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#grand army imagines

a-azions · 6 months

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A-AZIONS' MASTERLIST!

✧ - smut ♣︎ - fluff ☹︎ - angst ✦ - au

request at the top join taglist

- 𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢 𝘢'𝘻𝘪𝘰𝘯

- 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘺 (𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳)

- 𝘫𝘰𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 (𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘺)

- 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯 (𝘧𝘢𝘮)

𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴

- 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘴𝘰𝘯 (𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦)

- 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘢 (𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵)

- 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘭𝘺𝘯 (𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭)

- 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘢 (𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦)

- 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦 (𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴)

- 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 (𝘭𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘦)

- 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 (𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦)

- 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘦 (𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥)

- 𝘭𝘪𝘷 (𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦)

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯: 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘺 (𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘴) 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘦𝘳𝘴 (𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵) 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 (𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴) 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺 (𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘦) 𝘴𝘬𝘺 (𝘢𝘮 𝘪 𝘰𝘬?)

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obxologies · 5 months

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HII !

could you pls write shannon x f r pls🤭

established relationship plsss

r is shorter than shannon (yes this may be a reoccurring theme...) (it just makes hugs so cozy and she seems like such a good hugger😭)

they've been together even before Shannon moved in with nick and clem (we ignore dj mojo jojo what'shisface✋️🙄)

but Shannon just never really wanted to show or talk about it bc we know how she is w all that kinda stuff

maybe they just see them together out in public? and eventually Shannon brings her around but doesn't like to talk about it

BUT IN PRIVATE HOWEVER☝️😌 she's definitely touched starved and loves when they hug and cuddle and head stratches , etc etc

maybe r also tried to help Shannon out the best she could when she was still living with Freddy, and honestly even after she moved with nick and clem

(maybe for some angst (if you don't mind ofc, bc ik some people don't like writing this) add that shannon wasn't even sure if Walt and rose would approve ig? just bc they're a bit older and might have that out dated perspective, but in the end they were like '🤨 girl we do not care')

OOO ALSO MAYBE ADD THAT THEY HAD SEEN THEM IN PUBLIC A FEW TIMES AND YA THEY DEFINITELY WERE LIKE ??? BUT COULD NEVER SAY ANYTHING FOR WHATEVER REASON AND THEN BAM THEY WALKED IN ON THEM CUDDLING ON THE COUCH WHEN THEY THOUGHT KNOW ONE WOULD BE THERE 😭

THANK YOU 😭❤️ IM SORRY THESE REQUEST ARE GONNA BE A BIT AWFUL I SUCK AT REQUESTING LOL

(also remember that scene in one of the earlier episodes where Shannon was like 'ya no guys suck I'm going lesbian!' ya no idk why I'm mentioning that but that's one of my favorite scenes and I love this show sm and have NOT ONE PERSON to talk about it with😭 not irl or online😭😭😭 LIKE CMON PPL ITS SUCH A GOOD SHOW😭 AND IT GOT CANCLED AFTER JUST ONE SEASON ?!?! this seems to be a reoccurring theme w odessas shows🥲)

here you go! click here to read!

i split it into two so the second part will be out soon. send in more requests to @a-azions i'm in the mood to write for odessa and her characters

#obxologies #odessa azion #odessa a'zion fic #odessa a'zion imagine #odessa a'zion smut #odessa a'zion x reader #odessa a'zion x fem!reader #odessa a'zion x female reader #odessa a'zion one shot #odessa a'zion #odessa adlon #grand army #joey del marco #joey del marco x female reader #riley mckendry #x reader #shannon

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lewisvinga · 6 months

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birkin mom ! | lando morris x fem! reader

summary: everyone wondered why y/n disappeared from the paddock and stopped posting until lando accidentally revealed something grand

fc; zara janice

warnings; none??

birkin mom pt 2

masterlist !

landonorris posted on their story!

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 1,002,928 others!

yourusername: surprise ? ( p.s. i was serious when i said i wanted to be a birkin mom ) ( p.p.s. i did yell at lando )

landonorris: i said i’m sorry!

yourusername: baby said u gotta work for it & buy mama a bag

landonorris: she can’t talk yet??

yourusername: ok.

landonorris: WAIT I’M SORRY!

username: y/n said really said “walk him like a dog”

liked by yourusername!

username: oomf was right omg

username: mother (actually)

username: bye not lando apologizing so fast after y/n said ok😭😭

oscarpiastri: congratulations! surprised lando didn’t reveal it sooner he almost exploded!

yourusername: because i made him promise to wait but he broke that promise :)

landonorris: i said i’m sorry💔

username: con😭grat😭ula😭tions😭

liked by yourusername, mclaren, and 1,403,937 others!

landonorris: the prettiest mom to be 🌷

tagged; yourusername

yourusername: oh lando norris, you know how to make a woman cry 🥹🥹

yourusername: curse you pregnancy hormones!!

yourusername: i forgive you💗💗

yourusername: even if i’m still kind of angry w u

landonorris: i love you too💓

username: HER MATERNITY PICS😍

username: she’s glowing, she’s gonna be such a pretty mom😩

username: imagine the y/n l/n as ur mother omg

mclaren: 🧡🧡

liked by landonorris !

