#The greater fandom can fuck off.

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

we can have tomarrymort stories where harry is not a potter, not the bwl and not abused to make him a martyr for dumbledore’s cause and people lap it up and sing praises for good writing but then if you have a tomarrymort story where harry isn’t obsessed with sports, a girl who used him as a emotional crutch to deal her bfs murder, a girl who dated half the boys he knows to get his attention or desserts then you’re forcing an oc on the tomarrymort fandom and you need to get a grip and be honest or leave.

i don’t like fandom sometimes.

Funny thing, is how Harry is often raised different in those not-a-Potter Harrymort fics and tends to not be interested in Quidditch OR Cho, but no one is attacking those writers for leaving those things out.

What’s so different when a goal-oriented Harry – who only changed because of one or two major events in his early youth – doesn’t care much about a sport(that he was forced into and never told he had the option of saying ‘No’ or quitting in canon) and that makes him ‘too OOC’ but it’s acceptable for a Harry who has anyone else as a biological father and grows up in a different house with different expectations entirely, to not be into Quidditch? To not date Cho Chang or even be interested in her?

Why are things like a sport, a food, and girl he crushed on for a few months, considered the things that make him Harry Potter? Why is it wrong to not make those important to his character in every damn fic? How does taking away being a Seeker, dating Cho, and eating Treacle Tart change who Harry Potter is? What do they really bring to the table?

Why do the things that actually make him Harry Potter, not have to actually appear in a fic for him to still be considered 'In-Character'?

Such as:

Being related to the people who thrice-defied Voldy.

Being prophesied to defeat Voldy.

Being attacked by Voldy because of it and ending up surviving the AK, getting a famous scar, and acquiring a shard of Voldy’s soul in the process.

Being taken away from his legal guardian and shoved onto abusive people that made sure he grew with the mentality that he wasn’t worth shit and that dying for the ‘greater good’ if an old man claims it’s necessary, is okay.

The things that dog his every step and control his future without him knowing it or being able to control it, are the things that shape him as a character.

But nooooooo. If he’s not Ron Weasley-level obsessed with Quidditch(which he never was tbh), salivating over Cho Chang, or mentioning Treacle Tart every chapter, he’s OOC.

Some of y'all just want canon!Harry and that's fine, but stop attacking people just cuz they want to focus on unique parts of Harry to tell the story they've come up with. And dear Christ on a cracker, if he is a totally different person by age 11, based on different experiences, him not playing Quidditch isn't going to make the world end nor make him any less Harry Potter and you're dumb if you say otherwise.

#For once I wish I used the tag for his name. #But this is family business and I don't want strangers all up in our space. #The greater fandom can fuck off. #on a side note: I'm used to writing BWL so when I saw bwl I was trying to figure out what a 'bowl' was #I thought it was some new slang.

[narwhalandchill]

btw if u equate childe and aventurines backstory in any fucking way please leave this blog and unfollow me <3 preferably block me while ur at it too uwu

#havent you people done enough to systematically destroy his characterization already? genuinely curious #turning him into generic YA sadboy with no narrative purpose according to yall than to be traumatize meow meow smolbean #who has no greater purpose no greater relevance whos just a victim with 868 made up mental illnessess #and actually the fact that he canonically displays no typical signs of mental illness or distress proves he has giga trauma #because we all know the writers intention is always the thing they give 0 time on screen 0 hints at in lore 0 presence in canon #because you people are so fucking boring and incapable of basic reading comprehension that 'fantasy isnt 1 to 1 with irl psychiatry' #and 'stories can ignore real life logic of human psychology in favor of a desired narrative' #are like completely fucking incomprehensible concepts #god i am so fucking mad #like now the fact that another character hoyo wrote from a different fucking game #has some surface level adjacent qualities to ajax. and turns out to have a sad backstory #THATS fucking proof to yall? imagine reaching this hard . #none of you people have ever genuinely liked childe as the character he is canonically established to be #leave him the fuck alone #i am so fucking exhausted #but NOOOOOO listen childe is female coded with prey instinct and actually showing 0 signs of trauma is proof you have SUPER trauma #and him being mentally well off and clearly at peace with who he is in all its contradictions is just him brainwashing himself to believe i #AND IVE SEEN WORSE. IVE SEEN WORSE #god i am so fucking mad and exhausted and depressed like NONE of the people in this fucking fandom actually care abt him #as the banger fucking character he is #because he just has to be the most boring fucking YA archetype bc you ppl cant comprehend nor handle anything interesting . #anyway woops. #delete later

[defsiarte]

after seeing the replies of a truly horrific AITA. Need to say this again here:

If you unironically use the phrase “fandom police” in any form, get mad at the idea of applying moral analysis to fiction, or anything along those lines I’m blocking your ass.

#also if you’re white and do this. please know that you are soooo susceptible to racist propaganda #bc like. bro look at me. fandom is for fun right? why does any sort of deeper analysis than ‘omg I ship these characters XD’ piss you off? #the stance that media should not be analyzed or critiqued is one based in privilege. #I genuinely feel that if you are such a person I don’t want you in my circle bc you’ve never had to defend yourself or loved ones from— #the damage that racist/otherwise bigoted propaganda can do to one’s community. #if you cannot understand that every action has an impact. however small. I genuinely want nothing to do with you #and no this doesn’t mean I hate any morally dubious characters/media. anyone who knows me knows I like weird shit #HOWEVER! I also focus a lot of my time in academia on media analysis. I spend a lot of my time in therapy on character analysis. #bc if I watch a show about a guy who kills people. I want to also think/talk about why he’d want to kill people and what the greater meaning #of that would be. #you dumb fuck. #anyway lol lmao turning off reblogs bc I don’t want to bait people into arguing #honking

[sanguinarysanguinity]

To the authors who are unhappy about their hits-to-kudos ratio on AO3: as a kindness to yourselves, please stop. That hit counter doesn’t mean what you think it means.

First, not all those hits are people. A substantial chunk of those hits, as I understand it, are machines, looking to see what the page is. The hits-to-kudos is whack from the hour a story is posted, because a bunch of those hits are machines.

Second, multiple hits can be the same person on their first read of the story. If I open a story in a browser tab to read later, my browser sometimes/often unloads that tab in the interim, resulting in it reloading that tab and creating a new hit when I finally go to read it. If reading it requires multiple sessions, that’s multiple new hits. If I then leave it open for a while to remind myself to leave a comment, my browser will reload it again, generating another new hit, before it lets me write a comment. Altogether, my first read of a story, plus leaving a comment, can easily turn into five or more hits, depending on how hard I’m finding it to find reading and commenting time.

Third, if your story has been up for a while, the people who adore your story are driving up your hit counter with their re-reads. They go away, they come back, they re-read, and they do it again, and they do it again. It’s probably only a small subset of your total readers, but if one of your stories becomes someone’s go-to comfort read for times when they are stressed out (or, if it’s an explicit story, if it becomes their favorite jack-off material), that one person’s devoted re-reading might easily hit your story dozens of times. But most readers feel hella shy about admitting that they treat your story like a fuzzy blanket (or a vibrator); either way, it’s pretty rare for them to tell you about it. (Which I’m sympathetic to! Fuzzy blankets are a very personal thing, and no one wants to feel stared at by the author while they’re having a vulnerable moment.)

Fourth, stories get read by people outside of fandom, people who don’t think of themselves as your friends/neighbors/community-members, and who just... never think to hit kudos, at all, because their social context is so far removed from ours. I’ve got a couple of stories that were linked on TVTropes once upon a time, and their hit-to-kudos ratios are fucking absurd. If your story got linked outside of fandom somewhere, odds are that most of the people coming in from that link will never think to hit kudos, no matter how much they liked it, because they never quite connect that there’s a real live author, breathlessly hoping to be liked and appreciated, standing just behind the screen, and that maybe readers should be polite and say ‘thank you’ to them when they finish the story and leave.

tl;dr Do not assume every hit is new human reader who didn’t like your story and clicked out. Your hit counts will often be ten times greater than your kudos, just for stupid ordinary internet-traffic reasons, and the older a story becomes (and the more times bots and re-readers hit it), the wider the hits-to-kudos gulf will become. Do yourself a kindness and stop calculating that ratio -- and if you can’t stop making yourself crazy about it, go into settings and turn off your hit counter displays. Please be tender to yourselves; being an author is hard enough as it is.

#ao3 #hits #kudos

[mintmatcha]

Kinktober: Monster Fucking

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons

After months of adventuring with your party, you can't help but be curious about a certain dragon born....

cw: cisfem reader, Monster fucking, OC x reader, fantasy racism (someone is not nice to dragonborn), biting, slight mention of bleeding, fingers in holes

PART ONE OF TWO

a/n: A very special thanks to @tyga-lily, who talked with me about her little dragonborn and made me fall in love with this concept and to @saetyrn9 who came up with his name :)

"The bath is free, Obi."

For how much a night costs, the room is nothing special, but any inn with running water is heaven sent. It’s been almost two months since anyone in your party has slept in a proper bed and your body can feel it. Simply wearing the silk of your nightgown feels luxurious at this point; sleeping on down is going to feel obscene.

"I'll be quick." Your party mate stands with a grunt, the day heavy on his joints. You almost want to tease him, but after this adventure, your knees are screaming too. It's hard enough for you to throw yourself on to the bed

Despite knowing him for the greater part of a year, you always forget how large the dragonborn is until he’s next to you. Towering over you with delicate horns and ridged crest, Obsidian Vyke -Obi, to his friends- is all black scales and teeth. The air crackles around him the way it crackles around all sorcerers, subtle yet wild, so it’s unfair that he’s also built wide. Thick biceps and a barrel chest: no magic user should be that muscular.

"Take your time." You watch him as he moves around the room, dipping around the singular bed and pulling his sleeping clothes from his travel sack.

"I'm sorry about this," Obi says, peering over his shoulder, "I know I'm not as nice to room with as Kiri."

The two other members in your party had been fast friends-- unfortunately, they were also quick to become lovers. Usually, that did not pose any issues to the group, but tonight, the inn only has two rooms available. It seemed cruel to separate the lovebirds, so you and Obi agreed to cohabitate for the night.

"I don’t mind sharing a bed with you." The idea gives you butterflies, this flitting, nervous energy. You trust the man with your life-- fuck, he’s saved your life in battle -- but something about sleeping next to him makes your skin goosepimple. "As long as you don't snore."

His eyes narrow in a smile. "I'll try my best."

The dragonborn undoes the lacings of his leather outerwear using the sharpened tips of his claws, delicately catching them under and pulling. The motion is careful and patient, repeated until he can toss the garment into the room's only chair.

It’s not that you don’t want to share a room with him. In fact, you think you want this a little too much. You're absorbed with all of his movements as he primps a bit, adjusting the hem of his shirt so it sits properly, running a palm over his crest, sliding off his traveler's boots. If you're lucky, his shirt will be next and you can catch a peek of the toned spance of his stomach.

"My lady," His teeth flash in the fire light, pearls against the deep, dark opalescent hues of his scales, "You're staring."

"Ah, I'm sorry!" He’s one to talk; you’ve felt his gaze following you for weeks now. That's the only reason you're thinking about him and his body.

And, using that logic, he's the only reason you bought that bodice ripper last week, the one starring a pretty red dragonborn and his human lover--

"Is there something in my teeth?" Obi teases. That earns him a giggle, but, when you don't respond, he exhales through his nose and moves closer. "We're rooming together tonight, so if there's any tension between us, I'd rather-"

"I heard a rumor," you blurt out.

He goes pale. "About me? What did Thyrll tell you?"

"No, about dragonborns in general."

Relief relaxes his features.

"And you just want to know if it's true?" There's a click in his voice as he laughs, something strange and inhumane, "It's okay. You can ask. Let me guess- I eat poor little gnomes? I enchant humans with my-"

"Is it... inside of you?"

The dragonborn pauses at that, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

"Your..." You cannot believe you're about to say this, "Cock."

"Oh."

You scramble up, hands over your face as you head towards the door. You aren't sure where you're going to go in a nightgown, but anywhere else has to be better than here.

"Oh, I'm sorry! That was so rude of me."

A wall of muscle suddenly blocks your way. Those dexterous hands that you were admiring moments ago are now touching your shoulders, rubbing up and down affectionately.

"It's alright, my lady, I'm just... surprised." He smells like petrichor, something strangely earthy and yet unnatural clinging to his scales, and laughs like summer rain, "I think it's natural to wonder about different races, I just didn't think..."

His sharp eyes are dilated a bit, the pupils closer to almonds than slits as they bounce up and down your body.

"I've had my own... curiosities about others as well," he admits, "So, who am I to judge?"

Your spine prickles at that. Who exactly was he curious about? One of the elves in your party? The barmaid downstairs? Or is it you that the thinks about at night, cock in fist?

The dragonborn misreads the upset look on your face. "I promise that I am not cross with you. How about I answer your questions and you'll answer mine? No judgments."

You settle a bit. "If you're sure."

He smiles a draconic smile, all teeth and the smallest flick of his tongue.

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not embarrassed because my species is a bit different than yours."

You watch him for a long moment. He’s kind. A scoundrel at times, but kind. It's etched into his face, always reflected in his wide, chartreuse eyes.

"So, it is different,” you say carefully.

"It is."

“Very different?”

“When my cock is hard?” He says it so easily. Always proper, it makes you squirm to hear him curse, “No. But when I’m not, it is, in fact inside.”

"It's just... flat down there?"

"Yes- give me your hand."

You weave your fingers in between his without a second thought, but he just shakes his head and pulls away. Then, he takes your still open palm in his and brings it to his torso. The muscle there is just as firmed as you imagined and it's hard not to linger in once spot to appreciate it, Slowly, Obi guides your hand down, running it over the linen of his pants. Underneath, you can feel how it's slightly ridged with larger scales than the rest of his body and, subsequently, larger gaps form in between. It's just skin-- well, it's just scales. You're touching nothing technically intimate, but your heart races anyway, caught in your throat.

"See?" His voice has the edge of a tremble and, when you look up, you realize just how close you two have become. Practically chest to chest, his snout is only inches from your face, close enough that you can see how each individual scale slightly shifts in color as the fire dances. He seems to have realized too; dragonborn expressions are hard to read, but you don't miss how deep his breathing has become.

"It's nothing like touching a human, is it?" he mumbles, hand squeezing yours ever so slightly, “Not intimate at all.”

"Well." You curl your fingers up, clumsily feeling through the fabric, "Maybe a bit.”

The fire crackles in the fireplace. He breathes again, on the brink of a sigh, and you think he’s just as caught up in this as you are.

"Just a bit?" Heat radiates from him. If he were human, it'd be alarming, but instead there's a comfort to it. You're still warm from the bath, and yet you chase that heat, slipping your hand from his just to bring it under the waistline of his pants.

"More than a bit."

He's hot underneath it all, almost uncomfortable to the touch as you explore the space blindly. His eyes haven't left yours, his lids getting heavy with every prod and poke of your fingers.

A vertical line of soft, exposed skin catches your ring finger and his body jumps reflexively as you accidentally dip inside of him. It’s strangely dry, yet much softer than the rest of his scaled body. Despite yourself, you explore it a bit more, pressing in the same way you’ll be playing with your own pussy tonight.

"A-ahh--" The dragonborn sucks in a deep breath and you can feel his abdomen crunch under your touch, "Be careful."

"Did I hurt you?" you ask as you pull away.

His chittering laugh returns. His hands rest on the small of your back, not pushing, but not entirely platonic either. When he talks, the air tastes like distant embers, just far enough away, yet not close enough, "You didn’t hurt me, don’t worry."

“Are you sure?” you press, “You made a weird noise.”

“Very sure,” He dips low enough to press his lips against the shell of your ear, "You’d do the same if I put my fingers inside of you."

This time, the heat is coming from inside you, twisting and pulling with want.

"With your claws?" You manage to joke through your suddenly dry throat, "I might cry."

"I could cut them," His voice is rolling and low as his hands explore, one traveling up your spine and the other dipping the smooth over your ass. When they both reach their zeniths, they switch directions. The silk of your dress catches against his skin, pulling it up and revealing the fat of your ass to the air. "Nice and short."

His nails dig gently into your skin, nothing more than a nip, a test.

"You’re so soft, all over. Your body just gives when I touch it,” There’s a distant tone to his voice as he speaks into the curve of your neck, “Too delicate for me, aren’t you?”

You hum in disagreement and his teeth prove you otherwise. It’s barely a graze, but the nip against your pulse point drags a whimper from deep within you. Your companion chuckles, then coos with pity as he does it again, much, much kinder this time.

“Oh, you’re knock kneed and sweet for me,” The already blossoming bruises are soothed by a warm, textured flash of wet. His tongue is rougher than a humans, longer too, and it leaves behind a string of spit that is more viscous than any human’s. “Like a fawn. My sweet fawn.”

The hand that once explored him is trapped in between your bodies, unable to move, but you can feel something against your stomach: something hard, something thick. Too much cock for your human body, but, fuck, you’re going to try.

“Bet you’re even softer down here.” A singular clawed drags over your bare ass, searching for underwear that isn't there and your body trembles with want, “Oh, look at that, shaking like a leaf. I bet you’d melt if I-”

A sharp knock at the door scrambles you two apart. A moment passes and the sound almost feels imaginary, but then it happens again. You smooth your still wet hair and try to gather yourself, heading to the door in a hurry. Somehow, the dragonborn is more flustered than you. His scales are physically ruffled and his usually stoney brow is creased. He can’t blush, but you swear you can see his face alight as you swing the door open.

There stands a familiar elvish figure, with dark straight hair and the prettiest of smiles.

“Kiri!” you exclaim. She’s a natural beauty, like most elves. All legs and sharp angles, she’s a good head taller than you, leaning over with almost a condescending grin. She’s so beautiful that you almost hate her for it.

“I am sorry to be a bother, rogue.” She speaks in Elvish and the dragonborn’s head tilts slightly side to side, like a dog who hears his name, as he tries to listen. “I came to thank you and the sorcerer.”

“Oh, yeah, no worries,” Your Elvish is unnatural on your human tongue, “We are fine here.”

“My lover thanks you too,” she winks and giggles. She’s over a hundred years older than you, and yet still head over heels like a schoolgirl. Elves might live for thousands of years, but they take hundreds to mature. “We will not be sleeping much tonight.”

You roll your eyes and pretend to gag, biting back a smile, but then Kiri grows serious.

“If he scares you, please let me know,” she continues.

“Obi?” you say, “He’s a sweetheart.”

“I’m sure he is, but those teeth! Like needles. Braver than me, sleeping next to a monster like that.”

You glance at your dragonborn and he looks away before you can meet his eye. A disappointment settles in your stomach. Monster is such an ugly word for a pretty man. Everything about him is charming and refined, from the way he speaks and the way he walks, to the way he shines his scales when he thinks no one is looking.

“That’s rude.” You’re quick to reply. Kiri grew up around only her own kind and their ideas-- she doesn’t always know what’s uncouth or offensive because of it, “Don’t say such awful things.”

“It seems like he’s already gotten hungry.” She jerks a chin to your shoulder. You reflexively reach to cover it, only to pull away when the spot feels wet. Blood speckles your fingers- not enough to warranty any worry, of course, just the slightest graze of the skin.

