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#/ i took the human verse 3 for this

awkwardcourage · 5 months

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@timerevolt

Despite everything, there was still a part of Hughie that was still in awe of supes. Their powers fascinated him. He still secretly enjoyed scrolling through subreddits on supes, looking at all the new and exciting powers that seemed to be cropping up. Even if they were similar, no two were ever the same.

Lucy Warren was something of a legend. Time powers were exceedingly rare and the use of hers made her incredible difficult to overpower in a fight. What truly amazed Hughie was that she could, theoretically, actually travel through time, but it turned out it wasn’t as easy teleportation.

Hughie was following a lead on Lucy, one that he wasn’t expecting much to come out of. Or had been a fruitless few days in a shitty little town and while he wasn’t usually one to drink his emotions, he found himself hungering for something to take the edge off.

What he didn’t realise was that the very person who he was looking for was behind the bar.

Hughie sat down with a sigh, leaning over to try and get the bartender’s attention. “Hey. Uh, could I have a beer please?”

#timerevolt #i don't want to go to a second location with you | threads #you're only human | main verse #lemme know if anything needs changing :3 #sorry it took so long!

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moonaeraa · 1 year

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♡

Send me a ♡ and my muse will describe their idea of the perfect date with your muse!

''Oh, Takumi-san. Um...Well! I'd love to have a picnic with you. Somewhere with just the sunset and both of us. Away from any noise, anything that might be disturbing to this beautiful event.'' She looked down, the softest shade of pink slowly covering her cheeks. ''Or perhaps a home date, where we cook together and share a few bottles of wine. Watching some silly funny show or perhaps something scary, where I will get spooked, and you will wrap your arm around me as the usual scenario. After this, we can snack some more and you can tell me about your dolls making crafts.'' A soft chuckle parted her lips. ''Any of this would be lovely."

#/ i took the human verse 3 for this #/ hope it is fine!#/ she is doe eye standing in front of this tall tall gentleman hoping for a date invitation #/look at her being goofy #/ I MADE THIS WHOLE THING PRE EST i hope its okay wheezes

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etheries1015 · 3 months

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I CANT STOP CACKLING AT LILIA AND THE SILLY STORIES OF HOW HE RAISED SILVER 😭😭 It made me wonder about Lilia raising a child he has with you, and how you react to his parenting tactics...

Lilias dorm card spoilers underneath <3

aldskfjal;siej the way that even sebek looks at Silver like "How..did you make it this far?" And Silver equally as confused as he is. And when he gave the bat milk directly from the jug, it sounds like the bat basically took a bath in it... Something similar happening to Silver. Ugh I love this family, they are so chaotic it's hilarious. How Silver and Sebek know more about the technicalities it's actually amusing, esspecially Silver, who grew up with Lilia's parenting skills... I like to assume MC had no clue this took place, and came in blind to his antics once they decided to have a child of their own...

MC- Lilia.

Lilia- oh isn't our darling baby the cutest?!

MC- Lilia, you cannot spoon-feed her real food yet. W...where did you get that food?

Lilia- I made it while you were bathing!

MC- ...And I see she also needed a diaper change? what's with the..paper towels?

Lilia- Oh, right. It appears we ran out of diapers! I had to improvise. I'm quite proud of myself how it turned out, really!

MC, sighing- We might have to start investing in reusable diapers if this keeps up...

Lilia- Reuseable?

MC- Yes, reus- Lilia! Put the spoon down, she is too little to feed off of solid foods! *mumbling* much less be able to stomach your cooking...

Lilia- It is not solid! It may appear that way, but I was certain to blend it into a milky consistency.

MC, eyeing the food curiously- ...Huh, you're right. Well, you can't feed her this anyway. She should be having milk right now

Lilia- I assure you it's much healthier and more nutritious than milk- ah...do not look at me like that my dear, remember I am a child-rearing veteran! ...

MC- ...

Lilia- ....

Lilia- I will go get the milk~ No need to glare at me as such. You know, raising children shouldn't be so black and white! Sometimes you need to improvise~

MC- ...Uh huh... anyways. I'm going to get changed to go out to the store and grab a few things. Can you handle her?

Lilia- Of course I can! Your questions wound me~ Do not worry your little head. I am well versed in how to raise a human child!

-moments later-

MC- Alright. Why is my baby cover head to toe in milk.

Lilia- Isn't she just the cutest sight to see? I handed her the mug and she practically poured it all over herself! What a silly little girl.

MC- ...Where's her diaper?

Lilia- Ah! The paper towel seems to have dissolved with the amount of milk soiling it... A shame. I was proud of how well It turned out.

MC, sighing and shaking their head with a smile and turning to the kitchen table- Can you keep an eye on them while I go to the store?

Silver, nodding- Of course.

MC- How...how did you manage to make it this far?

Silver- ...often times a mystery to me as well, but I am thankful I am still here.

MC, laughing and turning back to Lilia, who is giving the second mug of milk to his daughter- Ah...what charm you have, my lovely husband. I will return soon.

Lilia gives you a kiss and you head off, with a bright smile on your lips. What a silly fae...but you know things will turn out alright.

#Twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland headcannons #twst headcannons #Lilia #lilia x reader #Lilia vanrouge X reader #Lilia vanrouge headcannons

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10yrsyart · 2 months

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Luke 15:7, "There is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who were righteous and haven't strayed away!"

i was thinking about this verse recently and wondering.. how different it would be if people could see just how important they are to God. so important in fact that the Creator of the universe, an everlasting Being, came down Himself to experience death to set us free from Death. if you were the only human needing redemption, He would have gone through it all just for you.

it's up to you to accept or reject this payment on your behalf. there's no way to pay it yourself, you can never be "good enough" to make it to Heaven. He took on your punishment for you and only His sacrifice absolves you from it. if you reject Him, He will honor that decision, and you'll spend eternity separated from Him and all joy, light, and happiness. not because He's cruel, but because all good things stem from the Lord. there is no life without Jesus Christ.

the experience of the man in this comic is actually based on many testimonies i've listened to. people cried out to Jesus, and either saw or felt His love and were changed. don't wait! you have the entirety of Heaven cheering you on, longing for you to join our family. the hole in your heart can only be filled by the Holy Spirit's Presence. don't reject your opportunity to experience God's wonders forever, in a reality far greater than Earth could ever hope to be.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life." (John 3:16)

transcript:

Saint 1: Quick! It's happening!

Man: (sighs)

Demon 1: Things aren't gonna get better, y'know? At least you're not believing in a fairy tale like them.

Demon 2: Reality, not delusion!

Demon 3: Only you can change your life. You're the master of your own destiny!

Man: I've tried everything, but I still feel empty...

Demon 1: Better than being trapped under a bunch of religious rules forever. Is that what you want?

Demon 2: You're worth nothing. You don't deserve any help.

Demon 3: Worthless, worthless~

Man: I'm so sick of this. It's all pointless.. I just want it to stop...

Demon 1: Yes, it's pointless!

Demon 2: Even if you call, no one will answer!

Demon 3: You might as well end it now. There's nothing in your future-

Man: Jesus!

Saint 2: HAH!

Saint 3: Yes!!

Demons (all): NO! No No No No No No No

Man: If you're real, prove it to me! I can't do this. Help me, I need you!

Saint 4: Yeaaaah!

Saint 5: That's right!

Saint 6: I love this part!

Saint 7: WOOOH! YESHUA!

Man: ..Forgive me.

Jesus: (smiles) Welcome home, My son.

Saint 8: He did it!!

Saint 9: Yes!

Saint 10: JESUS!!

Saint 11: Atta boy!

Angel 1: HAH! GOT'M!

Saint 12: Did you see that?!

Saint 13: A new family member!

Angel 2: Hallelujah!

Angel 3: Praise Yah!

Saint 14: Thank You.

Saint 15: I can't wait until he gets here!

Heavenly voices: Our Lord Jehovah! Hallelujah! Praise Yahweh forever! Holy Holy Holy. Yeshua our Savior! Is the Lord God Almighty.

Saint 7: WOOOH! YESHUA!!

God the Father: (smiles)

Man: ...I don't feel empty.

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sparkrls · 2 months

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set a love alight

MASTERLIST

part of the bandmates! harry x yn au

Summary: in which Y/N makes mistakes and Harry remind her she’s only human

Author’s Note: just needed some emotional Y/N with sweetheart Harry. remember to like and reblog because i crave validation. love ya <3

Word Count: 1.3k

•••

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Y/N cursed, pushing past the mess of wires and equipment backstage and pushing through the door of the emergency exit. The door swung open, slamming against the brick wall before clicking shut again.

Kicking at a small rock in the gravel, Y/N tried to release her fury. A choked sob escaped her raw throat, the burning reminding her of the fatal mistake she’d made that night.

Ambition had been her downfall. She’d let herself be overly confident in her abilities and had reached too high, her wings scorched by the sun.

