the two feet away and jumped onto the Lieutenant’s back, he groaned loudly in pain. Cerberus’s tail wagged with a quick pace as he laid his head on Ghost’s shoulder blades. You quickly took a picture of it before sending it to Rooster.

YOU: oh no! my guard dog killed my guard dog :(

ROOS: THAT MAN IS HUGE .

YOU: Thanks! he’s mine :)

ROOS: I CANT KILL A MAN THAT BIG

YOU: Won’t need to. Pretty sure he’d die before he even raised his voice to me he’d be so ashamed.

YOU: I love him.

ROOS: you have got to stop having boyfriends. my heart can’t take it

YOU: You’re a clingy bitch.

ROOS: well at least someone cares for your well-being 🤍

YOU: My boyfriend does.

ROOS: Don’t fucking say that shit. I’m not getting traumatized again cause that guy is not a man, he is 100% a demon

YOU: LMAO

ROOS: HOW IS HE SO BIG

YOU: Idk. Go to bed idiot

ROOS: Fuck off

YOU: Love you too, clingy bitch.

ROOS: You’re a bitch too

YOU: All day, everyday.

“You’re not paying attention to me.”

You looked up from your phone, seeing now that he moved his head to look at you. Cerberus’s head rested where his nose settled right next to where Ghost’s ear would be. You put your phone down on your desk, putting your feet on the floor as you gazed at him. “I have never heard you say that before.”

“Maybe fuckin’ you would put your attention back on me.”

You rolled your eyes, setting back in your seat. “You’ll always have my attention. I’ve got to keep Roos updated before I get a search party sent on my ass.”

“Sounds clingy.” He murmured, you could barely see as his eyes closed.

“Sounds like what you would do if I didn’t answer your text right away.” You commented, looking at the files you had stared at all morning before stretching your arms above your head. “I’m probably gonna take a half day.”

Ghost hummed from the cot, Cerberus whined from above him. “Take the mutt with you.”

“Always.”

The man moved his body, making Cerberus jump from his back - Ghost groaned in pain. He rolled over like an oaf, since he was bigger than the cot itself. You smiled at him as he looked back to you. “C’mon.”

It was often that he would waltz into your office unannounced and collapse onto your cot, beckoning you to come lay on him. And you did, every time. You gracelessly climbed onto him, settling your head under his chin and stretching your legs out over his.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

Your sort-of-happy mood completely fizzled out like a flame doused in water. You could’ve sworn he was asleep when you slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, holding yourself in the bathtub until you felt like you could breathe again.

“Where’d do go?”

“Tub.” You murmured, hand crawling up his side and settling on his shoulder. “Had a bad nightmare.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I can’t tell you about it.” You spoke immediately, the phantom feeling of flames licking your skin made you bury your face into his clothed neck. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, uh…” His gloved hand went to your hair, petting you gently. “You know where I am.”

“Not really, not all the time.” You whispered, hand clutching his sleeve.

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I guess not.”

“Is this your way of trying to make it up to me?”

He stilled a little, it wouldn’t be noticeable if you weren’t laying on his entire body. You drank in the fading smell of his musky cologne he wore sometimes, pressing the top of your head into the bottom of his jaw.

“It’s hard.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to.”

You moved your head up, raising it so you could see his eyes. “At least you’re trying.” You leaned forwards and kissed his cheek, then rolled off of him with a groan. “Alright, I’m going home. Need my key?”

He shrugged as you walked over to your small rucksack, checking what you had in it. “No, got the spare. I’ll lock up when I’m done.”

You looked over your shoulder him, seeing his arm over his eyes. You shook your head before grabbing Cerberus’a leash from your desk and walking back to him. You placed a kiss on the exposed skin of his arm and spoke, “I’ll see you at home.”

“Mmhmm.”

_________________

Simon always made you take the car, the nice SUV he bought for himself yet will not drive - always makes up an excuse to have you drive, and you were grateful. You weren’t even sure he had a driver’s license, let alone any knowledge of driving. He was always keen to walk home anyway.

Cerby dove into the apartment as soon as you opened the door, he immediately sprinted his way to the living room. It wasn’t long before you heard a couple of glass bottles hit the rug and you groaned.

“Cerby, come here.” You called, dropping your rucksack on the floor and shutting the door behind you. You would have taken your boots off, but you had no idea what he had knocked over in the living room. You walked into it, seeing that your dog laid on the couch, tongue hanging out from his mouth and his ears perked. You rolled your eyes, looking down at the rug. There was three empty bottles of the bourbon you knew was Simon’s favorite, your eyebrows furrowed. You kneeled, taking a bottle in one hand and seeing how there was no alcohol left in it. Placing it on the table, you pulled the two other bottles onto the table before noticing a small folded piece of paper under where the bottles had lied.

A knot in your stomach began to tug as you grasped the piece of paper, pulling the piece of paper open and recognizing Simon’s handwriting.

My love,

I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it but, I do trust you. I trust you a whole hell of a lot.

But what we have isn’t worth the pain, I am not worth the pain. If you wanted me to leave, I would. No one has stuck around this long anyway, you won’t hurt me.

But I hate that I’m hurting you. I think the best choice is for me to leave. I’ll always be here for you, you have my number. I’ll send you where I’ll be. I’d rather you be happy without me than miserable with me.

I love you.

S.

That felt like a punch to the gut.

It felt like a knife wedged in between two of your ribs, digging and twisting.

No one has stuck around this long anyway.

Is this the pain he felt, waiting for you? Drowning in his sorrows, going to leave you to save you pain? It made a part of you angry, yet all of you felt ashamed. You had hurt him too.

But he hadn’t left. He had to have written it before you came home because he did not spend one moment without you since you arrived home.

It hurt your heart that he thought his best decision was to run. It hurt to know that he probably felt scared, that he ducked back into that dark place in his head. He was drunk last night, he might not even remember himself writing it - but in case he did, you folded the note again. You placed it on the floor, placing the empty bottles how they were after Cerberus made them fall. You stood, feeling as if you had held a gun to Simon’s heart and pulled the trigger.

Even as you walked back towards your bathroom to shower, you could still feel the gunpowder residue on your hands.

———————

(comment for part 4! it will get better from here, i promise (aka more fucking angst HAHHA))

taglist! (some i wasn’t able to tag, i’m sorry!)

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Copyright © 2023 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[alectoperdita]

Heeyyy there, can you do 36, 30 or 7 from the ask game???? Joukai of course. Thank uouuuuu!!!

From Put That Guy in a Situation(TM) Ask Game

36. Avalanche/huddle for warmth & 30. Only one bed

Ahhhhhh! Sorry this one took so long. It's longer than usual, though, so I hope that makes up for the wait. Thanks for your patience. ;;;_;;;

tags: hurt/comfort, minor injury word count: 3,265 words

---

Skiing was stupid. People who skied were even dumber.

Case in point, rich, arrogant good-for-nothing assholes skied.

Kaiba skied.

Jounouchi's argument was ironclad. Unassailable even.

"Watch it, you oaf," a voice colder than the biting wind howling around them snapped in his numb ear.

"I should leave you to become a popsicle," he grumbled, firming his stance in the soft, powdery snow and readjusting his grip on Kaiba, careful not to jostle the other man and set off another tirade of complaints.

"I could say the same."

The fingers burrowed under the fold of Jounouchi's scarf bit into the nape of his neck. Hard to tell if it was because of an involuntary reaction to pain or a deliberate warning. Either way, it and Kaiba's words took the wind right out of Jounouchi's sails.

Yeah, skiing might be stupid, but it was even dumber to attempt a slope above his novice ability only to get lost off the trail. Especially as a winter storm brewed. But he couldn't stand how effortlessly Kaiba made everything appear, so suave and eye-catching in his ski gear. Or how he turned up his nose at Jounouchi.

It inspired a familiar feeling, one that drove him to act recklessly.

So it was Jounouchi's rotten luck that Kaiba, as the most experienced skier in the group, ultimately tracked him down. Kaiba predictably berated him for his idiocy, Jounouchi snapped back, and they fought. And then, in a begrudging attempt to extract Jounouchi from a ditch, the man fell and busted his leg instead.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he studied Kaiba's beet-red face. Kaiba wore his ski goggles atop his head like a hairband, pulling back his bangs and exposing his forehead. So it wasn't hard to spot the pained grimace wrinkling his brow. Flurries clung to his long lashes, no matter how often he tried to blink them away. He was sweating buckets despite the frigid temperature.

Jounouchi sympathized with that. Underneath his thick winter coat, his own clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He'd kill to be back at the lodge and enjoying a hot shower.

"We need to get out of the open," Kaiba declared.

Jounouchi swept a critical eye across the windswept landscape. There were trees and snow as far as he could see, but his range was limited. Visibility plummeted as the storm intensified.

"Can't you, like, call for help? Doncha have a satellite uplink on you all the damn time?" asked Jounouchi.

"Atmospheric conditions affect satellite communication," Kaiba sneered, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

It probably was to a guy like him. Jounouchi merely rolled his eyes and focused on their terrestrial concern, repeatedly putting one foot in front of the other to make the most painstaking progress. It was the only way they'd get out of this if they couldn't count on rescue incoming.

"Who would've guessed you had such dainty ankles?" he said, then winced when it sounded like a shout as the howling wind died down at that precise moment.

"Excuse me," hissed Kaiba, tightening his grip. Ouch, ouch, he was definitely squeezing his neck on purpose.

Jounouchi had already dug his hole, so whatever. "I think you need more calcium in your diet, dude. Ya twisted that ankle like nothing. If you're not careful, you're gonna start breaking your hip like 'em little old ladies."

"First of all, it's not a fractured ankle, it's a fractured tibia. Second, my calcium intake is fine. Better than yours, given the trash I've seen you shovel into your mouth. And third, I'm taller, which means I have a higher center of gravity, which affects..."

Jounouchi tuned out the rest of the rant. He could feel the nervous energy flowing from Kaiba to him. As long as Kaiba kept running his mouth, it meant he stayed awake and alert. It meant he kept working with Jounouchi to cross the increasingly treacherous and snow-blind slope.

A stark shiver wracked their bodies. Jounouchi paused to assess his companion again.

Kaiba's teeth chattered. Sweat blanketed his forehead. Neither were good signs.

"You okay? Cold? In pain?" he asked softly.

"Yes," was Kaiba's reply. Which was as clear and helpful as mud.

Jounouchi sighed and urged them onward. He could only guide them toward what he hoped was the downward direction and pray that they stumbled back onto the trail.

After limping for what felt like hours, their footsteps dragged heavier and heavier behind them as snowfall and fatigue weighed them down in equal parts. That was when Jounouchi spotted what he prayed wasn't a mirage beyond a thicket of trees.