“That’s not--”

“I tease, I tease!” she continues, “I know it is just a scrape. Can you imagine? To lay with someone who is all claws, fire and untamed magics! I-”

The man in question stalks in between you two silently. With a towel in his arms and a chip on his shoulder, he stomps by with a snort of his nostrils.

“I’m going to bathe.” His Elvish is worse than yours, but it's enough to make Kiri’s face drop. The worst part is that he doesn’t sound angry-- you could deal with anger. Instead, he sounds heartbroken. “I don’t mean to be frightening.”

You both walk him stalk down the hall until he disappears around a corner. Kiri swivels to look at you, bewildered. “Since when does he speak Elvish?”

PART TWO

[anonymous-dentist]

Hi, I’m A.D., I’m a historian, and let’s talk about the nuclear bomb and why the one that exploded at the end of QSMP’s Purgatory Event probably didn’t kill all that many people upon initially exploding.

The nuclear bomb, as everybody knows, has only ever been used in a war twice. Both explosions were caused by the United States in their war against Japan at the tail end of World War Two in one final terrible last ditch attempt at ending the war through any means necessary.

Pictured above are the atomic explosions at Hiroshima (left) and Nagasaki (right.)

These are big huge clouds, which makes sense! Nuclear weapons, on average, have the strength of somewhere between 10 and 50 megatons of TNT. Hydrogen bombs, meanwhile, are WAY worse, with the first test coming in at a whopping 10 MILLION tons of TNT.

To put it in Minecraft terms for all you nerds out there, imagine Doomsday from the Dream SMP and how it razed an entire nation to bedrock level by using somewhere in the range of 20 stacks of TnT (if I’m remembering correctly.) A nuclear bomb, in these terms, would have blown L’Manberg up something like eight times over and then some.

So that’s. Bad. Right?

Well, here’s the QSMP’s bomb as was constructed by our favorite depressed detective, q!Maximus:

This bomb, notably, is underground. It was never dug up, it was just moved somewhere else. It isn’t above ground, and it never left this room. Watch the cutscene back (linked here), the bomb never left the room.

So this is where underground nuclear testing comes in.

Underground testing began in 1951, and it remains the only form of scientific nuclear testing not banned by the Limited Test Ban Treaty of 1963.

No big surprise, a lot of early underground tests were conducted by the US out in Nevada, where they kinda tested nukes legit fucking EVERYWHERE in the desert for a long time. Below are some photos, just for funsies:

What’s important about underground nuclear explosions is that they actually end up releasing less radiation into the atmosphere than regular nukes do. What happens beyond that depends on whether or not the radiation remains contained.

A contained explosion’s aftermath:

And an uncontained explosion’s aftermath:

There hasn’t really been many negative biological effects reported from these underground tests, which is really saying something considering how close to nuclear blasts the US had its guys at most of the time (see below)

The worst you got out of the underground tests was some radioactivity in cows’ milk, which is NOTHING compared to the effects of the above-ground nuclear testing at the Nevada Site:

So… what does this mean for the QSMP?

Well, if we’re going off of historical and scientific precedent, legitimately nothing substantial happened to the islands of Purgatory. There’s more of a risk of dying from the pre-established radioactive rain disaster effects as well as the earthquake and meteor disasters.

Fun fact! Underground nuclear explosions usually registered as weaker than actual fault line activity, aka actual earthquakes.

If Maxo’s nuke was dropped from above, the devastation would be greater. Nuclear fallout is no joke; even today, cancer rates in the American West are still pretty high from the above-ground testing conducted at the Nevada Site. The Bikini Atoll will never be the same after all the testing the US did there, either.

But, because this nuke seemed to have gone off underground, I can safely assume that the damage done to the islands above was minimal at worst. Maybe there’s a radioactivity leak, but everybody staying on the islands had already experienced radiation up to that point.

It’s important to remember this because several characters did stay behind on the islands, and the fandom is assuming them dead because, well. A nuke went off. But those characters aren’t dead yet (outside of q!Maxo, who was possibly directly above the nuke when it went off and thus would’ve been hit full-force by the explosion.) Many were on the beach, far from the the nuke. They’re fine, and you can prove it with history!

TLDR; the nuke from the end of Purgatory was assumedly set off underground, which would have negated a lot of its potential damage, so everybody’s fine except for the unfortunately deceased q!Maxo

#long post #qsmp #I’m not a nuke expert BUT I do specialize in the Cold War

[itsclydebitches]

Hazbin Hotel: Let's Talk About Cursing!

Trigger warning for lots of cursing in this post (obviously) and discussion of canon abuse scenes

As I delve further into the Hazbin Hotel fandom, I’ve inevitably come across a variety of people who dislike the show for an equal variety of reasons. One criticism I’ve seen with some consistency is in regards to the cursing and yeah, I get it. That’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. However, the repeated claim that the cursing is only there as a—failed—attempt at bad, lazy humor got me thinking about why I personally liked the cursing, and why I think it serves a greater purpose in the show.

Now yes, some of the cursing does function as an arguably simplistic joke. The most common setup I’ve noticed is one that leans into a contrast in tone/personalities. We see this a lot with the polite, comparatively timid Charlie as she navigates her distinctly vulgar domain.

Charlie: “Hi, mister!” Demon: “Go fuck yourself!”

The entirety of “Happy Day in Hell” plays with this contrast, setting up Charlie’s slightly skewed, but significantly optimistic perspective of Hell. We are shown again and again how her lyrics are contradicted or twisted into something less innocent through the visuals: a “revealing” street where it’s “hard not to stare” has BDSM going on in a nearby window, Charlie will “open the door” for her people and then literally does so... for a guy who’s already dead. (Or, you know, temporarily out of commission until he heals, or whatever demons do when they’re ‘killed’ by things other than angelic steel.) The entire point here is to contrast the happy, skipping girl claiming that there’s a “warm, fuzzy feeling” in the air with the actual environment of unchecked fires and decaying limbs. And yes, that can be amusing. Not necessarily for everyone as humor is highly subjective and dependent on context, but distilling this contrast down to the shock of a polite greeting getting a “Go fuck yourself!” in response is a kind of entertainment. Especially when Charlie’s reaction adds another layer: for me that’s a very funny—and currently relatable—expression.

We can potentially make the case that this humor format overstays its welcome, but I personally think the show does a good job of keeping Charlie’s cursing both simple and comparatively rare, so that when she is put into these contrast situations the humor lands better. The best example I can think of in the latter half of the show is Susan. There we get the whiplash of polite, trying-to-get-these-people-to-like-her Charlie reaching a breaking point to become “FUCK YOU, YOU OLD BITCH” Charlie. It’s a moment that builds off of the earlier surprise of the courteous Alastor calling someone an “Ornery old bitch”—while Rosie is trying (and failing) to find a nicer way to phrase this.

However, as stated above I think the cursing serves more of a purpose than to just be funny for (some) viewers. Beyond those who simply find cursing distasteful, I’ve seen a fair bit of, “This is so stupid. No one even talks like that!” going around.

Except... I do? I talk like that.

See, I like cursing. I was born to former hippie parents and grew up playing MMOs, so cursing was something I became pretty acclimated to. Personally, I’m glad I was because I’m fascinated by language and cursing—for better or worse—is an integral way that many people communicate. I was taught to see cursing not as the Bad Forbidden Thing You Must Never Ever Do, but rather as just another form of expression, something to be used in moderation and under specific circumstances. Once I became an adult I already understood how I wanted to curse and when it was appropriate to do so. People at work are often shocked when I tell them I curse a lot because no, of course I’m not doing that at my job. That isn't considered professional in this space. Among my friends though?

We can sound a lot like the Hazbin crew.

Undoubtedly the most common curse in the show is “fuck” and its variations, which very much tracks with my personal experience among other people who curse. In fact, it’s so ubiquitous that it barely counts as a curse at all in some groups. It’s more of an easy, accepted way to add emphasis. Vaggie’s “What the fuck was that?” about Alastor’s commercial is a perfect example. She’s pissed and simply saying “What was that?” doesn’t carry the same weight, no matter how angry she may sound when she says it. Vox’s long “Fuuuuuuuck” at the end of “Stayed Gone” conveys an emotion you just can’t capture any other way. No dialogue at all would create a fundamentally different experience of Vox’s feelings and another non-cursing response is just gonna hit different. Not necessarily bad, just different.

“I don’t want to go to the party!” “I don’t want to go to the freaking party!” “I don’t want to go to the fucking party!”

The above represents three distinct characters to me and I think Hazbin Hotel gets that. Cursing isn’t thrown around randomly because something something cursing supposedly sells; it’s all linguistically logical. Characters curse when something surprising or bad happens, or when something unexpectedly good happens, when they’re angry, trying to be sexy, or they want to add that emphasis. That’s a lot of different situations where cursing can be useful and when you use “fuck” in your daily life a lot you become pretty desensitized to it. As said, for many it’s barely a curse at all. Which means that when you really want to curse you’ve got to up the ante. It doesn’t surprise me one bit that the two uses of “cunt” I can recall—a word that is generally considered far worse than “fuck” and makes a lot of people understandably uncomfortable—is used by two of the worst characters in moments that are meant to horrify the viewer:

Adam: “Can’t wait a whole year to slaughter those little cunts / I know it’s just been a week, but we’ll be back in six months!” Valentino: “When I say you’d better get that fucking cunt out of my studio, you say...?”

This horror is especially emphasized in Valentino’s scene. The creators know this word is coming up and deliberately build towards it. Angel is currently being abused and has been reminded that Valentino “owns” him. The above question is a part of a trio that Valentino asks (a standard structure in writing), wherein the third option is the outlier/most shocking of the three. The animation leans into that shock, with the music building and Valentino grabbing Angel to pull him close right on the word “cunt.” Perez even puts emphasis there because he knows that this is a significant word that will change our understanding of Valentino.

Despite having hit Angel multiple times and taunting him with the contract, this is the moment Valentino stops playing the ‘nice’ employer. This is the real him. No more fake compliments and endearments aimed at Charlie, no more fake comfort/intimacy aimed at Angel. That “cunt” conveys a hell of a lot about how Valentino really sees them and when you have a cast of characters who are already cursing on the regular, it takes a word on that level to do that kind of work. If Valentino had said, “get that fucking bitch out of my studio” it wouldn’t have had nearly the same impact because he’s the kind of guy who uses "bitch" even when playing ‘nice.’

Adam’s line from “Hell is Forever” does very similar work. The scene needs a word to align with the horrific reveal that another extermination is just six months away, that conveys Adam’s deep disgust for Charlie’s people, and that still catches the viewer’s attention even though he’s the character (I believe) who curses the most. Here the music drops and Adam is a little closer to speaking than singing; there's this shift because, like with Valentino, our perception of him is shifting. This isn’t just some egotistical idiot who wants to be called “Dick Master,” he’s the leader of an army coming to gleefully kill them. Framing a whole world of people—people Charlie loves—as “cunts” while treating their murder as a holiday that can’t come soon enough creates an, 'Oh shit. This guy is actually a threat' understanding that you can’t quite get with anything else.

On a smaller scale, cursing does other character work throughout the whole show. I watched a number of cursing compilation vids for this meta (that was a trip lol) and again, cursing is not thrown in randomly. Each character has a unique way of cursing that aligns with their personality and motivations:

As said, Adam curses the most in the show which helps sell his truly over-the-top, irreverent personality. Linguistically, the amount he curses also allows for some fun grammatical play. Lines like, “Fucking love putting my name on shit, shit’s the best!” help convey the versatility of cursing.

Also as said, Charlie curses a fair bit but she’s comparatively polite and her cursing tends to be a result of genuinely big emotions—like saying “Crap” when she’s shocked and falls, or “Shit!” when Adam locks her out of the room—rather than sprinkled into her conversations as a modifier. That leaves space to create those moments of amused surprise when Charlie really let’s loose.

Sr Pentious curses even less than Charlie which fits his secretly gooey center. He talks a big game at the start of the show, but he’s actually quite bad at being, well, bad (especially the Amazon version compared to pilot!Pentious). His idea of getting one over on Alastor is ripping a bit of his coat. He loves his Egg Bois and “doesn’t want to live” without them. He has no desire to go into battle without minions/a big machine to hide behind and, of course, he’s the first to be redeemed. He's too much of a secret sweetheart to curse a lot.

Interestingly, Niffty doesn’t seem to curse at all. At least, not enough for me to think of examples off the top of my head. Right now I’m inclined to read that as an extension of her lived experiences/design—the cute 1950’s housewife archetype who is obsessed with keeping things clean doesn’t [gasp!] curse—as well as a way to maintain her legitimate creep factor. As said, cursing is common among the hotel residents and is a way for them to linguistically fit in. Niffty, however, is positioned more as an outsider (despite how much they all obviously love her): she’s actually scary in a way most demons aren’t and despite how weird this whole world is, she stands out as someone no one else can make sense of (even Alastor). If cursing is normal, Niffty is a character who is decidedly positioned as not normal.

Angel curses a fair bit, though his irreverence is conveyed more through innuendos. Angel is great at verbally twisting others’ words (especially Husk’s) to give himself a conversational advantage:

Husk: “Go fuck yourself” Angel: “Only if you watch me~”

Husk: “You’ve come—” Angel: [very loud orgasm noise] Husk: “...to the right place.”

Meanwhile, Husk uses “fuck” plenty, but he’s also one of the few characters who use “bullshit" too. I wouldn’t say there’s anything particularly revealing about that choice, but just giving him a go-to curse that’s otherwise used infrequently helps make his character distinct in a cast of other cursing characters.

Vaggie occasionally curses in Spanish, showing us her heritage if she used to be human, or a distinct knowledge/verbal preference if she’s always been an angel.

Heaven, as the ‘good’ side, doesn’t curse as a general rule, which leaves room for cursing to do more of that silent character work. We’re reminded of the stuffy, overly critical beings she’s dealing with when Charlie receives the combined judgement of the court for saying, “Fuck yeah!” In contrast, we understand just how shocked St. Peter is to see a Morningstar when he lets out an unintentional “Fuck!” The angry vindication of Charlie’s “That’s what the fuck I’ve been saying!” lands harder after multiple scenes of very little cursing, and Lute’s “Some crack-whore who fucked up already? / He blew his shot like the cocks in his mouth—” helps set her apart as an exorcist + Adam's second in command: her shocking violence comes through in her word choice too; words that supposedly don't belong in Heaven.

In what’s arguably the funniest line in the whole show, Lucifer undermines his dramatic standoff with Adam by going, “You mess with my daughter and now I’m going to fuck you.” Beyond just cutting the tension, that fits his bumbling, oblivious personality perfectly. Lucifer is crazy powerful and can absolutely wreck Adam. He also has none of the classy intimidation that, say, Alastor displays when he tries to convey that. This is a depressed himbo who makes ducks in his free time and settles on, “Hey, bitch!” when greeting his estranged daughter. Of course he’s going to accidentally turn a threat into a promise of sex.

Which finally brings me to Alastor, someone whose cursing is already understood well by the fandom. He’s characterized as manipulatively courteous, using manners to both hide his true nature and draw attention to his power—’You’re so beneath me I’ll just calmly sip my coffee and politely ask who you are, despite the fact that we've fought multiple times.’ This is a guy who calls people “My dear” and unironically insults them with the phrase “wacky nonsense.” So when he curses you can BET it’s gonna have an impact. It sure did for me. I had to pause the episode after Alastor’s first “Fuck you” because it was so shocking to hear that language from him. And that’s the point! The scene wants that reaction from the audience. The "Fuck you"s visceral anger contrasting the fake laughs he and Lucifer have been giving, the quick-fire exchange that’s suddenly cut short by Alastor’s choice of a direct insult, the fact that he’s officially dropping the polite veneer they’ve both been indulging in and raising the stakes before Charlie intervenes, the loss of the radio filter that otherwise demonstrates his control over a situation... all of it screams, ‘THIS IS AN IMPORTANT CHARACTER MOMENT.’

"Fuck you” reveals that, for the first time in the show, Alastor is legitimately threatened by someone. Which makes sense given that, you know, Lucifer is the King of Hell. Cursing for Alastor isn’t normal, so when he does curse it’s going to reveal something about a guy who otherwise is obsessed with being unknowable. Having the King of Hell dismiss him is actually infuriating in a way Sir Pentious’ threats could never be and the exchange kicks off a rivalry that rattles Alastor in ways Vox’s never has. (Side note: is it any wonder people ship them? Character A making control freak Character B feel vulnerable is classic!) It’s no surprise to me than that the one other true curse we get from Alastor is, “I’m about to end your fucking life,” delivered to Adam who, like Lucifer, poses a legitimate threat and does end up beating him. I say “true” curse because calling Susan a “bitch” does similar work for him, but the takeaway is humorous rather than dramatic. It’s funny that the only people who can piss Alastor off enough to curse are the First Man/a powerful exorcist angel threatening his life, the literal King of Hell... and Susan.

So there’s a lot going on here, more than what many viewers might assume if they approach the show as just “stupid,” needlessly vulgar entertainment. As shown above, I don’t think the cursing is needless, especially given that, well... they’re in Hell. They’re sinners, supposedly the worst that humanity has to offer, so of course they're going to curse a lot. Does cursing mean you’re a bad person? No. Can you craft a hellish world that doesn't rely on cursing to convey a group's immoral nature? Sure.

Does it make sense that a writer would equate a sinful, irreverent cast with linguistic rebellion and would want to convey a certain vibe that, frankly, you just can’t get without dropping an F bomb?

Yeah, I think so. No one has to like that kind of creative decision, but it’s worth acknowledging it as a deliberate choice.

That’s all! Thanks for reading this fucking long post ✌️

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel meta #mymetas #tw cursing #cw cursing #tw abuse #cw abuse

[maple-the-awesome]

Body Swap || Part 2/2

Part 1 ||

Pairings: Legend, Time, Twilight, Warrior x Reader

Overview: A wizard's spell leaves you both in a state of confusion, especially upon realizing you're no longer in your assigned bodies. No Wind for this one, so we'll just give him a cookie and spare him the trauma for today -.-/🍪 The other boys are at my mercy, though

Zelda Masterlist 💙Fandom Masterlist

Panic ensues nearly the second your situation becomes realized. Legend frantically tugs at his hair and clothing, hoping this to be some sort of illusion cast by that wizard, however his senses only confirm his fears: you've switched bodies.

You're him and he's you which probably shouldn't be as big of a deal as he makes it out to be considering how much worse this could've gone, after all, a greater enemy might've caused actual harm, yet that doesn't stop him from being upset.

Out of everyone this could've happened with - out of all nine of his traveling companions - why did this have to happen with you, the only girl in the group?! Nevermind that you're also his crush!

"I can't believe this..." He groans, picking at another strand of hair and holding it in front of his face. Alas, the color isn't the same as his usual faded pink, "Give me back my body!"

You whip your head around at Legend's demand, finding yourself mildly offended by it which is shown through the placement of your hands on your hips, "Don't you think I would if I could? Like it or not, I think we're stuck like this –"

"- Are you kidding me -?!"