Y/N fell to the ground. She didn’t bother to sit down gently, simply just letting her knees give out beneath her. She curled her knees up to her chest, hugging them and linking her hands together.

The hem of her skirt rode up, reaching her upper thigh. Usually, she might tug it down, but she was a bit too busy crying to even think about something so trivial like her skirt.

A pair of hands settled on her shoulders. Y/N was startled at the sudden touch. She could’ve sworn she was alone.

Eyeliner and makeup smudged from crying, Y/N looked up to find that Harry was crouched in front of her, his gaze soft and warm. She quickly tried to wipe her tears away, but he caught her wrists and pulled them down to her sides.

Harry’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, “Baby. It’s okay.” He was handling her like shattered glass, doing his best to not slit his hand while picking up the sharp fragments. “I’m here.”

Y/N didn’t like for people to see her cry. Not only was she an ugly crier, but she hated when people saw her so vulnerable. It felt wrong. And she didn’t cry often anyways. But when she did, it was messy and wild.

“I screwed up,” Y/N whispered, hating how her voice broke when she was barely audible. A pool of shame gathered in her stomach, weighing her down and suffocating her.

Harry sat down next to her, his arm wrapping around her shoulder. He leaned forward to meet her eyes. “Yeah. You did. And?”

“And?” She said, her voice raising a bit. “And I humiliated myself. I was so fucking bad.”

“You were nervous and you made a mistake,” Harry said steadily, his voice never raising. “It happens to the best of us.”

“I shouldn’t have taken that solo,” Y/N said with the shake of her head, another tear spilling against her will.

They had decided to perform their new song, ‘Set A Love Alight’. Y/N and Harry had written it just three weeks ago, and they decided to play it at this gig they’d booked at the bar they regularly played at, 17 Black.

After a long time of reluctance and hesitation, Y/N had decided to do the song as a solo. Up until now, Harry was always the one singing. Occasionally, Sarah or Mitch would sing a verse or two, but for the most part, Harry was the vocal powerhouse. Everyone liked it that way, everyone felt comfortable.

And Y/N had never dared to sing anything except backing vocals. And for the last few months, Harry had been trying to convince her to sing at least one verse of a song. He’d hyped her up, encouraging her to do so and telling her how amazing her voice was about a million times.

After a long time of pleading, Harry’d gotten what he wanted and more. Y/N took on the burden of an entire song. And tonight was not only the debut of the new song, but also of her voice.

Weeks of rehearsals had fallen down the drain when Y/N started singing and her voice came out shaky with nerves. Her hands were shaking and she didn’t hit the right chords on the guitar. And her lungs started constricting, making it hard for her to complete the lines without gasping for air. And all of this combined into the messiest performance the band had ever performed.

At the end of the song, Y/N was holding back tears and the small amount of people paying attention to the band clapped politely, but she heard the whispers of judgement. And when she turned to look at the band, the three of them were looking at her with pity in their eyes.

That was how she’d rushed off stage, thrusting her guitar into the hands of someone she passed by, possibly even a bystander just walking by. She didn’t even look at their face before walking out in tears.

“Love, you’re a good singer,” Harry said with a small sigh, caressing her cheek with his thumb. Her eyes fluttered shut. “You got nervous. It happens to everyone. You just have to learn how to control those nerves, that’s all.”

Y/N took a shaky breath, holding back a sob. “I made everyone look bad.”

Harry let out a small laugh. Y/N opened her eyes to glare at him. He rushed to say, “Baby, I wasn’t making fun of you, I swear. I just… I’ve made countless mistakes on stage. My voice has cracked, I’ve missed high notes, I’ve mixed up verses, I’ve sung off-key. But my mistakes don’t take away from my talent.” He pulled her forward to hug her. “Not to toot my own horn, but I’m a good singer. Because I was persistent and a hard worker. I didn’t give up even when I had moments where I sounded like shit and thought I had humiliated myself to a degree no other human being ever had.”

Y/N took a deep breath. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Which part?” Harry asked, curiously. He was ever as bright as always, but so soft and gentle. He was a sweetheart above anything else.

“Getting on stage and giving an amazing as fuck performance each time,” Y/N said. She shook her head. “You’re amazing, H.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s what I know how to do. I’ve done it my entire life. The same way you always play the guitar ‘amazing as fuck’.” He scrunched his nose up at her as he mocked her words. She let out a small chuckle. He smiled, pleased at himself. He always pulled a smile out of her. “It takes time and experience. I promise next time you get on stage to sing you’ll be better. Not perfect, just better. And someday, you won’t even remember tonight as anything more than just another story to tell and laugh at.”

Y/N pursed her lips, silent for a moment in thought. He was right. He always was.

Somehow, Harry always managed to make the tears seem like just another silly hurdle to jump over. The world seemed so much easier to face when he spoke about it so simply.

And with Harry holding her in his arms, who wouldn’t be ready to take on anything the universe threw her way?

Harry let out a small sigh, running his fingers through her hair. “You’ll be okay, love.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Harry always took care of her with love. Not as if she were fractured sharp glass, but as if she were a bouquet of flowers you settled into a vase with care as to not let a single petal drop.

And Y/N wished she were as sweet as him. She wished she could be as good and pure as he was, to give him the affection he needed. The care he gave her was the kind he should be receiving.

“I love you,” Y/N whispered, starting off with something small to remind him of her love.

Harry smiled, as if she’d made some grand declaration of love and hung a star in the night sky for him. “I love you too.”

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

Read it on AO3:

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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ramblingoak · 10 days

Text

Grading Papers

Mushy May in Lucifer's Hollow: Day 3 - Massage

Copia x Aether

This fic is set in an alternate universe in a town called Lucifer's Hollow. For Mushy May I'll be using the prompts to post little snippets of life for the humans and ghouls that live there 💙 Thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together!

~ In Lucifer's Hollow Copia teaches history at the high school and Aether is a firefighter. ~

Warnings: fluff and stuff, sfw, 500 words (thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the dividers and @foxybouquet for the Italian help!)

“Sono tutti imbecilli!”

Aether sighed at Copia’s outburst, adding a few more cookies to the plate before heading towards his husband’s office. He had been in there all afternoon grading essays and from the increasingly alarming sounding Italian it didn’t seem like things were going well. Most of the time Copia was extremely patient with his students, sometimes overly so. But with the end of the school year getting closer and closer Copia was clearly low on patience.

Luckily Aether knew exactly what to do.

He knocked gently at the door a few times before going inside, immediately having to clamp down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing at the sight before him. Copia was turned towards the elaborate cage that took up one side of his office, a somewhat crumpled paper held aloft and a look of disbelief on his face.

“Are they much help?” Copia flinched, slapping the paper down on his desk and giving Aether a sheepish look. The ghoul just smirked and strolled over to his husband’s side. He set the plate of snacks down and leaned down to plant a kiss onto the silver hair at Copia’s temple. “I didn’t realize Brizio knew so much about the politics of Ancient Greece.”

Copia mumbled something under his breath but Aether could see the pink on his cheeks so he knew the man didn’t mind being teased. The rats had been part of the deal since the beginning, not that Aether ever had minded them. They played a big part in the start of their relationship. Aether smiled fondly as he remembered practically tackling Copia in his front yard to keep the man from running back into his smoke filled house. Thankfully he had finally listened and Aether had been the one to save the day (and the rats).

“He knows more than some of these kids.” Aether chuckled at Copia’s remark, taking a moment to card his fingers through Copia’s hair and lightly scratching his scalp with his claws. “Ah, sì. That’s very nice.”

Aether smiled while he continued, eventually moving to stand behind his chair. Copia leaned back with a groan when he moved both of his hands to his shoulders, digging his fingers into the tight muscles there.

“You should take a break for the night, they’ll still be there in the morning.”

“Not if I burn the house down. Hey!” Copia looked up at Aether with a pout when the ghoul flicked his ear. “Ugh, fine. Just let me finish these tonight, per favore? I only have a few left and then I don’t have to think about them the rest of the weekend.”

“Deal. But you have to go with me to the farmer’s market tomorrow.” Copia hummed in agreement, wiggling his shoulders when Aether stopped rubbing them. “Need something?”

“Don’t stop, this makes reading this nonsense somewhat bearable.”

The ghoul grinned, pressing his fingers into Copia’s muscles once more as his husband got back to work.

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

More snippets from this verse are on my masterlist under "Ongoing Series"!

Other Mushy May days: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12

#mushy may 2024 #copia x aether #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost band fanfic #copia fanfiction #tales from lucifer's hollow

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aroacehanzawa · 1 year

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On Dazai, his heartrate, The Book, BEAST, and metanarratives (or: how we may or may not already know how it all ends)

Have you noticed that in the opening of season 4, Dazai is the only one who is shown to mouth along to the lyrics? Specifically, he mouths along to the last part of the line that goes something along the lines of "The context in which my soul beats, turn it into a heartbeat" (魂が打つ文脈、鼓動に変えてしまえよ (source)).