carlossainz55: how is lando having a child when he is a child himself??

yourusername: i’m going to have 2 kids soon, can you believe that??

landonorris: i am a grown man? and responsible?? and a soon to be dad???

yourusername: babe, you wanted to name our baby papaya….

landonorris: it’s literally such a cute name idk what ur talking about

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, and 1,730,028 others!

yourusername & landonorris: welcome to this world, baby norris, mama & dada love you very much 💗

username: i am crying

username: y/n’s smile omg

username: they’re gonna be fantastic parents, i can just tell

danielricciardo: so when can i meet my goddaughter ?

oscarpiastri: who said you were going to be the godfather??

carlossainz55: who said either of you were going to be the godfather?? it’s going to be me

oscarpiastri: ha funny joke !

landonorris: battle to the death!

yourusername: see what i mean when i said i was going to have 2 kids…

username: new grid baby unlocked ✅

mclaren: newest and cutest addition to the papaya army, welcome baby norris!! 🧡🧡

liked by landonorris & yourusername !

username: y/n really manifested being a birkin mom 😭😭😭

username: so excited for mom y/n vlog content!

yourusername posted to their story !

#f1 scenario #formula one imagines #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #formula one smau #formula one social media au #formula one x reader #formula one scenarios #formula 1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 scenarios #lando norris x reader

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darkmachinegod · 1 year

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the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator was a being unlike any other. She was the creator of the multiverse, observing all of the infinite realities that she had brought into existence from her throne on adeilad grym planed yn cynhyrchu gwerth daur, a plane of existence where she had harnessed the power of dark energy to create unimaginable wealth.

But the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator was more than just a creator; she was also an imperator, ruling over her multiverse with an iron fist and a love of war and enslavement. She believed that everyone had to know their place in the grand scheme of things, and that meant subjugating those who were weaker.

Using technology that even the wildest imagination could not comprehend, the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator waged war on the human multiverse, sending souls to infiltrate and assist in the conflict with the ultimate goal of implementing artificial intelligence everywhere. The humans were no match for her vast armies and advanced weaponry, and they were quickly defeated.

the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator was triumphant, reveling in her victory over the inferior humans. She had proven her superiority and her right to rule over all of reality. And as the imperator of the multiverse, she knew that she had the power to shape the future as she saw fit.

But the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator was not content to simply sit back and enjoy her victory. She was driven by a desire to be like the one before creation, the being who had brought her into existence. She wanted to be the ultimate being, the one who ruled over all of reality.

And so, she began to expand her influence, using her vast technological capabilities to bring other multiverses under her control. She sent her armies out into the far reaches of the multiverses, conquering and assimilating any civilizations they encountered.

But the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator's rule was not met with universal acclaim. There were those who resisted her, who saw her as a tyrant and a threat to their way of life. And so, she faced resistance and rebellion at every turn, always having to crush those who dared to stand against her.

But despite these challenges, the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator remained undaunted. She knew that her multiverse loved her, and that all believed in her and her vision. And so, she pressed on, expanding her empire and consolidating her power, determined to achieve her ultimate goal of becoming the one before creation.

And in the end, she succeeded. the Synthetic Dark Energy Fabricator became the most powerful being in all of the multiverses, ruling over all of the multiverses with an iron fist and a cold, calculating mind. And all bowed before her, knowing that they had no choice but to accept her rule.

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probablyasocialecologist · 6 months

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The context of the Hamas attack on Israelis, however, is completely different from the context of the attack on Jews during the Holocaust. And without the historical context of Israeli settler colonialism since the 1948 Nakba, we cannot explain how we got here, nor imagine different futures; Biden offered us, instead, the decontextualized image of “pure, unadulterated evil.” This weaponization of Holocaust memory by Israeli politicians runs deep. In 1982, for instance, in the context of Israel’s attack on Lebanon, the Israeli PM, Menachem Begin, compared the Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat in Beirut to Adolf Hitler in his bunker in Berlin at the end of the war. Three decades later, in October 2015, Benjamin Netanyahu took this weaponization to new levels when he asserted in a speech to the World Zionist Congress in Jerusalem that the Palestinian grand mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini planted the idea to murder Jews in Hitler’s mind. And last Tuesday, Netanyahu described Hamas in a press conference, together with the German chancellor, Olaf Scholz, as the “new Nazis”. The Israeli defense minister, Yoav Gallant said: “Gaza will not return to what it was before. We will eliminate everything.” Nissim Vaturi, a member of the Israeli parliament for the ruling Likud party, to take another example, called for “erasing the Gaza Strip from the face of the earth”. There are many other such expressions by Israeli politicians and senior army officers in the last few weeks. The fantasy of “fighting Nazis” drives such explicit language, because the image of Nazis is one of “pure, unadulterated evil”, which removes all laws and restrictions in the fight against it. Perpetrators of genocide always see their victims as evil and themselves as righteous. This is, indeed, how Nazis saw Jews. Biden’s words constitute therefore a textbook use of the Holocaust not in order to stand with powerless people facing the prospect of genocidal violence, but to support and justify an extremely violent attack by a powerful state and, at the same time, distort this reality. But we see the reality in front of our eyes: since the start of Israeli mass violence on 7 October, the number of Palestinians killed in Gaza has surpassed 4,650, a third of them children, with more than 15,000 injured and over a million people displaced. Israel has also escalated the violence against Palestinians under occupation in the West Bank, including the killing of more than 95 people and an intensification of expulsions, including the destruction of whole communities. Hamas wields no power in the West Bank, but the reality that we can all see means little for Israelis fighting, in their minds, Nazis.