"- Until the spell either wears off or we find a way to reserve it," You narrow your eyes when he interrupts. Standing, you dust yourself while he copies the action except with some added complaints and curses mumbled under his breath.

"I can't believe this. Of course, this is how my day would end. I can't ever catch a break, can I?! The others are never going to let this go. It's all we're going to hear about for the next week!"

"Geeze, I didn't know a day in my body would be so terrible for you."

Legend frowns, not intending to make you feel bad. It's not like you asked for any of this yourself. You’re equally as inconvenienced. It's just...reeeally weird and uncomfortable knowing that he's technically you right now. He's currently in the body of the girl he finds most attractive and sometimes daydreams about –

"I'm sure you're not having any more fun than I am. Let's just get out of here and find a solution as fast as possible, okay?" Legend hastily grabs your hand, intending on getting you both out of this dungeon before you can notice the redness to his cheeks (at least, he's sure he'd be blushing if in his own body right now. Is it even visible on your cheeks, though?), however almost as soon as he pulls, he's nearly thrown back against your unmoving weight.

Kill him now. He isn't used to not having his power bracelets.

"Did you...want me to follow you?"

"...Obviously..."

"Do you also want me to hold your hand so you don't get lost?" You give his hand a squeeze, all the while wearing a shit-eating grin that makes his face even warmer than before.

"...Forget it and fuck off," With that, he drops your hand and marches off, yet you aren't far behind, chasing after him while clearly having too much fun with his reaction.

"You know, this is usually the point when you ask me if I'm on my time of month! Is that your problem, Vet? You're already hormonal after just a few minutes in a girl's body?"

Has his laugh always been this obnoxious? Does he owe Warrior an apology?

"...Well, this is troublesome."

Your eye twitches after Time's calm 'evaluation' of the situation, "...'Troublesome'? You THINK?! You know, when I woke up this morning, I did not expect to end up becoming a sixty-year-old man -!"

"- Sixty? Is that how old you think I am?"

"Well, you act like it sometimes!" You defend, huffing at the end of your sentence before trying to rise onto your feet which still feel wobbly due to that wizard's spell. It takes you a second - and you almost tumble forward like a newborn giraffe, causing you to start swinging your arms around in a desperate attempt to regain balance - but eventually you do succeed in the basic human function called 'standing', "We need to find the Veteran. This is his stupid world, so I'm blaming him for this happening!"

Time, meanwhile, takes pity upon you by letting your previous comment slide. Unlike you, he easily gets to his feet as if ending up in someone else's body is an everyday occurrence for him. His new height is something you take immediate notice of, mentally noting how strange it is to be looking down at someone – let alone him – from so far up. Is this how it always feels for him? No wonder he took on the mantel of being the 'dad' of the group so quickly. You all probably look like literal children to him!

"Thank Hylia we camped close to the dungeon. The others should be getting ready for dinner at this point, so they'll all be in attendance to take joy in our misery," You smile sarcastically with a wave of your hand, however you only take a few steps forward before turning around and realizing that Time isn't following you. His face also looks rather...alarmed?

"...You okay there?"

He hums and gives you an awkward thumbs up, yet that doesn't change his expression any nor does he immediately move to follow you. He simply stands there, his face bright with embarrassment until he finally clears his throat, "I...think I might've had an accident?"

"An 'accident'...?" You scrunch your nose, needing a moment to understand what he could possibly mean. Did he just piss himself as you? You would've thought he'd have more self-control even if he isn’t technically himself. Sure, it might be scary opening your eyes to find yourself in someone else's body, but it's not that scary to warrant - ...Oooh...You get what he means now...

When the realization sinks in, you can feel your own face grow warm. You had forgotten all about that, "Oh shit. I, um...Yeah that's not – It's harmless, really. You'll be fine, it's just -...You know what, just don't worry about, okay? Let's focus on getting ourselves switched back around first. You, uh...gonna be okay dealing with it for now?"

Sympathy laces your voice, however it isn’t exactly strong enough to hide your embarrassment. Seriously, could this get anymore modifying? You weren't trying to think about the whole 'my-crush-is-currently-in-my-body' thing, but you definitely can't ignore it now! Out of all the days of the month this could happen - How embarrassing for you both!

Fortunately, Time, ever the brave gentlemen, nods, that be it slowly and unsurely, "If you can do it your whole life, I can manage for a day..."

"That's the spirit!" Please, please, please say Legend knows a solution for this because you will absolutely die if you have to talk Time through a 'change' of certain materials tonight.

“Oh no…”

“What do you mean by ‘oh no’? What happened? Are you hurt?” Twilight’s voice – which doesn’t really sound like his own – gets progressively more concerned by each question until he finally manages to escape the wall of smoke around him. Once finally receiving a clear view of his hands, he suddenly understands the meaning behind your less-than-thrilled expression.

“That’s what I mean by ‘oh no’,” You frown, watching as he flips his hands around front and back to confirm the notable difference he sees. It would be difficult to ignore how much smaller and smoother they’ve gotten…or to turn a blind eye to all the other major variations throughout the entirely of his body.

“Has anything like this happened to you before?” Whatever surprise you have towards your shared predicament is either quickly recovered from or masked well, because you don’t hesitate to pick yourself up and start collecting your fallen belongings – or rather Twilight’s – from the ground.

“Can’t say it has. I’m guessin’ you’re in the same boat?”

“Yeah, this is the first time I can knock ‘switching bodies’ off the bingo board,” You shake your head, pausing to watch him stand as well, “I know Wind mentioned being able to control other people’s bodies or something like that before. ‘not sure if it’s the same or if he’d know how to fix this.”

“Even if not, we’re in Legend’s world. He’d have to know some kind of solution,” Twilight sighs, going to place a hand on his hip out of habit, but he instantly decides against it in a quick movement he hopes wasn't too obviously. Even if he's consciously in this body, it's still yours. Touching his hip now would be no different from touching your hip any other time which is NOT a friendly place for hands to be! At least that's what his awkward brain tells him.

Trying not to dwell too much on any of that, he makes himself useful by plucking your dropped sword off the ground and returning it to your scabbard the same way you had done with his before reaching down to grab -

“- Don’t touch that!” You’re startled to a halt by Twilight’s sudden shout and turn to give him a puzzled look as he gulps while eyeing the shadow shard you were inches away from picking up next, “It, uh…It’s sharp.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him, and for a second he’s worried he might just have to tackle you to prevent you from touching the object in question (which now that he’s considering it, would probably only be as effective as a sparrow attacking a horse seeing as you’ve switched bodies not to mention you’d only have more reason to question him in that case but -)

“- All you Links are such terrible liars,” You huff after a minute. Nevertheless, you step aside and allow Twilight to pick up the necklace himself. He’s careful to only touch the string and tuck it securely in a pocket because the very last thing he needs added to this day is you finding out one of his greatest secrets by literally becoming it yourself which would then undoubtably lead to his second greatest secret being discovered, after all, it's one thing for a random wolf to let you give him kisses free of charge, but there'll be a lot more to unravel there if you find out it's been your travel companion the whole time.

"Okay. Try not to panic. There has to be some way to reverse this - ARE YOU CHECKING ME OUT RIGHT NOW?!"

Warrior jumps with a start after having been caught, although he must not be too embarrassed because he doesn’t immediately remove his hands from their place on his hips nor does he show much shame in currently having his body turned at an angle to look at his – or more importantly – your back side, “What?! You do it to yourself all the time!”

"T-That’s not - When I'm in my own body!” You stammer, blushing at the realization that you apparently haven’t been as subtle with your habit of checking your own appearance here and there, “Excuse me if I don’t want to walk around looking like a mess with dirt and leaves stuck to my backside! I’m not over here looking at your dick!”

"I hardly think you can equate that to an ass," He deadpans.

"Well, I'm not looking at your ass, either, pervert!"

At last, something you say seems to get to him, your words causing Warrior to bow his head with a pout and that shared discomfort he should’ve had from the beginning, “I’m not a pervert. If it’s such a big deal, then you can come over here and fix the backside of this tunic. It’s riding up on me and it’s driving me crazy.”

You blink then glance around him to notice that your tunic is indeed all out of sorts, one end lifted and tucked in your belt. It must’ve gotten stuck that way during your fight with that wizard…Now you just feel like an idiot…

“…Oh.”

“Oh,” Warrior mocks with a roll of his eyes, not saying much else – perhaps out of pity - as he waits for you to help fix the tunic correctly, although truthfully he’s just busy redirecting his eyes and cursing himself internally for not having explained the situation from the start. He maybe-kinda spaced the fact that he’s currently in your body and didn’t consider the implications of what it would look like for you to see him fussing over your back end. How were you to know he was simply fixing your tunic? He really did probably look like a massive pervert.

“There,” You finally step away.

“Thanks,” He coughs into his fist awkwardly with his opposite hand rubbing the back of his neck. Even in a different body, he carries the same nervous habits, “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to –“

“- No. No, you’re fine. I, uh, should’ve had more trust in you," You mumble, running a hand over your hot face before shaking your head. You need to get it together, "Come on. Let's just get out of here and find a way to fix this before any other misunderstandings can happen."

Warrior nod and follows after you out of the dungeon without another word to be said. He won't say it aloud - He refuses to even admit it to himself because he's supposed to be a gentleman and what if you've suddenly become a mind reader?...But if you were to for some reason ask his opinion, you do in fact have a fine ass.

#x reader #reader insert #linked universe x reader #linked universe #link x reader #lu legend x reader #lu time x reader #lu twilight x reader #lu warrior x reader #legend of zelda x reader

[queers-gambit]

Bloodhounds

prompt: you and your husband have a different kind of foreplay that include disguises, sneaking out of the castle, and sometimes, fucking in an alleyway... Or two.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x highborn!female!reader no specified House

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 5.7k+

note: also NO physical description of skin, hair, but height IS mentioned inna way and weight IS insinuated because - let's face it - fucking against a wall ain't easy!! this is a STAND ALONE.

warnings: poor excuse for smut, explicit / descriptive language, i guess this is porn with a plot?? (surprise!) there's cursing, Cherry needs to get laid ASAP, stop giving her internet access!! half-edited, author mildly gave up. ✅ spoiler free

"My Lady, how go your studies? Aemond says you're making grand progress," Alicent smiled, leaning back in her high-back chair with a goblet of wine in her always-tight manicured grip.

"Oh," you quickly swallowed the bit of food in your mouth, perfectly trained to take small bites for moments such as these - but also, because it was 'unladylike' to eat with fuller cheeks. With a quick dab of the cloth napkin left on your lap, you nodded at her, "My Lord husband likes to exaggerate. Studies are going well enough, My Queen, but surely, I've much farther to go."

She hummed in contemplation, "From what I've heard, you're planning a trip to Pentos?"

Ah, so this is the reason she wanted you alone.

"I am wrestling with the idea, Lady," you assured softly, "yet, there has been no decision made, nor am I swaying any which way more heavily." You watched her carefully, "You have an opinion on the matter, do you not?"

"How can I not, sweet child," she sighed, setting her goblet down as you did the same to the utensils in hand, "when there is a possibility my son is leaving?"

You couldn't help it, truly. But the laugh was genuine, "My Queen! There is not a world in which I would dare take your son from you. If I decided to venture to Pentos, it will not be with my white-haired husband and his 180-year-old dragon. That warrants attention I do not wish for."

"You are a Targaryen now - "

"I do not look it," you nodded. "I have a no-name face and can still travel undetected. Your son cannot afford the same luxury."

"And yet, I cannot shake this feeling..."

"That feeling you feel is natural for every mother," you nodded, taking a sip of water to clear your mouth and throat of residue. "It is the dread that your children are growing up and will leave, like you were forced to as a girl." Her face was painted in earnest shock. "Do not think so little of me, Your Grace, I've done my fair share of familial research - but also, the maids like to gossip." Alicent chuckled some. "I am truly sorry for your mother, and that you had to leave home to live with your father here... But there will come a time your kids are going to spread their leathery wings and fly. If it's something I've learned in the few, short years of marriage? You cannot hold dragons back. Believe me when I say, I do not want to take your son from you, but should he make his decision, that's only his to make. For now, I am simply weighing pro's and con's. The idea of adventure is a little too tantalizing."

Alicent regarded you for a long moment before slowly nodding, "Then it shall be his decision."

"If you'd like, if I go and end up in Braavos or other, I'll send a barrel of spiced wine."

"Oh, you," she chuckled, waving you off some.

"How fairs the King?"

Alicent paused to smile softly at the woman she married her son to, and for a moment, let her heart beat with pride at such a fine young woman joining her family. Y/N L/N was a woman of great beauty and even greater brains, a woman her son could engage with; a woman she was pleased to see fit in effortlessly. There wasn't a single soul in the entire castle who did not like her - and it came in handy at times.

Y/N was also the only one who ever bothered to ask about Viserys anymore, too. So, Alicent smiled and nodded, "He has his good days and bad."

You nodded slowly. "I remember when my grandfather started to lose his mind... It was gradual, then one day, it was like a switch flipped. For the last few years of his life, he didn't know who I was, but with Mum and Da' out, workin', doin' whatever they needed to, I was with him day in and out... It wasn't easy."

"You've never spoke of your family before," Alicent sat up in intrigue. "Three years being married, six months of courting before that - and you've never spoke of them," Alicent looked at you with a sense of wonder.

"Some family's aren't worth the effort to discuss," you shrugged a bit. "The moment you sent word for the courting season, away I was swept, and my father was adamant on making a match. Can you imagine how happy he was to learn I was courting the Prince?"

"Was he?" Alicent asked softly, giving a knowing look.

"He kept asking if it were true, and asked if his dragon took his eye," you snickered to her. "Kept asking what rumors were true."

"Gods," she chuckled.

"I told him outlandish things," you admitted with a snicker. "He caught on eventually, cursed me to all Seven Hells... Stopped writing, and then word reaches me of his passing. Hm," you shrugged a bit.

"Well, you're better off without, yes?"

"Indeed, I'd say... Look, Your Grace, I have not made any decision about my travels. As of right now, I'm okay reading my books and letting my mind go on adventures - I will tell you when I have made a decision."

"All right..."

"You will be the second to know, after Aemond, of course."

She smiled, "Yes, yes. Of course."

You glanced out the window to the sun's position, finding it nearly completely gone, and turned to your mother-by-law. "Speaking of, I'm sure he's expecting me soon. I'll be going now," you stood slowly, waiting for her to stop you.

"Of course, yes, yes, go on," she smiled. "Thank you for tonight."

"Always my pleasure," you promised with a curtesy, turning after, and exiting the room. "Have a good evening, Ser Cole."

"And you, Princess," he nodded with a soft smile. "Good supper?"

"Oh, you know I have a love-affair with Chef Hayford's cooking," you chuckled, watching him return it with a nod of agreement.

Turning forward, you only had to travel a short way; mostly turning down three different stone corners to reach a more secluded hallway. Aemond preferred solitude, so, when you married, you snagged up the suite in the Western Wing that was newly renovated - but it was "sadly" away from most of the castle's traffic. So, of course it was perfect for the pair of you.

When you slipped in the door, Aemond was standing at the basin of water, shirtless, leaning heavily on the stone and wiping the back of his neck while lost in thoughtful contemplation.

"Aemond?" You questioned softly, shutting the door, and rushing for him. "Are you all right?" When in the light, you saw the discoloration of his skin, whispering, "Oh, my love..."

"It's not so bad," he answered in the same lowered tone.

"Liar."

"No, truly, it's not the worst I've had," Aemond straightened up, looking down at you with a soft smirk. "Hi, poppet."

"Hi," you smiled, letting him lean down some as you rocked to your toes to kiss him in greeting. "How was your day?"

"Cole was brutal in training, but it was good," he nodded, dropping the washcloth after wringing it out. "And yours, my love?"

"Well... Your mother's caught rumor of our plans..."

"What's that mean?"

"She directly asked if I mean to go to Pentos and if I mean to take you with me, as if to take you away from her."

"Gods," his eyes rolled, "swear, the walls have ears in this place."

"Tell me of it," your eyes rolled. "I think she's off the scent for now, but we should be more diligent and a little more careful..."

"Hmm," he considered, nodding after. "Yes, love. Right, then."

"Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

"How about at Kavvin's?"

"In the city?"

You nodded with a grin, "Feelin' up for a game, love?"

Aemond turned to you fully, hands on your hips and a grin on his lips. "Yeah... Yeah, yeah, I could go for something to eat."

"Start there, then," you whispered.

"You've the time it takes me to clean up and change to get out of here," he smirked, forehead on yours.

You dashed around the room to change into a tunic, trousers, boots, and a thick muted-color cloak. Aemond chuckled to himself as you blew him an air kiss before sneaking through secret passage door... And away you went.

Once out of the Keep's grounds, it was easy enough to lose yourself in the city's streets; but kept to the plan and made for Kavvin's tavern. You slipped in and made quick work of finding the young lad, working on sopping up a puddle of ale, and dashing over to him.

"Princess," he chuckled some, eyeing you up and down. "What's it for you tonight, then?"

"Send him down the Street, I wanna see how far he'll go," you smirked some, squeezing his elbow as you slipped him a Gold Dragon as a tip.

"All right," he shrugged. "Want a drink while you wait?"

"Oh, please, you and I both know that man takes the longest fucking strides in the bloody Realm," you laughed a bit, Kavvin nodding in agreement. "If I want to win, I've gotta go."

"Back door's open," he smirked, pointing you off.

In fact, he had to restrain a laugh when not a full five minutes later, Aemond was stalking into the tavern - eye sweeping the area. He decided that for tonight, he was on your side, and made himself busy with other customers to stave off telling Aemond anything.

However, nobody flagged Kavvin down when they noted the hooded man with one eye stalk up to him.

"My Prince," Kavvin greeted softly, tossing the cloth he was using over his shoulder. "You're out late, aren't you?"

"Hardly," Aemond sighed some.

"Well, you will be," the lad smirked.

"Where's she off to?"

Kavvin shrugged, and Aemond slapped a Gold Dragon to his hand. "Uh, think she made mention of... Well, now that I think on it, 's a bit fuzzy, yeah?"

"Where, Kavvin?" Aemond growled, another coin dropped to his hand.

"Hm, yes," he examined the coin, "think she said something about goin' off down the Street, yes?"

"No, she didn't."

"Swear it, honest," Kavvin nodded. "Said she wanted to see how far you'd go tonight. You do somethin' to piss her off, mate?"

"Not that I'm aware of - though, she might think 'twas I who told the Queen of our plans."

"Well, that makes little sense," Kavvin chuckled, "for even I know, the idea to leave this wretched city was your own..."

"She's an easier scape goat for the courts and help to gossip about," Aemond frowned a bit. "The Street, you said?"

"Street of Silk," Kavvin agreed softly, offering a coin back, "honest, that's where she said she was headin'."

Aemond nodded and turned, leaving the bartender with his hand extended; but it quickly recoiled with a smirk as Aemond took leave. After a chuckle, Kavvin thumbed the coin to flip in the air; catching it in a swipe, then turning as he pocketed his extra coins as a few men grew louder and sloshed ale around - leaving Kavvin in for a long night tending his bar.