Slanted rooftop, horizontal wooden slats, the glint of glass windows—a cabin!

Giddy from the sudden shot of adrenaline, he nudged Kaiba. "Hey, hey. There's a cabin up ahead!"

Kaiba blinked blearily. He'd grown strangely quiet during the recent stretch. Now, he squinted, scrutinizing the building in the distance, perhaps wondering like Jounouchi if it was real.

The decision made itself.

"Let's go. You know what? I'm gonna carry you on my back. It'll be faster." Jounouchi was already carefully lowering Kaiba onto the snow-blanketed ground while keeping the weight off his injured ankle.

"No," Kaiba snapped. He clung to Jounouchi's biceps.

"It'll be fine, ya stubborn bastard. I swear I'll never tell another living soul so your damn pride can stay intact. I dunno about you, but I wanna get out of the cold ASAP."

"And if you drop me? Or you break your ankles next? What then?" challenged Kaiba. There was an increasingly frantic light shining in his eyes.

"Trust me. I don't wanna die out here any more than you do!"

For several terrifying beats, Kaiba stared at him. His claws were locked in rictus, threatening to rip into Jounouchi's padded winter jacket.

"C'mon, we're both freezing our butts off."

Jounouchi didn't know what convinced Kaiba in the end. Maybe the poor bastard was too wrung out to pick a fight.

"You drop me and it'll be the last thing you ever do." The threat lacked teeth, though.

Kaiba's hands trembled as they released Jounouchi's sleeve. They shook when they planted themselves on Jounouchi's shoulders. Kaiba was heavier than anticipated. Turns out there was meat on those bones after all. But it was a weight Jounouchi could shoulder.

The strangest sensation by far was the hot and heavy feeling of Kaiba breathing down his neck. Yet it was a soothing reminder that Kaiba was alive. Jounouchi huffed and puffed the final stretch to the tiny cabin, but he never dropped Kaiba.

Once they climbed onto the raised porch, Jounouchi deposited him against the railing and shook the accumulated snow from his gear. Eyes drilled into his back as he pulled off his beanie and brushed his hair clean.

The dog comparison he was certain was incoming never materialized, though. Kaiba must really be tired.

Hobbling on his feet, Kaiba's gaze stayed fixed on the door. "How do you propose we get inside?"

"Uh... Key under the mat?"

Kaiba leveled a disgusted look at him. He banged twice on the door with his fist. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

Right. Also, wouldn't hurt to check if there were already people inside. Preferably someone who could help them and wasn't going to hunt them across the mountainside for sport. He blamed Bakura for that last thought.

Leaning close, Jounouchi peered into the window, straining to see through the gap between the curtains. It was dark inside. There was no movement. No one was home. That made sense. The ski racks out front stood barren.

They'd long abandoned their equipment, too. No point in dragging extra weight along when Kaiba was already injured.

"Stay here. I'll check around back," ordered Jounouchi before hopping off the porch.

He circled the perimeter. It hardly took any time. To call it a cabin was probably generous to someone like Kaiba. But it looked sturdy, and it offered shelter from the storm. As he passed one window on the side, he noticed a small sign in it that read "Ski Patrol."

He jogged back to Kaiba. "Cabin belongs to ski patrol. There might even be a phone inside!"

Kaiba turned and greeted him with a key ring dangling from his index finger.

"Where'd you find those?"

"Hideaway inside a fake rock." Kaiba gestured to a pile sitting in the porch's corner.

Jounouchi laughed. "So I was right. That's basically under the mat. God, I hope they're the spares to this place."

He was glad they didn't have to go with his backup plan of busting through a window.

Braced against the doorframe, Kaiba went through two keys on the ring before he unlocked the door. Jounouchi whooped in celebration. Then, he moved forward to shoulder Kaiba's weight and usher them inside.

To Jounouchi's relief, the cabin came equipped with indoor plumbing and even a gas stove in the open kitchen out in the main room. There was a small round table and several chairs, but nowhere to lie down. But in another interior room, he found a bed.

One cramped twin-sized bed squeezed between the wall and a narrow nightstand. There wasn't room for much else.

He went back to the main room to report his findings. Kaiba sat at the dining table where Jounouchi left him, but he had his injured leg propped up on a second chair, ski boot and all.

"Phone's down," Kaiba grunted. "There's electricity, but there's no telling how long the generator will hold up. It's best if we don't use it until we must."

Jounouchi groaned. Guess it was too much to hope for. "Cool, well, there's only one bed."

Kaiba stared at him, unblinking for long lengths. Yeesh, did the bastard really think he was going to fight an injured person for the sole bed?

He approached the table. "You should take it. You're the one with the busted ankle. Want me to carry ya, princess?"

Laughing, he barely dodged the ski goggles Kaiba flung at his head. Somehow, that restored the equilibrium between them.

"Make yourself useful and find a first aid kit," barked Kaiba.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Inside a kitchenette cabinet, he located a red bag with a white cross.

"Found it!"

A soft swear answered him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Kaiba hunched over his elevated foot, struggling with his bootstraps. Jounouchi heaved a sigh, and on his way back to the table, he grabbed an afghan blanket folded on a shelf. He deposited the first aid kit on the tabletop and the blanket onto Kaiba's head, where his hair turned damp from the melting snow.

Kaiba cursed, louder this time, his limbs flailing under the blanket. Jounouchi kneeled down next to him, shed his gloves, and started working the snaps open. Above him came a snarl. He peered up just in time to see the outrage on Kaiba's face melt into shock after he ripped the wool away. Fighting a sudden wave of self-consciousness, Jounouchi lowered his gaze and kept going. His fingers, slowly warming, fumbled briefly on the next catch.

He waited for Kaiba to say something. Anything. Bark an order. Throw an insult. But Kaiba had gone deadly quiet, howling in his silence. The behavior was so strange Jounouchi wondered if Kaiba also hit his head when he fell.

Either way, Jounouchi felt the other man's stare drill through the top of his head.

Next came the hard part: getting the boot off without further agitating Kaiba's injury.

Again, his eyes flicked up to Kaiba's face, where he noted the almost contemplative expression that now dominated its planes. "Ya ready for this?"

Kaiba squared his shoulders, then nodded.

Yet afterward, the man's forehead was drenched with sweat, his face stripped of all color. Jounouchi went straight to the first aid kit and fished out the painkillers. With trembling hands, Kaiba snapped up the packet, tore it open, and swallowed two pills before Jounouchi could ask if he wanted a glass of water.

Figures Kaiba was the kind of freak that could swallow pills dry.

As Kaiba slumped forward and placed his head down atop the table, Jounouchi helped him out of the other ski boot as well. He set the footwear, both emblazoned with fancy KC logos, aside.

"Thank you."

The words stunned Jounouchi. His head whipped up, and he gawked at Kaiba. He couldn't see Kaiba's face, but the tips of his ears blazed bright red.

After several seconds of awkward silence, Jounouchi replied, "That should be my line. You're the one that found me after I got my dumbass self lost. So thanks for coming to get me."

To his surprise, Kaiba didn't lift his head. His bangs smeared across the tabletop as he nodded, though.

"And sorry you got hurt because of that," Jounouchi added quietly. His eyes darted back to Kaiba's elevated leg, but the thick pants made it impossible to gauge the severity of his condition. "How bad do you think it is?"

The table muffled Kaiba's reply. "Are there scissors in that kit?"

"Yeah."

"Cut the pant leg up to the knee."

Knowing that the alternative was somehow peeling Kaiba out of said pants, Jounouchi obeyed without complaint. He worked carefully, though, not wanting to cut Kaiba. A gigantic bruise sat halfway up to Kaiba's knee, right around where his ski boot ended. The entire area was swollen, but there was no sign of blood.

"No bone pushing through the skin, so that's a good sign." Kaiba said, suddenly right next to Jounouchi's ear. His warm breath puffed over Jounouchi's cheek.

Jounouchi jerked back, grabbing the chair's back to steady himself.

Thankfully, Kaiba was too preoccupied with examining his leg to notice his overreaction. "I should splint it."

Jounouchi jumped to his feet. "Splint, yeah, makes sense. Ya need a stick or something, right? I'll look for one."

As luck would have it, he dug up segments of PVC pipes already cut in half. Kaiba also appeared pleased when he presented them, kindling a warm glow within Jounouchi's ribcage.

"Can I help with anything else?" he asked, despite not knowing how to make a splint.

Kaiba hesitated before replying, "I have it handled. But I'll let you know if I need anything."

Jounouchi nodded automatically. He bounced between one foot and the other as Kaiba worked. But when Kaiba peered up at him for a second, something inside him snapped. He spun on his heels before declaring, "I saw a firewood shed out back. Gonna see if I can get a fire going for us."

Without waiting for a response, he fled the small cabin. The cold hit him in the face like a slap. It was invigorating. Got his blood pumping in a good way.

It wasn't until he dropped several split logs that he realized he'd left his gloves inside. Instead of going to retrieve them, he sank to his knees and cupped his numb hands to his mouth, blowing hot air over him. He couldn't say how long he stayed like that before the chill finally drove him back into the cabin.

Kaiba barely acknowledged him when he returned. That made Jounouchi feel simultaneously better and worse. The bastard hadn't even waited for Jounouchi to return before he somehow hobbled his way over to the loveseat close to the fireplace.

He focused on the fireplace instead.

Once the fire got going, the temperature inside warmed considerably. Unsurprisingly, Kaiba had to be bullied out of his outerwear before he could be swathed with blankets over his shoulders and his newly splinted leg.

Save for the seldom pop and crackle of the fire, it was silent.

Kaiba glared at his smartphone, occasionally adjusting its position as if that would catch a stray signal bar. Jounouchi also checked his phone, but he was sure his coverage was shit compared to Kaiba's.

Jounouchi also hung up his jacket to dry and shed his ski boots by the door. He didn't hesitate snatching the quilt off the bed in the other room, huddling under it while standing next to the fire.

"You stand any closer and you'll catch fire," came a dry quip from behind him.

He turned to face Kaiba and found the man with his phone facedown on his lap while squeezing the bridge of his nose. He lay lengthwise along the too-small loveseat with his legs elevated on the armrest and his sock-clad toes peeking out from under a blanket.

Despite that, Kaiba looked cozy? Shit, Jounouchi felt a bit insane even thinking about that. But Kaiba appeared comfy. His sharp angles and harsh lines blunted under woolen curves.

Disarmed. Soft. Jounouchi had never seen him that way before.

"What?" snapped Kaiba, jerking Jounouchi from his hazy thoughts. When he shivered, though, the entire fabric mass shook with him.