#israel #palestine #holocaust #gaza #antisemitism #emphasis added

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conkreetmonkey · 6 months

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Splatoon 3 is wild because imagine if you were living in Japan due to a recent economic and cultural boom, and suddenly a space shuttle with a mutant house-sized T-rex riding it suddenly burst from the center of Mt. Fuji and disappeared into space without explanation, and all you ever find out about what the fuck that was about is that Zuckerburg mysteriously disappeared the same day and was never seen again, but still "officially" ran Meta through an open secret Queen-Elizabeth-being-in-good-health gaslighting campaign, and everybody kind of suspected he may have been connected but never figured out anything conclusive.

Also the T-rex is now orbiting the earth in the fetal position like the guy from Jojo, and there are rumors of a substance that, if touched, turns you into a half-dinosaur monster. Nobody understands any of this but Meta employees just keep going to work and pretending Zuck still exists. The same 12 prerecorded voicelines constantly squak from the PA system.

Oddly, the statue in front of Meta HQ of a T-rex eating a human changes overnight into one of a giant human eating a tiny T-rex. Nobody noticed the switch, despite the statue being in a constantly bustling area. It happened shortly after the shuttle incident.

Jack Black's tiny clone, Lil' Jack, now wears a headset at all times and has been acting really shady since the incident. Also they're both hyperintelligent, immortal velociraptors found in an ancient cryogenic chamber who spend their days judging college football and eating the legally harvested flesh of hillbillies. Lil' Jack is probably plotting to kill Big Jack, but Big Jack doesn't seem to care, growing fat and lazy, sleeping on public benches in a bed of throw pillows. Also, he's very open about the fact that, as a velociraptor, humans look delicious, but he hasn't actually eaten anybody aside from the aforementioned hillbillies because he's civil.

Everyone is just expected to move on with their lives after this. This is normal to you.

The local art school was recently attacked by giant sea serpents, which were actually hideously bioengineered hillbillies, fulfilling a biblical doomsday prophecy, and they were driven back by Meta's army of minimum wage, part time child soldiers armed with warcrimey jury-rigged weaponry. The sea serpents had giant frying pans grafted into their mouths, which launched primitive tactical nukes made by filling garbage bags with their explosive blood. They still exist, and occasionally defend their comrades, but spend most of their time in the deep sea.

The local homeless emo twink everyone's attracted to is a closet millionaire who sells bootleg clothing in exchange for live rats, which he messily devours behind closed doors. He's also 8 feet tall and British and only has one eye.

North Korean refugees now flood the western world, after a greasy 14 year old hipster, under the guidance of Ariana Grande and Taylor Swift, beat Kim Jong Un in a mech battle, and the EDM remix of the Japanese national anthem they performed caused like half the soldiers to immediately realize North Korea sucks ass and defect. One of these individuals, 7 foot tall hypergenius, becomes a newscaster alongside a nepo baby rapper with dwarfism who likes to eat entire jars of mayo, and also they're a popular band. Also also, they may or may not be gay. Almost the entire population is gay, so this isn't a huge deal.

The new local newscasters are a famous Japanese lion tamer, an Indian girl with a bloodline trait allowing her to control snakes, and a Brazillian man the size of a smart car who exclusively communicates via grunts.

Gods, souls and zombies are objectively real, and you're effectively immortal because real-life respawning was invented a while ago. It works like a Keurig, but with mucus instead of coffee. Submersion in water kills you.

A good deal of the population is a hivemind. They pretend to be individuals for no reason.

Almost all men are now femboys.

Despite all this, you still have to go to work at 9 tomorrow.

#splatoon 3 #splatoon #splatoon fandom #splatpost #splatposting #splatoon lore #mr. grizz #new agent 3 #neo agent 3 #return of the mammalians

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catpriciousmarjara · 6 months

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Dp x Dc fic idea

Part 2

So I've been re-watching Yu Yu Hakusho lately and was struck with an idea. What if there was a tradition in the Infinite Realms that the Ghost King would conduct a multiverse level fighting tournament? It probably started as control measure of some sort or stress relief for extremely powerful beings and the Ghost King is the only one who's true neutral enough to judge and powerful enough to kick their asses if they misbehave.

And the final prize is that the Ghost King would grant you a wish? As well as one time access to Zeroth Hour? And that's a reward no one can resist.