The Street of Silk was alive tonight, as it was all other nights. Lowly lit torches hung on the walls lined your way; most wearing hoods and darkened colors to hide themselves. Whores and Mistresses hung out of doorways and windows; hollering, snarling, laughing at any passing customer.

You didn't often dare to venture down this way, but tonight was special; you were in it to win. So, you ducked down a darkened alley and knocked three times, in a specific pattern, at the wooden door.

A moment later, it pulled open.

"What're you doin' here?" Tiyana smirked to you, leaning on the doorway. "My brithday or sum'thin'? Here ta treat me, is it?"

"Not tonight, my sweet," you smirked. "Carry a message for me?"

"To who?"

"My husband."

"Ain't no way," she shrugged. "He don't come down this way, no, ma'am. Ain't nobody seen the One-Eyed Prince 'round these parts since - well..."

"Yeah, yes, yes, I know. But he'll come this way, and I need you to catch his eye. Tell him to go by the markets."

"Oh - I get it," she laughed. "You two playin' that game, innit? Yeah? You two li'l freaks, is it?"

"A bit," you mused softly. "Will you do as I've asked?"

"Gonna come back and entertain me a bit?"

Your head cocked, eyeing her up and down, "Perhaps - though, my husband is often insatiable."

"Say that like I haven't eaten his cum out your cunt before, hey?" She smirked. "All right, yeah, fine, I'll tell 'im if he comes ta see me, yeah?"

"You're my favorite for a reason," you smirked, holding your hand out.

"Lady," Tiyana gasped, weighing the gold in her hand. "Th-This is more than I make inna month, it is! What'chu givin' it ta me for?"

"You've always been loyal and discreet," you eased. "Don't fail me tonight, love."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she grinned. "You're a right Gods-sent Lady, you is. I'll tell yah husband what you want - markets, you said?"

"Yeah, the market stalls," you nodded. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, 'course," she smirked, nodding as you pushed off again into the city's streets.

This time, Aemond was slower to arrive on scene. He stood at the mouth of the rambunctious street, eyeing it with malcontent, but something in his stomach solidified and moved him forward. Bad thoughts and haunting memories swarmed Aemond's guts and mind, but still, he let his feet glide down the natural decline.

His eye surveyed the promiscuous activities around him, finding it would be the perfect place to catch you - but then, someone else was catching his eye.

She leaned in a low-bearing window, tits nearly fully popping out of her shirt; eyes rimmed in coal, and hair pulled off her neck. Her eyes ran over his hood and then noted the lack of an eye, motioning him forward. He didn't want to; there had been many who gestured to him all night, but for some reason, this was different... He glanced around, then moved forward.

"She's been to see you, Tiyana?"

"Not without you, Lord," the whore smirked, sitting herself on the window sill. "She's very loyal, that one."

"Being why you're helping her?"

"I'm helpin' yah both!" She laughed. "I want you both ta get laid, hey? So, listen, right? She went down that way," she pointed, "but said meet her in the markets?"

Aemond paused, lifting his gaze slowly. "Down that way?" He asked, pointing down the alley.

"Mhm - took a left, down there," Tiyana pointed, leaning out of the window a bit. "Can I ask something?"

Aemond sighed, glancing around them to the bustle of the drunken crowd. "Sure, what is it?"

"Why's it you two do this? Hey? Just wonderin' - life so bloody boring, you two need sex games?"

Aemond smirked a bit, "More like... We prefer to keep things interesting. You find new ways to get the blood pumping."

"I know a few ways," she smirked.

"I know," he whispered in agreement. "But you know the agreement - not without my wife."

"Wasn't tryna persuade yah, Princey, just wonderin' why yah's do this," she smirked.

"Keeps things... Fresh."

"Hmm," she nodded.

"Think a hunter and prey, yes?"

Tiyana grinned, "Ah, yes, there it is - yeah. All right, fair enough, my Prince. She went that way, but said markets."

"You're a hidden gem," Aemond smirked some, dropping more coins in her hand.

"And you two are me favorite customers," she winked. "Go on, get goin', she's waitin' on yah out there! Fuck 'er good for me, lad! Hey-hey!" She laughed loudly as Aemond pushed off, heading down the alley he was pointed towards.

Slowly, the sounds of the city fell behind him and Aemond noted the way this path took him closer to the water-ways. With a small smirk, he made a judgement call and ducked down a different alley; peering around to slink in the darkness.

Like a bloodhound on the scent after a weakening deer, the pair of you danced around one another; where one ducked into an alley, the other was tip-toeing away. He grew tired of waiting and decided to look around the market like you had said.

It was there in the maze of market stalls that you saw him, smirking as you quickly exchanged your cloak for a different colored one. From there, you picked up an abandoned basket and slunk around the outskirts of the stalls. You kept an eye on Aemond, moving when he did; keeping distance between you but feeling a little frisky.

So, you took a risk, and casually strolled by him as if intent on picking from the plum cart.

He didn't notice you; your eyes watching from under the hood as his tall figure allowed him to peer over heads. Again, you ducked around the few carts and stalls, just watching him for another moment.

Then, you ventured close to the apples... And again, Aemond was too busy glaring at a man who bumped into his shoulder to notice. You took another risk, and dared asking the vendor a question - voice clear on the air. Still, he did not notice.

After another few minutes of watching him turn in confusion, wondering where you could've gone, Aemond started towards the closest tavern - thinking maybe you were hidden in plain sight.

How right he was, but unknowing.

You crept around, exchanging your cloak again before jogging after your husband. However, when you peaked around the doorway of the tavern, you noticed how the white-haired man you loved and adored had effortlessly melted into the crowd, and now, you were back at a disadvantage.

Learning from past mistakes, you quickly turned and let your legs pump with effort to rush away from the markets.

Around a few corners and down two alleyways, you were arriving at the bay port - but only had a moment to recognize your surroundings before a hand clamped over your mouth as another quickly coiled around your middle to pin your arms.

You gasped into the calloused hand, feeling the strong chest slam into your back before forcing you back a few steps. With gritted teeth, you were slammed into the stone wall of one of the darkened alleyways. However, your eyes settled on your 'attacker' and quickly slitted. "Husband," you identified.

"Wife," Aemond smirked. "You're getting predictable, love."

"How'd you know?"

He shrugged, "I felt your eyes on me in the markets and figured I could blend in at the tavern. From there, I knew you'd follow to keep an eye on me, so, I waited, and when I saw you rush away, I took a shortcut."

"Mhm," you hummed, lifting your chin as he leered over you. "I did learn something tonight."

"What's that, my darling?"

"You blend in rather effortlessly when your hair's covered," you muttered as he slowly stepped closer so you were nearly cowering into the brick behind you. "Might do us well, after all... Should we choose to leave..."

Aemond's one hand rose to hold your jaw as the other planted against the wall to corral you to him. "You say that as if my mind's changed."

"Has it?"

"Not in the slightest," he promised, petting his thumb over your lips to catch the bottom one. "Where you go, I go, and away from this wretched fucking city is where I want us to be."

"You'd leave them?" You asked with a smirk. "Leave your family? For me?"

"For my own family?" He corrected, nodding, "Yes, I would've left yesterday if I knew."

"How fucked everything has become?" You whispered sadly, lifting a hand to pet down his collarbone and rest against his pectoral.

"Something like that," he nodded, lifting a knee to separate your legs. "You'd go with me? When the time comes, you'd go with me?"

With a sigh, you nodded, trying not to grind down on his thigh. "Anywhere, my Prince - anywhere you want, we'll go."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you all but whimpered as the hand that once caressed your skin then moved to a bruising grip around your neck.

"Hold still," he nodded, "I won, yes?"

"Mhm."

"Then hold still while I claim my prize," he smirked, yanking his dagger from under his cloak and slowly dragging the pointed tip down your stomach. He didn't press hard, instead, dragging it between your skin and the cloth of your trousers. "Good girl," he crooned as he let the dagger's blade slit the seam of your pants.

"Aemond," you glanced up the alley nervously, body nearly trembling from anticipation.

"Shhh," he nodded, leaning in to breath in your scent. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other working to literally cut a slit in your trousers; letting his tongue flatten against your pulse point.

"Aemond," you whimpered, holding onto him tightly.

"Good girl," he purred again, sheathing his dagger and letting his hand drop again to then pet up your dampening slit from outside the cloth of clothing. "Easier, yeah?" He smirked against your ear, breathing deeply as he let his pointer finger push into your heat, praising, "So warm for me. But I need you wetter than this to take you - don't wanna hurt you, pet."

You groaned a little, holding onto him while keeping a leg up his hip. "What if someone sees?" You whispered against his mouth, practically mewling like a bitch in heat.

"Let them," he nodded, "all they'd see is a man, pleasuring his wife." Your breathing subtly changed as his mouth hung over your ear, promising, "Splitting her in two, watching as she takes his cock so fucking well. That's all they'd see, pet."

"Fuck."

"Hmm, fuck you how?" He smirked, letting a second finger join his first. "Want me to bend you over? Fuck you on the floor? Find those barrels back there?"

"Against the wall, want you t'take me against the wall," you nodded, a sheen of sweat slowly forming over your skin. "Wanna feel you in my fuckin' lungs, yeah?"

"Whatever my pretty girl wants, she gets," Aemond growled, slapping your hands off him and readjusting you two. "C'mon, love, earn it - up, jump up, c'mon." When you did, he caught you easily, grunting, "Atta girl. Hang on," he panted then, pressing you against the wall as he adjusted to hold you against the wall while freeing his cock.

"Aemond, please, please," you begged softly, holding his jaw with both hands, "Gods, I need you to fuck me so bad."

"C'mere," he seethed, hoisting you a little higher to adjust his cock at your (cloth-cut) entrance. You both gave guttural moans as he let you sink onto him, grinding your hips into his to better adjust. "Fuckin' grippin' me too tight, love," he growled, hands squeezing your hips as you kept hold of his neck and shoulders.

"Gonna last f'me?"

"Might just have to pump you full, hmm?" He smirked, using his chest to slam into yours and righten your spine. His hand shot up to constrict around your neck, the other used to hold you on his hips; making your legs work overtime to stay atop him.

"Oh, Gods, fuck," you whimpered, hood still over both your heads as Aemond rammed into you.

"Told you - wasn't wet enough," he cursed in your ear.

"Feels fuckin' amazing, please, don't stop," you begged him, hearing his small grunts and growls start up as both hands moved to hold either thigh and keep you spread against the wall. "Oh, my Gods," you sobbed, truly unsure if you were feeling pleasured or not from the feeling of Aemond fucking through you.

"Ah, fuck, fuck," he hissed, hips stuttering as he met his first orgasm.

"Wow... That was record time," you teased quietly when he paused to keep you full to the hilt of his emptying cock.

"I warned yah," he smirked some, readjusting his hold as sweat coated his skin. "My cum just makes you wetter, hey? Yeah, look at that," he hissed, eye cutting down to watch his cock slowly pull back; revealing webs of cum between you and him.

Your hands pawed at his neck, tugging him forward; whining against his mouth, "I need more, please."

He smirked, "Gonna be a good girl and hold it all in until we get back to the Keep?"

You whispered, "What if I can't?"

"I'll just have to fill you again..." His cock twitched, making his throat bob. "Want your belly swollen with our kid, 's 'bout time, isn't it? For the Gods to bless us?"

"Yet you talk of leaving the city - "

"All the more reason," he promised, still holding you spread as he let his hips start up again; rutting into you slowly. "Protect you, protect our kid," he muttered into your neck, "get away from this fucking place - be safe. Be together - oh shit," he moaned.

"Yeah," you grinned, holding him to your neck; clenching your muscles to make him whine, "that's right, emotional intimacy turns you on, doesn't it? Hey?"

"Fuck - yes, yes, it does," he promised, starting to pick up his pace. "Just want you pregnant already, fuck's sake."

"Then fill me," you purred, clenching your teeth when his fully-swollen cock once more stabbed through you. "I wanna make you a Daddy."

"Shit," he breathed, turning his head when he heard noises; but did not stop. Three men and two women stumbled down the alley, drunk, cooing when they saw the couple against the wall.

"Ye-ahhh!" One leered.

"Give it to 'er!" Another hollered.

"Fucking fill me," you followed right after in his ear. "Oh, fuck, yes, please, right there," you hissed as he pinned you harder to the cold stone behind you, the group of five passing with their eyes glued to the pair of you. It was oddly erotic, spurring Aemond on as your mouth hung open in a silent scream.

His balls jackhammered into the wet apex of your cunt as his arms all but braced against you to keep you in place. You were moldable, you were limp, you were taunt with pleasure at the same time; you were a twitching, moaning mess when feeling returned to your limbs as his thumb found your clit.

"Take it, I know my girl can take it," Aemond growled, humping up into you to create friction at that special, gummy spot on your inner walls. "Oh, so fuckin' good, just take it, my precious girl," he praised, hearing the group still stumbling about at the other end of the alley.

"Why don't you fuck me like that?" One of the girls growled in annoyance.

"I can't hold yah like tha', by the Gods," her partner laughed.

Your hand slapped outward against the stone when your husband rubbed your clit in time with his thrusts; letting his mouth open slightly to bite at your shoulder and encourage you to do the same.

You came with a cry, mouth full of his shoulder's flesh; rolling your hips into his with your booted heels pressing into the meat of his arse as waves of pleasure rippled across your beings. Aemond wasn't far behind and when his cock was almost strangled by the clenching of your walls, he came for a second time.

It was enough for you both, panting in effort as your legs were numb. Aemond slowly pulled out of you, hearing you stutter to breath as his cum instantly pumped out to drip onto the pavement beneath you.

"Gods," Aemond breathed in shock, watching the puddle slowly grow.

"Ah!" You yelped when he lowered you, and your legs gave way; his arms darting out to instantly cling onto you as the back of your head thumped into the wall.

"Shit, love, all right?" His hand pressed to the tender spot as you pouted some. The group that watched had since passed, leaving you alone again with split trousers that grew wetter from the ooze of cum. Aemond was trying to catch his breath and support you at the same time, readjusting your clothes for you best he could. "Got it, love?"

"Can't feel my bloody legs," you complained lightly.

"C'mere, I've got you," he promised, arms tight around your waist. "Did good tonight, pet."

"But I lost?"

"'S not about winning or losing, in the end, we both reap benefits, yes?" You nodded. "And as you said, tonight gave you reassurance we could blend in across the Narrow Sea, did it not?"

"It did," you agreed. "But I want to wait until next month, I want to know if it's stuck."

"I'll fuck you everyday until then, yes? Breed you, like I know you want me to," he smirked, one arm holding you up to walk in front of him as the other fingered down the crack of your arse. "Keep walking, don't make a scene," he whispered in your ear, pushing his fingers into your cunt as you lead the way through King's Landing. It wasn't the most comfortable, but Aemond made it doable; pausing in another alleyway to push your chest to the stone wall.

"Aemond," you cursed his name into the wall brushing your cheek.

"Easy," he chuckled, nudging your feet apart. "Take me once more and I'll carry you home."

"Aemond?" You reared back a little when his hardened cock pushed into you again.

"What do you need?"

Your hand raised to pet over his cheek, back bowed to hold yourself up and keep him inside you. "Make me a Mommy, please," you whispered, earning a sharp slap to your arse cheek before his hands seized control of your hips.

"Hold it in this time, then," he teased, starting to thrust into you like a wild horse; bucking his hips into yours to create ripples across your flesh. It seemed as if your frantic motions in the middle of the alley deterred anyone from turning down it, leaving a brief moment of privacy in the sweltering city night.

One of his hands slithered up your front to fondle your breast, tweaking a nipple until you were nearly collapsing into the wall. Aemond had to hold you slightly as you bent lower, almost desperate to take him to the hilt as you fucked back against him - and he took full advantage of your new position.

Aemond kept his feet with your own, hands on your hips; thrusting harder into you as sweat beaded on his skin to roll down his pearly flesh. "Fuck, Gods be fucking good," he cursed, "how's it you're this tight, still? Hey?"

You whimpered wordlessly, gasping when one of Aemond's thumbs came to gently rim around your puckered hole. He didn't often let himself explore your arse, but sometimes, to catch you off guard, he liked testing your limits. After making him venture down the Street of Silk by himself, he figured a little payback was in order.

A stranger started down the alley and actually paused to watch the pair of you, Aemond's spit being spat from his mouth onto your holes; winking in the distant moonlight.

"Take it," Aemond growled when your legs gave way, and sent you both careening into the dirty floor. It only spurred him on further.

"Don't stop," the stranger recommended, loosening his breeches to take his cock out and pump himself to life.

Aemond, fully enraptured with the feel of your cunt, let his hand latch onto the back of your neck to hold you in place as he thrust harder, harder, harder into you. Your hips bruised from the way he pounded you into the cobblestone, growling as he glanced at the stranger.

"Oh, shit," the man nodded, pumping faster. "Yeah - look me in the eyes, mate, that's it."

"The fuck?" You whispered, glancing up to watch.

"Eyes on him, Princess," Aemond demanded, fully hunched over you as he felt his stomach's coil tighten; informing you, "almost there, precious girl, keep bein' a good fuckin' girl - oh, ah fuckin' Hell!"

"Oh, yeah," the stranger nodded. "Can I cum on her, mate?"

"You wanna die?" Aemond snapped.

"Lemme use her mouth," the stranger complained, head tossed back and eyes screwed shut. "Betta yet, lemme a turn!"

Aemond gasped behind you, stalling his hips into the meat of your bum while letting his cock pump you full of his seed. He recovered much quicker than you, kissing your temple as he unsheathed himself from your velvet warmth to stand, tuck himself away, and stride up to the man still masturbating to the sight of your swollen, dripping cunt.

"Woah - hang on - wait, wait, wait!" The man gasped as Aemond stabbed him non-fatally in the ribs.

"Go - before I decide I need your life for even looking at her," he sneered, shoving the man away while yanking his dagger free. A splatter of blood echoed in-between your heaving breaths.

When he turned back, he smirked at the sight of you; fucked-out and unable to find your feet, limp on the dirt-riddled cobblestone. "You didn't have to do that," you told him softly when he neared you to adjust what was left of the tatters of your clothes.

"I did," he smirked. "C'mere, up yah get. Think my wife's earned a hot bath, don't you?"

"Will you join me?" You asked, letting him lift you bridal style. The cloak was long enough that when he picked you up, it covered your cum-soaked hole in his arms.

"I can't resist you, pet," he frowned, "we wouldn't be doin' much cleaning, hey?"

"So?" You smirked, arms tight around his neck. "I want to make you a Daddy, Aemond, best we... Do our due diligence, yes?"

"You make a fair point, Princess," he smirked. "If you can handle it, I'll fuck you the rest of the night, yes?"

"I'm an orgasm behind," you reminded softly as he chose a lesser-used secret entrance into the Red Keep.

"Hm, yes, I seem to owe you one," he smirked in agreement. "Better stay awake, then."

