#the north has blizzards | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yoonivy · 2 days

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my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now i’m covered in you); part 1.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

genre. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, drama, angst, fluff, eventual smut. it’s a y/n fic but no use of y/n. heavily inspired by taylor swift’s ‘ivy’.

When a fierce blizzard ravages the North, a certain dragon rider gets caught up in it and crashes onto Bear Island.

And right to you, the youngest daughter of House Mormont.

warnings. no warnings yet!

wc. 10k+ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09

“It looks like a storm is heading this way,” Dorothea Mormont murmurs with a frown, her eyes set up above at the darkened sky, clouds of swirling greys gradually covering the sunlight. Sitting up from under a tree she had been reading by, she dusts herself off before picking up the skirt of her dress and then turns to the little girl close by her, drawing on the ground with a stick. “Come. We should head inside.”

You huff in frustration, ignoring your elder sister and continue on the mountains you already laid out on the dirt. You feel her stare for a couple more seconds before she calls your name sternly.

Stomping your feet, you cross your arms and glare at her. “But Dorothea … The day had just begun!”

You hated it. The start of the winter season in the North has been strange so far, but maybe even more so on Bear Island.

Instead of the falling of white and soft snow, it had been raining slates of hail. The temperature going from warm enough to go on out without your furs in the morn to your fingers and toes feeling frost bitten once noon hits the horizon. Your favourite season, summer, came and went so quickly that you had not enjoyed it in the fullest like you had earlier years; and autumn was merely a blink of an eye.

There is not much to do for a young lady such as yourself, only ten and two, when the cold comes around. Staying indoors is such a bore, and your mother would only allow you a few hours every other day to train with Ser Gregory and your brothers outdoors, unlike your older siblings who could stay out all day and night with duties they have outside the castle grounds.

A kind yet pitying smile spreads on your sister’s pretty face. She then walks over to you, taking a hold of your freezing hands, tenderly rubbing them in between her own to warm you up.

“I know, little cub. But look—“ you follow her gaze, at the training grounds a few yards away, where your three older brothers were practicing their swordsmanship with some of the others of the castle, but are now putting away their equipment. “It seems everyone else is done for the day as well.”

As if feeling eyes on him, the second oldest, Forrest, turns towards the two of you and waves, exuberant like always, before cupping his hands around his mouth to call out, “We’ve been called inside! A storm is coming!”

Dorothea rolls her eyes at her twin, mutters under her breath about how obvious that is. When she hears you giggle, she smiles your way. “Let’s go? I promise I’ll allow you to use my paints once we get inside.”

That has you excited, nodding happily, finally letting her guide you to your home, hand in hand.

Much to your displeasure to admit, it was a good thing that your sister had made haste inside when you had. For only an hour later, the harsh winds and flurry of snow surrounded the area, rattling Mormont Keep noisily. This blizzard more ruthless than any you have seen before.

It is night now, you are back in your bedchamber after supper and a hot bath. The tubes of paint and easel that Dorothea had promised you is abandoned in favor of staring out your window. A deep scowl mars your young face – a perfect mirror of your father’s whenever he has a tough decision to make, like when he had to travel to King’s Landing for two moons just to bend the knee to the Dragon girl-queen to be – knowing it would days before you step foot outside again.

Glaring out the window, you could see nothing but snow. Even the Godswoods that would always greet you when you peered outside cannot be seen tonight. It makes you wary for the all the animals out there – especially the bears like in your House’s sigil – hoping they are safe and sound, hibernating comfortably.

It’s too cold. You shiver, pulling the blanket you had draped around you closer to your body – and then that’s when you see it.

The flash of red outside in the sky, like burning flames, so vivid that it is visible through the stormy haze. Then a magnificent roar, louder than anything you have heard before, leading to another burst of orange and reds bright enough for you to witness something falling from the skies.

And as if something takes over your body — you don’t know what — that has you getting up, hurriedly lacing up your boots and grabbing your heaviest furs. You are already out the door and running through the halls when your older brother by two years, Jorah, exclaims behind you when he peeks out of his own bedchamber, “Did you all hear that, too?!”