This is interesting, because as Ango established in episode 11, Dazai has been communicating with the outside world by adjusting his heartrate to encode deciphered messages. And i hate this plot point with a passion, hated it when it came up in the manga and still hate it after the latest episode, so i will cope by doing the following in this 3k word essay (which i wrote in about 5 hours on the day i have an actual real-world deadline):

Trying to figure out 1) what this skill of Dazai implies about his character and role in the overall story, and 2) how this implication is supported by the lyrics of the opening theme, "True Story" by SCREEN MODE, and 3) how this opening suggests a more intricate connection between BEAST and the main timeline, and 4) what all of this means for the current arc, the overall story, and the author(s).

I. The heartrate gimmick

The reason why i'm so put off by Dazai's superhuman ability to control his own heartrate is that this is the first time in the series where something significantly breaches the realm of plausibility which has so far been established in the universe of bsd. However, that in itself means that it may be a hint to a much bigger picture.

To start with, we've seen that human biology in bsd verse still follows the rules of our own world, and any anomalies can typically be explained by abilities, such as Kenji's superstrength. The same goes for non-human anomalies: instead of outright breaking the laws of known science, they are either some kind of manifestation of abilities or otherwise derived from abilities, such as skill weapons (like Well's time-manipulating camera, or Fukuchi's space-time sword. The plot of Fifteen and Stormbringer, even.)

Even Dazai and Fyodor's galaxy brain moments generally fall into the realm of possibility, like Fyodor memorising all the cards in Ace's deck based on their scratch marks, or Dazai predicting Sigma's rock-paper-scissors moves with Sherlock Holmes-esque deduction skills. (Dazai and Fyodor communicating in code based on their past conversations is something more unbelievable, so for now i'm putting that in the same category of unexplainable as Dazai's heartrate trick.)

The thing that bothers me is this: Ango says that Dazai's heartbeat trick is something only he can do, but it clearly doesn't fall in the realm of biologically possible as we know it (controlling heartrate to some extent maybe, but being able to encode complex messages like that?). We also already know Dazai's ability, so it can't be related to that. (Or do we? Dazai's ability in itself is a paradox, a non-ability, and that arguably places him outside the circle of typical ability-users.)

Now, when it comes to things that have gone beyond the general level of plausibility in bsd, it could be said that they are all somehow related to The Book: the reality-altering that took place when the ADA got framed, Sigma's existence and the Sky Casino, and BEAST. The island on which Yosano was stationed is possibly also related to The Book, as it apparently came out of nowhere and is surrounded by its own anomalous properties.

If so far all the discrepancies between our own world and the world of bsd can be traced to either abilities or The Book (even historical differences are caused by the overall existence of abilities), we can extrapolate that any unexplained phenomena can likewise be traced to one or the other. We know Dazai's ability, but that alone doesn't seem enough to explain Dazai, which leaves us with The Book.

I'm far from the first one to suggest that Dazai is somehow connected to The Book, and others have written some excellent theories about it, so i'll move on to my next point: the lyrics to the opening theme "True Story":

II. What exactly is the true story?

When i listed the known (or at least most significant, because i can't remember more) cases connected to The Book above, they are all significant plot points in season 4, except for BEAST. However, that may not be as obvious if we have a look at the lyrics of the opening theme.

I wont go into too much detail because i don't know any Japanese (i'm just referring to google translate as well as this fan translation of the lyrics) so if someone who knows the language decides to continue this analysis that would be amazing!

The first notable line is this: 何者でもない　白紙だった僕に　刻まれていくMy True Story ("To a blank page that wasn't anyone, my true story is etched" or "My true story is engraved on me, who was nothing but a blank page"). Here, the speaker is likened to a page of the book, something initially empty but given a purpose through the telling of a story. The reference to a blank page unmistakably reminds us of the page from The Book, that has played such a significant role all throughout this season.

I'm not going in order, so the next notable line i want to point out is: 魂が打つ文脈、鼓動に変えてしまえよ ("My soul reflects the context, turn it into a pulse" or "The context in which the soul beats, turn it into a heartbeat"). There is the clear mention of a heartbeat, and this is the line which we can see Dazai mouth along to in the opening, so let's continue by assuming that Dazai is the speaker in these lyrics.

While the song as a whole is very metaphorical and can be applied to a large part of the cast, it becomes more interesting for the purpose of this analysis if we take a more literal perspective, whilst simultaneously assuming that these are Dazai's thoughts.

Idk how to say this in a less convoluted way but: if Dazai's very existence, that is to say including his soul, is anomalous itself, then the superhuman manipulation of his heartrate could just be considered as one application of his existence. Or rather, of the context of his existence: something anomalous beyond abilities.

The mention of "context" is also interesting as something inherently tied to a story and storytelling. So far we have a page, a book, and a story, and they all point towards Dazai. Let's then assume that Dazai is indeed the speaker to whom the "blank page who wasn't anyone" is likened to, whether figuratively or literally.

The next line I want to bring your attention to is: 傍(かたわら)にいる　誰かを救うため　刻みこんでいくMy True Story ("To save someone who's by my side, I engrave (it into) my true story"). And this is where i'm going to bring up BEAST, a concrete example where Dazai has specifically succeeded in saving Oda by writing the plot of BEAST into existence in The Book or one of its pages.

If we then connect this line to the previous one with "my true story", we can say something like: Dazai saved someone important to him by writing his story onto a blank page not unlike himself.

In fact, he says so himself: 何者にも委ねないで　書き残せ自分自身で / ……書けるさ、魂を (Don't trust/entrust yourself to anyone, write it down yourself, write it down with your soul/write down your soul.") Here we get an implicit connection between writing down something, and doing so with one's soul, arguably with Dazai's existence (or writing down one's soul/being into existence, depending on what's the accurate translation).

Given the theme of The Book, we can't help but connect the act of writing to the act of reality-altering. Therefore, if we consider that Dazai writes i.e. reality-alters by either writing down his soul or by engraving a story into his soul, something akin to a blank page, we arrive at the conclusion that he is himself a reality-altering page like one in The Book.

The whole thing turns in on itself: Dazai does something external to affect the outside world, but that something is directed at himself. This circular or paradoxical nature is reminiscent of his own ability, which instead of manifesting outwardly like other abilities, is something that negates the outside, reverses an existence into an inexistence, even turns his own ability into a lack of one.

Now, an especially interesting line is this one: この命こそが文章-sentence-だ ("This life is the sentence") because the word "sentence" is intentionally sung in English, retaining its dual meaning of "a formally pronounced punishment" and "a cluster of words usually containing subject and verb".

For the first definition, there is obviously the prison sentence Dazai is currently iin, but you could also say that he considers his life a similar burden. For the second definition, does he mean his whole life has been written into existence in one sentence (knowing that it's possible to write a human into existence, if we take Fyodor's word for it when it comes to Sigma), or would it be more correct to assume that by "life" he means his and everyone else's life in the present timeline? Combining both definitions, we could even say that his life is a burden or an inescapable prison precisely on account of it having been brought into existence as a story.

Like i said, the "Dazai is the Book" idea is nothing new, but interpreting the lyrics in this way offers some interesting support to the theory, and will lead into what I want to say in the next part, which is how BEAST relates to all of this.

III. The role of BEAST

The refrain with which the song opens and is repeated several times is: 未(ま)だ語られない　物語の先へ　踏み出して征(ゆ)くのが勇気だ ("I still can't speak of the story ahead, it takes courage to take a step/to step forward and conquer"). This can be taken as apprehension towards the future, but there's something about the song that also makes it sound like Dazai already knows what's ahead, he just doesn't have the courage to say it.

Specifically, it's this line here: 出来過ぎた結末が　用意されてたって ("Even if the too perfect ending was prepared for me"). The lines following it are rather difficult to interpret through mediocre translations, but there's something about not being able to abandon ("it"? what? something or someone? "those who give up"?). We could continue with the interpretation that Dazai knows something about the future, about his ending, but there's actually another approach we can take.

I'm just spitballing here, but what was a more perfect ending for Dazai (whether prepared for him by an outside force or achieved with his own hand) than the one in which Oda lives and writes a book, and in which he himself gets the sweet release of death? Yet there's something he can't abandon - those around him, or life itself, or his own self that gave up.

I've heard the "main timeline is a prequel for BEAST" theory before and others may have also proposed what i'm going to say next, but i'll say it anyway: BEAST is the prequel to the main timeline. (Or better yet, it's both, with some variation. But that's too convoluted for now.)

The line that i mentioned before about "saving someone who's by your side" might hold the key to this idea, depending on how accurate the translation is and how we interpret it. It depends on if being "beside someone" is meant as like being with "someone important" or more like literally being next to someone, even being with them in life. Because as much as Dazai found the ending of BEAST as perfect as it could get, it is still not the same as being able to stand next to Oda in every sense of the word - at the same place, at the same time, in life, as friends, as equals.