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond hotd #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #hotd smut #hotd x reader #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader

[lariej]

Ghost’s Manc Accent Guide (ish)

listen i’ve seen a few guides written for this fandom regarding writing Soap’s Scottish accent and yeah fair BUT i have not seen one done for writing a manc accent for Ghost yet!!

this is very much gonna be half arsed because while I myself am not a manc, i have grown up in the north west of england and literally my entire family is (Bolton/Denton on my dads side, Sale on my mums) but it might help some people

if something is from Manchester it is Mancunian - just an extra word to use instead of ‘from Manchester’ in writing (also whenever i see it written in fics i go ‘oh damn this author knows what they’re on about’)

now my experience with manc accents as i said before is Bolton/Denton and Sale which have their differences from a Central Manchester accent. to my knowledge we don’t know what area Ghost is from so i could be wrong here

BUT!! generally, mancunian accents will drop Hs at the beginning of words

‘don’t be hanging about’ ends up sounding more like ‘don’t be ‘angin’ about’

one of the most common things I’ve seen is dropping the G at the end of -ing words as well (as seen about with hanging)

you get the classic northern “fuckin ‘ell!”through this which absolutely Ghost would say

this next one might not be a central manchester thing but it IS something i’ve heard my dad do so if you’re writing Ghost with a heavier accent from the outer regions of Manchester this could be of some use to you

‘you was’, ‘I were’, ‘we was’ - just fucking around with the grammar rules really, I’ve found it’s usually with the heavier accents and when ur getting a bit ‘lazier’ with speaking - definitely a very informal thing

also - we don’t say y’all. it is very much not a typical thing for someone to use y’all unless they have a lot of interaction with american content on social media which i doubt Ghost does

instead consider ‘yous’ - this might be more from where i’m from (Lancashire - further up north about a county over from Greater Manchester) but yous/yers are something u hear - again though, very informal and slang like, rarely hear adults say it

I’m not gonna go into much detail with specific mancunian slang simply bc i wasn’t raised there so my knowledge of it is spotty aside from what my family uses but:

arse not ass

can’t be arsed - can’t be bothered

piss off - self explanatory, fuck off

add ‘absolutely’ to damn near anything and u will have a phrase for drunk - go tos are ‘wankered’ ‘fucked’ ‘pissed/pissed up’

bollacks - balls but also can be used as and exclamation when stuff goes wrong

‘shits gone tits up’ - stuff has definitely gone wrong

‘fuck sake’ - usually said with great exasperation and annoyance, emphasis when speaking is on the ‘sake’

hope this helps someone!! and if anyone has any corrections or additions please do let me know!!

Edit: Lots more info and help in the reblogs!! I’ve been updating this post recently!!

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw ghost #cod mw

[oonajaeadira]

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 1: Spring

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: eventually Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: T for now

Warnings: Mostly just Ellie being a swear mouth. There’s a lamb birthing. Fluff…this fic is sloooooow.

Summary: Joel and Ellie return to Jackson and you introduce them to the sheep.

A/N: Set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although I claim the right to steal ideas and bits of cannon from the second game if I want to for plot reasons later.

Here it is, y’all. Not much happens. It’s just life in Jackson. There’s more Ellie here than Joel, but that’s because I figure Joel wouldn’t even turn his head toward someone if Ellie didn’t love her first. I’m just setting the stage for healing, for giving Ellie and Joel a nice home and good things. Nothing happens. Life is slower and softer here. Welcome to the Roost.

You were there when Tommy Miller was ushered–bloodied and busted–by the patrol through the gates of Jackson. The hard steel of Maria’s eyes through the slit between her hat and kerchief found you in the crowd and told you with a glance, I know what I’m doing. Meet me at home.

“Yeah, he’s one of them,” you’d confirmed to her later that afternoon as one of the Roostlings tended to his split lip and eyebrow in her living room. “I say we leave him to the coyotes.”

You’d trusted them once upon a time, the Fireflies. But your experiences with them were a deep education in morals and humanity. What you’ve come to believe is that everyone has an equal right to life and compassion and protection. And you might not have found that in yourself if the Fireflies hadn’t come through your papa���s ranch touting that sentiment but living up to a totally different set of rules, one where everyone had an equal expendability for the greater good of the survival of the species.

Fuck the species. If humans were meant to die out, then they would. Nothing is permanent. Not civilization or any one species, not even the mountains that surround your town–even the wind and rain would take them someday. All you can do is be good to those here and now, nurture what you have, and mourn what you lose with a little humility and gratefulness that you got to enjoy it in the first place. There’s already enough suffering. Why add to it? Or prolong it? Just let us all wane with kindness and compassion. Spend our days eating good food and caring for sheep, wildflowers swaying in the sunshiney breeze and stars twinkling at night–

“You go somewhere, Meadowlark?” Tommy teases as he passes you a plate of honey-glazed carrots, bean salad, and egg souffle, breaking you out of your reverie. You’ve come to prefer his tamales, but Maria wanted to use up some of last year’s supplies, so this Sunday’s family meal is harvest plate.

“I was just thinking about the day you came to Jackson.”

Leaning back in the wooden dining room chair, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, his smug little smile is insufferable. “You wanted my hide on a fence.”

“Stretched and tanned. Could have been useful for patching boots at least.”

“What was it changed your mind again? Oh yeah. Weatherproofing the storehouse, building out your Roost, constructing a working loom–”

“It was the cornbread. And maybe the tamales.” Keeping a deadpan glare between you while stabbing a carrot and taking a bite, you point your fork at your best friend. “And you’re good to my girl here.”

Maria chuckles through a mouthful, shaking her head down at her plate like a mother trying not to let two warring siblings know how amusing they are. “I regret everything. And nothing.” The same dark eyes that glinted with reservation on Tommy’s first day hold back none of her big, tough heart as they seek him out now. “But speaking of mending shoes…you reminded me. Tommy’s brother came by while you were at the Roost.”

Your fork, halfway to your mouth, drifts back down to the plate. “Joel? Here? How’d he find you?”

Tommy answers carefully, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “He didn’t, really. Patrol found him. Him and a teenager. They were looking for the Fireflies because…the girl belongs to them or something. Used my last known location and headed out west.”

“From Boston? On foot? And he survived?”

“All the stories I’ve told you about him and that’s what surprises you?”

Tommy’d been an open book from day one, answering Maria’s questions about his background, the QZs he’d lived in, why he felt the need to leave the Fireflies. As they’d grown closer and he joined in your family dinners, there were stories traded from the beforetimes, about his construction business with his brother, how his niece’s death changed them both, the things they’d done to good people just to survive. He held nothing back and owned up to his mistakes. Although he often blamed Joel for actions he willingly took part in. Still, admitted that he used his army training to teach Joel to shoot and unwittingly turned him into a killing machine.

But even so, he missed him. You could see that. Tommy missed his big brother. Wished it could be different, that he could have changed him, brought Joel back from his numbness before it was too late. Best he could do was run away from his regret, swing the other way and try to even out all his wrongs…but then found out that the Fireflies weren’t the answer to any of it. And despite all Tommy had admitted to doing, it was this ability to forgive, to take some fraction of responsibility, and to shelter his light through the darkness that Maria took a shine to.

You involuntarily glance toward the living room, toward the mantle where there’s a polaroid of a ruggedly handsome thirty-five year old man and a girl in fluffy brown pigtails. “Shit, Tommy. You think he’ll head back here?”

“Said he was counting on it.”

There’s a somber silence at the table as everything comes to a halt. Maria’s not exactly chilly, just… reserved. Ah. They’ve already been talking about it.

“Should I be congratulating you on a family reunion or….?”

The sudden winter of their discontent warms to a spring as your old friend goes back to her plate. “Well, it’s yet to be determined. Of course he’s welcome here, but not if he brings trouble.”

“He’s not going to bring trouble, sweetheart. You should have seen him that night we talked. He’s got demons chasing him, but he’s tired of running. He needs good people. We’re good people.”

“Unless he finds those Fireflies and they take him in first,” you interject. “Seems to me they’re just like everyone else, and a man who’s that good at mindless, morally-gray protection is a valuable asset.”

That sets him laughing, breaking the tension, throwing you unexpectedly off-guard after you’d just darkly insulted his kin. “Joel? Join the Fireflies? Not a chance in heaven, hell, or all the shit between! He’ll be back. He’s an asshole, but he’s my brother and I know him. He’ll be back. You’ll see.”

________

The day after coming back from your next shift at the Roost, you find yourself ass to the mud on the street outside the Jackson stables. Two bodies–yours, and that of a larger child–rounding a corner in colliding trajectories. You’d been fiddling with the buttons on your walkie, not watching where you were going, your boots taking you home the way they’ve done for years.

But she’d been moving fast–not running, but walking with that speed that teenagers are only capable of when they’re stomping off in a probable fit of angry hormones.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she curses, diving for your wayward walkie and the batteries that spit out all over the ground as you get yourself up and your ass dusted off. “Here,” she says, clumsily dumping a cluster of plastic and tech into your hands. “I hope I didn’t break it. Are you like one of the marshals here or something?”

A quick rummage through the jumble in your hands shows no damage and you start pumping the batteries back in, casting a glance around for the compartment cover. “Not quite.” Seeing what you need a few feet away on the ground, you nod at it. “Would you mind getting that cover, miss…er… You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”

“Ellie.” She watches with interest as you clip the walkie back together and push the activation switch. “I’ve never seen one that small.”

“It’s actually an old kid’s toy. Meadowlark to Whippoorwill,” you mumble into the walkie, your lips nearly touching the plastic speaker, “just had a butterfingers. Testing the walkie.”

“What’s a butterfingers? Are those like code names?” Ellie asks.

Her eyes–black and sparkling–hold your own, a tense moment for both of you as you both hope for different reasons that the machine still works. “Something like that.”

“Whippoorwill here,” comes the voice through the can. “I hear you. Actually need a favor. Send a change of clothes through patrol tomorrow. The big one finally popped and she was a gusher.”

“Damn! I missed it by one damn day? Shit. One or two?”

“Three!”

“Uuuugh. Well that’s just fuckin’ fantastic. Glad you were there to catch ‘em, Whip. This is gonna be a good year. I think Hank’s on the round over there tomorrow. I’ll go pawing through your closet and send some things along.” Starting off in the direction of your friend’s house, you wave back at your new acquaintance. “See ya, Ellie. Nice to meet you. Take it slow around those corners, ‘hear?”

_____

The run-in wouldn’t have been memorable but for the next night when you show up at Maria and Tommy’s place for family dinner, carrying a warm basket of muffins, happy and singing to yourself as you dance in through the door…and come to a stop when four pairs of dark eyes turn to you from the dining room.

Guests? At family dinner? A man and–“Hey there…Ellie, right? Fancy meeting you here…”

The girl smiles from her seat at the table, waving with a hand covered by the sleeve of her raglan top. “Hi.”

“Oh. You know each other,” Maria says, lifting the basket out of your hands. “Then you must have met–”

No. You haven’t met him. But he stands up from the table, wiping a hand on his jeans and extending it to receive yours. Manners. Polite. That’s unexpected knowing the little that you know. His hair is gray now and he’s a bit softer around the middle, more gravity in the cheeks. His ample shoulders have taken weight over the years–literal and emotional.

No, you haven’t met him. But you know him. You’d know those eyes anywhere; studied them in an old polaroid on the mantle just over there. Soft but strong. A good person from another lifetime who was scarred deeply by this one. Someone who cut his soul right down to the quick in order to keep others alive. Those eyes may be a bit more haunted now, but they’re still just as keen.

You never stopped to think that you might someday meet them in person.

“Hi. You must be Joel.” _____

It’s the girls at the table that notice your interest. If left unchecked, your eyes wander across and start to examine the gorilla grip on the fork, the protective hunch over the plate, the beard that’s been newly trimmed and hair recently shaped up (by Maria, no doubt), the scars across the knuckles…temple…nose…

The man’s been through hell and back since the polaroid.

Ellie though…is unscathed, unmarred.

Protected.

And observant. She finally smirks the third time she catches you staring.

Maria’s knee bumps yours to reign you in. He’s not a threat, her eyes say.

This isn’t the time to correct her assumptions, so you put all your focus on your plate or whomever is speaking, whatever isn’t Joel Miller.

“Tomorrow’s work is barrier wall on zone two,” Tommy chews both his words and his venison at the same time. “Once we’ve got that fortified, internal barrier can come down and we can incorporate it as a new section, start safely upgrading the housing there. It’s got a school facility. Be nice to restore that for its intended use instead of using the old record store.”

“Sounds good, count me in,” Joel grunts once he’s politely swallowed his mouthful. “Just put a hammer in my hand and point me at a wall.”

“Just like the good days, eh, brother?”

“Sure.”

“I could swing a hammer” Ellie pipes up.

“You can go to school.”

She scowls darkly at Joel. “Your face can go to school.”

“Ellie–”

“Whippoorwill to Meadowlark.” The walkie on your hip crackles to life and you swallow quickly as all forks stop and all eyes swing to you.

“Meadowlark here. I hear you.”

“Wanted to let you know that all three lambs are hale and made it through the night. Mom’s a little restless, but they’re all safe in the enclosure and I’m doing a sit-in.”

“Thanks for the update. Good to know. You’re in the lead.”

“I know, but Chickadee comes in next week and I bet she takes it. Anyway. Thanks for the clothes and the book, I knew I forgot something. I’ll leave you be unless there’s any change.”

“I’m giving the walkie to Chickadee tomorrow, so you’ll have to egg her on.”

“You know I will. Whippoorwill out.”

Once the radio goes silent, there’s a mix of reactions around the table; pleasant surprise from Maria and Tommy, Joel on guard, his eyes flicking between you and the others waiting to know what it all means, and Ellie’s head twisting around, trying to catch up.

“Three?” Maria trills. “You didn’t tell me there were three new lambs!”

“Yeah. Just missed them. Whip got to do the honors–”

“The big one popped! She was a gusher!” Ellie smiles as the table turns to her. “You were talking about sheep pooping out babies?”

“Ellie, manners. People are eating.” Her guardian glares at her before checking in sheepishly with Maria.

“It’s fine,” you make her excuse. “Ellie head us over the walkies yesterday and–”

“So what’s with the code names?”

The girl is practically vibrating out of her chair with curiosity.

This time it’s your turn to be scrutinized by the newcomers; two pairs of brown eyes hungry for answers.

So you explain while you pick at your dinner.

“There’s a wide acreage outside the settlement walls, on the west patrol loop. We have a good herd of sheep out there. Can’t raise ‘em all in town, there’s not enough room or grazing, although if the winter’s bad, we’ll bring ‘em in to some barns over at the old ranch house.

“But there’s four of us shepherds, each one taking a week at a time out there. Doesn’t require much. Sheep do the hard work of eating and sleeping and rearing their lambs. We do the shearing and milking, send back daily gallons with the patrols–that’ll be the cheese on your salad there. But mostly just make sure they’re healthy and taken care of. Scare off wolves and coyotes if they come sniffing.”

“You go out there alone?” She asks, wide-eyed.

“Sure. It’s pretty secure and the patrols check the fences every day. The Roost is added security for us, since it’s elevated.”

“What’s the Roost?”

“Ah, it’s kind of a fancy treehouse?”

“Thanks to me, I’ll add,” Tommy pipes up. “When I got here, it was nothing more than a shack on a platform. This one here had a target on my back until the day she had four stout walls and a pretty little porch. Won her over pretty quick.”

“Stick built?” Joel asks, shoving a fingerling potato in his mouth.

“Yeah. Reinforced. A-frame. Even pulled windows out of a lodge.”

“Smart.”

Ellie obviously has no time for Construction Corner with the Millers. “You don’t get scared?”

There’s something about her eager wonder that grabs your attention, pulls you in tight, makes you want to answer whatever question she’s got. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, not for us anyway. All of us Roostlings grew up around here. We know the sounds of the animals at night, know they’re more scared of us than we are of them. We’ve seen infected out in the wilds, sure, know what to listen for, but we also know how to defend ourselves if the barriers don’t hold…and they always hold.

“But mostly, it’s relaxing. Quiet. Slow. Time to think. There’s nothing better than a night suspended in the treetops, with the sheep below and the moon and the stars above….”

Joel has stopped chewing, a wistfulness showing from underneath his gruff mask. There’s something thrilling about catching his attention.

A goofy smile cracks Ellie’s face and she giggles, reaches out to punch him on the arm. “Did you hear that? Sheep and stars. It’s everything you dreamed of, buddy!”

“I didn’t mean…” he winces at her brute force and shoots a guarded look at you. “I think I’ll leave the sheep to the shepherds. You said you grew up here?”

It’s the first thing he’s really said to you unprompted and now that you have an excuse to look him in the eye, it’s actually hard to do. “Ah, yeah. Family sheep ranch down in…well, down-river. Not far. Maria too.”

“Spent a lot of time at that ranch growing up,” she smiles. “You and your sister were bad influences.”

“Is that why you up and left us for the big city?”

Maria laughs. “Had to get out before I spent my whole life here. Whoops.”

Joel reins the conversation back. “So you haven’t spent any time in the QZs?”

“No. Holed up at the ranch with…with some folks,” you say as Maria looks away. “Then Jackson was starting up and it was safer here, so I brought in my flock.”

“Hmm,” he grunts, reading your expression, catching the slight omission in your speech. Recognizing survivor’s talk.

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, wondering what your answer is worth to him. You’ve heard of the quarantine zones, knew how rough and miserable they could be. Tommy and Maria both had their stories and you count yourself lucky for never having been unfortunate enough to have to scrabble for existence in one of them. Would have languished and suffocated. Wouldn’t have been able to breathe without the big sky, or sleep without the mountains keeping watch…

Does he think you naive? Or that–wrongly–you’ve had it easy? Does your answer tip the scales in his opinion for the worse?

And what about him? Has the QZ made him dangerous? Hard? Dishonest? Tommy always said he was an asshole…

“Can I see it?” Ellie interjects. “The Roost. Can I go out there with you?”

The question is surprising in more ways than one; most noticeably in its boldness and by your shock in a kid getting so excited about sheep. “Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, that’s why there’s a bunk bed. We bring folks out there all the time. But you have to be willing to work while you’re out there.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joel grumbles with a tight jaw, stabbing a potato with his fork.

Maria had explained to you the circumstances of Joel carting the girl across the country. To get her that far unscathed? To get her to the Fireflies… He must not have found them or he would have come back alone. Maybe they were dead.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

The girl is smart. Better off here.

But it seems no amount of time can take the father out of the man and he’s fallen into the role for her pretty hard, his jaw twitching as he balances between politeness and worry.

“It’s completely safe, brother. Walled in. Patrolled. In communication, as you’ve witnessed. And the Roostlings are all pretty skilled with a shotgun. She’ll be fine. Might do her some good.”

“Come on, Joooooooel. It’s sheeeeeeeep. In a treehouuuuuu-suh.”

He takes his time chewing. Keeps his eyes on his plate.

“We’ll see.”

“Well,” you smile, winking at the girl across from you, “I just got off my shift, so you’ve got three weeks to warm up to the idea before I go back.”

“Do I get a codename?” She wiggles in her seat, grinning hard at Joel, goading him.

“Sure. I don’t know. You’re pretty spikey. How about Thistle?”

“What?” This dismays her and gets a choke–and then a chuckle–out of Joel. “Why can’t I have a bird name?”