"Still cold?" Jounouchi asked as he padded closer.

Kaiba dropped his gaze to his pale hands clasped on his lap. "Nothing to be alarmed about. I've always had circulation issues."

Jounouchi laughed. "Cuz you're a skinny beanpole."

Kaiba glared, but he didn't argue.

Another insane thought crossed Jounouchi's mind. One he shouldn't dare entertain, but being cold probably wasn't good for Kaiba's leg in his current state. He had already dedicated himself to Kaiba's well-being to this point. Might as well ensure neither of them became popsicles before Kaiba could get proper medical attention.

"Alright, budge up."

Kaiba should hurry. Before Jounouchi lost his nerves.

"Excuse me."

"Ya heard me. Make room. We're gonna share body heat."

"Why?" Kaiba's voice rose an octave. He gave Jounouchi a frantic once-over from head to toe.

"So we don't freeze, duh."

Kaiba looked at him as if he was insane.

Jounouchi felt insane.

"Look, you're still cold, and I'm not giving you this blanket too. It's the last one," he argued.

For a moment, Kaiba looked as if he might eject Jounouchi from the cabin entirely, busted leg be damned. But then a miracle happened. Kaiba, after lowering his gaze, scooted forward, leaving space for Jounouchi to join him on the furniture. With his heart in his throat, Jounouchi squeezed in, carefully wiggling until he bracketed Kaiba's tense form with his legs. Without asking, because he was positive the answer would be no, Jounouchi pulled the other man's back flush to his chest.

Kaiba stiffened. He froze as if he had been left outside in sub-zero temperatures. That gave Jounouchi an opening to slip an arm around Kaiba's waist, but he left the limb atop a layer of quilt.

From this angle, he could only make out the back of Kaiba's head and the tip of his flaming ears.

Kaiba remained strangely mute. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest signaled his consciousness. Another shudder wracked through his body, and Jounouchi could feel it, from the hissing inhale to the tensing of back muscles to the exhale and shoulder slumping under the woolen weight.

Kaiba stopped shivering afterward, though. So that counted as a success, right?

"Don't worry, I don't mind sharing the bed with you if you want a space heater there too," Jounouchi joked. A hard lump formed in his throat, and he fought the urge to tighten his arms.

In response, Kaiba elbowed him in the stomach. But it was a light touch for him.

Jounouchi wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was content to remain here. Just the two of them huddled under blankets until the storm finally passed. And when Kaiba leaned back against him, he gave the impression he didn't mind either.

Read other prompt fill ficlets here

[thatmadshifter11]

The Shadowsinger and The Mistress of Love and Lust

Mate.

I could feel the nightmare in me growl at the word but the dreamer in me smiled softly and shed tears of genuine happiness. I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of glass.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Then all I felt was pain.

My wings- the pain- my wings.

My wings are gone.

I wince. How can I feel pain in my wings? Suddenly I’m being swarmed by shadows-his shadows-Azriel! They circle me whispering softly, touching me lightly.

He needs you. He's in pain. Help him.

They call to me, the pain in m-his wings keeps growing stronger. I don't question how they found me or how they spoke to me, all I can think is save Az.

I vacate my post at the healing tent and leave my assistant Lily in charge. I set out to find Azr-my mate. I see my brother and Cassian, they both seem tense and it worries me. I have been cooped up in the healing tent and haven't heard about anything pertaining to the war other than healing the soldiers and warriors injuries. I walk towards the two illyrians trying to tap into the power to summon my wings.

Hot searing pain floods the bond and I drop to my knees unable to summon my wings or my battle fan. I sink lower as I feel the shooting pain in my ankle and the sharp stabbing pains still in m-his wings. I am going to murder whoever hurt Azriel- My Azriel.

Cassian rushes towards me spitting curses as he grabs my arm trying to help me up.  I give him a vulgar gesture and I call him things a High Lady shouldn’t even be able to think of. I yank my arm away and stand up slightly dizzy and nauseous. I catch myself on Cassian as I hear the faint sound of my brother laughing.

“Oh shut it Rhys” I say one hand on my hip the other leaning on Cass to stay balanced. “I was looking for Az but this fucking oaf got in the way,” I jab a finger in Cass’ chest. Cass looks at me with a snarl. I laugh as does Rhysand. “Well sister if your looking for him he should be flying back soon I have been awaiting his and Feyre’s return from rescuing Elain.” I smile knowing he should return, but then I remember the pain and the bond. “H-he's hurt brother like big time,” Rhys looks alarmed. “How do you know? And what happened” he asked, dragging me toward a group of chairs, Cassian following behind us.

"I felt it through our bond, a mating bond," I reply, wincing at the fresh wave of pain that surges through me. "His wings, they're damaged, and I think his ankle too. I need to find him, now."

Without waiting for their response, I push myself off the chair and start heading towards the direction the shadows came from. Every step feels like a dagger in my heart as I can sense Azriel's agony echoing down our bond. I almost stumble, but I steel myself and keep moving. I can't afford to falter now. My vision blurs, but I blink away the tears, focusing only on the path ahead./As I reach the spot where I had found the two stubborn Illyrians I see a shadowy figure in the distance. He drops quickly landing harshly groaning in pain. His wings, his glorious beautiful wings all torn and bloody filled with arrows I can only assume are ash arrows.

"Azriel," I call out, my voice breaking. I rush towards him, dread pooling in my stomach. He looks up, his eyes filled with pain but also relief at seeing me. I reach out to touch him but he winces, pulling away slightly. "I'm here, Az," I whisper, trying to assure him that he's safe now.

“Mate,” he growls at me in a sadder tone then his usual mocking raspy voice. “Yes, yes Mate, but for now lets get you healed alright?” He huffs which I can only assume is an answer to my question so I take it as one.

His eyes, usually so lively and watchful catching every slight move, are dulled by pain. Seeing him like this breaks my heart into a million pieces, but I swallow down the lump in my throat. I need to be strong for him.

Pt.2 link: https://www.tumblr.com/thatmadshifter11/748248818969198592/the-shadowsinger-and-the-mistress-of-love-and-lust?source=share

[on-a-lucky-tide]

(Eskel & Geralt, Eskel/Geralt if you squint; young wolves, first time with potions, Eskel's Canonical Strength with Signs; an interpretation. Rated: T)

His skull felt tight. Like it was closing in around his mind, a vice crushing his thoughts, his consciousness. The thundering rush in his ears made him feel dizzy and the heat under his skin made him feel skittish. His heart beat an erratic rhythm against his rib cage, and Eskel felt like he was spinning, but stuck. Rooted to the spot as the world crashed in around him, control slipping through his fingers, torn away by some unseen force.

Yet, beneath it all—beneath the terror, the burning—there was a rush. Something gleeful writhed around in his chest, desperate to get free even though he tried to press it down. Something wanted to burst out of him, break through his grip, burst forth into the world and—

They had said Thunderbolt was different from the others. It lets the monster out good and proper, Varin had slurred around the chipped rim of his mug the previous night. Some hate it, most deal with it, and then some sick fucks enjoy it a little too much. At that, Varin glanced at the large sword hanging over the fireplace. The one that Master Barmin used on those that weren’t safe to be let out on the Path.

The uneasiness had roiled in Eskel’s stomach for the rest of the evening until it had erupted in the bowl under his bed and Gweld had thrown a pillow at him in disgust—learn to hold yer liquor, Skel, fu-u-uck—before shoving his head under the remaining one.

Was Eskel a sick fuck? Was he one of those that they’d put down before letting the rest of his cohort onto the Path? Was that feeling—? Was it—?

“—he’s grunting like an animal—“

“Give him time. Thunderbolt’s always the hardest. Lad’s doing fine.”

There were others in the room; Master Vesemir, as Eskel belonged to his crop of trainees, and more than one mage. They were scared of what Thunderbolt would do to him. Eskel could smell their fear on the air even now, along with the fetid shit from the lavvies, the cooking meat in the kitchens, all of it made his stomach roil once more. The acidic, bitter taste hit the back of his throat, and every muscle pulled taut. Their muttering grew louder, bouncing around his head until it was an unintelligible crescendo.

“He’s losing control…”

“Easy, easy, let him go, let him try.” 

The second voice sounded less certain. The chattering grew louder, louder. The voices crushed in on him, pressing down, tightening the grip around his head. Heat. Pressure. Burning. 

The fire flooded down from his head, from his chest, swept down his arms, and swirled around his palms. Flames lapped his flesh, singed the hairs on the back of his arms; molten dragon fire poured from his palms.

“He’s—that’s—this needs to stop—“

“No, no, wait. Wait!”

A familiar voice. The first that didn’t feel like a lash against his mind, but a familiar caress. A voice that had drawn him out of the stupor following the Trial of Dreams. A voice that had rescued him from every nightmare, every fear, every uncertainty, since Eskel had first stumbled through the tall gates of the keep, bare foot and wide-eyed, clutching his only possession to his chest; a moth-eaten bedroll. 

Two strong hands shoved against his chest, insistent, repeated. “Wait! Wait, don’t! I can get him back!” 

The shoves became harder. Eskel wanted to shout out, to tell the voice that it wasn’t safe, that something was tearing it out of him and it would consume them both. But whatever it was, whatever darkness, had secured its grip around his throat and the words faded before they had even been born. All he could do then was surrender.

But if he surrendered, the beast would get free. It would devour him and everyone in its Path. Like hellfire.

“Eskel, c’mon! C’mon, move, you big oaf! Move!”

Oaf. 

Two boys splashing in the lake, Eskel cannon-balling and creating a tidal wave, “ahh, you coulda drowned me!” said in jest, a light-hearted slap of water, “big oaf,” said with love, with warmth, with trust. Trust that Eskel would never hurt him. Could never. 

“C’mon, Eskel. Come back to me. Don’t you dare fuckin’--don’t you dare leave me, Eskel.”

A hand in his as they stared at a tall, foreboding door, their fates unknown. Those spindly fingers, callused from swords and chores, squeezed as firmly as they could. “Don’t you dare leave me,” whispered, desperate and fearful, and Eskel squeezed back, “I won’t.” 

A promise kept. 

Eskel went lax. He stumbled. His back hit a door which gave way behind him. The ground underfoot became slippery, like mineral grease on a steel blade.

A rush of cold flooded in, washing the brimstone away, water drops like pins against the searing heat of his skin. He fell. They fell. Because, just as the cold stone connected with Eskel’s rear, a heavy, warm weight fell on his front. 

The pin needles turned to rain drops.

It was raining.

Hot breath puffed over his lips, a solid pressure against his forehead, a brush against his nose.

Eskel opened his eyes. 

The faded grey light melted away, and two orbs of melted gold gazed into his. “There you are.”