Then there is this line: 自問自答を繰り返して　撰(えら)べ　本当はどう生きたいのか / 本性が知る解釈、根拠はそこにあるだろ (Unavoidable decisions, even if they are arranged, am I just a dull existence if I just accept them") where Dazai shows reluctance to accept something predetermined, "unavoidable decisions" such as those that would lead to either Oda or Dazai surviving but not both. There is also the implication of things being arranged by an outside force, so if we go with this assumption then the previously mentioned "perfect ending" could also be said to have been prepared for Dazai by this outsider, even if he presumably arranged it himself as he says.

And this is where we delve into the truly meta part of this analysis.

IV. The role of Dazai

First, I'm going to go back to the part where Dazai is shown to mouth along to the lyrics in the opening sequence. He is the only character to do so, effectively breaking the fourth wall by engaging with an anime opening theme, singing along to the line specifically mentioning a heartbeat, and saying out loud the lyrics that would otherwise be considered only as inner thoughts (like with character songs etc).

This is not the first time Dazai has shown to take on a role precariously close to directing the narrative. He does this explicitly in BEAST, whose universe exists because of his own meddling with reality. In the main timeline, his predictions and strategising border on the omniscient and almighty.

There is one significant line towards the end of True Story that is worth examining now: 今語る言葉　物語を創る ("The words I speak now create the story"). This line could mean that Dazai is currently crafting the story to save that someone, to create the life he wants to live etc etc everything that the song is about. But it could also be related to him specifically singing this song, the opening theme of Bungou Stray Dogs Season 4, and laying out the story that will take place this season.

All of these things add up if he truly is an existence beyond ordinary humans or abilities, like something intricately connected to The Book. That is because there is at least one more existence that's found these things - namely, the author.

With that in mind, if Dazai knows that the endings (of BEAST and/or of the main timeline) have been prepared for him by someone else such as the author, that could be the reason why he says the line "Don't trust anyone, write it down yourself" etc. To be precise, that could mean that Dazai acts as the "author" of the current arc in defiance of the true author (and the lyrics contain a lot about "truth" that i haven't touched upon at all).

But what does that mean in the long run? Is Dazai the author? Is Kafka Asagiri the final villain? Who is the mastermind? Idk, this is already the furthest my brain has gotten for now.

I do want to quickly mention an interesting discussion i saw recently about how the different instalments of bsd all have separate protagonists, who are not Dazai - yet Dazai remains this central character in all of them, somehow deeply rooted to the narrative yet standing at a distance from it. And that may be precisely due to his nature of being more than just a "character" of bsd as we know them.

So, to put together allllll of these different points and make sense of what i've been trying to say:

The existence of Dazai's character and abilities must be explained by something adjacent to The Book, or something even beyond the in-universe explanations.

Dazai is able to alter reality, either in his own right or with help from The Book (which may itself be connected to him) but the alterations he makes may have been compelled by a greater force.

In the event that BEAST acts as a prequel to the main timeline, Dazai's dissatisfaction with the pre-determined ending (and distrust of others) leads him to write his own story, in order to save someone important to him (Oda, if we take the word "someone" at face value, or it could be something more abstract like the value of his own life).

This act of writing with/into his soul relates to the reality-altering aspects of writing into The Book or its pages, so the entire main timeline can be considered as originating from words on paper following the events of BEAST.

Dazai goes from protagonist to author (which also explains his Godzai moments) but this very act pushes him outside of the story, thereby alienating himself from the circle of characters. Effectively, he has taken on all three roles of Reader, Writer, and Protagonist.

Then, how about the "we may or may not already know how it all ends" that i alluded to in the title of this post? Easy: it ends when Asagiri stops writing.

Sorry i couldn't keep out the Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint brainrot at the end there. But if you know what i'm talking about then you get it.

#my phd thesis also known as: the orvification of bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd dazai #osamu dazai #bungou stray dogs #me writing english essays on tumblr dot com for an audience of like 5 people #<- my neglected meta tag #bsd spoilers #bsd meta

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decafbat · 3 months

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i really like how much depth your art has, do you think you could show how you break down bodies when sketching if that makes sense? it’s something i struggle with a lot in my art! ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

ok apologies in advance, this is probably going to be a really long and tangential rant about art that may or may not actually help you in learning how to construct bodies. im just gonna put it under a cut to save everyone from seeing this huge text wall.

i dont think its gonna be possible for you to replicate my methods here, because theyre mostly just really specific shortcuts for finding certain proportions and reference points for anatomy, which i'm fairly versed in, but not as much as i'd like to be. the shortcuts you'll need will be different from mine. im glad you think my art has depth, that is something i am trying to seek very intentionally right now, and i dont think im even close to the depth of form i am actually aiming for. so like. this makes making a tutorial kind of inherently hard. nevertheless, i threw this quick sketch together after like 3 failed attempts. (i was doing those attempts digitally, ended up giving up on that and going back to traditional because its what im most comfortable with rn)

i didnt get all the steps i took to get here because scanning that much would be cumbersome but ill try to explain how i got here. i start with the head almost every time.

i use a lot of symbolic/graphic shapes when drawing heads and dont stick to using forms very often besides the circle at the center of the head, which i use as the base to form these graphic shapes around. think of it like "wrapping" the ball in various textures and masses. the eyes are usually "textured" onto the head, notice how the her left eye looks narrower then her right. of course i try to make sure her bangs sit along the curve of the sphere and her ears look like they sit on opposite sides of the head. its easy to forget that part, making the head look unsymmetrical. the particular masses of leica's head would be her snout, which is just a curve extended slightly outside the diameter of the ball, and her hair, which are two strange organic shapes that are quite hard to draw, two hair sprig anime antennae things (forgive me, i forgot the word for them,) and the back of the head, which i usually need to extend slightly. its a little too extended here, needs more on the top, i fix this in the final pass. this was a quick sketch, so i didnt focus too hard on the forms of the head beyond the most essential ones for her design, but i sometimes highlight the form of cheeks with curved hatching, or try to make the eyes appear more sunken-in as they are on human faces. i dont know how to proportion the neck and torso correctly until i draw the head, so i always do it first. next, i did the torso.

so heres why i said that you probably wont be able to replicate this approach. you do kind of just have to practice anatomy, i cant just make it make sense because im not very good at explaining this stuff, but ill try to go through what i did here. so, i generally use simplified bone shapes to find proportions and reference points, as well as more complicated shapes like those of elbows and knees. i try to study fairly often because im not satisfied with here im at with this stuff yet. of course, i dont think i'll ever be. so i'll usually start with the ribcage, add a shoulderblade out the back to find the shoulder, the armbones come out of that, the bone in the upper arm connects to the ulna with a sort of three-pronged attachment, one big knurl in the middle, which forms the thrust of the elbow, two little ones on the side. i think those are part of the ulna but i dont remember. see, you dont really have to know what exactly they do as long as you know what they look like. the ulna does some goofy rotation shit i dont understand, connects to the wrist, and then we have a hand, which, i mean, im not good enough at hands to even be telling you how to do it, but i just have a big squarish mass and some little hotdog fingers coming out of that. you can see on her left hand that ill have a big circle forming the the area on the hand where the thumb attaches... theres more depth to the hands, i think you can easily find better tutorials then i could offer. anyway, under the ribcage theres the pelvis, represented with a box. ill get into that when i talk about the legs. i wanna briefly talk about the way i add the flesh and fat to the bones.

so, i really can't give a comprehensive crash course on anatomy, but i can point you towards the morpho series, which is where i get most of this stuff from. you can get very far with the volumes Simplified Forms, Fat and Skin, and Skeleton and Bone Reference Points. moving on, i just kind of have a feel for where the masses attach by now. the important thing to remember when drawing fat characters like this is that the fat should "hang" from the bones and flesh, drooping down slightly. leicas fat hangs substantially, so she's not very wide despite her weight. this is important to her character design i feel. i almost always draw characters naked first when doing serious drawings because it will come in handy knowing where the forms of the body are when i add the clothing. by focusing on the way her body looks naked, i can modify the impression of those forms when adding clothes, and when i add them later on in this drawing, leica will take on the distinctive boxy look i try to draw her with.

if you look at the arm, youll see that the place the line of bone sits is very high compared to the whole mass of the arm, the flesh and fat of the arm "hang" from the bone, and then the upper arm squishes against the bent forearm too. even if the anatomy in the arm is indistinct, it can still look convincing when the forms act realistically against one another. the elbow has much less fat connected to it, so its more bony then the rest. this isnt actually consistent on all people so like, think about that kind of thing when designing characters, like i was talking about before, fat can sit in infinite different ways. maybe if i was doing a more objective anatomy lesson i'd draw cath, because i do have a sort of vague understanding of muscle placement that doesnt come through here, but probably would if i was drawing a scrawnier character. let me know if you want that.