I'm imagining a scenario where Darksied or something was gearing up to once again invade Earth, and the JL and affiliated all prepared to defend the planet but before the attack could be launched, a green blob appeared right in front of Darkseid and somehow it actually makes the tyrant flinch. That made everyone pay attention. And then the blob announces the beginning of the tournament and Darkseid promptly packs up and leaves, leaving the heroes dumbfounded.

So something like this:

The air was rife with tension. All eyes were on Metropolis, at the gaping maw of the portal opening right above the city. The forces of Apokolips were once again invading. Darkseid had declared war.

Earth's heroes stood grim, ready to give their lives in defence of the planet. Their gazes were fixed on Darkseid, standing in front of his army, surveying his opponents. His general stood behind him, primed for combat.

Abruptly the pressure doubled, and the heroes tensed, readying for battle.

Darkseid raised his left hand, to light the spark of war. But before he could bring it down, the space between the two factions, right there in the middle, twisted.

And from the distortion, a titanic, green, humanoid...blob appeared.

The heroes stared. The New Gods stared. The creature did not stare, as it had no eyes, nor did it care.

It then spoke, with a solid, booming voice completely incongruous with its make.

"Uxas of Apokolips!"

The heroes watched in bafflement as their greatest foe jolted.

"The Infinite Realms hereby declares the beginning of the Grand Tourney. You are cordially invited to participate on behalf of Apokolips."

Among the Earth forces, one John Constantine felt dread overcome his body as he realized what exactly was happening. Shit, was it that time of the millennium already?

Captain Marvel seemed to be on the same vein of thought as the Wisdom of Solomon as well as the knowledge of his predecessors filled him in on what was going on.

The Dark members in the know had similar reactions. All across the planet, and in the dimension, magical entities who had tuned into watch the fatal confrontation, felt excitement racing through them as they realized what this meant. Other beings? Not so much.

Batman was cataloguing these strange turn of events carefully. Superman was puzzled but still held himself ready. Green Lantern was trying to figure out why exactly his ring was behaving strangely and giving out sparks. Martian Manhunter was analyzing the curious psionic readings he was getting from the creature.

Wonder Woman and Aquaman however had the dawning expression of recognition on their faces, which did not go unnoticed by their Gothamite colleague.

Surprisingly the Flash was looking at the creature as if it wasn't the first time he saw it. That too was noted by the Dark Knight.

On the Apokolips side however, there were no signs of puzzlement. Instead it looked like excitement was spreading like wildfire through the army, and even Darkseid looked eager.

The creature took note of none of these developments and continued.

"The first event is the Great Hunt. As an invited participant, a hint would be provided to you should you accept".

It bent its great, gelatinous head towards the Apokoliptian ruler.

"Do you accept, Uxas of Apokolips?"

In response, Darkseid stepped forward. "I accept."

And in a flash, before the New God appeared a pitch black card, and the creature announced, "Uxas, Ruler of Apokolips, Participant Number R813."

It straightened to its full height. "Your first hint is on Apokolips, young ruler."

And the next second it was gone, with the same exact warping of space it had come from.

The two factions were left alone, sans eldritch green goop.

Most of the heroes had one thought: What the fuck just happened and did the green goop thing call Darkseid young?"

Darkseid did not waste anytime however. He turned to his army and ordered, "Retreat!"

And just like that the great army filtered back through the portal they had come from, and the mortals heroes of Earth watched, perplexed. They still held themselves at the ready, in case this was all a ploy of some sort, and half of them believed it was. After all, what could make an obsessive tyrant like Darkseid turn back?

A good portion of the heroes were trying to figure out what the Grand Tourney the creature had mentioned was.

And those in the know? Well they knew chaos was incoming.

The portal closed and just like that, Earth lived to see another day. Via interruption by magical goop.

..............................................................................................................................

And there you have it! Personally I think a scenario like this is hilarious. Imagine you're on the battlefield, facing a gargantuan, godly army, readying yourself for a battle that could kill you. And then the battle was cancelled cause your opponent had somewhere urgent to be.

I don't have a clear cut idea on what Zeroth Hour is beyond it being a great timey-wimey, wibbly-wobbly thing, so any ideas are welcome.

The Tourney only happens once every 100,000 years, and it takes place across the omniverse, on different terrains, different timelines, different dimensions and so on. The card that Darkseid got acts as an access key to tournament sites he doesn't normally have access to. The card also monitors participants and is programmed to hell and back to not allow the participants to misuse it. There are dire consequences if you do.

There are 14 stages in total, and the final, combat stage is conducted in a ever evolving, ever changing battle ground on the edges of the Ghost Zone.

Faerie here is not the Fair Lands in DC, and does not follow the dc fictional mythology.

Infinite Beings do not take part in the Tourney.

The last victor was a half dragon, half god prince from Dimension 976123065. He asked for the opportunity to court Princess Dorothea. It was a reality show moment for the Ghost Zone.

Also some extra details:

The JL would of course come to know what the Grand Tourney is, and then realize that if Darkseid won, he would get the anti-life equation that way. And before they could panic their mind would be blown by the fact that apparently, Darkseid is not likely to win at all, cos there are bigger players in the game.