You do not respond, almost colliding with your oldest brother, Braeden, when you reach the wooden staircase leading down to the main floor of the castle. By the look on his face, it seems that he too had seen whatever it was that fell from the sky. He checks you over, notices the furs you got on, and he just knew what you were about to do. He shakes his head slowly, says your name cautiously and then a warning, “ Wait— “

But it is already too late, your little legs carry you down the stairs, faster than he could catch up. You were always a spritely little menace when you wanted to be. Landing on the ground floor, you pass by your father who whips to look at you and the direction you are heading, calling out your name as well. But you don’t listen, don’t stop, not when you know that whatever it was out there that fell from the sky is all alone, out in the bitter cold.

You make it to the two large doors of the entrance, pressing yourself against it but it does not budge. The two guards on stand by on each of the two wooden pillars a few steps away from the doors are surprised at the sight of you, exchanging a look, but ultimately stays by their post because they know you, and this is not the first time you tried to escape the keep in plain sight. Besides, you are too small and weak to budge the door even slightly – especially now, with the winds outside pushing back against your hardest effort.

But then suddenly, the doors do start to move, and when you open your eyes in astonishment, thinking it is all you – you see that it was actually Forrest. With a smirk on his face, he throws a playful wink your way.

A wide smile spreads on your lips; of course it’s him! Being the total opposite of his twin, Forrest is always joining in your foolish plans, humoring you without knowing (or caring) about the consequences.

And this… This will probably have a huge consequence, you think as the double doors blow wide open, letting in the merciless storm inside your home.

The guards are flabbergasted, both taking a second to realize what just happened, watching you and Forrest make a break for it.

“Lord Forrest! Lady—”

You hear them behind you, following, but you keep running, surprisingly matching pace with your most athletic brother even if the blizzard is trying to slow you down.

“Little cub, where are we going?” Forrest asks in between labored breaths, arm in front of him to try to block the heavy wind blowing against him that is making him exert so much more energy.

You were faring much worse, the built up of fallen snow already at your kneecaps but you push through. So at his question, you try to pinpoint in your mind where on Bear Island that the fallen thing could have landed. You should know it. You know your home like it is the back of your hand… C’mon, you chastise yourself, THINK!

Then an image of a place pops in your head, and you know for sure that is where it should be.

“Beyond the castle walls! In the woods! Where Jorah fell off the tree and broke his ankle!”

Forrest knows exactly where you mean, making him frown. “That is pretty far, sister–”

“Forrest! You imbecile !”

Forrest looks behind him, laughing at the angry Braeden hot on your heels. He could turn you around — knows he should, for every second spent outside more dangerous than the last — but something about pissing Braeden off seems a lot more fun at the moment.

He runs a bit ahead of you, stopping with his back turned towards you and bends his knees. “Hop on!”

You do as he says, jumping on his back and he makes sure to secure his hold on you before he starts again. Soon enough the two of you are at the gigantic logged entrance of the castle walls, still open. They had not a chance to shut it earlier, waiting for some of the men to return from their hunt. But once they all got inside, it was far too late for the men still outdoors to close it together when they needed to seek shelter fast.

Just as you pass the carving of the woman dressed in bearskin with a child on the gates, you feel yourself getting pulled back. At your shock, your grip on Forrest loosens and before you know it the both of you land on your backs on the snowy ground. It is Braeden’s seething glare you see when your eyes open after the big tumble. But although very clearly angry, he pulls both you and Forrest up on your feet.

“What the hell are you two doing?!” Braeden seethes while looking between his two younger siblings. Neither of you look him in the eyes – Forrest looks down in shame and you are looking beyond him as if he is not even in front of you. “Are you trying to get killed or are you both just daft?!”

“We were just–”

“Don’t even answer that,” Braeden shuts Forrest down, not wanting to hear any dumb excuses for the rhetorical question he asked. “Now get your feet moving back to the keep or else I’ll kill you before the storm does—”

And your feet do get moving — but in the opposite direction of your home. Braeden swiftly grabs your shoulders from either side and makes you face him directly.

“Are your ears broken?! Are you not gonna listen to me?!” He yells in your face. Braeden does not know what has gotten into you. Forrest, he can see him doing this. But you… You are always one to do as you are told. Sure, you would occasionally throw a fit but are never outright disobedient like this. But tonight, you are the mastermind of this stupidity.