Geralt.

“Don’t speak, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Eskel must have said it out loud. He leaned back and looked down. There was steam rising from his hands, hot where they rested against the slick flagstones of the courtyard. There were blurry figures standing in the doorway of the laboratory, the colours of their robes melded into one, anxious voices swimming in and out.

His body felt alien, detached. Like he was pulling it back on after someone else had worn it. “What… happened?” he managed to rasp, the words flowing from his throat like gravel.

Geralt took his face in wet fingers, tips tracing the trail of boyish stubble to the hinge of his jaw. “Nearly had a bigger storm than the mages predicted. It’s fine though. Thunder’s always followed by rain, right?” 

Geralt pressed his forehead to Eskel’s again, they shared the same deep breaths, grounded in each other, their hammering pulses slowing, quietening in the lull of comfort. 

Eskel knew then that Geralt had saved his life. If Eskel couldn’t control himself on Thunderbolt, he wouldn’t be leaving Kaer Morhen. It was too much of a risk. 

“You could have… I could have…” Eskel choked out, the vision of Geralt consumed in flames of his making flooding his mind.

“You could never,” Geralt replied, his voice a soft, the touch on Eskel’s face wandering, as if seeking reassurance that he was still intact. “Not you. Not ever.”

Eskel could see himself in Geralt’s wide eyes. Black hair plastered to his skull, the rain dripping from his wide brow and nose, his own eyes sunken with fear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “Nothin’, nothin’s wrong with you, you’re jus’ Eskel. We’ll get through this. You and me. Like always. We’ll try again, and… and you’ll get it. Then we’ll, we’ll walk out together on the Path, like we always planned, yeah?”

Eskel could hear the hope in Geralt’s voice, but he could see the fear in his eyes–fear of losing Eskel, fear of going it all alone, fear that he wouldn’t be strong enough to get them through–and Eskel knew he couldn’t fail.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, letting his eyes fall shut so he could bask in the chill of the rain and the gentle warmth of Geralt’s touch. “Together.”

[makethiscanon]

SnowFall: Krel & Fem!Reader [Part 1]

'Krel wanted to stay home, but his ski trip turns out to be far more interesting than he'd ever thought it could be.'

Rating: G

Word Count: 900

Warning: none

Tags: General Fic, Plot Focused, First Meetings, Friendship, gotta squint to see any romance, Third Person, Winter, Skiing, Canon Typical Violence.

------

“Ay-yi-yi,” grumbled Krel.

The grandeur of the ski resort’s lobby was lost on him when he categorically did not want to be there. “It is bad enough you drag me away from Mother. I should not have to see … that.”

He pointed at Aja and Steve accusingly. They were currently wrapped in each other’s arms over by the check-in counter, ignoring everything around them in favour of mashing their faces together. Varvatos shook his head, his booming voice at odds with his stout, geezer body.

“Varvatos promised the king and queen he would protect you both. He cannot do that if you are apart.”

Krel scoffed.

“You could have said no to this trip.”

“The queen-in-waiting assured me her ski-resort tickets were none-refundable.”

Krel waited for the rest of it. He couldn’t believe that was the reason they were here. But nothing came. He watched Varvatos turn to the check-in counter, slamming his wrinkled hand on the desk to demand the clerk do his job quicker. Then Krel’s gaze fell back to the lovebirds.

It wasn’t long before he was sure he would puke.

“Great Gaylen, this is ridiculous.”

Refusing to watch any more of the mushy spectacle, Krel turned to walk away, but fell into someone immediately. He stumbled, but she stumbled harder. She looked ready to fall over, but managed to catch her footing and only lost her chunky headphones instead. They clattered to the parquet flooring with a heavy thwu-tu-tunk.

“Sorry,” said Krel hurriedly, though he held Aja and the blonde oaf responsible. He picked up her headphones, held them out as if to hand them back, but paused when he heard the song playing out of them. “Hey! I know that music. You like Tiësto?”

He was surprised to find someone on his musical wave-length. But instead of reciprocating, the girl looked wide-eyed nervous. She nodded, but took the headphones from him then dashed off as quickly as she had come.

Krel watched her go, raising a puzzled eyebrow.

“Smooth move, buttsnack.” Said Steve, his voice dripping with its usual cockiness. Of course. The only reason he would break away from Aja’s face for a few seconds would be to interject his unwanted opinion.

“My movements are always smooth, thank you.”

After checking in, the quartet retired to their room on the tenth and highest floor. It was a room more akin to an apartment. Originally, Steve had booked a double just for him and Aja, but Varvatos had insisted on upgrading to one large room. He insisted everyone be within rescuing distance should the moment arise. It had left the clerks with very little choice but to put them in the penthouse, equipped with three bedrooms, a lounge, kitchenette, and cushy balcony hot tub. Krel’s digitally-adept fingers had made swift work of the resort’s membership cards, loading one with enough points to pay for the entire trip upfront.

“If I must be dragged away from fixing Mother, I should at least be comfortable.” He said, flopping down onto one of the large, sunken couches surrounding their personal fire-pit. Aja was over by the floor-length windows, looking out at the grand, snowy mountain peaks.

“So lively.” She cooed. She could see people on the hills, zipping down them on poles attached to their feet. “I want to try that.”

Steve came up alongside her, slipping his arm around her waist.

“That’s why we’re here, babe. We’re going skiing tomorrow.”

“Glorious!” Bellowed Varvatos, his hulking Akiridion body pressing up against the glass next to them. “We shall battle these who-mans on their powdered-water terrain. Varvatos imagines he is even more terrifying speeding towards his enemies on pointed sticks.”

The others laughed, hardly willing to tell him that skiing was not a contact sport.

*

The next morning, two of the Akiridions eagerly transducted into their human guises, while the third had to be bullied into it by his sister.

“I upgraded your serrators so you could go out whenever, and this is the thanks I get?” Complained Krel, shifting into his human form after Aja’s endless pestering. “Go without me! I have no desire to be cold or wet on some hill.”

“Please, little brother.” Aja begged, already wrapping up in thermal gear on the couch. “It will not be the same without you.” She paused to punctuate her point. “You need a break from duty, too.”

Krel knew she was right, in essence. But his idea of a break was something separate from the outdoor escapade she clearly wanted. But when she looked at him like that, he could hear his mama and papa telling him that all they had was each other. And with a sigh, he caved in.

“Fine. It should be no harder than riding your hoverboard.”

------

PART 2: [Click here]

[WRITING MASTERLIST]

[influenzalake]

You can Bake!? - Jon Kent x Reader

Reader loves to bake, Jon loves to eat! (And he loves her!!) a match made in heaven. now if only reader would see that too!

femelle reader / she her used / TW: topic of food / 1300 words

- - - 

Sigh, there she is again. Walking up the steps to his house with something that smells AMAZING in her hands.  He can hear her footsteps, but dares not to spoil the surprise. What can it be this time? Chocolate? Red Velvet? Cake or cookies? Only one way to find out. The anticipation is killing him as Y/N hasn't even rang the doorbell yet. He tries not to act too excited, but the minute her finger pushes the button, Jon is (literally) flying down the staircase. He opens the door before the ring tone can finish (oops) and welcomes in his best friend ever. Who looks perfect, as ever. Okay maybe he has feelings beyond just friendship, okay maybe definitely. Jon tries to play it cool, just a coincidence that he was walking past the door the moment Y/N pressed the bell. Smooth Jon, Smooth. Jon?     Jon?

He snaps out of his inner dialogue to see Y/N staring back up at him.

"Uhm..   may I come in?" 

Dang it! She was just standing there waiting for me this whole time! Jon you big oaf! C'mon man we gotta do better if-

"Of course sweetie, come on in.", his mom says. "Jon honey move over-" and lightly pushes him to the side to invite his longtime friend and obvious crush in the house. 

Jonathan is barely recovering from his first daydream daze, but goes along with whatever his mom said. Lois Lane to the rescue, again. 

She gives him one more push to follow after Y/N, but not without a quick "Look alive Loverboy!", as she goes to the family room to retrieve Clark. 

He finds Y/N in the kitchen setting down her latest creation. She unwraps the foil and looks around for 

"Ooh what is it this time Y/N? It smells so good!" 

Y/N pipes up with joy, "Blueberry Lemon Cakes! They're one of my newest recipes I was trying out. I didn't know if I wanted to add some extra vanilla or-"

And there she goes. Jon has no idea what she's talking about but wow keep going Y/N. With her sweet voice, shining appearance, and even sweeter smells Jon is in sensory overload. A big rumble snaps him out. Wait, was that him? 

"Oh my goodness you must be hungry! And here I am just rambling off let me get the spatula- OH I forgot! Shoot, I'll be right back"

"wait, no. don't go." he wants to say, but the words don't come out. His eyes chase her figure and she hurries out of the house. 

Meanwhile his parents walk in with knowing expressions, well- his dad has his eyes completely locked on the cakes but equally knowing nonetheless.  

Not a word is said, but the message is clear. Mama Kent and Papa Kent have some work to do. Looks like Clark has a phone call to make. 

"Here I am!", Y/N reenters with her special baking spatula passed down from generation.

 "Now let's get this party started!"

Y/N carefully cuts the cakes into delectable bites and passes them out. She waits expecting full reviews and criticisms, knowing she can get the best out of a family of star studded journalists and hearty Kryptonians. Y/N loves sharing her baked goods and with the quality of her baking, the Kents have granted her an all access permanent pass. Y/N is incredibly skilled in her craft and has built a long term loyal tasting panel. She even brings treats for Krypto! All safe and homemade of course. The Kents adore Y/N, but one Kent in particular has feelings that are more than just platonic. 

Jonathan Kent has it bad, but she has it all! With her beauty, kindness, her skills, her love to share, and she is invested in her hobbies! Jon wants to be open with his feelings, but doesn't want to lose or mess up what they have. What if she never comes over to visit again! He wouldn't just miss out on her awesome baking, but one of his best friends. He has other friends of course, but this isn't like Damian, Dick, or his brother Conner. He cares for Y/N in a totally different way. 

He loves the way she laughs when she beats him at video games, he loves the way she can talk for hours about anything she likes, he loves when he invites her for a day at the park with Krypto. She's always so good with him! Yet, now she's gone. The gift has been passed out and Y/N went back home. Jon feels a bittersweet taste not in his mouth, but in his heart. 

This happens every time. Every time Y/N comes, she has to go. 

This is how Jon found out his feelings were more than the usual. He doesn't just love her for her qualities or how she gives him food or whatever. He just loves... HER. He is always thinking about her. Here or not. Planned or unplanned he wants to see her and be with her. 