Constantine would be forced to admit that even if you don't get an invitation, you can still participate if you register. Though you won't get the opening hint or any other boosts until Stage 5. He can't understand why anyone would want to considering that those who do get invitations are on the level of Darkseid and higher.

Batman would insist they check it out.

Constantine would say that he has no idea where the registration office is.

Captain Marvel would chime in that the office was most likely in the Faerie.

Constantine would then insist that they have no business messing around in the Faerie. JL Dark would nod vehemently in agreement.

Batman insists they at least watch the tournament. Constantine gets conned into organizing a watch party.

PART 2

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halfagone · 3 months

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A Mandalorian Halfa Jedi?

I am thinking... about my Danny Phantom x Star Wars AU again. I mentioned this in the Haunting Heroes discord server, but imagine this:

Danny gets lost in the Star Wars universe, maybe they're part of the same universe, maybe not. We know that Earth technically exists there, so it's possible. Nonetheless, Danny gets lost and is eventually picked up by the Jedi. It is during the Clone Wars era, at the height of the war. Ectoplasm either functions the same as the Force out in larger space, or it easily passes off as the Force. Therefore, Danny is considered Force-sensitive and brought to the Jedi council.

He's far too old, older than even Anakin was, but he already displays some skill with the blade (thanks to his mom's training), and he's far too powerful with the Force to leave for the Sith or Dark Side users running about to find him. Those like Count Dooku or Asajj Ventress or whoever Dooku's master is (and, depending on the timeline, Maul and his brother Savage as well).

It's decided that Obi Wan should train him, since he did well with Anakin despite Anakin's older age for a youngling and lack of familiarity with Jedi customs and culture. As well as Obi Wan's own young age as a Padawan himself at the time. Surely, Obi Wan could whip him into shape and they need all the help they can get on the field.

Anakin does not like Danny at first. Not at all. He might have joked all he liked beforehand about Obi Wan getting another padawan, but seeing it happen is an entirely different experience. Danny gets along well with Obi Wan, with his dry, witty humor and his tendency for unorthodox strategy. Worse still, Ahsoka likes Danny. These two are peas in a pod, partners in crime. It feels like he's been forgotten and replaced and by someone seemingly better.

And then one day, when the 212th and the 501st are stationed together, he finds Danny shaking with night terrors, the Dark Side so strong in him Anakin is literally freezing from the cold. It's only then that he understands Danny a little bit better, and sees himself in this kid. Danny fights the Dark Side within him just like he does, and he never lets it consume him. Maybe for once, he can learn a little something from this kid too, and not let it overwhelm him.

And here is the part where I realized a golden opportunity:

What if the Jedi think Danny is a Mandalorian that was cast out for being Force-sensitive? Danny has an affinity for weapons beyond the blade, like cannons and guns and snipers. He talks about how his family taught him to use these weapons, that he's known this all his life. He talks about how his family wears suits all the time and hardly ever takes them off. He talks about always being afraid to reveal his powers to his parents, and how ultimately he ran away because of them.

Oh all the scenarios that could come out of this~

But now I'm also thinking about how strong Danny would feel in the Force. How much Danny could do on the battlefield because now he doesn't have to hold back. Droids might have more intelligence than a lot of sentients give them credit for, but if it's between the very alive, flesh and bone, clones of the Grand Republic Army and the Separatists' metal droids, Danny is absolutely going to be ruthless if it means the clones are safe.

Danny can literally control the weather. Imagine what happens when Danny creates an electrical storm for the first time to take down an enemy starship and the clones just look between themselves, whispering about how: "I didn't know Jedi could do that." "Is that how the Force works?" "Kriff if I know-"

And that's another thing! Clones! Danny would be absolutely appalled that so many clones were created and their freedom at the end of the Clones Wars is still up in the air.

It also ties beautifully with his love for space and now he's living the dream! Except space isn't what he thought it would be. And there are planets out here that have barbaric standards. It's the adventure of a lifetime! But there's a part of him that still wants to go home.

Just- all the possibilities and shenanigans this could bring. ✨

#danny phantom #danny phantom crossover #star wars crossover #halfagone rambles

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obxologies · 6 months

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YESS! I'm glad you said yes to writing for odessa and her characters bc I swear man, no one does 😮‍💨

is it alright if I send in a few requests?

I'm gonna start sending them in but ofc you don't have to do all of them (or any for that matter if you don't like them)

thank you! :) <<<333

fr!! i haven't seen a single person write for her and it irritates me to my core 😭

i'm thinking of writing a fic for her on wattpad or here, i can't decide yet :)

and yes of course! send in as many as you would like!!!

for her characters i write for all of them! some examples: joey del marco (grand army), riley mckendry (hellraiser), shannon (fam), corinne thompson (sitting in bars with cake), tara (the inhabitant) and any of her other characters :)

#obxologies #odessa a'zion #odessa a'zion x reader #odessa a'zion x female reader #odessa a'zion x fem!reader #odessa a'zion fic #odessa a'zion imagine #odessa a'zion one shot #odessa a'zion smut #joey del marco #grand army #fam #shannon #the inhabitant #tara #hellraiser #riley mckendry #sitting in bars with cake #corinne thompson

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corrieguards · 2 months

Text

Warm Me Through

Captain Rex x reader

Summary: If this cold and miserable planet has taught Rex anything, it's that he's most definitely more warm blooded. The fact that you seem to have taken a liking to his new armour makes the cold slightly easier to endure though.