And even now, even as he is up in your face, your eyes are still darting from his and then to the darkened entrance into the woods. His grip on you tightens, terrified that you’ll run off again if given the chance. He says your name to try to get your attention, and that is when another roar shakes up the island.

It sounds so mournful, wounded, and hearing it causes your heart to pick up in a panic, your breathing getting heavier.

“We have to…” You trail off, trying to pull away from your eldest brother. He keeps you in place, gesturing at the two guards who had just caught up for help with a gesture of his head.

“No, we have to go back inside.”

“But Braeden–”

“No,” he cuts you off, this time his word sounding more final.

Or it should be. You know it should be because Braeden is not only the oldest but the wisest of your siblings and you should not argue with him. But you just can’t… You just can’t sit by and just let this go.

You look him straight in the eyes, back straightening to feel more confident in your stance of defiance. “But you saw it didn’t you?! The thing that fell from the sky!”

“ And…? ” His brows furrow together as his head shakes incredulously. “What about it? What if it’s dangerous?”

Another beastly cry resounds, proving his point.

“You hear that? That’s a dragon—”

“And a bloody big one at that—”

“Shut up, Forrest. I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

“But what if it’s—”

“What if it’s what?!” It was you who Braeden snaps at this time, only to turn to see your watery gaze, and he is not sure if it’s because of the harsh wind on your face or if it's something else.

“I don’t know! ” You choke out with a sob, and he gets his answer. You are upset and in distress, worried for the unknown. “But something – or someone – out there needs help! Our help! ” You scream over the wailing winds in your eardrums. The tears are flowing freely down your face now, and it is clear you are having a hard time breathing, on the brink of hyperventilating, “Please, Braeden, please… They’re all alone and probably scared and –”

Braeden is not one to be swayed by tears. And this will not be the first.

It is your bravery that makes him change his mind.

He takes a shuddering sigh, silently praying to the Gods that if you all make out of the woods alive, that his mother would not finish the job.

“Alright, little cub,” Braeden presents his hand to you with a small smile. “Then let us help them. Together.”

Brightening up slightly, you take his hand, head bobbing in determination.

The journey to the far eastern side of Bear Island where the willow tree that Jorah fell from and broke his ankles just three moons ago is going to be quite a perilous task. Climbing down the steep jagged hills that borders one of the rivers that runs through Bear Island and then crossing across said river has always been intensely tough, more so now with the blizzard picking up. Luckily one the guards that accompanied you and your brothers, Tylor, used to be a part of the group of woodcutters that traverse that part of the island before he took the post to guard your family. He leads your group now, navigating a path that even you could easily keep up with.

Soon enough, you make it closer and closer to where you needed to be, and another howl from the sorrowful dragon lets your group determine just how close you are.

You weren’t far off from your prediction, passing the willow tree to go a bit more north. That is where you find the most gigantic and terrifying creature you have ever seen in your life.

The dark green-bronze dragon laid on the ground and has made a clearing for itself with all the trees it had trampled flat. As soon as Braeden - who is the head of the group - steps foot in its newfound territory, its ferocious eyes snap your way, a low rumbling of a warning in its throat. “Well, shit…” Forrest blurts out in awe, exchanging a look with Braeden. “I do not think we are wanted here.”

Braeden sighs with a nod, glancing back at the dragon and seeing nothing amiss – except, you know, just the dragon – then looks down towards you. “I’m sorry, little cub. It seems this was all for naught.”

Your lips tremble, confused because you know you saw something fall. “But we saw it fall, and it wasn’t just the dragon!”

“It must have been its droppings,” Forrest jokes through his chattering teeth. “Scared shitless because of the storm.”

You glare at him, hating how he could be right. Is that really just what you saw?

“My Lords, my Lady. We should head back now before your Lady Mother has our heads,” the second guard, Howland, pipes up; sounding more scared of your mother than the beast up ahead.

Braeden agrees with him, making a motion for you all to turn around to retrace your steps back to Mormont Keep. This time you do not argue.

But you glance back one last time, watching the dragon watching you, raising its head slightly off the ground as it huffs in satisfaction at your retreat. Then that is when you see it – a tiny hand, lifting up to caress the underside of the dragon’s neck before it falls back limp. You couldn’t really make out what it was, the snow obstructing your vision of whatever it is on the ground that the dragon is curled up around, protective. But it seems small – young.