a word on the breasts too: they hang a bit lower then you'd expect, keep that in mind. the attachment point is also angled, as the line shows. the line starts roughly in the middle of the torso and ends around the armpit, but the form of the breast can go underneath the armpit or even connect around the fold of fat in the back. many things to think about. i love boob shapes. ok lets finally get on with it and talk about the legs.

so, the really specific shape of the pelvis doesnt matter that much unless youre drawing a really thin character, so its just a box here. out from the sides of the pelvis, extending out more then you'd expect, is the femur, which ends in a similar joint to the arm. this shape helps me figure out the form of the knee. two masses on each side with a bunch of complex and weirdly shaped bones forming the kneecap, which i have omitted because i dont yet know shit enough to include them. i am learning though. so, obviously the feet are just scribbles here because im just gonna put her feet in socks anyway. you really dont have to do more then you have to. a few tips i can offer here, the butt should hang a bit too when drawing fat characters, i think the butt is supposed to start just below the pelvis if i remember, but take that with a grain of salt. i also didnt really do that here but its hard to tell because she's facing mostly forward. again, i dont think i can really communicate what's going on here. morpho has a lot of great drawings explaining the shapes and muscles of the legs, all things i might focus on more when drawing a scrawnier character. for this case, i regrettably don't go too hard on the legs. also i should note that legs would usually be much longer, leica is really short so ive exaggerated the proportions to communicate that. i may change my mind on that front in the future and give her more grounded proportions. the important thing to remember with legs is just getting a nice hierarchy of forms going. bigger thigh going into smaller calf going into smaller foot. it mostly comes automatically now.

i added the clothing, shaped up her head a bit, added a bit of fur. i put her in her classic outfit, just a sweater and jeans. i enjoy the big thick folds that come out of these clothes, and big areas of white space too. its nice. i try my best to form all the folds around the forms of the body i drew earlier. thats one case where i really really have no idea what im doing and could never explain it in words. its just some fun intuitive play with loops and lines. this is at around the stage for a sketch where i'd do inks, or if it was going to be a finished pencil drawing i'd erase out parts piece by piece and replace them with nicer and more defined lines and tones.

i guess that's all i can offer , i hope that halped.

#leica #artworks

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lordsukunas · 3 months

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songs made by black artists that i think would suit jjk characters. oh my god this took forever to format n link songs. anyway, happy black history month yall!!!! i hope yall like this bc im sick of seeing taylor swift pop up in the list of artists gojo would listen to <33

gojo – starboy the weeknd, daft punk + ghost town kanye west, partynextdoor

for starboy it just gave im that nigga vibes, and for ghost town it's just the entire ‘i alone am the honored one’ scene. but mayb it could also be applicable to current gojo? idk.

geto – like a tattoo sade

fun fact: this is actually the inspo for my user!! the whole ‘broken by the burden of his youth’ and ‘hungry for life, thirsty for the distant river’ reminds me of his whole reason for defecting. he's hungry for life (wanting sorcerers to not have to risk their life to protect non-sorcerers & actually live a long, fulfilling life) and thirsty for the distant river (remember when they kept with the race/hallway analogy? yeah, and geto's goal was always going to be unattainable for him simply bc he didn't have the strength)

yuuji – adorn miguel + crooked smile j. cole, tlc

UGGHHH he's just so lovely. the most supportive boy ever i love my son sm, and that is my only justification for my song choices.

megumi – alone willow + nineteen pinkpanthress + answer tyler, the creator

tbh… idk bros been goin thru it this entire series, but esp recently. for answer, i rlly liked the first couple of verses (idk what to actually call it, but it's before the first chorus) bc it aligns well w papaguro n megumi. ig the stepdad could be gojo…?

nobara – no scrubs tlc + conceited flo milli + apeshit the carters + on my mama victoria monét

she takes nobody's bs n i love that for her!!! i feel like she'd absolutely love flo milli + megan thee stallion.

nanami – lotus flower bomb wale, miguel + i love you more than you know black party, childish gambino

sorry i rlly like him y'all... there's no angsty reason for these songs! n for i luv u more than yk, it's just nanami if/when he goes to malaysia :3

choso – do you like me? daniel caesar

i actually dk for this one... i just thought it suited him! yk since he wants to live as a human n when he loves he loves hard (shown by how determined he is to be the best older brother to his lil siblings)

toji – she will lil wayne, drake + foe tha love of $ bone thugs-n-harmony, eazy-e + crack rock frank ocean

i am a firm believer toji would like 90s + early 2000s rap. it just makes sense idk, also i once saw a post that said he died just a bit b4 no hands by waka flocka came out and... hey! for crack rock, it's just post-mamaguro him n instead of crack, it's his gambling addiction

sukuna – hater's anthem infinity song + hit ‘em up 2pac, outlawz + king’s dead jay rock, kendrick lamar, future, james blake + unbothered ski mask the slump god

he's a hater just for my son. bum ass nigga... and for hit em up: ‘don't one of u niggas got sickle cell or sumn? u fuck around n have a seizure or a heart attack’

maki & toji – worst behavior drake

self explanatory! them n their rebellion against the zenin clan <3

gojo & geto – oui jeremih

cause if weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! sorry but this is fueled by geto saying ‘we are the strongest’... thats it :p

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk gojo #jjk geto #jjk nanami #jjk yuji #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #jjk maki #jjk choso #jjk toji #jjk sukuna #jjk headcanons #gojo headcanons #geto headcanons #toji headcanons #sukuna headcanons

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pillowdrawz · 1 year

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MASTERLIST OF ANYTHING 🎨🖌DRAWING

Commission Sheet

(Idk how a master list work)

Btw I did all of this for fun FOR FUN.

♤Turtles forever Au [just a bunch of Turtle gen. Interacting] (On hold)

° Meeting 1. (Old art)

• Meeting 2 (old art)

○ busted meeting 3 (old art)

● Cloaking broach? 1 (old art)

□ Cloaking Broach! 2 (old art)

■ Don's training (old art)

♤ Training

◇ Mutated Soldiers

♡ Mutated Soldiers Leo

◇ Mutated soldiers Donnie

♧ Raph meeting 2012 meme

☆ Meme a Ten is speaking. (Old art

▪︎ Into the leo verse. (Old art)

¤ Turtles and Their Krang

《 Leo's traumas

{ Think leon think

》Leo's and Rise raph

¡ 12 MIKEY CHEATZ. (Old art)

? Spider verse Meme leos

} Hopeful (old art)

[ Don't talk to me or Otherme (Oldart

☆ Playing (old art)

R adorable Rise raph. (NOT SHIPPING)

\ Pranks and Destruction.

◇ watching Leo get L.

♧ watching Donnies get guns

$ Bamf Leo in 2012 world.

1 Future Leo's,MiseryxCprxreesespuffs

% Energy and Stab-

$ Accidentally Mutated Vs Purposely Mutated

2 Raphs Slay

÷ Raphs Height (Not canon I just had fun)

E He likes to be tall

V Is For Valentine's L is for 2003 Mikey/j

Y- Yoshi!!??

A, B.E.A.S.T ACTOR AU

, :3

4 Mutant Mayhem ???

5 Tmnt Animatic Leo's "You'll play your part"

B B.e.a.s.t Leo Joins?

🃏 Joking about trauma be like

💥 Mutant Mayhem Donnie meets??

🐇⚔ Leosagi both 2003 and rise

🤚 DANGEROUS

🙂 ask someone else

-⏭⏸❗----------

◇ Hamatos Umarekawari Au.(On going)

* first post Explannation

+ Raph's death explained

× first meeting part 1

÷ Second meeting part 2

= Meeting (thanos meme)

€ Ryu took the wheel literally

£ Memes

^ more Memes twins

¥ Posture

₩ Bandana

# Rise Boys Looks

$ Random Art of the Au.

% Twins powers

& Float

- Another meeting but different

= Baby?

$ COUSINS??

# Origin???

8 The Kids cloaking brooch/Human form

9 Shelly take care of grandpa...NO DONT KILL HIM-

---⏸⏭---

Random things/ Headcanon)

Rottmnt recoil fanart

TAIL

Cloaking Broach Raph

Cloaking Broach leo Part 1 (bad art)

Cloaking Broach Leo part 2

Cloaking Broach Donnie

MY FAV HC ABOUT THE TWINS

MY FAV HC ABOUT HAMATO NINPO

Rise Leo new Hc???

RISE LEOS TWO POKEMON

He attacked the floor

Rise raph to Rise splinter

Rottmnt memes

Leo wants his sanity back

Disaster twins and Wildberry

Artist is on their Ao3 Author arc /j

=====⏭⏸❗📶===

💀♠️RISESAGA A ROTTMNT X UNDERTALE AU! <<<And for more content click the blog there is now a master list there!!!♠️💀(Rewritting)

---📶⏸💥------

✍Ninjago.✍

+Ninjago Kung fu panda part 1

# Ninjago Kung fu panda part 2

= Lloyd,Brad and Gene fanart

$$ Sensei Garmadon SCREENSHOT REDRAW

B What if Uno reverse card Harumi

--Zzzzzz⏸📶zzzzzzZ--

Rise piece Rottmnt X one piece

- Join His crew

Alabasta arc. Super what??