“Because you’re not a Roostling. You have to earn your wings.”

This sets her jaw in a challenge. “Oh. I’ll earn it. I’ll earn it so hard you don’t even know. Bring it on. Take me to the fluffy bastards.”

“Ellie, dammit!”

_____

“So, he’s, uh….” you hand a dish to Maria so she can dry.

“Less than personable?” She finishes, keeping her voice down so as not to be heard by the brothers chatting on the back porch.

“Got some adjusting to do if he’s gonna fit in here, I was going to say.”

“He makes you nervous though. I can tell.”

“No. Not…like that…I just…” It’s best to avoid her keen eye, but catch her surprise out of the corner of yours. “It’s just–”

“My oldest friend in this god-forsaken world,” she declares, throwing the dishtowel on the counter and settling hands on hips. “You are telling me that? That is the man that is turning your head?”

“No. That’s not…He’s…” a growl of frustration follows, trying to scare your thoughts into cohesive order as you scrub glaze out of a pan. “It doesn’t happen that often, you know? Someone from the past showing up and there’s all this…change. I mean, he’s not really from our history, but you’ve had that picture of him and his daughter sitting out and there’s this face from the past just…looming. Like, there was this man who lived and worked construction and then the worst day happened and his child was killed and the person he was just got…replaced with that guy. It’s…I’m just morbidly fascinated by what twenty years in a post-hell society can do to someone. I mean…that smile in the polaroid…he was so warm and healthy…”

It isn’t until this moment that you realize what Maria begins to surmise. The pan and washcloth are abandoned.

“So you’ve had a crush on a man from the past all this time, making your castles in the sand. And you’re disappointed that he showed up and was that.”

She generously and lovingly gives you the time to think.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He’s still good looking, so you have to give me a little slack there. But I don’t know him. Didn’t know him. It’s just an interesting thing, you know? A little fantasy of the beforetimes? One that didn’t really line up way I imagined it?”

Maria begins to laugh kindly and quietly. Then a little less kindly and a lot less quietly. “Oh shit, that man came here for sanctuary and didn’t know he walked into a full-on trap.”

“Hey!”

“No. No. That’s not fair and I’m sorry,” she concedes, taming her laughter somewhat unsuccessfully. “Just go easy on him, okay? He’s Tommy’s brother.”

“Well, then that’s as good a reason as any for me to stay on my side of the creek bed. And, to be fair, those other guys? They came after me first. I have no interest in men that have no interest in me. So it looks like he’s safe.”

“For now,” she smirks. “But. If Tommy keeps me up at night complaining that you’ve busted a bottle over his brother’s head–”

“That was one time! And that guy was a fucking jerk!”--now you’re both laughing–”Which, I guess, yeah, if Joel’s as much an asshole as Tommy says, then maybe I should play it safe and apologize to y’all in advance!”

Thank goodness you have each other to lean on, or you’d both be rolling on the floor in a cackling mess. _____

It only takes a fistful of days and as many shy nods in passing around town for a knock to come at your door one evening.

“Well…hey there….Mr. Miller. What can I do for you this evening?”

The generated streetlights don’t come all the way down your block, and he blinks in the candlelight coming from your open door, his jaw gaping slightly before sealing shut, blocking any words that want to come.

Stepping back, you let the door open wider for him. “I was just putting a snack together. You wanna come in?”

“No, I..don’t…”

You’ve seen this look before from folks new to Jackson. From folks who’ve had to keep what they have to survive. Folks who lived among others who would never offer up anything for free without the expectation of payback and therefore have forgotten–or perhaps never experienced–the simple joy of receiving hospitality.

“You don’t want to come in? Or you don’t want to eat my cooking? Because I’d be offended by either.”

Walking away from the open door has the desired effect and he finds his way to the front room sofa in view of the kitchen on his own.

It allows you to watch him check off the boxes as you put together a tray. Telltale sign of the long-hauler as he scans the rooms for exits and places where a threat could be hiding. Check. Then the sign of the QZoner as he studies his surroundings, taking in a home that’s lived in but not damaged by twenty years of decay or depression. Check.

That finally leaves him open to be vulnerable, and you watch to see if he’ll allow himself to be at ease.

The way his fingers curl and uncurl on his knees, how he looks away when you catch his eye.

You wonder if he’ll ever really sink in. Having family here will help.

“You drink, Joel Miller?”

“Depends,” he answers vaguely, but nods with certainty.

Your offering is simple, rye crackers on a plate, a disk of sheep’s milk cheese with a knife in it, two tumblers, and a bottle of sunshine.

“You all are sure generous with your whiskey around here,” he comments as you pour him a full glass.

“Not whiskey. Cider.”

He frowns. “Cider? You make this?”

“I’m not that talented,” you wave your hand over the cheese and crackers. “As you can see, this is what I consider cooking. Like most things here, I traded for it. There’s an orchard a ride out. Gone wild. It gets harvested once a year and there’s a cider press in town. Couple of ladies spend a good month canning and bottling.”

“Seems like the women run the show around here,” he says, impressed, taking a sip and then staring hard at the glass. “Holy shit.” You’re not sure at first if that’s a good or bad expression until he goes in for another drink.

“That make you nervous? Ladies brewing up the good stuff?” You only laugh at his impression of a deer in the headlights. “I suppose if you’ve spent enough time around Maria, it’s easy to think that. It’s just a very empowered place for everyone. Everyone’s got something to contribute that gives them some pride and gets them some respect. And I guess, in that way, you don’t have to worry about Ellie here. I can tell she’s gonna find her place and do just fine.”

“That’s actually what I came by for,” he says, distracted by the cider. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink of something that doesn’t burn?”

“It’s sweet, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been a minute since I had anything sweet.”

You let that hang, watch him examine the amber liquid…or, rather, a memory swirling in its depths.

Twenty years of a broken heart can’t be good for a person.

“You came to talk about Ellie?”

It takes him a second to realize you’re addressing him, but he only nods, and finishes the glass. When you pick up the bottle to pour him another, he quietly stops you with a gesture and the tiniest shake of the head. No. “You ever have raiders come by your Roost?”

“We’ve seen raiders in the area. They’ve attacked the town border before. Always small groups. Hungry. They don’t have the numbers or the ammo round these parts.”

“But what about out there in the open?”

Crossing your arms and leaning back in your seat, you let him know he’s being assessed, let it sink in that he might be over-protective and has the right to be scared but doesn’t need to be. Realize he may never grow out of his defensive conditioning.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Joel Miller. There’s always a chance. But I don’t know if there are any words I can say that would magically put you at ease. There’s one thing I can see though, you care a lot about that girl. I reckon you’re here tonight because she’s bugged you about going out there. And you hate disappointing her, so here you are. But you’re also afraid of letting her out of your sight.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just rolls his glass between his wide palms.

Ducking forward, you do your best to get your smile in his eyeline. “Since I can’t convince you with words, I’ll do it with evidence. Ride out there with me tomorrow and see for yourself.”

“I don’t…that’s not what…”

“Hey. Good parents want their kids to be safe. I know the type.” It was meant to put him at ease, but you realize a bit too late that your words were poorly chosen. It’s difficult to read his emotion; there may be a few going on at once. 

Most of them break your heart. 

An apology would only make it worse. “Tomorrow morning. Stables. Dawn.”

________

He doesn’t like to talk much, Joel Miller. Knows his way around a horse like a true Texan should, completely at ease with a shotgun strapped to his back, but doesn’t seem to want to spoil the silence. Or perhaps he’s just always on guard. That’s okay. You like the sounds of the morning. The crunch of the woodland floor, the sweep of the wind in the leaves. The birds have been up for hours already, their voices warmed up and singing clear. It’s still chilly at daybreak this time of year and steam rises from the horses’ noses, mixing with the fog of the dew evaporating in the rising sun.

After a good half-hour ride through dappled forest light at a leisurely pace, you take up the walkie that you’ve borrowed from Chickadee.

“Meadowlark to Whippoorwill.”

Seconds and trees roll by as you wait for your answer. No hurry.

“Whippoorwill here. You taking another shift? You’re a day early.”

“Nope. Just giving a new resident a tour and letting you know we’re coming in at the north passage. Put some clothes on and don’t shoot us.”

“I make no promises.”

“Don’t ever change, Whip.”

As you come to a ravine and dismount, Joel finally pipes up. “Put some clothes on?”

“Yeah,” you explain, leading the horse down the steep incline, “Whip’s a nudist. Don’t ever show up at her house unannounced if you aren’t ready for a lot of skin.” When he doesn’t know what to say, you smile over your shoulder. “Just fucking with you. Although, there is a stream to the south we all like to skinny dip in come summer.” Another baffled look from him, and another sly smile from you.

He’s distracted by this to the point that he actually flinches when the barrier appears before him. “The hell?” he exclaims, examining a hedge of vines growing up over a twelve-foot tall wall of stone. “You don’t even notice this from the top.”

“Nope. That’s the point. Doesn’t look like a wall from up there, just looks like a hedge from down here. Most people don’t want to make the effort to climb down but if they do, they just assume they have to find another way.”

“This is the meadow perimeter?”

“Well, this gate anyway. A lot of it is woven steel gage and cliffs that only goats can manage. Most of it is natural barrier or camouflage like this so you wouldn’t even know there’s anything being protected.”

“Huh. Clever.”

“Welcome to Jackson Meadow, home of the Roost.”

After displacing and replacing some facing shrubs, you’re able to coax the horses through a narrow tunnel and up a gentle rise that eventually opens out into a sweeping field in a valley under the face of the butte.

It’s still early enough that the wildflowers are just slivers of purples and yellows behind their bud casings, but they spread far and wide across the green expanse, broken only by the random white-gray lumps of grazing sheep. The sun is just beginning to break over the surrounding mountains to the east, but once it spills over, it will only make the spring colors of the valley more vivid than any surviving photograph, more picturesque than any oil on canvas…probably. It’s been decades since you’ve seen a landscape painting, so what the hell do you know.

Able to ride side by side now, you make another study of your companion. And there’s a war going on inside him. You can tell he’s taken by the raw beauty of the meadow, but twenty years of looking over his shoulder makes him nervous in wide open spaces and his eyes won’t stop moving between the grasses and the treeline, constantly appreciating, constantly scanning.

“Relax, Mr. Miller. Enjoy the view. You’re in good hands. See that patch of trees up there?” You nod to a wooded area near the center of the expanse. “Roost is in there. I guarantee you Whip has eyes on us and everything in this valley right now.” Raising a hand over your head with three fingers raised, you use the other hand to point to them.

The walkie smacks on and Whippoorwill’s steady drawl comes out. “Three.”

You wave. Smile at Joel. “See?”

He relaxes in the saddle and a quiet, ponderous minute goes by before he works up the bother to ask whatever’s tumbling around in that head of his. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“What.”

“Mr. Miller. I’m no mister. It’s just Joel.”

Things are slow in Jackson, people take their time. As you do with your answer. “Maybe it’s my way of keeping a distance, Joel Miller. You seem like the kind of man that likes people to keep their distance so he can get a good read and make sure it’s safe to approach.”

Twisting with a frown, he scans you as if he’s never really looked before, maybe a little annoyed that you have his number.

You dismount your chestnut mare some distance before reaching the trees, leave the reins to the saddle and let her be, walking over to the nearest duo of sheep–a mother and baby. The ewe bleats at you out of habit, but knows you’re no real harm. She watches her lamb though, chewing when she remembers to.

This lamb is still very young and you’re not sure if it will remember. There’s a bounce to the left, and then two to the right, and then each leg steps carefully as he haltingly makes his way forward. You’re able to scoop him up and turn him over in your arms like a baby, instantly quelling him, and his legs hilariously splay.

“What’d you do to it?” Joel, having followed suit and let his horse graze, walks up and there’s the tiniest smile as he gazes down at the creature in your arms.

“Nothing, that’s just what they do when you turn ‘em over. Here.” You don’t even tell him to put his arms out or ask if he wants to hold the lamb, you simply get close enough and the man’s instincts kick in. All you have to do is hand him off.

Joel’s surprised at first, flinches a bit when the lamb wiggles in his arms–the tiniest protest to being transferred to an unfamiliar nanny. But then both of them calm and you have to stifle a laugh as the two of them just…stare at each other. The lamb in his lamby wonder, and Joel like a new, star-struck dad.

Going about your business, you begin checking the creature’s general health, pushing at the belly, checking the mouth. “This one was born on my last watch, so he’s only about ten days old.”

“Really,” Joel sighs, totally enchanted, not even realizing that he’s instinctually bouncing the lamb a bit. The father in him showing its face again.

“Yep. And,” you indicate the mother, now watching a bit more closely since there’s an unfamiliar human involved, “I birthed that one too. And probably most of her whole line for the last twenty years or more. All of them were as little as this one, and all of them survived. And if the Roost can raise flocks and flocks of dumb little sheep, we can certainly take care of one smart little girl.”

When he scans you this time, it’s clear you’ve given him reasoning that resonates.

He allows you to lift the lamb from his arms, watching thoughtfully as the little thing springs away past its mother and tumbles into some lupines head first. After it recovers and bounces a little more, you bring Joel’s attention to the trees a few hundred meters to the south.

“You can just catch the Roost there, see? The A-frame sticks up above the treetops. And that’ll be Willa at the porch railing.”

He squints. “How do you get up?”

“Retractable ladder. Tommy rigged it for us. You gotta be in it to win it. You’re either up it or fuck it. Ergo, if the ladder’s up, you don’t get in.”

“Huh. How do you get supplies up? Pulley?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

It’s a quiet ride back to Jackson, and you do your best not to look over your shoulder to gauge his reaction, like Orpheus leading Euridice out of Hades trying not to lose a tenuous chance for Ellie to spread her wings. It’s not every day a young person wants to learn the shepherding gig. Most of them want to stay in town near their friends, or are too afraid of the world to venture out. Ellie though, she’s been in the world. Observant. Eager to learn. Fearless.

The sheep could use someone like her.

You could too.

It’s when he’s busy unsaddling his horse in the stables that he clears his throat, and you let the curry brush lighter over your horse’s coat so you can hear him think out loud.

“Yeah that works,” he mumbles. “Think it might be good for her.”

Poking your face over your mare’s shoulder and waiting to catch his eye, you release the hounds of smiletown. “You’re right. And probably good for you too, Joel Miller.”

____

“Whoa, coooooool!!!” Ellie says for the fourth time on the ride from Jackson as she spies the Roost through the trees.

Over the past few family dinners, Ellie asked a million questions about this week–how to stay warm, where to bathe, if the sheep bite–anything and everything, even if it was common sense.

And with every answer she’d listen, enrapt, her eyes flicking to Joel now and then. It became obvious to you–although maybe not to the others–that she was asking not so much for her own good, but to calm Joel, signal that she was thinking ahead and covering all the bases, that even if she already knew the answers it might calm him to hear them too.

A little overkill. But the concern they showed for each other while trying not to be sappy about it was endearing you to both of them.

And perhaps Joel was calmed; maybe not so much by the answers you gave, but the way you gave them--calmly, indulgently, and with just a little bit of sass to show you could keep up with Ellie’s tongue and put her in a figurative headlock when she got too cocky. You caught Joel smiling down into his plate a few times. And at you a few more.

He’s got a good smile. It comes out more often now.

A duffel bag lands on the ground at the base of the Roost’s tree and your horses jump a little. Then there’s a cheerful trill from above, “I’ll be right down! Just packing up the wool!”

“No rush, Goldie! We’ll go water the horses while we wait.”

Ellie follows your lead you as you dismount to pull the packs off the horses–bulky with a week’s weight of food, water, and clothes–before climbing back into the saddle and heading off to the south.

“There’s a creek up here flows right down from the Tetons. Purest, cleanest water you’ll ever see.”

“Can you drink it?”

“Absolutely. You, me, the sheep, it’s for all of us. We humans boil it first, of course.”

Ellie’s nose wrinkles. “Seems a waste. I mean, if it’s coming down from the mountains it’s really cold right? We hardly ever had cold water in the QZ. It’s so good when it’s cold.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you have to bathe in it.” Her face falls and you can’t help but laugh, hauling yourself out of the saddle and guiding the beast through the pebbled creekbed. “Believe me, come summer, you’ll be plenty happy with how cold it is.”

Once the horses are watered it’s a leisurely stroll back to the Roost, handing the reins over to a tall, veritable Viking of a woman, stong-boned and willowy all at the same time, the long golden braid spilling down her back and curls springing out from the sides of her face giving her the appearance that she’s wearing a lazy albino scorpion on her head. Her blue flannel matches her eyes and clashes with her sunburned cheeks.

“Ellie, this is Goldfinch, our junior Roostling.”

The woman takes Ellie’s small hand in her long, sturdy fingers. “Maybe not so junior if you pull yourself up on board.”

“Goldie started with us about ten years back when she was around your age.”

“Ten years ago?” Ellie asks. “There hasn’t been any new shepherds since then?”

The Rootling shares a concerned look with you before you answer, “Well, there have been, but not all of them stuck.” And you put the question to rest by helping Goldie pack up your horse. “Shit, this is a lot of wool. How many did you do?”

“About twelve?” She answers. “I’m only taking ten worth. Left the rest for you.”

“Damn, you must have been bored. Ellie, can you hand me that duffel? Thanks.”

As Ellie brings the bag to you, she’s also scanning the thatch of forest where the Roost stands. “So she’s taking the horses? She doesn’t have her own?”

“Horses are a sign of civilization,” Goldie offers. “Especially if they’re on a picket line. And we like to keep it not so obvious that we’re out here. We’d have to keep them on picket or they’d just wander off back toward the gate an s hang out there wanting to go home and give away that location.”

“Besides,” you explain, “won’t need ‘em until we go back to Jackson. Safest place to be in the whole pasture is the Roost with the ladder up and a loaded shotgun nearby, not trying to saddle up to ride off. If there’s trouble, we can hold out the time it takes for a posse to come down from town.”

“Is there ever trouble?” Ellie wonders, just slightly concerned.

“Never yet,” you wink.

Finally there’s the ceremonial clink of the walkies, acknowledging that the leaving Roostling is taking hers home and the new occupant has one with a completely restored battery. “Patrol, this is Meadowlark taking over for Goldfinch.”

A few quiet seconds. A pinecone drops nearby.

Then a man’s voice from the speaker. “Meadowlark, this is patrol, we read you. We’ll be hitting east gate around noon today. Anything you need?”

“Nope, we just landed. By ‘we’ I mean me and a learner. New girl, Ellie Williams. Callsign Thistle.”

“Copy. Welcome to the Roost, Thistle.”

Ellie beams, then blinks as you hold the walkie to her face, and you nod her a nod of encouragement.

“Thanks…patrol. Uh…Thistle over and out.”

“Good job, kid,” Goldie says, hoisting a leg over the horse and taking the reins of Ellie’s mare from you. “Have a good week, you two. May your days be filled with storms.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Ellie turns to you. “Storms?”

You strap a pack over each shoulder and start climbing the ladder. “We’re in friendly competition with each other to have the most lambs born on our watch and shear the most sheep. If it rains it can be miserable work at best and impossible at worst and we’re less likely to make good numbers. So it’s an affectionate curse.”