You are running again before you, yourself, could even comprehend what you are doing.

As you weave through the fallen trees, your brothers and the guards try to follow – but another angry growl from the now alert dragon freeze you all in your place.

“Turn around now ,” Braeden seethes at you, eyes between you and the dragon that is now slowly getting up, looking like it’s getting ready to lunge. He moves his body just an inch, not even taking a step forward, and the dragon still gives a roar of fury.

But you were close enough now that when you squint your eyes to see better, you can see that the dragon is definitely coiled around someone. A human.

“There’s someone there!” You call back to your brothers.

“What?!”

“The dragon is protecting them…” You trail off, notice them shivering violently.

They do not look like they are in good shape.

The sight has the urgency coursing through your veins, taking a tentative and slow step forward. The dragon keeps its eyes on you, but doesn’t make a sound this time. Perhaps foolish on your part, but this has you rationalizing that it is allowing you to come closer.

“Stop being stupid!” You hear Forrest behind you and the snap of a tree branch being stepped on. That has the dragon snapping its jaw forward – though not towards you but at your companions. When they stop moving, it focuses on you again, huffing and tilting its chin down, towards the child hidden underneath it to protect them from the cold. A whimper vibrates the dragon’s throat, and that is when you knew . It wants you — and only you — to help.

Your feet keep moving now, not in a sprint but faster than a walk. You hear your brothers calling your name but you just shout back that you’ll be okay, that you can do it alone. For some inexplicable reason, you knew in your heart that the dragon would not harm you.

You are closer now, close enough to truly take in how enormous this creature is. Are all dragons this big? 10 of them can probably cover the whole entirety of Bear Island. Maybe less.

Shaking your head, you focus on the more important task at hand than mathematics. Getting to whoever it is the dragon is protecting.

You quicken up your pace and you finally reach the foot of the dragon. It moves slightly, pushing a log aside to give you an easier path to where the child lays beneath it. It bends its neck down, pushing you with its snout with another huff as if saying, hurry .

You are not cautious anymore, running full speed ahead and find a young boy who looks not much older than yourself at the center of the nest the dragon had made. His hair and skin were as pale as the snow on the ground that was not scorched with the dragon’s fire and clothes dark enough to just seem like a piece of fallen wood or a big rock. It’s no wonder none of you could see him earlier.

Dread fills you up, noticing he is not moving at all. Not even a shiver shook him. You quickly crash beside him, knees hitting the ground in a way that should hurt but you don’t feel it. With your own decreasing strength — finally feeling the chill slowing and weighing down your body – you pull him towards you, his upper body lying precariously on your lap.

“Wake up, please… Please, wake up…” you murmur to him, eyes filling with heated tears. You caress his face, your thumb rubbing across his cheek, just below the line of a scar running through his right eye. It is a healed one, so it wasn’t from the fall. At least there is that. But as you push his bangs off his face, you find blood gushing from his temple. Feeling sick, you try to check how bad it is, pressing your fingers around the cut. While you inspect, that’s when the boy starts to stir slightly.

Frozen, you stare at his face as his unscarred eye starts to move from behind the lid. Then he is blinking, slow and blearily, until it opens and you are greeted with the most vivid shade of violet. Your heart jumps to your throat as his head tilts and looks at you with the softest gaze, murmuring,

“ Enke..litsos... ? ”

Before you can ask what he means, his eye flutters shut again, though not before you see the light in them dimming. A sob wrecks through your body, pulling him into a tight embrace. Hoping and praying that would not be the last time you see that beautiful lilac eye.

The murmurings at the other side of the wooden door that you have your ear pressed against is way too quiet. Your little fists clenched at your sides tightly so, frustrated that you are having trouble eavesdropping on the conversation.

It has almost been two hours since you, your brothers, and the guards had burst through the entrance of your home, shocking your family at the sight of an unconscious young boy that they have never seen before carried on Forrest’s back. It has almost been two hours, and you still do not know the fate of the boy that you had saved.

Did you actually even save him? Is he even still alive ?