Clark comes back to the family room after washing dishes to find his son, looking outside, moping in the same spot he was in as Y/N's car pulled out of the driveway. 

Yeah, it's time to make a phone call. 

* * * 

About 2 weeks later, Y/N gets a text on her phone. 

"Hi Y/N, this is Clark. Kansas City is playing this Friday and we're going to have a get together, would you like to join?"

"Sounds fun! I'll be there :)"

Friday comes around and the house is full of hustle and bustle! Ma Kent and Pa Kent are here, and Conner brought Krypto! (Good thing you brought some dog cookies!)

This time, you brought your tried and true recipe. Orange White Chocolate Chip cookies. Made with real oranges! 

You greet everyone and settle in. You start a nice chat with Ma and Pa about your recent academics and Conner asks how work is going. Krypto gives you kisses and sits down between Lois and Clark. 

During halftime, Clark speaks up, 

"Jonno, why don't you get the dessert from the kitchen?" 

"Okay, dad."

When Jon comes back, you are not prepared for what you see and smell. 

A full platter of intricately designed peanut butter cookies. 

Your surprise only doubles when the platter is set down and consumed rapidly, and Conner goes

"Wow Jon, these are good! Great job!"

and his family "MMmM"s in agreement with faces full of cookies. 

You are taken back by this! JON CAN BAKE? AND HE DIDNT TELL YOU!? You feel taken back and betrayed!  Oh the humanity and kryptonian! How could he hide this from you? Why did he his this from you??

You turn to Jon with a multitude of questions when you see his face as confused as you are, but he's probably just daydreaming again. 

"Jon, you made these???", you ask

You can only hear the TV and Krypto panting before Conner elbows Jon,

"uh Yeah! Yes. Yes I did."

Cardinal sin of the Kent family, to lie- but Clark feels like this falsehood can be forgiven. He asked Ma, Pa, and Conner to come over and they're all in on it. Ma actually baked the cookies, but now Jon has something to bond with Y/N over. No more looking out through the window! His son has a chance to get closer to the girl he loves, he'd better not lose it! 

"Jon, they're delicious! You have to give me the recipe. Or maybe we can bake together some time!"

...

...

Another elbow from Conner later, 

"Yes!  Yeah Yes I'd love to"

"Cool, we can be baking buddies!"

And all the Kents feel like they just hit a touchdown. 

As the game plays on and the Y/N keep munching, Jon can't help the stupid smile plastered on his face. 

His heart is fluttering, but thankfully only his brother and father can hear it. 

[sassysophiabush]

[usafphantom2]

25 Years Ago Today: An U.S. F-117 Stealth Jet Is Shot Down Over Serbia 🇷🇸

March 27, 2024 Military Aviation

F-117 shot down

F-117 as seen through the NVGs (A1C Greg L. Davis, USAF, via National Archives)

OTD in 1999, “Vega 31” was shot down near Belgrade. Here’s how it went.

On Mar. 27, 1999, during the fourth night of Operation Allied Force (OAF) over Serbia, a U.S. Air Force F-117 Nighthawk (#82-0806), flown by Lt. Col. Darrell P. Zelko, was shot down while returning to Aviano airbase, after a strike mission against a target near Belgrade.

The F-117, callsign “Vega 31”, was hit by one of a series of missiles fired by a S-125 “Neva” missile system (NATO reporting name, SA-3 “Goa”) belonging to the 3rd Battalion of the 250th Air Defence Missile Brigade of the Army of Yugoslavia, at a distance of about 8 miles.

According to Sergeant Dragan Matić, the soldier later identified as the operator who fired the missiles, the stealth plane was detected at a range of about 50 to 60 kilometres and the surface-to-air missile radar was switched on for no more than 17 seconds.

F-117 wreckage in Serbia.

The pilot successfully ejected and was rescued between 5 and 8 hours later (depending on the sources): AFSOC (Air Force Special Operations Command) dispatched MH-53M, MH-53J and MH-60 aircrew along with Special Tactics Airmen responded to the emergency and, coordinated by E-3 AWACS and supported by several specialized platforms, including an EC-130E ABCCC and A-10 in Sandy role, rescued the F-117 pilot.

While the shootdown of the F-117 #82-0806 marked the first ever and only downing of a stealth aircraft in combat, how the Serbians managed to achieve the then almost unbelievable kill is still open to debate.

On one side, the Serbs claimed they had found a way to detect stealth aircraft by using slightly modified radars: the modifications involved the use of long wavelengths to try to “paint” the target at short range, exploiting the moment when the low observability of the Nighthawk was degraded by the opening of the bomb bay door.

However, this was not true: according to some Serbian sources, the story of the modification was purposely told by the battalion commander and served as propaganda. In the end there was no modification of the P-18 or SNR-125 radar.

What is true is that the Serbians were extremely cautious in operating their SAM batteries, dispatching messages without using cell phones or radios, so as not to risk to be intercepted and geo-located, and relocating the batteries across the country.

F-117 taxies at Aviano AB during Operation Allied Force (USAF)

In the end, besides the successful tactics used by the Serbians, the shootdown of the F-117 was also the result of a series of other contributing factors:

the use of the same route for the third day in a row, making the flight path of the stealth aircraft predictable

the lack of dedicated SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) support

the fact that the F-117 approached the Belgrade area flying at low level, jinking and banking

the Serbs knew that the F-117s were coming, because, they monitored U.S. and allied radio comms on UHF and VHF frequencies, which, at the time, were mostly unencrypted; were also able to intercept NATO plane’s ATO (Air Tasking Orders) that enabled them to put anti-aircraft batteries at positions close to the ground targets; relied on a network of spies who operated outside the Italian airbases spotting aircraft taking off and others, near the Serbian borders, who provided details about the incoming raids.

Anyway, the achievement of Colonel Dani Zoltan, who commanded the SAM battery of the 3rd Battalion and used a SAM system introduced in 1961, is impressive especially considering that, after shooting down “Vega 31”, “Hammer 34”, an F-16C of the 31st Fighter Wing piloted by Lt. Col. Dave Goldfein (future Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force) was also shot down by the 250th Air Defense Missile Brigade on May 2, 1999.

Moreover, it has also emerged that another F-117 was damaged by Serbian air defenses during Allied Force.

A Yugoslav propaganda poster, stating facetiously “Sorry we didn’t know it was invisible”.

The F-117 today

25 years after the famous and quite surprising, at that time, downing, the iconic F-117 continue to fly, despite being officially retired in 2008.

As we report quite frequently here at The Aviationist, F-117s are still flying not only for training purposes as adversary aircraft and cruise missile surrogate, but also for research, development, test and evaluation, possibly related to next generation programs.

In accordance with of the Nation Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) of 2007 (PL 109- 364, Section 136), 52 F-117 aircraft were retired and relocated to the Tonopah Test Range (TTR). Under the requirements of the NDAA, the USAF preserved each F-117 aircraft in Type-l000 (T-1000) storage, which maintains the aircraft in a condition that allows recall for future service. On 30 November 2016, Section 133 of Subtitle D of the National Defense Authorization Act repealed the requirement to preserve the F-117 aircraft in a recallable condition and the USAF intended to declassify, demilitarize, and disposition four F-117 aircraft per year.

F-117 Fresno

An F-117 Nighthawk lands for the first time at the Fresno Yosemite International Airport, Sept 13, 2021, to conduct training missions with the local Air National Guard unit. Two F-117 Nighthawks are participating in dissimilar air combat training missions this week along with F-15 pilots from the 144th Fighter Wing in Fresno, Calif. (Air National Guard photo by Capt. Jason Sanchez)

The aircraft continued to be spotted, even more than it had happened until then, with the Nighthawks also deploying to several U.S. bases to carry out Dissimilar Air Combat Training with other U.S. types. Then, in 2021, the U.S. Air Force published the first official images of the type still involved in flight operations on the DVIDS (Defense Visual Information Distribution Service) network.

In September 2022 the Air Force Test Center published a Request For Information (RFI) about a possible 10-year contract, expected to start from January 1, 2024, for maintenance and logistics support services for the F-117A fleet at the TTR airfield, acknowledging that the U.S. Air Force is willing to keep the aircraft flying at least until 2034. Interestingly, the U.S. Air Force is about to complete the certification of the F-117s to refuel from the KC-46: a sign that the service plans to keep the Nighthawk flying for many more years.

F-117

One of the two F-117s flying low over the Sierra Mountains on Apr. 21, 2023. (Image credit: @stinkjet)

About David Cenciotti

David Cenciotti is a journalist based in Rome, Italy. He is the Founder and Editor of “The Aviationist”, one of the world’s most famous and read military aviation blogs. Since 1996, he has written for major worldwide magazines, including Air Forces Monthly, Combat Aircraft, and many others, covering aviation, defense, war, industry, intelligence, crime and cyberwar. He has reported from the U.S., Europe, Australia and Syria, and flown several combat planes with different air forces. He is a former 2nd Lt. of the Italian Air Force, a private pilot and a graduate in Computer Engineering. He has written five books and contributed to many more ones.

@theAviationist via X

[greenhikingboots]

Dance With Me, Jon Snow

Hey there. So I’ve been sweetly tortured by a headcanon ever since I read @cappymightwrite anon meta, and now it’s time for you to be sweetly tortured by it too.

Wait! Last minute addition inserted right here! I’ve just realized I never actually finished Cappy’s meta. Sorry! The thing is, it’s super long and every time I’ve tried to finish it, I’ve gotten way too excited. Seriously. Such jittery energy. And then I have to scurry off to channel that energy into something like writing snippets of one-shots I’ve never posted. But basically, I think Cappy says way more brilliant stuff than I’m about to but doesn’t directly say my headcanon despite coming very, very close at some points.. So, yeah, I just wanted to clarify that distinction before moving ahead. ❤ Okay, let’s review! As Cappy’s meta taught us, “anon” means soon or shortly. That means when Alys uses the word in the passage below, she uses it incorrectly.

When Owen the Oaf began to dance with Patchface the fool, laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The sight made Lady Alys smile. “Do you dance often, here at Castle Black?” “Every time we have a wedding, my lady.” “You could dance with me, you know. It would be only courteous. You danced with me anon.” “Anon?” teased Jon. “When we were children.” She tore off a bit of bread and threw it at him. “As you know well.” “My lady should dance with her husband.” — ADWD, Jon X

Cappy has some great stuff to say about this, though the strikethroughs and bracketed additions are mine. 😜

Jon immediately picks up on this fumble [and thinks of Sansa, as my headcanon will imply], though tellingly perhaps, he does not clarify this mix up to the reader, he simply repeats it quizzically and teasingly back to her. I’d wager that was very intentional on GRRM’s part — an instance where he is encouraging his reader to do a bit of investigative work, instead of offering up a clear explanation right there on the page. [once again hiding Jon’s direct thoughts of Sansa. That’s the headcanon, anyway. Give me a minute to explain it better.] 