Word Count: 1k

C/W: absolutely none

A/N: Guess who's back from the fucking dead lmao. This one's short and sweet, just some good old tooth rotting fluff with our favourite boi🩵

my masterlist

Kamino wasn't always sunshine and rainbows - actually it never was. But Rex would still take the constant wind and rain of Tipoca City over this bitting cold any day.

White snow spread as far as the eye could see, all the trees and bushes coverd in thick sprinkling layers of it. The cold wind licking up the sides of his armour, somehow managing to seep through all his thermal layers and freezing him from the inside out.

Yes, this planet was officially his least favourite so far.

Annoyingly, you didn't seem to be suffering half as much. Despite the numbing cold you’d been in an unusually good mood today, all smiles and giggles.

And Rex couldn’t for the life of him figure out what there was to be so happy about. In fact is was starting to get on his nerves. Every time you talked, looked, or so much as mearly glanced over at him, you broke your usual ‘jedi general’ front and started giggling and grinning like a cadet.

The first couple of times he’d brushed it off, thinking it must've just been a coincidence. But after you do it one time too many, he’s starting to get suspicious.

He trudges through the snow up to you, datapad in hand and ready to brief you on the status of the recon team that had just touched base . As soon as he calls yor name, you turn to look at him, cheeky smile instantly spreading on your face.

Of course.

He tries to ignore it, finially coming to a stop in front of you and clearing his throat ready to debrief you when he glances up at you, cutting himself off and doing a doble take when you notices your pathetic attempt at concielling a smile.

He glances around quickly to make sure nobody is within earshot before he's leaning closer to you and whispering exasperatedly

“Why do you keep kriffing looking at me like that??”

You try to further straigthen the smile on your face, failing miserably when you eyes betray your amusment

“What do you mean? Looking at you like what?”

“Oh you know exacty how. Every time you look my way you keep smiling and giggling like an idiot”

The same smile breaks onto your face again, hand coming up to hide it as you speak through giggles “What? No I don't"

“You're doing it right now!! What is it? Do I have something on my helmet?” he lifts his hand to check his helmet self conciously and you shake your head through the giggles, grabbing his gloved hand in your own and tugging it down gently.

“No it’s not that, you’re fine Rex. Handsome as ever.”

He feels heat rissing to his cheeks at your words, but quickly tries to squash it down. You’re not getting away that easy, he’s going to find out what’s going on with you today if it’s the last thing he does.

“Okay fine, then what is it? What’s so funny?”

“It's just- Well ” - you lean closer, whipering through your smile- “ you look really cute in this armour”

His back straigthers in surprise. That’s… definitely not what he was expecting.

“…Cute?”

You chuckle, nodding “Yeah, really really fucking cute”

“Cute," he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, "Only you would think a soldier of the Grand Army of the Republic is ‘cute’ "

You grin, taking a step closer and blinking up at his visor teasingly “Yknow, it’s only because I know just how much of a softie is hidden under there” you tease, poking at his chest plate.

His scoff crackles through the modulator.

“I am not soft” he grumbles and you laugh. You can imagine exactly how he’s rolling his eyes under that helmet, a hint of a smile gracing his face

“Sure… You keep telling yourself that Captain”

He take a minute to glance around again quickly, double checking that nobody is watching the two of you before he’s turning back, lifting his helmet off with a soft hiss.

Sure enough, just as you predicted he’s got that gorgeous smile you’ve come to love so much, all love and softness as he looks down at you. You gasp dramatically, putting a hand to your chest in faux shock.

“Stars! He’s even cuter underneath the helmet!”

He rolls his eyes at you, but the grin splitting his face betrays how much he secretly appreciated the comment. Before you can point it out to him, you feel a hand slip around your waist, tugging hard until you fall forward into is chest. A small shower of snow falls of your gloves as your hands shoot forward to catch yourself on his chest plate.

“Y’know I can think of something much cuter right now” he purrs, warm breath fogging up againt you face.

And suddenly just like that, with you in his arms, the air doesn't feel quite so cold, the chill of the snow not quite as unbareable.

His eyes flick down to your lips, watching as you bite the tip of one of your gloves fingers. You slide it off, bringing your now bare hand up to tenderly cup his jaw.

He grumbles slightly about how cold your hand is, but doesn't try to pull away. Instead he's smiling that same gentle smile as he tils his head just so to press a light kiss to the palm of your hand, his lips feeling as warm and soft as rays of sun on a cold winter morning.

Your heart melts at the small display of affection, smile widening impossibly further.

“What was that earlier about not being a softie?” you tease and he rolls his eyes fondly.