You try not to think about how he was so cold to the touch, the blue of his lips, the light leaving his violet eye.

You have never been so scared before. It must have been evident in your sobbing and desperate calls for your brothers’ help as you struggled to lift the boy up by yourself that the dragon finally allowed them to come to you.

You remember the intense look in the dragon’s eyes as it watched you leave its territory. You knew it had been holding back, choosing to trust you to take care of the boy who is clearly important to it.

Was the dragon wrong to put its trust on you to save the boy it had been fiercely protecting?

You thump your forehead against the door, pressing hard on it enough to hurt as you blink away the incoming tears.

“Oi, stop doing that.”

You glance over to the side where Braeden sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall beside the door. He looks absolutely exhausted.

Being the oldest, Braeden got the brunt of the scolding. Your mother did not know whether to be angry at her children’s foolish venture or praiseful that said foolish venture might have saved a person’s life. So she settled for both, which was more frightening in the long run.

“You should go to sleep,” you tell him, turning your head to once again frown at the door as if it offended you. “Forrest already has.”

He chuckles. “As you should, as well. A little cub needs to hibernate, you know? To grow big and strong.”

You take a deep inhale, ignoring him. Or you try to. Maybe if you were strong enough then maybe…

“He is in good hands,” Braeden says aloud after a few minutes of silence. “Remember, Maester Garland is the reason our great-grandfather lived to be 102.”

It is not that you did not think Maester Garland is incompetent, it is that you think you were not fast enough to bring the boy to the maester to treat to the best of his capabilities. Your group did take the riskier path back home, in an obvious hurry, but you are afraid that was not enough.

You are about to tell your oldest brother what has been weighing down on your mind, when the door suddenly opens, startling you to take a step back with a gasp.

At the sight of the two of you, your mother heavily sighs.

“When did my two most obedient children stop listening to me?” She murmurs mostly to herself but obviously intending for you and your brother to hear her.

“Our names are not Dorothea One and Dorothea Two ,” you remind her haughtily. You might be pushing it now, but you could not hold back, your frustration from waiting so long taking over you. When Braeden laughs at your jest, your mother narrows her eyes at the both of you.

She could not even reply back, as you are already trying to push past her and into the room. You don’t get very far though, her arm barring you from entering.

“The boy needs his rest, and you do too, young lady,” she says, foregoing your familial pet name. Whenever someone does that, you know they are obviously not in the mood to coddle you or they are seriously upset with you. Your mother is both at the moment.

But her tone does not even phase you, when all you could really focus on is her words:

The boy needs his rest.

So does that mean…?

“So he is alright?” Your brother asks, beating you to it.

While he stands up from the ground, your mother answers, “He will be–” her stern gaze resting on you, “-- if his rest is uninterrupted–”

“Did he awaken!?” You ask excitedly, and she hushes you quickly with a glare, pressing a finger to her lips. You quickly slap a hand over your mouth, looking into the room, but all you see is Maester Garland and your father coming out of it.

Just as your father is about to close the door, you manage a quick peek into the guest chamber. They had moved the bed closer to the fireplace in the room, but you do not see the boy. The headboard of the bed hiding him from your view. At least you know he will be warm.

“He has not yet awakened–” Your face drops, turning to Maester Garland. Like always, there is a kind smile on his face, and he continues, “But if it will ease you, My Lady, he is breathing evenly and is even talking in his sleep. I will not lie to you, his left arm is broken and so are a few ribs. But all that will heal in due time.”

Your father clasps his hand on your shoulder, shaking you out of your worry. “Forrest broke his ribs and it only took a moon to heal, remember that?”

You nod, remembering it all too well. The heated fight that broke out between your brother and the youngest Stark boy, Willam. It was the first time you have ever seen your brother being truly angry and you often wondered what had really transpired between them, what words were exchanged.

“And what of the wound on his head?” Braeden asks, breaking you out of the memory.

“Luckily it is just a minor cut. There is no sign of a hemorrhage or anything too serious. But I will be checking again in the morrow to make certain.”

Braeden hums, seemingly more at ease now with the new information. He smiles your way. “You hear that, little cub? He will be alright.”

Though you nod, you look downcast, gnawing at your lip.

You feel hands on your shoulders, and when you peer in front of you, it is not your father, but your mother bending down to be at your height.