So Alys uses “anon” incorrectly, but two Jon POV chapters later, he uses it correctly when thinking to himself. He’s watching the wildlings pass through the Wall. It’s taking all day. When they start to jostle each other, Jon realizes it’s more than impatience. It’s fear. And then there’s a new paragraph with the new anon line. 🆕

A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You’ll dance with me anon. — ADWD, Jon XII

The line feels out of the blue to me, which got me thinking about another headcanon I’ve shared — the one I already linked in my bracketed additions above. Maybe you’ve read it before? It’s about the scene where Jon sees Val with Ghost, her physical description changes to be more like Sansa’s, and he thinks that it’s been a long time since he’s seen such a lovely sight. Then, two pages later, there’s the willowy creature line.

Val looked the part [of a princess] and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. — ADWD, Jon XII

Basically, I made the argument that even though it isn’t acknowledged on the page, Jon knew he’d briefly, unwillingly thought of Sansa. I wrote, “Go read it again, and I think you’ll see that when the willowy creature line happens, it actually feels like a weird logic leap. The dots aren’t connecting because one dot is missing!!!!” 🔍 To me, it seems like this second “anon” line is similar (but without Jon’s defensiveness which leads to a judgemental thought). In short, both are seemingly out of the blue because GRRM is hiding something from us. My evidence to support this is limited, but I do have some. As Cappy pointed out, Jon and Sansa both have memories of snowflakes falling on Robb’s hair the day they left Winterfell. Jon thinks about it a few more times than Sansa does, but here are some  examples from both of them, as a reminder. ❄

He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he'd given her Needle. — AGOT, Jon V He remembered Robb as he had last seen him, standing in the yard with snow melting in his auburn hair. — AGOT, Jon IX She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me… — ASOS, Sansa VII

Let me come back to this in a second. I now want to make sure it’s very clear that Jon’s thoughts while the wildlings pass through the Wall — the second “anon” line in the book — are a callback to Alys, sure, but he isn’t quoting her, right? As previously established, she uses anon incorrectly whereas he uses it correctly. Plus she never says, “Dance with me, Jon Snow.” Those are not her words. 🚫 So what is Jon recalling in that moment, if not Aly’s wedding day? Well, I guess it could be argued that he isn’t recalling anything in paticular. It could be a pure daydream, a piece of foreshadowing and nothing else. But that doesn’t sit right with me. I think this line is a direct hint at moments from Jon and Sansa’s shared past. Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but the books have plenty of instances of characters repeating past conversations and quotes to themselves (“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” is one that leaps out at me, of course), but not instances of characters making up fake conversations that could happen in the future. So here’s my headcanon. “Dance with me, Jon Snow.” ← A younger, courteous Sansa who loves to dance tried to help Jon feel involved during some fancy feast where he’s mopping in the corner (to quote the show). Given the next line, he must have obliged. 🆗 “You’ll dance with me anon.” ← What Sansa said to Jon the day she left for King’s Landing and he left for the Wall. It was her way of saying, “This isn’t goodbye forever.” 💃 It’s the way they both think of Robb with snow melting in his hair that really does it for me. It’s so close to a shared memory, almost like they were in the courtyard at the same time. And yet GRRM doesn’t tell us about their final goodbyes to each other!? Yep, put another tally in the column labeled Jon Was Directly Thinking of Sansa In That Moment But We’re Not Supposed to Know That Yet. That’s my headcanon and I’m sticking to it. I’m never going to get around to putting into in a fic, so here’s a Tumblr post instead. 🎉

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Cersei I (Chapter 54)

Finally some good food.

The window let in sounds as well. That was the only way the queen had to know what might be happening in the city. The septas who brought her food would tell her nothing.

She hated that. Jaime would be coming for her, but how would she know when he arrived? Cersei only hoped he was not so foolish as to go racing ahead of his army. 

The formidable Cersei Lannister sits trapped in a tower waiting for her knight to come rescue her.

+.+.+

She asked about her twin often, but her gaolers gave no answer. She asked about Ser Loras too. At last report the Knight of Flowers had been dying on Dragonstone of wounds received whilst taking the castle. Let him die, Cersei thought, and let him be quick about it. The boy's death would mean an empty place on the Kingsguard, and that might be her salvation. But the septas were as close-mouthed about Loras Tyrell as they were about Jaime.

This is what Cersei knows about Loras.

Including this for later.

+.+.+

She hated and despised all three of them [Septa Unella, Moelle, and Scolera], almost as much as she hated and despised the men who had betrayed her.

False friends, treacherous servants, men who had professed undying love, even her own blood … all of them had deserted her in her hour of need. 

Okay, Daenerys.

+.+.+

Orton Merryweather had gone running back to Longtable, taking his wife, Taena, who had been the queen's one true friend in these terrible times. 

I'm going to start calling Taena Missandei.

I doubt it was Orton Merryweather who proposed fleeing.

+.+.+

She had threatened, but her threats had been received with stony faces and deaf ears. She had commanded, but her commands had been ignored. She had invoked the Mother's mercy, appealing to the natural sympathy of one woman for another, but the three shriveled septas must have put their womanhood aside when they spoke their vows. 

Lol.

+.+.+

And she had prayed. Oh, how she had prayed. Prayer was what they wanted, so she served it to them, served it on her knees as if she were some common trollop of the streets and not a daughter of the Rock. She had prayed for relief, for deliverance, for Jaime. Loudly she asked the gods to defend her in her innocence; silently she prayed for her accusers to suffer sudden, painful deaths. 

I see I'm in for another Cersei chapter where my only commentary is laughter.

+.+.+

She had even prayed to the Stranger. Any god in a storm.

She's already booked for another storm.

+.+.+

Cersei gave them all the words that she had in her, gave them everything but tears. That they will never have, she told herself.

Wait for it.

The blood of the dragon does not weep. - Daenerys I, ADWD

+.+.+

She hated feeling weak.

If the gods had given her the strength they gave Jaime and that swaggering oaf Robert, she could have made her own escape. Oh, for a sword and the skill to wield it. She had a warrior's heart, but the gods in their blind malice had given her the feeble body of a woman. 

Waaaait for it.

+.+.+

And they would not let her rest. Night or day, whenever the queen closed her eyes to sleep, one of her captors would appear to wake her and demand that she confess her sins. 

[...]

Wake and sleep and wake again, every night was broken into pieces by the rough hands of her tormentors, and every night was colder and crueler than the night before. The hour of the owl, the hour of the wolf, the hour of the nightingale, moonrise and moonset, dusk and dawn, they staggered past like drunkards. What hour was it? What day was it? Where was she? Was this a dream, or had she woken? The little shards of sleep that they allowed her turned into razors, slicing at her wits. Each day found her duller than the day before, exhausted and feverish. She had lost all sense of how long she had been imprisoned in this cell, high up in one of the seven towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. I will grow old and die here, she thought, despairing.

It's kind of incredible she's as lucid as she is if they're not letting her sleep.

Daenerys would be talking to the walls by now.

+.+.+

Cersei could not allow that to happen. Her son had need of her. The realm had need of her. 

Lol.

I'm sorry, I'm so bad at Cersei chapters.

+.+.+

That night, when Septa Unella came to wrench her out of sleep, she found the queen waiting on her knees. "I have sinned," said Cersei. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, her lips raw and chapped. "I have sinned most grievously. I see that now. How could I have been so blind for so long? The Crone came to me with her lamp raised high, and by its holy light I saw the road that I must walk. I want to be clean again. I want only absolution. Please, good septa, I beg of you, take me to the High Septon so that I might confess my crimes and fornications."

+.+.+

And for the rest of that long night they let her sleep. Hours and hours of blessed sleep. The owl and the wolf and the nightingale slipped by for once with their passage unseen and unremarked, whilst Cersei dreamed a long sweet dream where Jaime was her husband and their son was still alive.

And they say she doesn't love him.

+.+.+

"His Grace is in good health," said Septa Scolera, "and well protected, day and night. The queen is with him, always."

I am the queen! 

The lion still has claws.

+.+.+

She swallowed, smiled, and said, "That is good to know. Tommen loves her so. I never believed those terrible things that were being said of her." Had Margaery Tyrell somehow wriggled free of the accusations of fornication, adultery, and high treason? "Was there a trial?"

"Soon," said Septa Scolera, "but her brother—"

"Hush." Septa Unella turned to glare back over her shoulder at Scolera. "You chatter too much, you foolish old woman. It is not for us to speak of such things."

Weird, right? It's like they're hiding information about Loras.

But we get Kevan's POV, and his status hasn't changed.

With Balon Swann hunting the rogue knight Darkstar down in Dorne, Loras Tyrell gravely wounded on Dragonstone, and Jaime vanished in the riverlands, only four of the White Swords remained in King's Landing - Epilogue, ADWD

+.+.+

"Mother have mercy on me, then. I have lain with men outside the bonds of marriage. I confess it."

"Who?" The High Septon's eyes were fixed on hers.

Cersei could hear Unella writing behind her. Her quill made a faint, soft scratching sound. "Lancel Lannister, my cousin. And Osney Kettleblack." Both men had confessed to bedding her, it would do her no good to deny it. "His brothers too. Both of them." She had no way of knowing what Osfryd and Osmund might say. Safer to confess too much than too little. "It does not excuse my sin, High Holiness, but I was lonely and afraid. The gods took King Robert from me, my love and my protector. I was alone, surrounded by schemers, false friends, and traitors who were conspiring at the death of my children. I did not know who to trust, so I … I used the only means that I had to bind the Kettleblacks to me."

People interpret this to mean it was a false confession, but I disagree. Osfryd and Osmund would never confess to doing something they didn't do after what the Faith did to Osney.

+.+.+

Forgive me, High Holiness, but I would open my legs for every man in King's Landing if that was what I had to do to keep my children safe.

+.+.+

"Lancel." Cersei hesitated. Careful, she told herself, Lancel will have told him everything. "Lancel loved me. He was half a boy, but I never doubted his devotion to me or my son."

"And yet you still corrupted him."

"I was lonely." She choked back a sob. "I had lost my husband, my son, my lord father. I was regent, but a queen is still a woman, and women are weak vessels, easily tempted … Your High Holiness knows the truth of that. Even holy septas have been known to sin. I took comfort with Lancel. He was kind and gentle and I needed someone. It was wrong, I know, but I had no one else … a woman needs to be loved, she needs a man beside her, she … she …" She began to sob uncontrollably.

x

The queen began to weep again. This time the tears were true. "You are too kind. Thank you."