⚠️spoiler Marineford arc⚠️ Older brother

-------$⏯Monster Promx Monster High crossover comic⏸(On.hold)$----- A SPOOKY CROSSOVER

❌ Oz] Their mission

🧟‍♂️ Brian's And Zombies Part 1

---🗨HAMATOS EXORCISM AU 🗨---

✍ FIRST POST/PROLOGUE?

🖤 EXPLANATION? AND PIEBALD???(joke art only the pokemon one)

👌 Memes

🙌 real lore and Tmnt 2007

✨️Funfacts Mikeys Flaming heads yokais friends

👞clothes..

----- Loading-----

--🐢⛑Ninjago x Rottmnt "Turtles Aid Au"🐢⛑--(Ongoing)

⛑ Prologue/first

#for fun #rottmnt #tmnt 2012 #rise of the tmnt #tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt au #rottmnt crossover #tmnt crossover #masterlist

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thenomadclan · 5 months

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I would like to start a challenge to my Godzilla/Kaiju loving fans!

I’d like to start something of a trend similar to Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse. My challenge is for others to create Kaiju-Sona for the coming release of Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire Movie!

I’ll go first, introducing Nomad Gojira! (Drawn up by good friend @black-suns-rim )

Nomad Gojira’s Lore:

In the emptiness of space, there was nothing but the stars and planets the filled the black void. That was till an partials of pollen belonging to a certain planet Kaiju streaked through the black abyss, shedding the partials and cells belonging to many creatures in their battle. Pollen particle cloud split into two separate clouds, one being sent into a nearby black hole while the other was orbiting the sun within the Milky Way. Eventually the cells in the pollen began to form, clumping piece by piece into a hard like rock. This egg creature would eventually “devour” and take the energy, the radiation and power of the sun till the star exploded, the rock would shot through cold space from the shockwave of the exploding sun. The the rock creature crystallized and was sent into another dimension via worm hole.

The crystal mass was sent flying through endless space till it entered a very familiar solar system, scorching past planet after planet till it reached the orbit of Earth. It was a fireball that nobody predicted as it screamed through the sky and crashed into the ocean, but it was so hot it burned through the ocean floor and went straight to the Hollow Earth. The crystals that incased the meter from space began to melt until all that was left was the rock, it was in the form of an egg. Soon it was found by a member of the Gojira species, a Kaiju named “Black Momba” ( @black-suns-rim OC) possibly one of the last of Titanus Gojiras (besides Godzilla himself) to walk the Earth. Black Momba has been around for a really long time, but she had laid dormant for most of her time living to save energy. Momba would usually only be awake for 2 reasons; eating and/or having children. She has had bad luck with raising young due to the other Kaijus in the Hollow Earth, so after a while, she had stoped trying.

Upon finding the rock egg, she could smell the familiarities of her kind on it but also others. The Titanus Gojira growled and was about to destroy the egg till it moved, the egg was hatching and glowing red. The outline of the creature inside had her curious, for once the egg finally hatched a dark red Gojira like creature bursted through letting out its first screech. Black Momba was…interested as she investigated further by taking in the scent and licking the hatchling clean. The child Gojira took its first steps on its wobbly legs, opening its eyes and setting its blurry vision on its surroundings till it came into focus.

The Child Gojira looked up at the monstrously huge Black Momba, giving gator like chirps which was met with growls and barks from the older Gojira. It lowered herself to the Gojira Child’s face, to which the red baby lizard gave its best bark and snarl as it butted heads with Black Momba’s snout. To say it was amusing would have been a understatement, so Black Momba would adopt the tiny Gojira (not like it would have changed anything since it followed her everywhere), she mothered and took care of the Gojira Child the best ways she could. However she only gave it tuff love, not out of hate or issue but to prepare the Child Gojira for the world it inhabits, where the strong feed on the weak.

The humans that surveyed in the Hollow Earth (Monarch) discovered the two Gojira, part of them felt fearful that there are now 3 walking City destroyers. However if they were similar to Godzilla, being a protector, then there’s a chance for humanity to survive the constant raids from outside forces. Monarch were highly interested in the red child Gojira, going so far to name it “Nomad” on the account of it roaming all over the Hollow Earth without Black Momba anywhere in sight. Nomad handled himself well against the monsters in his environment, from insects to mammals, but it was the crystals that formed where the dorsal fins were meant to be which interest Monarch as they formed in and around Nomad and Black Momba’s territory, crystals of various sizes were found forming like a castle.

Monarchs Scientists have discovered that due to the crystals on Nomad and around his den, they cause an electrical field disturbance that immediately shut down drones or cameras. Even when in fights, Nomad has a protective shield burrier to protect him from elemental attacks, not to even mention his electrical beam he shoots from his mouth. Almost like a surgical laser it cuts through flesh like butter, while having telepathic like powers using them in combat or to show off his intelligence by stacking rocks for unknown reasons. When Nomad is hit with elements such as electricity (he got struck by lightning once) it almost was as if it was a power up, becoming his own conductor while having regenerative abilities to rival Godzilla when injured.

One feature the scientists saw in action was Nomads crystallized spear tail, using it to catch / stab / or even kill his prey. Though not entirely built for Melee combat, it doesn’t stop the growing tank from doing so. His main form of attack is range and setting up crystals to disorient enemies and power himself up further. Just not too long ago, Nomad faced his first life threatening creature in the form of a swarm of blood thirsty bugs. They would drain Nomads energy almost to depletion, that was if it wasn’t for his crystals and quick thinking, sending out a shockwave of extreme energy equivalent to the sun.

Nomad destroyed almost the Hollow Earths forest, but the bugs were all gone, exploded from the over absorption of energy. Nomad would slowly form a crown on its head with every victory he won. Though Nomad never met Godzilla, Monarch would like to keep it that way for now having the two avoid each other. Nomad could be classified as a alpha Titan if grown properly and carefully, as Nomad grew older we no longer see him with Black Momba as often, if not alittle to not at all. She has completely gone off the radar as Nomad explores the Hollow Earth but not going anywhere near human settlements but did further expand his territory.

After 20 Years of silence later and absolute no activity from Nomad Gojira or Black Momba Gojira, Nomad would appear from the uncharted parts of the Hollow Earth (the central point of all Monsters to rest or live), brandishing a whole new appearance. The most noticeable features being his size shot down any predictions the scientists placed bets on, Nomad would stand a healthy height of 400 ft tall and judging from the weight plate that was built and hidden, he weighs a whopping 99,721 tons. Nomad Gojira just shyly beats Gojira that was know from the incident in Washington, America with Ghidorah by weight and height.

Nomad Gojira also supports a brand new attitude, while still keeping to himself or avoiding Monarch but when threatened or challenged, Nomad Gojira would gladly accept the challenge from other Kaijus once challenged. Nomad Gojira scarily has the brutality of the Godzilla we know, but also has the calmness or self awareness of what he’s doing and what could go wrong if the battle rages for too long. His many feats go from him clearing a infested cave of Rat Kaijus creatures that overwhelmed and almost ate him alive, to wrestling and fighting a Muto Prime. He brandished many scars from hard fought victories, with a whole new arsenal then a regular Gojira Kaiju.

Half of Monarch Scientist that studied Nomad Gojira in the Hollow Earth would chase him down and try to leave trackers, but Nomad seems all too smart for normal Kaiju tricks. Nomads Gojira grew new ability that evolved his electrical field around him having human machines being affected as if it was hit with a EMP. While studying the Kaiju the moment that many tried to avoid finally happened, Godzilla finally ran into Nomad. Naturally with the amount of battle scars and the scent of blood of other Kaijus on Nomad, Godzilla treated Nomad like a Alpha Titan who never submitted under his rule. This Godzilla Challenged Nomad, and in turn like text book behavior Nomad Accepted.

Immediately, the Hollow Earth shook from the battle, Godzilla swiping while Nomad Bashed his Crystal shoulders into Godzilla. The battle caused the scientists to retreat and seek refuge within Kongs Cave, but afar Godzilla and Nomad were going feral. The battle raged with both going into their primal like instincts, Godzilla and Nomad seemed evenly matched (but that could be due to them being the same species).

However with everything Godzilla threw, Nomad had a counter or defense. Nomad dragged, slammed, stabbed and tore into Godzilla till the old Gojira noticed a flaw. The crystals Nomad summoned, Godzilla then used Nomads own body to tackle and cause the crystals around them to crumble, Nomad slowly began losing his power. With what little energy Nomad had left, he used his spear like tail to stab into Godzillas stomach and pump his venom.