“You did well,” she begins, causing your eyes to well up. “Although I’m still upset at you; you were a very brave and wonderful girl today, little cub.”

“I think she takes after you, my love,” your father says, chuckling. “You would have done the same thing in her shoes.”

Your mother laughs as she tugs you into her warm embrace. You squeeze her back tightly.

“Now, shall I tuck you into bed?”

Feeling sleepiness overtake you now, you allow your mother to take you by the hand. As the two of you walk away, you hear the three left behind still conversing behind you.

“I really do hope the blizzard passes soon so I can send a raven to King’s Landing. His family must be worried sick.”

“King’s Landing? I thought the boy did not wake…?”

“He does not need to wake for us to know who he is. There is no doubt about it. The boy… He is who they call One-Eye. The King’s youngest son—”

Heartbeat quickening, his name starts to echo in your head as soon as you hear your father utter it.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

You had thought the stories you heard about the one-eyed Targaryan Prince were just that — stories.

You had never believed them, always scoffing whenever Septa Earla caught you taking an extra piece of pie and her reminding you that your greed will someday lead you to be like One-Eye; the prince who stole a dragon from a dead girl and in turn lost his own eye for it. You had thought it was such a stupid tale. Who would not trade an eye for a dragon? How could you even steal a dragon in the first place?

But now, you think about that ferocious and colossal creature in that clearing. The mere thought of the young prince stealing it makes no sense to you. Not only is he smaller than yourself, but you highly doubt the dragon would allow anyone to just “steal” it, whatever that entails. No, you think about the protectiveness the dragon has over the young boy, and you have the feeling that whatever it is that transpired between the prince and the mighty beast is not a one-way devious act. They have a bond that your Septa’s silly, little cautionary tale could never comprehend.

Then that has you thinking, wondering what made this Aemond Targaryen so special enough to have a dragon so loyal to him. It cannot just be because he is a prince, right? Is it because of his bloodline? You remember learning something about the Targaryens and their bloodline, how they came from an old and ruined city in the East. Or something like that… Perhaps you should have listened to those lessons closer, but you did not really care for history like Jorah does…

So you think, and think, and overthink so hard that you could not get a wink of sleep, tossing and turning in your bed.

You need to know more about Aemond Targaryen.

Huffing, you finally sit up. It is early in the morning now, and if the blizzard was not still ravaging hard outside, the sun would be beginning to rise in just an hour. Which means that although there would be a few in the Keep slowly awakening to start their day, there would still be a chance for you to sneak out of your chamber without being seen.

Pulling your blankets off you and hopping out of bed, you are quick yet light footed when you leave your bedchamber. Luckily, the room that the Targaryen Prince is currently in is close by yours, just five doors down the hall. You slip into his room like a ghost, barely making any sound.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you find yourself pressing up against it. You have always been too hasty, not thinking your plans through. But this one might be stupider than the one you had last night, traversing out in the blizzard… Barging into a room without consent. Not only was it improper, but it was rude and you were taught better. If your parents were not disappointed in you before, they would most definitely be now. Besides, it is not like he is awake to answer all the burning questions you came in here to ask.

So you decide to just leave, come back when he is lucid enough for company.

Though before you can open the door, you hear him start to stir behind you, whimpering in discomfort. You are swift to turn right back around, rushing to check on him.

The young prince looks better than the last time you saw him – color has returned to his complexion – but he still looks unwell. He lays there, a pained look pinching his sleeping face and a sling around his arm. Although for you it feels sweltering in the room, Aemond is still shivering as if still out in the cold. It has your heart clenching at the sight.

Worriedly, you touch his face with the back of your hand, gasping when you feel just how cold he still really is.

You take a hold of his hand closest to you - luckily, it is the one that is not broken - keeping it in between your hands as you start to try to rub the cold away. This always made you feel better whenever your loved ones did it to you, it always brought a warm feeling in your chest.

It seems to be working. As you continue, the tension between his brows relaxes slightly due to your touch. The silver-haired prince looks a bit more at peace now. A sigh of relief falls from your parted lips.

You keep at it for a bit, only stopping when a yawn creeps up on you. That is when you realize how tired you are now, body feeling heavy and head full of fluff. You should go anyway, before anyone finds you in there.