Cersei gave them all the words that she had in her, gave them everything but tears. That they will never have, she told herself.

+.+.+

"These are common sins," he said. "The wickedness of widows is well-known, and all women are wantons at heart, given to using their wiles and their beauty to work their wills on men. There is no treason here, so long as you did not stray from your marriage bed whilst His Grace King Robert was still alive."

"Never," she whispered, shivering. "Never, I swear it."

This bitch (derogatory). I'm going to save the best gifs for his death, I don't care how long I have to wait.

+.+.+

"There are other charges laid against Your Grace, crimes far more grievous than simple fornications. You admit Ser Osney Kettleblack was your lover, and Ser Osney insists that he smothered my predecessor at your behest. He further insists that he bore false witness against Queen Margaery and her cousins, telling tales of fornications, adultery, and high treason, again at your behest."

"No," said Cersei. "It is not true. I love Margaery as I would a daughter. And the other … I complained of the High Septon, I admit it. He was Tyrion's creature, weak and corrupt, a stain upon our Holy Faith. Your High Holiness knows that as well as I. It may be that Osney thought that his death would please me. If so, I bear some part of the blame … but murder? No. Of that I am innocent. Take me to the sept and I will stand before the Father's judgment seat and swear the truth of that."

Taking a page out of Littlefinger's book.

+.+.+

"You also stand accused of conspiring at the murder of your own lord husband, our late beloved King Robert, First of His Name."

Lancel, Cersei thought.

That kid is deader than dead.

+.+.+

"Last of all, and worst of all, there are some who say your children were not fathered by King Robert, that they are bastards born of incest and adultery."

"Stannis says that," Cersei said at once. "A lie, a lie, a palpable lie. Stannis wants the Iron Throne for himself, but his brother's children stand in his way, so he must needs claim that they are not his brother's. That filthy letter … there is no shred of truth to it. I deny it."

The High Septon placed both hands flat upon the table and pushed himself to his feet. "Good. Lord Stannis has turned from the truth of the Seven to worship a red demon, and his false faith has no place in these Seven Kingdoms."

She's lucky. The "last of all, and worst of all" is the most easily dismissed, because the High Sparrow isn't about to strengthen King R'hllor's claim.

+.+.+

"Even so," His High Holiness went on, "these are terrible charges, and the realm must know the truth of them. If Your Grace has told it true, no doubt a trial will prove your innocence."

A trial, still.

On the same day as Margaery! Fancy that.

+.+.+

The old man's eyes were chips of flint. 

Shouldn't Howland's eyes be green?

+.+.+

Moelle and Scolera were waiting to lead her back up to her tower cell. Unella followed close behind them. "We have all been praying for Your Grace," Septa Moelle said as they were climbing. "Yes," Septa Scolera echoed, "and you must feel so much lighter now, clean and innocent as a maid on the morning of her wedding."

I fucked Jaime on the morning of my wedding, the queen recalled. 

Oops.

That night Daario had her every way a man can have a woman, and she gave herself to him willingly. The last time, as the sun was coming up, she used her mouth to make him hard again, as Doreah had taught her long ago, then rode him so wildly that his wound began to bleed again, and for one sweet heartbeat she could not tell whether he was inside of her, or her inside of him.

But when the sun rose upon her wedding day so did Daario Naharis, donning his clothes and buckling on his sword belt with its gleaming golden wantons. - Daenerys VII, ADWD

+.+.+

I feel reborn, as if a festering boil has been lanced and now at last I can begin to heal. I could almost fly." She imagined how sweet it would be to slam an elbow into Septa Scolera's face and send her careening down the spiral steps. If the gods were good, the wrinkled old cunt might crash into Septa Unella and take her down with her.

Imagine the tragedy of being a Daenerys fan. Not only have they recently discovered they've been cheering for the villainess the entire time, they also have to live with the fact that they've chosen the second best one. Sad.

+.+.+

The next morning, with the dawn, there came her uncle.

[...]

She did not want to sit. "You are still angry with me. I hear it in your voice. Forgive me, Uncle. It was wrong of me to throw my wine at you, but—"

"You think I care about a cup of wine? Lancel is my son, Cersei. Your own nephew. If I am angry with you, that is the cause. You should have looked after him, guided him, found him a likely girl of good family. Instead you—"

"I know. I know." Lancel wanted me more than I ever wanted him. He still does, I will wager. 

Sorry for the wine killed me.

Kevan Lannister never does Cersei's bidding, and that was before he knew about Lancel, so the ending of this chapter makes little sense to me.

+.+.+

"No. Jaime is still in the riverlands, somewhere."

"Somewhere?" She did not like the sound of that.

"He took Raventree and accepted Lord Blackwood's surrender," said her uncle, "but on his way back to Riverrun he left his tail and went off with a woman."

"A woman?" Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. "What woman? Why? Where did they go?"

"No one knows. We've had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar's daughter, Lady Brienne."

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man's mail. 

Oh, Cersei.

If the gods had given her the strength they gave Jaime and that swaggering oaf Robert, she could have made her own escape. Oh, for a sword and the skill to wield it. She had a warrior's heart, but the gods in their blind malice had given her the feeble body of a woman. 

+.+.+

Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come.

This is too obvious of a setup.

Yes, I remember George writing "Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be." I said what I said.

+.+.+

"We have had reports of sellswords landing all over the south," Ser Kevan was saying. "Tarth, the Stepstones, Cape Wrath … where Stannis found the coin to hire a free company I would dearly love to know. I do not have the strength to deal with them, not here. Mace Tyrell does, but he refuses to bestir himself until this matter with his daughter has been settled."

How convenient that Aegon and the Tyrells won't meet in battle until after Margaery's trial.

+.+.+

A headsman would settle Margaery quick enough. Cersei did not care a fig for Stannis or his sellswords. The Others take him and the Tyrells both. Let them slaughter each other, the realm will be the better for it. "Please, Uncle, take me out of here."

Thanks to @fedonciadale's probe, we know that's less than ideal for Team Baratheon and Tyrell.

+.+.+

"Please, Uncle, take me out of here."

"How? By force of arms?" Ser Kevan walked to the window and gazed out, frowning. "I would need to make an abbatoir of this holy place. And I do not have the men. The best part of our forces were at Riverrun with your brother. I had no time to raise up a new host."

Tywin would have burned down the Great Sept of Baelor, and dragged the High Sparrow through the streets on day one.

The best part of the Lannister forces were at Riverrun? That wasn't a lot of Lannister men.

+.+.+

"I have spoken with His High Holiness. He will not release you until you have atoned for your sins."

"I have confessed."

"Atoned, I said. Before the city. A walk—"

"No." She knew what her uncle was about to say, and she did not want to hear it. "Never. Tell him that, if you speak again. I am a queen, not some dockside whore."

I have some bad news for you, Cersei.

The author never forgets.

My lord father had no use for whores, she thought. After our mother died he never touched a woman. She gave the guardsman a chilly look. "This is not . . . when Lord Tywin's father died he returned to Casterly Rock to find a . . . a woman of this sort . . . bedecked in his lady mother's jewels, wearing one of her gowns. He stripped them off her, and all else as well. For a fortnight she was paraded naked through the streets of Lannisport, to confess to every man she met that she was a thief and a harlot. That was how Lord Tywin Lannister dealt with whores. He never . . . this woman was here for some other purpose, not for . . ." - Cersei I, AFFC

+.+.+

Ser Kevan was unmoved. "If that is your wish, you may soon have it granted. His High Holiness is resolved that you be tried for regicide, deicide, incest, and high treason."

"Deicide?" She almost laughed. "When did I kill a god?"

"The High Septon speaks for the Seven here on earth. Strike at him, and you are striking at the gods themselves."

It's too bad Cersei doesn't have dragons, Euron would love her.

+.+.+

"It does no good to speak of such things. Not here. The time for all that is at trial." He gazed about her cell. The look on his face spoke volumes.

Someone is listening. Even here, even now, she dare not speak freely. She took a breath.

Careful Kevan, you never know if a kid might be hiding in those walls.

Ser Kevan was cold as ice, and every labored breath sent a fresh stab of pain through him. He glimpsed movement, heard the soft scuffling sound of slippered feet on stone. A child emerged from a pool of darkness, a pale boy in a ragged robe, no more than nine or ten. Another rose up behind the Grand Maester's chair. The girl who had opened the door for him was there as well. They were all around him, half a dozen of them, white-faced children with dark eyes, boys and girls together. - Epilogue, ADWD

+.+.+

"Who will try me?"

"The Faith," her uncle said, "unless you insist on a trial by battle. In which case you must be championed by a knight of the Kingsguard. Whatever the outcome, your rule is at an end. I will serve as Tommen's regent until he comes of age. Mace Tyrell has been named King's Hand. Grand Maester Pycelle and Ser Harys Swyft will continue as before, but Paxter Redwyne is now lord admiral and Randyll Tarly has assumed the duties of justiciar."

You can't get any funnier than Randyll Tarly being the administrator of justice.

+.+.+

"Margaery stands accused as well. Her and those cousins of hers. How is it that the sparrows freed her and not me?"

"Randyll Tarly insisted. He was the first to reach King's Landing when this storm broke, and he brought his army with him. The Tyrell girls will still be tried, but the case against them is weak, His High Holiness admits. All of the men named as the queen's lovers have denied the accusation or recanted, save for your maimed singer, who appears to be half-mad. So the High Septon handed the girls over to Tarly's custody and Lord Randyll swore a holy oath to deliver them for trial when the time comes."

I bet the man will be thrilled if something happens to Margaery Tyrell that day.

+.+.+

"Tell me. What is it?"

"Myrcella. We have had grave news from Dorne."

"Tyrion," she said at once. Tyrion had sent her little girl to Dorne, and Cersei had dispatched Ser Balon Swann to bring her home. All Dornishmen were snakes, and the Martells were the worst of them. The Red Viper had even tried to defend the Imp, had come within a hairbreadth of a victory that would have allowed the dwarf to escape the blame for Joffrey's murder. "It's him, he's been in Dorne all this time, and now he's seized my daughter."

You can call this paranoia, but this is exactly what Tyrion wanted to do.

"Even a kinslayer is not required to slay all his kin," said Tyrion, wounded. "Queen her, I said. Not kill her."

The cheesemonger spooned up cherries. "In Volantis they use a coin with a crown on one face and a death's-head on the other. Yet it is the same coin. To queen her is to kill her. Dorne might rise for Myrcella, but Dorne alone is not enough. If you are as clever as our friend insists, you know this."