“Oh. Seems cruel to the sheep.”

“What do you mean?”

Shouldering a smaller pack, Ellie starts climbing behind you. “Wishing for storms when they have to be out in it.”

“Eh, they’re happy as clams when it rains. They’ve got wool sweaters already.”

“I’ve never worn a wool sweater.”

Reaching the top, you wait for her to crest so you can see the look on her face when she does. “Then you’re in for a treat. It takes a lot to waterlog wool. Rolls right off. You’ll see. You’ll love it. And that’s not even mentioning the socks!”

“What does happy as a clam mean–” she begins, but stops abruptly as her face comes to the top of the ladder, her mouth opening in awe, rounding in concert with her eyes. “Whoa! Holy shit!!!”

The Roost as a whole isn’t all that large and can be crossed in half a dozen steps. Roughly a seven meter square platform, it holds a one-room cabin with a balcony running along the north and east sides. The windowed, A-frame peak looks out to the north pasture and the roof slopes just out and above the east balcony to shade it in a cascade of knotty pine. Windows wrap all but the west side, the interior wall of which has a simple built-in double cabinet bed with a single bunk running across its head above.

It’s this cabinet bed that draws Ellie inside, and you watch her slowly take in the rest of the cabin, with its rustic table and chairs–Goldie left a couple Indian Painbrush in a mug of water in the sun–the windowed corner with the soft, plush, patchwork pillow chair and a basket full of wool roving, the opposite corner with its woodstove upon a harlequin tilework patch of floor and the spare array of cooking tools on spiraled iron hooks in the knotted wood walls.

The honey dark timber stretches overhead to a peak, from which hangs dried strands of vegetables and herbs, higher up a set of snowshoes, a number of straps and ropes–a butcher’s hook among them, the one arguably ominous tool, meant to make dragging a bloated carcass easier…although it is rarely needed anymore.

Even though the Roost has become your home away from home, the fresh smell off the boards and the dust motes dancing in the sun make you pause and smile every time.

It’s just comfortable enough for two people, a generous hideaway for one, and your favorite place in the whole world. There’d been more than one occasion where you thought about asking Tommy to build you its replica in Jackson, but it would be a shame to ruin its uniqueness…and, of course, there were higher priorities in town.

“Is that where you sleep?” Ellie points at the cabinet bed.

“Yep. Or you, if you want. There’s a bunk. I’ll take whichever you don’t want.”

Bouncing over to the side of the cabinet with the recessed ladder, she climbs, pats the mattress, and frowns. “Why’s it all lumpy?”

“It’s filled with fleece. Same down here. It doesn’t feel lumpy when you sleep on it. Feels like a cloud hugging you. How’s the view up there?”

Ellie pets the bunk mattress another second or two, considering it, before turning out with a smile, “It’s–” but the smile fades when she sees beyond the four meter peak of the cabin and out through the windows for the first time.

Turning to face outward--to see though her eyes–-the sun is breaking fully over the butte, filling the valley like a warm, golden bath, serving up a green to the eye that exists nowhere else in the world. It never gets old and is beautiful from every angle, especially this view from the treetops, birds-eye.

Wordlessly she descends the bunk ladder behind you and wanders out to the balcony, resting her forearms against it, staring out at the vista, and you let her have it while you unpack the bags, situate the supplies, assess the woodpile, toss a set of fresh sheets on each bed.

Once finished with the settle in, you join Ellie where she’s drifted to the other side of the balcony, looking out at the north pasture where the sheep like it best.

After a moment she asks quietly, “What was this place before?”

“This land?” you specify, and she nods. “It was just this. A valley meadow. Native land.”

“It’s hardly touched out here. No broken buildings. No bomb craters.”

“Nope. This place was never really that urban. Even with all those people, some wild places remained. Some were actually sanctioned by the government as untouchable natural places, just to let the animals live and the trees grow. It was for everyone to enjoy.”

“National parks.”

“Yeah, that’s right. This was part of a park like that. But Jackson wasn’t densely populated. Didn’t spread as fast out here. We were low priority. No bombs. So many of us lived on our own land that when the governments came to round any of us up, we’d take up arms and hold our ground. It’s what my sister and I did when they came at our ranch. I think after a while military just left the area thinking if we all got infected it could only spread so far before it just finished off the population and had nowhere left to go.”

“Did it?”

“Oh it came, but it didn’t take everyone. It wandered in later, like everything does out here. Cordyceps are like a fashion. It spread in the urban areas first and made its way out here eons later. But there were fewer people in a lot larger space…and a lot more guns. It was easy to stamp out.”

Ellie’s not like most of the other kids in town who nod at your ancient stories of the olden times. To them, this is the world as it is and how it will be and stories of how it used to be are less than monumental, just a passing curiosity for aimless evenings around a fire. But Ellie’s attention reaches beyond the meadow, beyond the mountains, beyond what she can see. It stretches out in time and tries to divine the past and what might have been; she tries to calculate what exactly was lost and in what ways it’s actually better. A life she could have had versus the one that’s brought her here to this balcony in the morning sun.

A far off bleat becomes a signal for the reverie to break, and you bump your shoulder against hers.

“C’mon. I’ll show you how we do the rounds.”

_____

After a few days, Ellie is doing the morning rounds on her own, reporting in when she notices an ewe in a lay, keeping an eye out for cast sheep–“You see a sheep on its back, do whatever you can to right it, you’ve got about twenty-four hours until they die there of bloat and stupidity,”--and generally letting them all get to know her.

“You’ll need to take your time. Let the lambs come to you or the mammas get emotional about it. Treat ‘em light and gentle for a while. If the ewe sees no need to watch you anymore that means she trusts you and you can pet and pick up the little ones if they let you. But they start cryin’, best to put ‘em down and let ‘em run. Never chase them. You chase them and never let them come to you, they’ll run when you need to get to them most. Take ‘em some apple or carrot and they’ll be your friend forever. Squash and pumpkin are good too. Sometimes I’ll bring out a pocketful of oats. Don’t tell the stablemasters in town; they’d have my ass.”

By mid-week if you couldn’t find Ellie, all you’d need to do was climb up to the Roost and survey the green meadow for the contrast of her red tshirt and you’d spy her sprawled out in the grasses surrounded by a clutch of lambs and ewes. The girl was a sucker for animals.

Shearing went by faster with someone there to hold hooves and legs or just keep the lambs within sight so any ewe under the shear wasn’t kicking to check on her baby. It might have been Ellie’s least favorite part except for the evening time task of carding wool (“Boring”) and drop spinning (“Impossible”).

“Motherfucker,” she whispers, singing a song of hatred at the breaking threads on her spindle, throwing her hands out and taking a dramatic fall backward onto the wool rug she’s sitting on.

“Patience, young grasshopper. It’s not a fast skill; it can take years to learn to spin consistently,” you laugh in the warm glow of the lantern, your spindle wizzing as your yarn pulls at an even gauge, “and all you have out here is time. You’ll get it.”

“Grasshopper? Have I graduated from Thistle?”

“Nope, sorry. Old joke, before your time.”

Abandoning her work and rolling over to her belly, Ellie kicks her stockinged feet lazily in the air and pulls at the fibers in the rug. “There’s only one more day left and there haven’t been any new lambs.”

“Season’s slowing down some. They’ll be fewer and further between.”

“Don’t you wanna win?”

“Win at numbers? Not if it means the health of the sheep. They’ll birth when they birth. Besides, nobody’s beating Willa this year. Those triplets made that a certainty.”

“Whippoorwill’s name is Willa. Chickadee’s name is Addie.”

“Yup.”

“So everyone turned their name into the closest sounding bird except you.”

“Nah. We’re just not real clever with the names is all. Goldie’s name is Pam. We just call her Goldfinch because she’s a blond. Probably wouldn’t even have callsigns but that it makes it easier to hear over the walkie.”

“So what about yours then? Why Meadowlark?”

You smile. “Larks are songbirds. I like to sing when I’m out here. I’ve been caught at it so many times, I don’t even hide it anymore.” You belt a made-up melody loudly out through the open window into the night, “Isn’t tha-a-at ri-ight you wooly ba-a-a-asta-a-a-ards!”

A sleepy sheep calls back in irritation.

“You’re a weird lady.”

“You’re a weird lady.”

Ellie laughs begrudgingly, sits up with a grunt and starts picking at her thread again, squinching her mouth at the lumps. “So if I become a Roostling, I don’t get to pick my own bird?”

“I’m sure we could make an exception. Why? You got one in mind? Because left to us you’d probably be a red-bELLIEd something-or-other.”

“Ha ha. Fine. I don’t know much about birds. Mostly just pigeons in Boston.”

“Well fuck if I’m gonna call you Pigeon.”

The night’s starting to chill down a little and she hugs her knees into her chest, setting her chin on them in thought. It’s about time to close up the window and put a few logs in the stove, but Ellie’s attention wanders up and out among the stars.

You have so many questions. Were all the kids in Boston as stubborn and wild and foul-mouthed as her? Where were her parents? Dead, most likely, but how did she survive them? How did she meet Joel? Did she smuggle run with him? She’s a fair shot with a shotgun, but not practiced. Did he get her here all by himself? That takes a lot of luck and skill. He must care about her a lot to bring her with him all this way, to keep her safe….

“So it was just you and Joel out there for a long time, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you’re happy to finally have somewhere warm to sleep. Traveling during the winter would have been rough. Good thing it was a milder one this time around.”

She gives a pathetic shrug. “I dunno. I liked it. Just us under the stars. We looked out for each other.”

“Well, you have a lot of folks who will look out for the both of you now. And if you need someone to look after, well, these sheep could really use you.”

Unexpectedly, she laughs, something you’ve said keeps her in the giggles for a while. “One night we were camping and I asked Joel where he wanted to go most in the world and he said he wanted to settle down and farm sheep. This is kind of his dream. But then he said that he wanted to be a musician. Maybe he should be the one out here with you to watch sheep and sing.”

“Maybe. Does he have a tolerable voice? The sheep are picky, as you’ve heard.”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t sing for me,” she squishes her cheek into her knee, giving you a shit-eating grin and a teasing sing song. “But I bet he’d sing for you if you asked him.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you smile and wink, trying to hide your chagrin under a swirling cape of nonchalance. “I can be very persuasive. But...I don’t think Tess would like that so much.”

“How do you know about Tess?”

“Tommy has his tales. They were quite a little family unit for a while. I’m actually surprised she didn’t show up here with you two.”

This sobers her, turns her attention back out to the stars, halting her response. “She would have…. but she didn’t make it.”

A chilly breeze sweeps through the window, and you’re not quite sure if it’s the drop in the air or your heart that makes you shiver.

Tess didn’t make it. In the world as it is, that means one thing. You wonder what happened. How. If it was horrific–of course it was, you can see it in Ellie’s hardened eyes that it was–and how much it affects her or doesn’t. It’s so difficult to tell with kids these days. In the end though, it hardly matters how. In all the myriad of ways it could have happened, it would have ended the same.

You wonder if Tommy knows.

You suddenly feel ashamed of that selfish little spark of hope it sparks in you.

But while what you know about Joel Miller could fill a book, what you don’t know about him could fill a library.

And you’ve had enough time pass through you to know that a lot of patience and a little observation can go a long way towards preventing disaster.

Thoughts for another time.

“What about you, kid, hmm? What was your answer? In all the world, where would you go?”

But you’d already guessed, seen the longing in her face every night this week and see it now as she looks out the window at the silent silver satellite in the sky.

_____

“Ow, dammit! Just keep a good hold on her back legs so she stops kicking me!”

The lamb is breach and you’re halfway up to your elbow in sheep, trying to push at the little one’s one back haunch to clear the way for the other leg. Ellie, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement keeps letting the ewe’s leg slip and you’d be laughing if the hooves didn’t pack such a punch.

You must have seen a thousand sheep born and assisted in a high percentage of those in your lifetime, but this one manages to give you a new rush. It’s the morning you’ll be heading back to Jackson and you were afraid you’d go all week without Ellie getting to experience a birth. Here it is, and she’s just as thrilled as you’d hoped and all you have to do is make sure both the lamb and the ewe make it through.

It doesn’t take much–a little push, a little twist, a little pull, a little gasp from Ellie–you’re able to get both back hooves in your hand and the little one comes sliding out in a gloopy mess onto the grass. Your favorite flannel is caked with blood and you’ll have to go straight to the launders with it on arrival back in town…

…but it’s all worth it when the baby bleats the tiniest baa and Ellie giggles and clutches her cheeks.

“Holy shit! That was awesome! It’s so tiny! Can I name it? Like Snowball or something?”

The footfalls making their way through the meadow proceed Willa’s answer, “You don’t have to do that. The earth and the sky and the wind will name her themselves.”

Leaning back to acknowledge not only your friend and her arrival, but also a broad form following her clad in denim and gristle.

“Brought you a friend,” Willa smirks for the girl’s benefit, tilting her head in Joel’s direction.

“Joel!!! Look!!!” Ellie’s grin is so full she can’t even close her jaw, gaping like a kid who just saw her first Christmas tree.

Another tiny bleat escapes the lamb as its mother begins to lick it clean and Joel’s eyes nearly disappear behind cheeks and crinkles. “Hey there, babygirl. You have a good time?”

“Fuck YES.”

Willa extends a hand to help Ellie up and Joel does the same for you, taking care to keep your dripping forearm at a good distance.

“She did real good out here; you’d be proud,” you praise the girl, squelching her grin with a big, wet, slap on the back. “I’d love to have her again.”

“Aw, maaaaaaan!” Ellie reels in disgust as you dig your palm into her shoulder, really getting the juices in there.

“You just earned your keep, kid.”

This snaps her head around. “Really? Do I get a bird name now?”

“Yup. And I think I know what’ll suit you just fine.” In a short second of mountain time, the wind picks up just a little, lifting the brown curls around her face and the sun comes up behind her over the bluff, kissing her pink cheeks as you lean down and look her straight in the eye.

“Welcome to the Roostlings, Starling.”

____

You let them ride ahead of you, allow the father-daughter team to catch each other up on the week’s news, watch adoringly as Ellie chatters on about the lambs and how they tumble and bounce and how cold the water is and how the Roost creaks and sways a bit when it’s windy, which sheep were her favorite and how much she hates spinning wool.

Next time you’ll have to teach her how to knit, you think. She’ll probably take to that a little better.

And when he’s not giving her his glowing attention, Joel’s only report is that he started work in the new section of town, nothing exciting except the house was blessedly quiet for a whole week thank god.

She still has stories to tell Maria and Tommy at family dinner, repeating again some of the highlights you overheard her tell Joel, and new ones she just remembered. Your friends smile and listen, bewitched, time enough to give her an ear and delighted with the novelty of an excited young person at their table.

“Looks like you have yourself a new recruit,” Maria laughs. “What did you settle on for a callsign?”

Ellie tips her head back, answering through a mouthful of potatoes, “Starling!” and slaps a hand over her mouth when a chunk goes flying.

“Ellie, dammit, talk OR chew, not AND.”

Maria ignores Joel’s curse at her dinner table to ask you, “What prompted that?”

You chew and swallow, pointedly showing off the patience that the girl couldn’t muster, a blatant tease. “Seemed a good choice. Kid’s a sucker for the stars.” You match Ellie’s smile before you sweetly add, “And, y’know. Because starlings are loud and annoying as hell.”

That earns you a bird of another kind.

_____

Tommy cuts a good silhouette against the coming twilight as he lines himself up to the peg and explains for his adopted niece how to score a ringer in an after-dinner game of horseshoes. He demonstrates the looseness of the grip, the swing of the iron, and Ellie soaks it up like a sponge, eager to learn.

He’s a good teacher. He taught Maria…who is currently beating his ass. But Maria is good at whatever she does regardless, always has been.

You concluded long ago that it’s not your game. Branded it a Texas thing and took up your spot on the back porch swing with a bottle of cider, kicking off your boots and putting your woolen-socked feet up on the railing to enjoy the setting sun reflecting off the mountain face.

There’s a cheer as Ellie tosses and the shoe lands with a loud clang.

The porch door opens when Joel returns with a bottle for himself. But instead of rejoining the game, he wanders over to sit next to you on the swing, upsetting it enough to pull your feet from their perch.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Pull up a seat, Joel Miller.”

Several lazy minutes pass, a sweet, comfortable silence filled with the occasional sip from a bottle and an exchanged smile as you push at the porch a little, encouraging the swing to do its thing. And he lets his knees go soft, keeps his feet on the ground but aids in a little gentle rocking.

“Thank you,” he says, finally, tipping his head toward his ward as she scores yet again, “for taking her out there. She hasn’t shut up about it since.”

“Yeah? What’d she have to say?”

“Went on about the lambs, complained about how cold the water was. Said she was tired because she liked getting up early in the morning to see the sunrise but liked being in the trees at night and wanted to stay up to listen to the night birds. Said you liked to sing when you work and the fact that she didn’t complain about it–and from what I heard the night we met you–makes me think you’re not too bad at it. Not too fond of your cooking, though.”

That earns a snort from you. “Well I don’t blame her there; I warned y’all. I wouldn’t say she’s the most obedient kid, but she sure is smart, and really capable and brave. That girl eats the world with the spoon she’s so hungry to know all the things all the time. And strong–she swings an axe better than me. Got a mouth on her–”

“Sorry about that–”

“--and is beautifully, brutally honest, and pretty fucking hilarious. She’s really special.”

“Yeah. Yeah she is.” Something like pride melts his shoulders as he watches Ellie joke around with Tommy, and then slowly evolves into gratitude as he turns to you, to someone who can see her like he does. “Funny, that’s what she said about you.”

There’s a pull to share in that pride and gratitude, to lean in and let yourself bask in the glow of the compliment.

But a wall goes up when you reveal, as kindly as you can, “She told me Tess didn’t make it.” As his eyes grow stony and deny you the pleasure of their focus, you chase after his attention by turning your body toward him on the swing, bringing a knee up and placing a hand on his forearm, gently urging him to stay here with you. “Hey. She didn’t tell me what happened and I don’t need to know and you don’t have to talk about it. But I do need to ask you one thing. That man out there might be your brother, but he’s my friend. And Tess might have been your lady, but she was still family to him. She was important to him. And he’s important to me. And I need to ask you if he knows.”

The arm under your finger tenses as his fingers grip the cider bottle and you move to let go–to let him know you’re not forcing him–but a hand claps down over yours. It’s now his turn to urge you to stay, to give him a minute, to let him bust through whatever is starting to well up in him so he can swallow and tell you, “He knows.” Another quiet minute as he stares out at his family on the back lawn, his jaw working to bring the air in and keep the tension out. “He knows. Thank you…thank you for… taking care of him too.”

His fingers flutter a little, scarred knuckles contracting and loosening like he’s fighting the instinctual urge to hang onto something. So you set your bottle on the porch railing and gently lift his away too, slip out of this awkward hold and instead shift his hand between both of yours, giving it warmth, giving it permission to hold onto you like it wants to.

“They’re my family, which means you are now too. As long as you plan to leave off your wandering and let us keep you safe and cared for, that’s thanks enough, Joel Miller.”