But when you go to pull your hand away, the once loose hold of his hand in yours tightens, keeping you in place. You try again and again to pry yourself away but his grip on you will not let up. For someone so small, it surprises you how strong he seems.

Finally, after a couple more minutes of trying and him not budging, you groan as you give up. Standing in place, you grow even more exhausted, and it has you looking around. You will not sit yourself on the bed beside him, even if there is room; but you cannot stand there anymore. That is when you spot a stool just beside his bed. It must have been the one Maester Garland had been sitting on when he was tending to the young prince. With your leg stretching, you manage to catch your foot around a leg to bring it closer to you.

Once you sit down, you heave another sigh, wondering to yourself how you got into this predicament. Then you laugh to yourself, remembering it was all you.

Soon, you start to slump on the stool, eyelids drooping until it closes.

So it is there where you finally fall asleep, holding onto the prince’s hand.

“ Nngh..? ” The feeling of your hand getting squeezed causes you to stir awake. Your eyes blink open slowly, the wet feel of drool running down the side of your cheek that is pressed against soft fur. After wiping the gross feeling, you sit up, groaning with a stretch to alleviate the ache in your back — only to register that you could not, as the unfamiliar hand holding your own prevented you from doing so.

Confused, your gaze follows where your hand is connected, only half-remembering where you are. That is when you catch a lilac eye staring wide-eyed at you, a flush of pink high on the prince’s cheeks. The sight causes you startle with a gasp, so surprised to see him awake. The prince flinches minutely at your reaction, snatching his hand away from yours, head turning the other way, not facing you anymore.

You are too ecstatic to question it, not even noticing, so overjoyed that he is sitting up and awake and alive .

“Are you–”

“What happened to it?”

Your head tilts in confusion, but it is not like he can see it. “It…?” Then you realize, “Oh! The dragon?!” You glance out the window, the snow storm still wrecking havoc outside. You frown a little, murmuring as you look back at him, “I’m sure it’s fine… I hope so…”

His head to you, glaring as he snaps, “No, I don’t mean Vhagar. I know she’s fine. But…” He turns away again, for some reason unable to look at you for long, letting his hair fall to cover his face. “Where is it? My patch…”

“Your patch…?”

“Do not lie to me. It is an unforgivable offense to lie to a prince, you know,” he threatens. You see his hand that was once holding yours now clenching at the fur blanket covering him. “So give me back my eyepatch or else I’ll…” He takes a deep breath, and you are not sure if he is letting you fill in the blank to scare you more or if he just could not think of a punishment.

You sit up, pushing the stool back with the heels of your foot to create a bit of distance between the two of you. He lifts his head up slightly at the sound of the legs of the stool scratching the floor.

“When I found you, you were not wearing an eyepatch,” you let him know, frowning. It irritated you that he was accusing you of something you had no knowledge of, that all his ire is directed towards you. But you tell yourself to show kindness because of how terrified he must be feeling, being in an unfamiliar place – and injured, nonetheless. “It must have fallen off while you were falling. I’m sorry, but I do not have it.”

He takes a swallow at that, head turning to face you again, his violet eye on you while the other side of his face still obscured by his silver hair. “ You … You were the one that found me?”

You give him a tentative nod, nervous that he will accuse you of something else.

“So you are…” His face softens a bit as he mutters to himself just as soft, “ Enkelitsos… ”

Though quiet, you hear him. You were about to ask him what that means — for it is the second time you had heard him say it — but a knock on the door has your mouth clamping shut. Both your head turns, watching the door open. In comes Maester Garland, who stops short at the sight of the two of you.

Attention on you, the Maester huffs out a slight chuckle, “I should have known you’d be here, Lady—“

At the sound of your name, the young Prince perks up, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.

“I just got here!” You lie. Luckily, the only other one who knows the truth did not sell you out.

“I’m sure…” Maester Garland says with a smile. “I think everyone is breaking their fast now. Would you like to join them while I check over our young guest here? And you can come back with some food for him as well.”

Though it sounded like a suggestion, you knew it was really an order. So you nod, getting off the stool as you grin at the young Prince. “I’ll be back! I’ll get you the most delicious food, don’t you even worry about it!”