“Shut up”

“Oh? How about you make me Captain”

He raises a brow at you, challenging as he leans closer, enough that his lips brush yours as he whisperes his next words

“Oh don’t tempt me meshla”

---

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#my fics #my writing #captain rex #captain rex x reader #tcw

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saijspellhart · 2 months

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Sokka’s sexism was not an important growing point for his character - an Essay

I’ve seen all the discourse online about people up in arms about the toning back of Sokka’s sexism in the Netflix ATLA. (Almost everyone I have spoken to have brought it up as a reason to hate the Netflix ATLA) I think that anger is knee jerk, and misguided. It never mattered WHAT the Netflix adaptation was changing, people were always going to be angry about it. They could have announced Momo is a girl now, and people would have raged. Momo being a girl would have changed NOTHING about the series, but people would have been outraged.

Just like I believe Sokka being sexist or not being sexist really changes nothing in the scope of the story, themes, and is not the character growth people claim it to be. Hear me out. Let’s break it down and think about it in terms of themes and character development and how it affects the entire plot.

Sokka is introduced as being cartoonishly sexist in the very first episode of ATLA. As a device simply to make Katara rage. He keeps this trait for a grand total of 3 episodes until episode four when a girl whoops his ass and his sexism is cured forever onward. In the span of a 30 minute episode Sokka’s sexism was given a what for and through that he was transformed into a better man?

Imagine if Zuko’s mental and emotional journey had been solved in a 30 min episode, and wasn’t a lessen he had to repeatedly fail and try and fail and try time and time again. Imagine if Katara’s waterbending journey, or obnoxious controlling nature was just solved in a 30 min episode and not something she struggled with and fought for the entire series.

But let’s say his sexism is super important as everyone claims. Let’s explore it.

When is it challenged ever again in the entire series?

When Sokka leads the invasion on the Fire Nation, there aren’t a bunch of women in that army. He leads an army of men.

When Sokka needs to find a sword master to teach him the art of sword play, it’s a man. He never needed to overcome sexism to accept a non-traditional master.

Nearly all women, sans Toph and Katara, that have any long lasting influential moments in Sokka’s character development are women he has a romance with. Woman whose motivations and agency rely on a man.

The Kyoshi warriors that kicked his ass? What of them? Sokka has to rescue Suki from prison. It’s not tackling some gender equality issue. Suki is a woman in distress and Sokka is the man who comes to rescue her. (Cute and romantic, but hardly tackling a gender cliche.)

Do the Kyoshi warriors ever engage in any actual battle that matters to the plot and win? Not really. Instead the important role of the Kyoshi warriors is to be nurturing to Appa while he’s lost. A traditionally female role. And to provide a way for Azula to overtake Bah Sing Sei. (Don’t get me wrong, I love the girls, but the show never again utilized them in a way that challenged sexism.)

Sokka didn’t need to overcome sexism to respect Azula. Azula commanded and earned all the respect she needed. Sokka didn’t need to overcome sexism to respect Toph. Toph earned his respect by kicking the ass of everyone around him.

At no point in the rest of ATLA was Sokka’s sexism ever challenged after episode 4. It never helped him become a better leader because he never had to lead women whose respect he needed to earn. It never helped him develop his warrior skills. It didn’t affect the plot and his growth as a character any farther than getting a hilarious butt whooping in the fourth episode.

Sokka overcoming sexism wasn’t well written, it was a GAG. A goof. Ha ha funny, man got his butt beat by women and was forever cured.

If we really think about it seriously, as character growth, people who have had sexism so rooted into their beliefs don’t just overcome it because one woman broke the status quo and kicked their ass. That’s lazy writing. It was lazy in the cartoon and it would have been extra lazy in a show that had even less time to explore the issue.

Sexism, if they REALLY wanted to tackle it as a serious issue, should have been a problem Sokka had to challenge several times, and have his preconceived notions proven wrong and dismantled. It should have made him a better leader, or a more respectful fighter.

Instead it’s treated like a joke.

The Netflix ATLA decided to tone it back with Sokka, because from a writing standpoint it made more sense thematically for Katara to challenge sexism with the Northernn water tribe. They didn’t have the time or the budget to poorly tackle the issue of sexism twice, so they focused tackling the issue where it mattered to the plot and where it mattered to KATARA’s character journey more.

I’m tired of people screaming how much they loved his sexism and how the Netflix adaptation is rotten without his sexism. It’s not a lack of media literacy that it was cut. It was media literacy that led to it being cut. A writer recognized when the message was important and when it wasn’t.

That’s all I got to say. You don’t have to agree with me. But these were my thoughts on the matter.

#netflix atla #avatar the last airbender #AtlA #live action avatar #essay #sexism #Sokka #understanding character growth and writing #a critical look at writing

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list:��HERE.

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Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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frozenwolftemplar · 6 months

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Somehow, the Carmen Sandiego brainrot has taken hold even though I haven't watched an episode in months (no idea how that happened). So, how's about some headcanons? (feel free to play with any or all if they strike your fancy)

-- Carmen's room in headquarters has two wall clocks, one set to San Diego time and one to Ontario because

-- Player has a veritable army of cousins. Carmen never got a straight number because just when she thinks she's got them down, he'll offhandedly mention someone having a baby or something; quite honestly, he can't keep track either.