While Nomad thought he had won and tried to pull away, Godzilla quickly grabbed on and pulled Nomad towards him, yanking his tail to the point it came off causing Nomad to roar in pain. Nomad looked up to receive a headbutt and bite on the face, despite slashing and stabbing his Crystal shoulder into Godzilla. Nomad saw as Godzillas Stomach was healing but not from his healing factor, but from the venom, it was radioactive and causing Godzilla to heat up.

Nomad could take the heat, the force however that came with it, the nuclear pulse shattered Nomads crystals in the ground that powered him and the ones on his body. Sending Nomad into a large mountain, as he struggled to get up and heal his tail, looking through his one good eye that wasn’t scared on his face. Godzilla powered up a red atomic breath, he slightly missed from Nomad desperately summoning one more crystal to stab Godzilla in the foot, having Godzilla miss Nomad and hit the mountain on the ceiling of the hollow Earth. Causing most of the mountain and ceiling to fall and crush Nomad Gojira in rubble, burying him.

Godzilla would walk away the victorious….

Or so he thought, from under the grave like rubble. Once Godzilla left of course, it began to rumble and shake. However instead of anything coming up, underneath, a creature took what was there. A creature of pale white skin and pink like stripes took Nomad into a tunnel system of her design. Having him rest in her nest as she took care of him similar to how Mothra shared a symbiotic relationship with Godzilla, so did this creature. Though small, it did its best to heal the hurt Gojira and lit up the room with Nomads crystals she collected over the years as a warming source. To which even now with them, it was better to have the source of the heat keep the reptilian Kaiju warm. Nomad only groaned in pain as his G-Cells began to reconstruct and heal his gaping wounds or at least what could be healed. Nomad nuzzles closed to the creature he couldn’t yet see, but it was a familiar feeling one that he felt he knew. Though he couldn’t place it, he’d have to figure it out once he awakens from this coma like slumber. (OC by my girl @wolfsnowphoenix )

Monarch’s scientists managed to use the tunnels of the creature and encase them both in a hibernation like state, like they did with King Ghidorah and Lava Rodan. Until they need Nomad for possible help, they’ll release him since he proved himself of holding his own against Godzilla. Till then, Nomad would remain hidden and locked away with only a select few…the project of locked up Kaijus would be known as “Monarch: Pandoras Box.”

To Be Continued…

#kaiju #kaiju art #toho kaiju #kaijusona #kaiju oc #Kaiju Sona #gojira #Titanus Godzilla #Godzilla #king kong #art challenge #sona art #sona challenge #godzilla vs kong #godzilla x kong: the new empire

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annabelle--cane · 7 months

Note

hello, I would love to hear your magnus protocol theories if you have any?

every single one of the following theories are exactly as serious as each other, none of these are jokes at all:

the arg end page on the oiar site saying "all of that was 100% a totally fake training exercise so destroy any evidence you kept or be charged with treason" is such a massive lie <3

the oiar is the new seat of power for the alternate-universe-sorta-beholding. the magnus institute burned down and it simply didn't matter to the dread powers, they just jumped ship and let all their human servants die, which would tie-in to the pitch of protocol being more about systems whereas archives was about personal choices. a single person did manage to burn down the torment nexus institute but it simply didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

lena kelley is alternate jonah magnus's current host

archives 'verse einsamernarr was the one who leaked those statements in 1999 mentioned in mag 68. the timelines don't quite line up, but several time stamps from the usenet forum look rather, shall I say, like they've been affected by exposure to a massive hole in reality that links to a different slightly out of sync universe.

the magnus institute was burned down by a cataclysmically angry mother who realized the extra curricular classes her kid went to was giving them "haunted by ghosts" disease.

gwendolyn bouchard is alternate jonah magnus's current host

hokay one of the arg documents pulled from a floppy disc found at an irl event had a spreadsheet in it written in german with what looks to me like dates and locations of statements (or maybe incident reports...?). I think this might have some clues about the protocol 'verse fear taxonomy, as the notes section of uncorrupted rows seem to have explanations for the events. most of them are "cats lol," but some labels ring bells for me, like "war people / warriors" (slaughter) and "avoid" (lonely), and some don't but are still spooky. "ink" comes up several times, "never again" and "unhappy child" once each. one that took place at a somerset theme park is noted with "mr b," so clearly bonzo himself is also an entity of fear.

lady mowbray is alternate jonah magnus's current host

she's also just a front for funneling money to the great bonzo

I really think that under no circumstances are we going to definitively know what happened to jon and martin from the archives 'verse, but we could definitely see what their alternate selves are up to in this timeline. I've got nothing to back this up but I'd like to see them being evil and doing evil laughs and enacting evil actions.

I shall be real, I have no idea what the deal will be with celia ripley, I just know that it's significant that she's called celia when her alternate self chose that name AND saw a fire ghost woman. here's how agnes montag--[I am shot]

bonzo is alternate jonah magnus's current host

#tmagp #pinkelotjeart #answered

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humanitys-strongest-bamf · 1 year

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Part 1: Loss

listen. i know it's been two months since i've gotten this request. but i liked it so much that i'm splitting it into 3 parts 2 parts so i hope it's worth it. i crossed out the last part because spoilers :3

word count: 1.6k notes/warnings: angst, canon!verse, s4 spoilers, alcohol, levi lamenting his life, i need emotional support, jakdfjk

Wine? Why would we need to bring wine on a mission?

That thought continuously ran through Levi's mind as he stared at the now empty wine crate with a frown. He thought it was silly and even harmful. It'd make their mission less effective if his soldiers' movements and judgements were slow from the alcohol—but they had a point. They were going to be camping in the Forest of Giant Trees, watching over Zeke for who knows how long.

"Levi?"

He vaguely heard someone call out as he continued to glare at the wine crate.

"Levi!"

Levi was finally ripped out of his stupor as he blinked a few times before looking up at you, frowning at the sight in front of him.

You were sitting across the campfire from him with a wine bottle in your head. He raised his eyebrow at you.

"I snagged it from some of the underlings since they were getting a bit too rowdy," you said with a shrug, motioning towards a group of your subordinates that were chatting loudly enough for the entire forest to hear. Some of them were even passed out on the ground.

You raised the wine bottle towards Levi.

"Want some?"

He blinked at you again with a deadpan expression that was oddly judgmental at the same time.

"...Knock yourself out," he grumbled before sipping on his cup of tea. "I'm not touching that shit."

You scoffed at him.

"Whatever you say, grumpy," you muttered in an annoyed tone as you brought the wine bottle up to your lips.

~~~~~

Everything froze once Zeke started screaming. Zeke beginning to run off on his own without any backup was already suspicious enough. He might have been shady, but he wasn't dumb. He wouldn't dare run off from 30-something soldiers that were stationed specifically to guard him.

"What?" Levi muttered to himself.

His eyes slowly widened as he began to put the pieces together.

Immediately after, the forest around him lit up as his subordinates began to turn into Titans one by one.

That itself was already devastating enough, but there was one other factor that made his heart drop down into his stomach and filled him with nausea and panic.

He felt like he was perceiving the world around him in slow motion as he turned his gaze to the side.

You had gone to gather some of the Thunder Spears to chase after Zeke.

You had also consumed the wine.

He saw that you had dropped to your knees and that you were shaking.

No...

Before he could run to you, just to reassure himself that the wine would have not affected you for some wild, magical reason, the forest lit up again and you had reappeared as one of those disturbing, deformed Pure Titans.

He froze as the scene unfolded before him. It was as if his brain wasn't allowing him to process what was happening. It was like the world was falling apart around him. His senses seemed muffled and his thoughts were frozen. His blood ran cold and he forgot how to breathe.

His instincts kicked in as soon as you rushed over to grab him. He reeled himself up into the trees, barely escaping your grasp. It took him a second to reorient back to reality, but by that point, he was already zipping through the trees at faster rates than the regular human eye would be able to comprehend.

Was Zeke's spinal fluid in the wine?!

Levi cursed to himself as he continued to use his mobility gear to fly through the trees as his entire team chased him throughout the forest. The 30-something Pure Titans that went after him were much faster than normal Titans. They were nearly all Aberrants and he knew that any normal Scout would have been long dead if they were in his situation.

Fuck!

He cursed at the world and especially at Zeke Jaeger. He had lost his entire team within the span of seconds. He had lost you in the blink of an eye.

He had been losing and losing and losing non-stop and there wasn't much left within him to be able to bear it. The thought of having to kill his subordinates as Titans made him want to collapse. The thought of having to kill you made him want to hurl, toss his blades onto the ground, and scream.

Being stuck in his thoughts slowed his movements by just a second, and he saw the shadow of a Titan's hand behind him that was ready to grab him.

Out of instinct, he pulled out his blades and spun to slice apart the hand that was approaching him. He felt his blood run cold for the millionth time once he saw who that Titan was.

It was you.

His grip on his swords tightened and he was shaking. He couldn't tell if it was from rage, grief, or both. He shut his eyes as he forced himself to accept the reality in front of him.

He had to cut everyone down. He didn't have a choice. It was either die or run, and leave his entire team, including you, to suffer for the rest of your lives wandering in the forest as mindless Titans.

An unreadable and dark expression appeared in his eyes as he began to systematically cut down all of the Titans around him. It didn't take him long, but he felt the darkness within him build with every single one that he was forced to kill.

He paused again as he saw that you were the final one standing. He flew towards you and prepared to slash the blades against your nape.