“Quit that,” he grumbles, clasping your hand in case you interpret his words as an ask for release, needing a stolen moment of secret comfort in the deepening twilight. “Joel’s enough. You sound like my mother.”

“Okay,” you compromise, trying to tame your eager heart, silently explain to it that there’s nothing here but the time to do things right. “Okay, Joel.” You smile. “Joel Joel Cinnamon Roll.”

“Shit,” he cringes, shakes his head slowly, stifling a laugh. “Now you really sound like my mother. That’s what she used to call me, how did you-- Tommy.”

“Yup.”

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.”

Ellie scores another ringer and Joel smiles. “No, I don’t.”

________

NEXT: SUMMER

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

#tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f! reader #joel miller x meadowlark #ellie williams #leave off your wandering

[vhagar-balerion-meraxes]

Fuck it. You know what, I’m not going to let all this bullshit ruin my enjoyment of things.

Fuck anyone who has engaged in this shit. Everyone involved are all complicit to greater or lesser extents, even if you weren’t the ones saying or doing stuff, the fact that you didn’t do anything while your ‘friends’ did doesn’t get you off the hook.

But I have had time to think about it, and I have decided that I will not let my enjoyment of being in this fandom be extinguished by a few toxic people. This fandom is far more than them.

I will reblog, I will like, I will interact with people because I do not want to be full of distrust. I will read fics and comment (once I have the mental energy again to do so), I will reblog and comment on fanart and gifsets, I will participate in tag games, I will do everything I can to make my tiny blog a safe space for everyone.

At the end of the day, we all came here to mutually fangirl over things we enjoy, not to spread hate. If you don’t like someone, unfollow them or block them, and move on. Don’t go talking shit behind people’s backs and stop sending fucking hate anons. Just move on and find things and people you do enjoy. Hope everyone has a lovely day.

#feeling a bit better after a good night’s sleep #fandom bullshit #sorry if this is a bit rambling

[bewareofchris]

I've been on the writer's tag again.

Listen guys.

Nobody owes your fanfic anything. I know that you want validation and adoration and those are both completely normal things to want. But this obsessive demand for comments over kudos and reblogs over likes is A Problem.

I won't bore you with tales of yore where we literally punted our fiction into the world with no idea of how it was being perceived by others because the only way to know if anyone even glanced at it was by the incredibly inaccurate page counter on our shitty geocities page.

(But that was a thing and it's semi-relevant to my point.)

A lot of you are growing up in a era of social media and viral marketing. You are babies of the influencer age, raised on the myth that if you can just get enough attention you'll get famous for something. I don't mean 10 million followers on insta famous but famous in your specific sphere.

That will not happen for you.

Not because people aren't reblogging your shit or writing out loving comments but because it's a myth. The idea that if you shame, beg and cajole enough people into interacting with your creation you'll access some serotonin high and ascend to a greater state of being is also a myth.

Here's the truth:

Most writers do not know how the majority of their audience feels about their fics. Those very few novels that you see on booktok, X (former twitter) or wherever else you get your writing news represent an infinitesimal portion of stories written and books published.

Most writers do have writing buddies or trusted members of an inner circle that they share their writing with.

For most fandoms, fanfics are so plentiful it's like going into a mall sized grocery store that sells only apples and then demanding the customer review every apple they touch.

For those few fanfics that you see that have an outrageous number of comments there are three possible explanations: 1. that person is what we used to call a "Big Name Ficcer" and they have amassed a following through consistent production of whatever that fandom is into, 2. that is a fic so long you have to sign a waiver to start reading it and despite the fact it was started seven years ago its still getting updated, or 3. that person is writing a viral fic in a fandom that is presently on fire.

Your self worth and self esteem cannot be tied to writing and posting fanfiction. It might be a fun outlet or you might be looking for your viral moment, but either way the moment you start weighing your worth as an author or creator based on what a bunch of strangers on the internet think of you is the moment you give up on yourself.

Social media has brainwashed you into thinking that you must be recognized and rewarded for the things that you put onto the internet. Or maybe it hasn't brainwashed you, maybe you just want to get a comment because you worked super hard on something and you feel like if you can't even get one decent response then its all been wasted. (I.e. you've been brainwashed into the feeling that you need the validation of strangers for happiness purposes.)

So what are you going to do about this?

Get off the internet. I don't mean permanently. I don't even mean literally. I mean take yourself out of the spaces that reinforce the idea that you need validation from strangers to be happy. Stop going on the social media sites for a few days (or a few weeks). If you've got a friend in fandom that you share fics, headcanons, ideas or anything with start chatting with them about something you want to write. Invest in them, in what they're doing and their opinions and how they react to your creations.

Put your shit on the internet like you literally don't give a fuck about anyone's opinion. Explain nothing about your writing choices. Put warnings, no more than 5 tags and drop that shit into the world like a newborn giraffe. Then ignore it.

Teach yourself to seek validation from your accomplishments: write a slightly longer fic, write a fic in a different genre, write a fic in a different rating, write a fic in a different fandom.

Find an actual friend that you actually interact with whose opinion you know matters because you agree on the important stuff.

Stop begging strangers for compliments like a cartoon hobo shaking a cup for coins. You're better than that.

#writing is hard #fanfiction #on writing #i would love a rebuttal #but nobody fights me #i understand #i'm too scary

[storyshark2005]

Carraville Rec List !

See below, self-explanatory!! I'm sure I missed some bangers, so feel free to reblog and add more, or comment. I pulled all these straight off my AO3 bookmarks list. They are ALL COMPLETE, so I didn't add any WIPSs! Please note I separated "older/classic" recs from the amazing fountain of NEW works we've been blessed with in the past 3-4 months or so. Note: IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER!

Enjoy you little dancers!!

⚽️❤️ MY CLASSIC CARRAVILLE PICKS ❤️⚽️

Lockjaw by anonymous - Workplace blowjob fic that grows into a much deeper story. Sexy-with-feels MNF era Carraville. Amazing ‘show don’t tell’ characterization, top top dialogue.  Gary hiding past trauma and Jamie finding out. A crime this is anonymous, I want to read more from this author!! 

the ghosts of you and me by @blindbatalex - ahhhmazingly written, MNF-era Carraville. Uses ‘snowed in’ trope to delve greater depths of a break up; old wounds, things unspoken, beautiful writing and a really pulled-back tone that aches. 

the ocean and the coast by @carraville - Valencia!Gary. Jamie POV. Jamie pining. Lovely poetic style. “I have a separate plate for you.” <3 <3 <3 

In Your Boots by @thesecretdetectivecollection- funny, sweet, MNF-era. SO CUTE Gary jumping to conclusions and panicking over Jamie leaving. Lots of Jamie-scenery descriptions of pretty eyes and "absurd cheekbones" and "Jamie's reliable heart" <3 

keep your silver, give me that gold by @blindbatalex - MNF-era Carraville. Jamie decides to box Rio Ferdinand. Gary has SERIOUS RESERVATIONS about his beefy colleague (just colleague, no feelings, cough cough) putting himself in harms way for a stupid charity wager. Thing come to a head in a good way. Lots of verbal eye candy Carra. <3 

Loss / loss / win by milleseptcent guuuuh the SCALE! The FEELS! Soulmates Carraville. Takes place from playing days to MNF-era. Gary and Carra, both without soul marks, fuck around in a casual relationship... for about twenty years. The ending is SO SWEET!

Anything That Isn’t This by @kloppend the sleeping death apocalypse fic, read if you want to ruin yourself for two or three days but ALSO the beauty of the writing is 100% worth the devastation, one of the finest written pieces in the fandom imho. HAUNTING, gorgeous, aching, amazing. 

Play the Whistle by @zevons - Referee!AU Carraville!! What more do you need to know?! Gary and Jamie’s football dreams never came true, so they do the next best thing. Lovely Jamie&Stevie friendship. Enemies to lovers. So much snippy banter before they realize they are actually besties who want to smootch. FEEL GOOD but with tons of depth as well. 

amunt by @carraville short, punchy, poetic = classic redandgold! Valencia!Gary, pining!Jamie. Also incredible that this was written only two weeks into Gary’s appointment, BEFORE the Barcelona loss, before things unravelled, so it’s an amazing time-capsule into the fandom in late 2015 (when they didn’t know if Gary would ever come back!) 

Through fresh eyes by @aramblingjay - Jamie comes to MNF. Gary deals. Truly top-notch writing, amazing language, deft characterization. It never overindulges while remaining poignant throughout. Can be read as pre-Carraville or platonic-soulmates type friendship. It’s tagged as incomplete but it is finished. Essential reading, a classic!

Advantages of Playing Away by @zevons MNF-era testimonial blowjob in Old Trafford dressing room Carraville!! Sooo sweet, soooo hot, dialogue is sharp and funny. Just perfect <3 

Remedial Exercises in Teamwork by @zevons - more saltstreets!!! HOGWARTS AU, both of them are Gryffindor beaters (so in character for them), both obsessed with quidditch. Background!gerlonso. Implied Professor Pep/Mou !!! Detention!flirting!! I mean!!! Sir Alex the owl!!! Checks all the boxes, nostalgic, sweet, enemies to boyfriends. <3 

⚽️❤️RECENT AMAZING 2023/2024 CARRAVILLE WE ARE BLESSED WITH ❤️⚽️

Tasting Syrup on My Tongue by @heyyjulien - PLAYERS ERA!!! Jamie and Gary have a casual relationship that gets put to the test after Jamie’s injured in a derby game. Great banter-to-feels ratio, you will want to put Julien’s sweet Jamie in your pocket and give their Gary a big hug. Great romantic closing scene where they negotiate the implications of Jamie’s injury scare. Also SCHOLESY!! <3

It’s just not what’s done by @player1064 truly a Carraville writer that ‘burst onto the scene’ as fast and furious as Micah Richards! My fave of theirs. A truly hysterical premise on the surface that they plumb deep to turn up real emotion. I love the time-jump style. Wonderful David&Gary friendship, as well as all of the Co92 rallying around Gary. Covers all eras up until today, with a January 2024 Carraville in Courcheval scene!! <3 

Package Deal (It’s Valentine’s Day, ye dimwit) by @kloppinthekop My fave of their “Holiday Husbands” series. So cute and sweet and the love scene is sooooo (SOOO) hot and poignant !! Jamie taking care of Gary in every way on Valentine’s Day. Domestic feels. 

Love You More by @effervescentdragon outstanding emotional excavation, Jamie POV Carraville. Uses a slightly disorienting (in a good way) jump around style that isn’t time stamped, but if you know your Carraville, you get your footing in a sentence or two. It’s a bookended journey between ‘fuck you too’ (visceral hatred) to ‘fuck you too’ (affectionate). 

Gary Neville is Still a Red, Just a Different Shade by @fanficburner - your ultimate ABO Carraville! This isn’t for the faint-of-heart, angst abounds, I would not call this a romance! But a great character piece. Gary gets unwillingly bonded with Jamie, while still in love with Beckham. The standout part of this fic is the world-building and social implications of what an ABO society might actually look like; separate Omega changing rooms, registration offices for Omega registration, the harsh realities of an owned class of people.

#carraville #football rpf #fic recs #carraville fic recs

[coffeenonsense]

I usually try to stay in my lane most of the time (mostly bc I am far too old for fandom drama) but what the hell, it's friday, let's put that lit degree to use:

the way people are playing morality politics with fiction is really starting to genuinely irk me and I think some of the responses to ascended astarion are a perfect example of why this type of thinking is actually hugely detrimental to one's ability to meaningfully engage with fiction and also to the future of art.

astarion is one of the most well-written complex characters I've seen in recent years bar none (and I'm clearly not alone given the explosion of his personal fandom lol) and he has a truly compelling, emotionally resonant character arc whether you ascend him or not

If you keep him a spawn, you get a deeply touching, realistic character's journey to healing and personal growth where he learns who he is after the experience of his trauma and depending on the player's choice, explores his relationship to sex, romance and intimacy

If you ascend astarion, you get an equally emotional and well-rounded character arc where he chooses the power that allows him to have the desperate freedom and safety he's wanted, but in the process eschews any hope of real healing or personal development, and again, depending on the player's choices, restarts the cycle of abuse by taking cazador's place.

These options offer vastly different paths for the character and experiences for the player, but while yes, ascended astarion is the evil ending, and yes, ascending astarion is a tragedy, and a fucking incredible one (not only do you have astarion reigniting a circle of abuse but you have the narrative weight of KNOWING he could have actually overcome his trauma...hats off to the bg3 team tbh) but that does not mean ascending astarion MAKES YOU AS THE PLAYER EVIL

Ascend astarion because you love tragic story arcs, ascend him because you want to indulge in a master/slave vampire fantasy, don't ascend him because you want a healing character journey, don't ascend him because you want a sweet romance; all of these choices carry the same moral weight for the player, which is to say, none, because they are an exploration of fiction.

I know I'm saying this to the villain fucker website but it bears repeating; just because someone wants to engage with evil, fucked up characters or content does not mean they support evil acts in their real life, and furthermore, exploring dark, taboo or tragic concepts safely is part of what fiction is for. It enables us to look at those things from a distance, work through difficult feelings and develop greater understanding of what makes our fellow humans tick — and before you get it twisted there's also no moral issue with exploring fucked up media bc you're horny or just, because. You can take it as seriously (or as sexily) as you want.

It's starting to really concern me how many people not only do not get, but are violently opposed to this concept, because equating what someone likes in fiction with their real life moral code and actions is an incredibly dangerous and let's be honest, immature way of thinking that not only stunts your ability to engage with fiction but ironically, hampers your ability to deal with complicated issues and emotions in real life.

I don't know what's driving this trend (though purity culture is certainly playing a role) but it's definitely something that's not just impacting individuals but contributing to the commercialization of art, where we get games and stories and tv shows and books that regurgitate the same safe, mass marketable plotlines and character archetypes over and over and over again so corporations can squeeze out as much profit as possible.

Anyway, remember kids: There's no such thing as thought crime, reaching for morally pure unproblematic media is directly contributing to the death of art, and this is why funding the humanities is important.

#so...yeah #idk man i have thoughts and feelings #and i love astarion so much lol #astarion #ascended astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #fandom analysis #media analysis #fiction #a personal rant because i need to vent about this and i just recalled i have a blog where i can indeed do so lol #astarion ancunin

[murdererofthumbs]

Seeing reactions after this episode is actually slightly hysterical? It proves that this fandom can be so blind-sighted by characters relations, that they forget what show they are watching. Like, I have always been a self-proclaimed Roman-girl, because I find him compelling and extremely psychologically interesting, and like all of these characters, to a certain extent, I do empathise with him on the level of trauma that he went through. But why the fuck are people surprised that THIS is how he behaved in this episode is beyond me. Oh, suddenly Roman is dead to you because he behaved in the way that was very much consistent with who he is? That’s who all of these people are, like come on, what do we think we are watching here? You didn’t really think he will suddenly become a defender of democracy because it serves a greater good of the country? He was the one to fucking choose Mencken as a president, he cherry-picked him for Logan, because he knew that their views align, that Mencken will be a smart business decision. This whole thing is a transactional procedure - they needed to get someone who will be willing to serve their corrupt interests. Roman doesn’t see a problem in having fascist as a president, because he will never be touched by the consequences of having that kind of man in power. He is very much safe at the top of the mountain, and who the fuck cares what will happen to the peasants at the bottom of the chain? In this way, he imitates Logan the most, because in the end of the day, people are units to him, to all of them really, some of them are just more willing to admit this than others.

Also, like, “uuu, Roman was such a misogynist to Shiv this episode, he just didn’t listen to her at all”. Look, can we stop being delusional here for a second or is it some sort of selective memory situation? Roman is a misogynist. Kendall is a misogynist. Shiv, in fact, has a lot of internalised misogyny going on, and her being a woman never stopped her from pushing other women under the fucking bus, so let’s be real here for a second. And that is not to be said in defence of Roman, frankly nothing what I’m saying here is supposed to justify his behaviour in this or any other episode, but it’s more of like… reality check? I know that Roman’s self-destructive spiral and semi-decent behaviour at the beginning of this season might have clouded certain aspects of who he is, but please, go back to season 3 and count all the instances of him throwing misogynistic and, frequently incestuous jokes and innuendo, at Shiv? How many times he undermines her position on the basis of her being a woman? Or how Kendall, for that matter, uses similar arguments in 03x02? All the siblings use aspects of each other as weapons. Kendall is undermined because he is unstable, because he is a drug-addict, because he has a tendency of flying off on the cloud of mania, and crashing in the heap of depression. Shiv is crossed out because she is a woman, because she frankly has no real experience in the firm (which, although people might be super angry about that, because she is such a “girlboss” apparently, but this is a factual argument), because of her relationship to Tom and tendency to take several sides at the same time (with not much thought put into it). And Roman is frequently undermined because he is a freak and a pervert, because “there is something wrong with him”, because he is the weakest dog that is most easily manipulated, who crumples like a wet tissue if only to receive a bit of affection. They all weaponise their “weak” points against each other, because this dog-eats-dog mindset is focal to who they are as a family, to how they were brought up, to how Logan wanted them to be. So please, let’s not be surprised, when Roman suddenly uses misogyny as an argument against Shiv, because it’s not sudden at all, and it’s always been there.

I think what we have on our hands, is the same situation we had in 03x07 during Kendall’s birthday (and previous episode with Mencken), where some people are so outraged by Roman, and by his ability to shove the knife where it hurts, that they suddenly cross him out completely. Again, all these characters are bad people, there was never any doubt about that. They are compelling because of the complexities of their familial relationships, because of their childhood trauma and the consequences that this trauma has on them as adults. But they are still completely reprehensible as human beings, and I think some viewers forget about that and then get outraged when show about awful people features awful people. And I’m sure, either in next or final episode, something will happen and Roman will become sympathetic again, and he will regain his position as a “poor meow meow”, just as he did in the finale of season 3. Its always a fucking carousel with this character and people get sucked in and have their eye’s covered just to realise that nothing really changed, and nothing will change, because in this show people, at their core, remain the same.

#roman roy #this is a ridiculously long rant #but as soon as I finished this episode I just knew what takes I will see on tumblr #it is becoming painfully predictable to figure out what takes people will give #i dont know if i should find it funny or sad because its been 4 seasons and some people still don’t understand what they are watching #like wow #show about bad people have actual bad people? #doing bad things? #the shocker of a fucking century #call all the news channels #but will all of that stop me from liking Roman as a character? #No because there was never any doubt in my mind about the state of his moral compass #or lack thereof #you can’t like characters in this show for them doing good things because they rarely do #this show is interesting and these characters are interesting because of the psychological mechanisms that drive their behaviour #(and im saying this obviously as a psych major so nothing surprising here) #but yeah i had to get it out because it infuriates me when people lack a basic understanding of what they are watching #and are surprised by things that were there to begin with #in the end of the day nothing fucking changed #succession #succession hbo #kendall roy #shiv roy #succession spoilers #logan roy #connor roy #succession s4 #marta rumbles poetically #i will also probably write something about Roman later on when I can fully process this episode and I get my exam done #because there are some interesting psychological things at stake in here