Tyrion looked at the fat man with new interest. He is right on both counts. To queen her is to kill her. And I knew that. "Futile gestures are all that remain to me. This one would make my sister weep bitter tears, at least." - Tyrion I, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Kevan gave her another scowl. "Myrcella was attacked by a Dornish knight named Gerold Dayne. She's alive, but hurt. He slashed her face open, she … I'm sorry … she lost an ear."

"An ear." Cersei stared at him, aghast. She was just a child, my precious princess. She was so pretty, too. "He cut off her ear. And Prince Doran and his Dornish knights, where were they? They could not defend one little girl? Where was Arys Oakheart?"

"Slain, defending her. Dayne cut him down, it's said."

The Sword of the Morning had been a Dayne, the queen recalled, but he was long dead. Who was this Ser Gerold and why would he wish to harm her daughter? She could not make any sense of this, unless … "Tyrion lost half his nose in the Battle of the Blackwater. Slashing her face, cutting off an ear … the Imp's grubby little fingers are all over this."

Eh, she lost me.

+.+.+

She gave a bitter laugh. "Whatever they call him, he is my brother's catspaw. Tyrion has friends amongst the Dornish. The Imp planned this all along. It was Tyrion who betrothed Myrcella to Prince Trystane. Now I see why."

"You see Tyrion in every shadow."

"He is a creature of the shadows. He killed Joffrey. He killed Father. Did you think he would stop there? I feared that the Imp was still in King's Landing plotting harm to Tommen, but he must have gone to Dorne instead to kill Myrcella first."

"You are fighting shadows when you should be fighting the men who cast them," Daario went on. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

x

"Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all." - Tyrion VIII, ADWD

+.+.+

"Then there is an empty place amongst the Kingsguard. It must be filled at once. Tommen must be protected."

"Lord Tarly is drawing up a list of worthy knights for your brother to consider, but until Jaime reappears …"

"The king can give a man a white cloak. Tommen's a good boy. Tell him who to name and he will name him."

"And who would you have him name?"

She did not have a ready answer. My champion will need a new name as well as a new face. "Qyburn will know. Trust him in this. You and I have had our differences, Uncle, but for the blood we share and the love you bore my father, for Tommen's sake and the sake of his poor maimed sister, do as I ask you. Go to Lord Qyburn on my behalf, bring him a white cloak, and tell him that the time has come."

Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent, is going to let Cersei and Qyburn pick the next Kingsguard? The same woman who dismissed Barristan Selmy, and appointed Sandor Clegane and Osmund Kettleblack? The man doesn't do a thing she says until now?

Sure thing, George.

My champion will need a new name as well as a new face.

Are they going to give him a new face?

Final thoughts:

I don't believe there will be a second trial by combat for two reasons.

We've already done this before with the Mountain, and you're never going to surpass the original.

Too many people in King's Landing need to die quickly.

-> return to menu <-

[fromriches-tosin]

after reading ch 135 i’m wondering is it just me or jean really a lil too obsessed with reiner 🤨

Jumping into the Colossal Titan’s mouth to save his sworn enemy (again), making sure the said enemy knows how much he means to him, being willing to die to protect him, telling him not to transform even though he needs him to transform in order to win the war, yelling his name every five minutes, embracing him so he wouldn’t fall down, not wanting to leave him behind, making sure he’s alright every chance he gets—

Too much? Nah, to Jean it’s all perfectly normal, frenemies-like behavior. It’s just tactics. The Alliance needs Reiner alive and happy, reassured of his worth, well-cared for and kissed goodnight.

In Reiner’s head wedding bells are ringing. Sweet, caring Krista came to his rescue on a horse. Cute, caring Jean came to his rescue on a Titan. Whenever Jean does something nice for him post-Rumbling, Reiner proposes:

Jean: here’s your blanket, big guy

Reiner: marry me

Jean: did you eat today, you oaf?

Reiner: marry me

Jean: I heard you were looking for—

Reiner: marry me

Jean thinks it’s an inside joke, so one day he says “yes” just for the lolz, and boooy. Isn’t he in for a surprise.

[foxydivaxx]

Zosan: Look What You Made Me Do Chapter 6

Sanji POV

I began to observe something about myself, something that I had been denying for years. I am not so different from Nami. I want the finer things in life. I want to be loved,I want to be free. That was why I became a Strawhat in the first place. But my approach to life is different. 

Nami is Miss Independent, driven by a traumatic experience no thanks to a certain smelly fishhead. I on the other hand am driven by grief, neglect and sorrow. I lost the only support I had who happened to be my mother. Sure, I had Reiju but she could barely do much. I still love her though.

I was bullied, tortured and ridiculed for years. I was brought down to nothing for showing my emotions, for displaying what was seen as a weakness in the eyes of my brothers and fathers. As far as they were concerned, I was never a real man. I was a mistake.

All that time I spent all alone in that dungeon wearing that mask,I was begging for death. I never gave myself the chance to be selfish. I was always acting in service to others but ignored myself because as far as I was concerned, someone as messy as I was deserved none of that good shit.

So imagine my surprise when the others came to rescue me from the wedding plot. Like Luffy has saved everyone else so why me? I am just a mere cook. Well according to Luffy, no food equals no life. 

No one has ever given me respect for jackshit or love. At times I wish I did become evil and destroyed the world and everyone else around me. Maybe that is why Zoro is with me now. Could be that the others have been sensing whatever dark energy that lay dormant within me and may be trying to distract and protect me from myself?

But why bother? I can barely keep myself together. One minute I am as sweet as sugar and the next I snap like a fucking fire breathing dragon. I act as though there are two people with me. No one knows what that’s about just yet. But there is a part of me that fears that whatever evil demon that is inside me is about to go on a rampage. 

I have days when I am fine but there are days I lose my mind. Like I would wake up in the middle of the night and just start screaming. My heart begins to pound as I pant heavily. I look around and realize that I was back on the ship. Meaning that we have left that island a long time ago. A sharp pain hits me in the chest and then I remembered why we had to leave.

A couple hours ago, we were attacked on Greenville Island by none other than my father and the Germa army. Turns out Akuma placed a tracker on me during one of our sexual rendez-vous. Hmm…well played.  Either way, Zoro destroyed that tracker once he found out and went feral almost immediately.

Either way, they attacked us and I immediately jumped into action and went to fight my father head on despite Marimo warning me not to do so. Perhaps I should have listened because once again, I was up short. I could not stand a chance against that bastard. Oh and he proceeded to stab me and slash my chest with that stupid sword of his, leading to me losing a lot of blood. How cute. Definite winner of the Father of the Year Grand prize. Pfft…yeah right. 

I lost consciousness after that and we all fled the island. It seems my stunt with Akuma rattled the old fool and so now he is after us and wants us dead. Well, me more so than the others because I was the one that killed that old oaf’s guy. 

I find it hilarious that the motherfucker would care about Akuma like that. Like Akuma was meant to be a means to an end. So why care about him? Unless my little theory about their relationship is true. 

Now, I never met Akuma prior to our sexual relationship. But I also cannot help but suspect that father dearest might have been a closeted bisexual and only married mum because he needed heirs to his now tainted throne.

Germa has a very bloody history that spawns 300 years of bloodshed, slavery and racism which was why I stopped referring to myself as a Vinsmoke even though the world refers to me as such. 

I guess Marimo is on watch duty today because he is nowhere to be seen in this room. I try to get up but thanks to the sharp pain, I decide to lay back down. All this time I have been trying to run away from my past, to discard parts of me that I thought never made sense because the world I found myself in never supported or accepted certain aspects of my personality.

Like me showing kindness to others for instance. Or my love for cooking. Or even me being attracted to guys. My deep internal turmoil is so great that I literally cry myself to sleep almost everyday because who would understand my pain?

“You okay Sanji?”

I look up to see my beloved captain Luffy sitting next to him, a caring smile on his face. I still cannot believe that this guy right here still cares for me and was willing to protect me back there. Him and the entire crew. I cannot believe that some people actually love me and are willing to help me regardless of my flaws.

“I…” I could not put m feelings into words because how could I? I just started sobbing. For the first time in a while, I felt like the little boy that was trapped in that dungeon. The kid Judge disowned and pronounced dead to the world because I was not good enough for him.

Luffy just pulls me into a gentle hug and does not say a word. It is almost as though he understands my pain. It was then that I feel another soul outside feeling worried about me. Marimo. Marimo and I have always had this strange emotional link with each other. Whenever one was endangered or was feeling blue, the other would know and would try and send as much caring energy to the other.

Marimo listened to my heart and understood my fears and worries and was trying to reassure me in his own way. Luffy probably felt it from wherever he was and came down here just to check on me.

“It’s okay Sanji. You are gonna be fine. You’ve got us.” says Luffy. I just nod and sob and pout. I do not have enough strength to face the old man now. But I will need to gather strength as soon as possible. 

“That reminds me. Nami got in contact with Law. He said that we should go to the next neighbouring island and stop there. I believe there is something that could help you there. Who knows?”

I hope so because I need a lot of power to take down that old bastard and destroy him for good. I am sick of being hunted down by that bastard. I want him wiped off the face of this Earth. After spending Lord knows how many hours in tears, I eventually sleep off in Luffy’s arms.

[supremeuppityone]

Klaroline fanfic update: Perhaps One Day

Working on a sequel to my Klaroline one-shot, Chapter 14 - Loyalty’s Price, in Perhaps One Day. Here's a quick peek:

Chapter 22

“The children were playing hoodsman’s blind — thou would raise rebellion over such a trifle? ‘Tis a prideful creature that dwells in thy stony heart, Lord Lockwood,” she scoffed, ignoring her handmaiden’s startled gasp as she reached for the small satchel tied at her waist. Pressing a handful of coins into the disgruntled lord’s palm, she crowed triumphantly, “There. Now thee has coin enough to purchase an appropriate embellishment — for once.”

            Klaus’ lips twitched in mirth at the brash woman’s bold defiance. Enchanting creature. He recognized the Lockwood surname and recalled they were minor nobles whose grasping aspirations far exceeded their worth. Unimpressed, he turned his focus back to the young woman, his curiosity piqued.

            Lord Lockwood snatched the coins with a beady-eyed, greedy manner that belied every unseemly whisper Klaus’ spies had informed him of regarding the Lockwoods. He growled, “Thy comely visage does not forgive such an inappropriate tongue, Lady Forbes.”

            Klaus felt his own growl rumble low in his chest and he moved forward instinctively, ready to rescue the maiden if Lord Lockwood proved to be an unscrupulous cur as well as a beef-witted oaf. He then paused as he considered Lockwood’s words. She was a Forbes. They were said to be artless sycophants whose loyalty to Mikael would not be swayed. He would call for their heads after Mikael’s defeat. And yet...