~~~~~

1 month earlier

"Do you think it'll be over once we defeat Marley?" you asked, leaning forward against the railing of the airship.

You had just defeated Marley at Liberio after the raid to rescue Eren and capture Zeke. Since there was still some time before arriving back at the island, both you and Levi found yourselves outside on the bridge to escape from the chaos inside the airship.

"...doubt it," Levi muttered.

You immediately lightly smacked his arm, scowling at him.

"What?" Levi asked as he returned your scowl.

You sighed at your boyfriend's persistent pessimism.

"We'll make it happen," you said stubbornly. "Even if war never ends, we'll make our dream of that little cottage in the middle of the forest next to a riverbank a reality."

You turned so that you were facing him and ran your fingers through his hair as you looked into his eyes.

"Maybe it'll even have a field of flowers," you said quietly.

"I don't remember ever agreeing to this," Levi responded. His sentiment was cold, but he muttered it gently, as if some small part of him was considering the idea.

"You said you wanted a life away from everything."

He scoffed. "Never got that specific."

You tilted your head and smiled at him with a hint of amusement. "Got any better ideas, Ackerman?"

Levi continued to look into your eyes without responding.

"I didn't think so," you muttered and a smirk appeared on your face as you saw Levi roll his eyes.

Before you could continue to retort, Levi had wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you close, gently pressing his lips against yours. You leaned into him, feeling the gentle breeze blowing through your hair, with a combination of both him and the scent of the seawater below you permeating your nose. It was a moment you wanted to be imprinted into your mind forever.

"Fuck the cottage," he mumbled when he finally pulled away. "Having your annoying ass is enough already as it is."

You felt your face subtly heat up as he spoke.

"But the cottage would be a nice addition, right?" you teased, trying your best to maintain your composure around him.

Levi didn't respond, but pulled you into another soft kiss.

Sure, the cottage would have been nice—but there was only one thing that Levi felt he needed, and it was right in front of him. He subtly smiled as he continued to press his lips against yours.

You were all he needed. As long as he had you, he could be content.

~~~~~

Levi had missed.

He couldn't get himself to slice his blades through the nape of your Titan's neck. He couldn't do it. No matter how many times he renewed his resolve, he couldn't get himself to kill you. His memory of your conversation on the airship played on repeat in his head. He couldn't throw all that away.

Still, he didn't know what to do.

He couldn't bear to live in a world without you, especially since you would have died in such an unfair way. He couldn't imagine living a peaceful life without you. He didn't know if he could move on.

He knew it was selfish. He shouldn't be prioritizing your life over anyone else's. It would compromise his duty as a soldier and Captain of the Scouts, but it was undeniably true. No matter what he did, no matter what he told himself, he could not kill you.

Levi felt absolutely defeated as he watched your Titan run at him.

He didn't know what to do—but he was desperate to do anything to save you, and to make it so that you could continue to live on.

#: @chaotic-on-main @romantichomicide95 @lovolee3 @svftackerman @levisbrat25 @leviismybby @idkks4m @moonmalice @elnyrae @sleepyfairyxo @averysmolbear @cathybarn @tclbts @levis-squishy-cheeks @roseofdarknessblog @aam1na @luvjiro @noctemys @sixpennydame

join my taglist!

#i'm so sad #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackermann x reader #levi heichou x reader #captain levi x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackermann #levi heichou #levi angst #captain levi #kats levi angst #kats oneshots

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quoththemaiden · 6 months

Text

Aziraphale: The Sword that Guards the Tree of Life

Looking where the furniture isn't

This post is dedicated to @meatballlady's excellent insistence that if we want to try to predict where season 3 will go, we need to look at where the furniture isn't. That is, what must have been there but wasn't shown?

For this one, my source material is going to be Genesis. That is, in no small part, because it does in fact fuck severely that Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett took the angel with the flaming sword and the serpent of Eden and made them kiss (@joycrispy, @ouidamforeman). It's also because Genesis, quite simply, exists, and it seems safe to assume that most everyone in Gaiman and Pratchett's intended audience has been exposed to at least its first few chapters dozens of times.

What does Genesis tell us about Aziraphale's purpose?

3:22 Then the Lord God said, “Behold, the man has become like one of Us, knowing good and evil; and now, he might reach out with his hand, and take fruit also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever”— 23 therefore the Lord God sent him out of the Garden of Eden, to cultivate the ground from which he was taken. 24 So He drove the man out; and at the east of the Garden of Eden He stationed the cherubim and the flaming sword which turned every direction to guard the way to the tree of life.

@joycrispy's analysis above highlights Aziraphale's role as given in the last verse: as the angel chosen to wield the flaming sword, he was sent down after Adam and Eve were expelled to prevent them from returning. Instead, he chose to protect them by giving that sword away. His desire to protect humanity is indeed beautiful (@give-soup-please, @snek-eyes).

But wait, what came right before that? "And take fruit also from the tree of life...?"

2:9 Out of the ground the Lord God caused every tree to grow that is pleasing to the sight and good for food; the tree of life was also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

That's right: What we see in the show is that Adam and Eve were sent out of Eden so that they'd have to deal with the rain and the animals and have to work for their food, but that was never the primary motivation. God planted two special trees, and after Eve and Adam ate from one of them, God was terrified at the prospect of them turning around and eating from the other. And thus, the Garden of Eden was made off-limits and set to be permanently guarded by an angel with a flaming sword.

So, the flaming sword.

Twice now, Aziraphale's sword has helped humanity survive complete and total destruction (@nottobehornyonthemain). The first time, he handed the sword to the first two humans, which protected not just them but the entirety of the human race via Adam and very pregnant Eve.

The second time, he let it be wielded by The Them, who used it to best the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse and save the billions of humans already alive as well as unborn generations.

Perhaps the flaming sword was only intended as a plot point in the first season. However, if its purpose were completed, it could have easily been destroyed. As a narrative piece, it could have broken dramatically at the end of the face-off against the Four Horsepeople. Or, Watsonianly, God could have chosen to break it Herself; after all, it was already used against its intended purpose twice, so why let it keep existing?

Instead, it's carefully taken away to... where? Heaven?

The place Aziraphale is now going?

Or at least a place where he could likely find a record showing where it's being stored?

Whether you call it "rule of threes" or "Chekhov's gun," I think it likely that Aziraphale will be getting his sword back in season 3. He probably doesn't want it (@createserenity, @ineffableigh, @doctorscienceknowsfandom), but he'll need it.

The question, then, is what would Aziraphale do with the flaming sword he was given to prevent humans from reaching the tree of life?

If we're looking at where the furniture isn't, the biggest stretch of an interpretation would be to say that the missing furniture is the tree of life. If anyone knows where Eden is, it would be Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. We know that both Heaven and Hell want to end humanity. The opening credits have humanity walking to their judgment after their deaths; what better way to prevent that than by preventing those deaths?

The most intense version of this theory says that the audience should be familiar with the story of the Garden of Eden and know damn well that there are two special trees there and that Aziraphale was put in place to guard the second one — the one humanity hasn't eaten from yet, the one that grants immortal life. That's where, if I were truly trying to swing for the hills by aiming at where the furniture isn't, I would ideally like to end this post. If that were the case, season 3 could even open with Aziraphale walking towards the Garden of Eden, sword in hand, but this time approaching it from the outside with the intention of tearing the wall down.

But, let's be honest, making individual people immortal doesn't feel like it would fit with the themes of Good Omens, nor with Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett's world views.

So, let's take the tree of life symbolically: Instead of the tree of life granting individual humans immortality, it could instead represent giving humanity immortality. In that case, the thing that's where the furniture isn't is Aziraphale's sword. You know, the sword that's already saved the human race from extinction twice now, with both times being because Aziraphale gave it away.

I suspect that the sword will wind up in Aziraphale's hands again in season 3. I also quite suspect that it won't be staying there. In the end, I expect it will once again be up to humanity to reach out their hand to take the apple from that second tree.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens season 2 #good omens season 3 #aziraphale #the guardian of the eastern gate #the sword #the tree of life #self post #did i overdo it with the citations?#writing this activated Essay Mode and i went all in on crediting my inspirations #if i could draw this post would definitely include a picture of aziraphale stalking towards eden through the desert with sword in hand #because even though i don't think it's likely it would be one heck of an epic scene #with him tiny and small under that great wall but so so so fierce and determined #alas that i cannot even manage stick figures #anyway i've been kicking this post around in my head for two months now so hopefully someone still finds it interesting!#(feel free to make your own guesses as to what parent of unborn generations might take up the flaming sword in season 3)

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