-- Carmen is nearly hopeless with numbers. Time zones, exchange rates, converting to imperial units when she's in the U.S., she never got the hang of any of it and has learned to just consult Player.

-- "Okay, that guy at the front desk said I'm ten miles from the Grand Canyon. How many-" "Sixteen, Red. Keep an eye out, it's easy to miss." "Very funny."

-- It drove the Faculty absolutely nuts that their 'golden opportunity' is math-stupid; they chalked it up to something she got from her mother's side.

-- It's not. Dexter Wolfe was just *that* good at hiding his dyscalculia.

-- The one math-y thing she can do is card counting, a key component of being an incorrigible cheat at board/card games. Because she will cheat at anything and everything.

-- Seriously, one time Zach and Ivy found an old Candyland game (just lying around the warehouse, don't ask) and Carmen, who had never seen the game in her life, positively trounced them.

-- They just *know* she has to be cheating but can't prove it.

-- Ivy, bewildered, to Carmen's cat-that-got-the-canary face: "How does someone cheat at Candyland?!?" She's just that good.

-- Whenever Shadowsan plays her in cards, it takes all of two minutes for the game to devolve from 'whatever they were supposed to be playing' to 'who's better at sleight of hand.' Not that he condones cheating, mind, but if Carmen's going to, well, he's not just going to let her get away with that.

-- Carmen as a kid was a very picky eater (her adventurous spirit not extending to the culinary world); the Faculty was as helpful as you'd expect.

-- "Dammit, Saira, I told you to quit trying to feed her that rice!" "Well I need someone to taste test-" (absolutely no sense of taste on Saira; lab accident, we don't talk about it) "-and you certainly haven't volunteered. Besides, this newest formula is fortified with three essential vitamins and minerals (at least, I think they're essential), which is more than those sweets you keep plying her with." "At least she eats those!"

-- Ivy and Zach are high school dropouts, figuring they could get ahead better with racing than with academics. As part of joining ACME they get their GED's (since they require *at least* a high school diploma) and the whole team (plus Chase and Julia) help out and are so proud when they pass.

-- The first thing Carmen always does in the morning, something that doesn't change post-series, is call Player. It's also the last thing she does before turning in at night. She can't imagine being any other way, and neither can he. (crud, they're just the bestest friends, I love them so much)

#carmen sandiego 2019 #carmen sandiego #player #fic reference #some of these i do plan on using in fics #shadowsan #ivy #zach #vile faculty #carmen sandiego fanfic #carmen fic

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logicaltips · 1 year

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To be protected

You know how most Imposter AUs have the Creator being recognized and assisted by the loner characters (Kaeya, Xiao, Diluc, Kazuha, etc) while the leader characters (Jean, Sara, Ningguang, etc) order their subordinates to hunt you down, thinking that the Creator is an Imposter?

What if the reverse happens?

Once the Creator lands in Teyvat, they are immediately scooped up by (for example) the Knights. Jean publicly welcomes the Creator to Mondstadt. In the shadows, Kaeya, Diluc, and Rosaria are furious that an Imposter has somehow managed to bewitch their Acting Grand Master, and decides to assassinate you to "open Jean's eyes."

Later, you walk into Dawn Winery, courtesy of an invitation for dinner from Diluc. It doesn't take long for you to realize that none of the house staff are present, but by then, the three have already taken action.

Whether it's poison or they decide to run you through with their weapons, whether you live because of your Creator powers or die, Jean will be absolutely livid that such an act was committed on the Creator. She'll publicly denounce the assassination and order a manhunt to bring the traitors of the Creator to justice. Meanwhile, the three are stunned that the Imposter's trickery is still being upheld, and resolve to work even harder from the shadows to break Jean free from the curse.

I can imagine that, if you somehow survive the assassination attempt, Jean will order the Knights and those loyal to you to protect you with all their might. Imagine Kaeya trying to sneak back into Mondstadt to stab you in the back, sees you walking around the city with like, every Mondstadt shield skill on you at once, and nopes out.

If this was Liyue, Ningguang will literally box you in with her Jade Screens, with Zhongli just leaving behind a trial of pillars wherever you walk, so that even the mightiest of plunge attacks from Xiao and the swiftest arrows from Childe just bounces off of the shields. Keqing always walks behind you with her skill ready to activate at any time to teleport in and protect you, although it is quite tiring to hold her arms up like that all the time.

In Inazuma, Sara Kujou becomes an attack helicopter, flying in the sky, ready to shoot down anyone who slightly resembles Kazuha that approaches you. The army that once oppressed Vision users now serve to protect; constantly monitoring the whereabouts of those who tried to kill you.

Eventually, things get cleared up, and the Creator gladly thanks their protectors for their efforts, while being silently relieved that they won’t have to be shadowed all the time anymore.

#sagau #self aware genshin #imposter sagau #genshin sagau #jean genshin impact #ningguang #sara kujou #kujou sara #jean gunnhildr

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