He looks at you in mild surprise, nodding back. Then you are running out the door, the Prince watching you until you are out of his sight.

A few days pass before the blizzard also passes, and your father is finally able to send a raven to King’s Landing in regard to Prince Aemond. He writes about what had happened, how Aemond is doing, and Maester Garland’s professional opinion of allowing Aemond to heal on Bear Island for a moon before sending him back home. Your father also writes that he, himself, will be happy to take the Prince home with a few bannerman but if they have another plan, he is all ears for it.

While waiting for a letter back from King’s Landing, your family welcomes Aemond to your home, trying to make him feel as comfortable as possible. By his fifth day at Mormont Keep, he was told that he was well enough to eat with your family in the dining hall. At first he had politely refused, but on the eighth day, he timidly joined in the middle of dinner. By the end of that dinner, you can tell he was well entertained by Jorah’s and Forrest’s antics, and it was nice to see him laughing despite doing so seems to hurt his still healing ribs. He joined every family meal after that.

Prince Aemond and your brothers get along swimmingly, especially Forrest – which is not surprising because Forrest has a way of making a person feel like he is truly their best friend. Your parents and Dorothea also become quite fond of the young boy. Maester Garland likes how curious he is, always asking questions. Even Septa Earla has only nice things to say about him, warning you not to repeat the story she used to tell about him.

As you watch everyone around you get closer to the Targaryen prince, you can not help but feel envious. Ever since that first time the two of you talked, you never had again. But it is not like you have not tried. Because you have. Every. Single. Day.

Like clockwork, you visit him in his chamber every morning, trying not to let it get to you when he allows you inside after you knock, only to look away when he realizes it is you . You push through the cold shoulder he gives you; telling him about your day, reading to him your favorite books, showing off your latest embroideries or artworks — anything you can think of that would interest him. Honestly, it is like talking to a wall, but at least you know a wall has no choice but to not talk back.

It is upsetting. The only time you ever hear his voice is if he is talking to someone else. Even whenever you are in a group, he would only answer questions you asked if someone else repeats it after you.

You are not sure why he is treating you this way. It cannot just be because of the eye patch he accused you of keeping from him, right? Does he really just hate you? It hurts, but you pretend to everyone else that all is fine, only allowing the tears to flow when you are alone in your bedchamber at night.

You do not even know why you keep trying. You guess it is because the other kids on the island are either older or way too young to be your friend. Sure you have your siblings, but you’ve always wanted a best friend of your own like you have read in your books — and then Aemond fell from the sky, and it might be selfish but in your heart all this was fated for him to be that friend for you. Why else were you the one that saw him fall and the one who found him and the one his dragon, Vhagar, allowed to come to him?

Still, it was disheartening to be ignored. One can only take a number of rejections before giving up all hope.

So on the day that marks the second week that Aemond has been staying at Bear Island, you decide that this day will be the last time that you try to get through to him to become your friend. If he once again gives you the cold shoulder then you will leave him alone, forever.

Or at least until he leaves in a few weeks. Then after that, you’ll never have to see him ever again and with no effort on both your part. Because on that same morning, your father wakes you to tell you the news. They had just received a raven from King’s Landing and got word from the king himself that they trust your father’s words and are grateful for the care your house has given to the young Prince. He would like his son home sooner, but if the maester believes that a few more weeks to heal would be good for the boy then they’ll adhere to his suggestion.

Before he leaves for this morning duties, your father hands you a tiny scroll, telling you with a smile that he is trusting you to deliver it safely to the prince. It is a very important note from his mother and sister and it will definitely brighten up his day.

Maybe – just maybe – today will be the day , you think to yourself as you get ready. It is sunny outside, and you were also informed that Ser Gregory wants you to train with your brothers today. Not only that, you and Dorothea finally finished the little project you asked her to help you with last night. So once you are done getting dressed, you grab the scroll and the secret thing from inside your box full of your personal treasure before skipping excitedly out of your room.

“Come in,” you hear the muffled call out from the other side of the door you had just knocked. When you walk inside, you knew what you will be greeted with… Absolutely nothing. Once again, when the prince sees it is you, he looks away, pretending no one even came in the room as he quickly shuts the book he has in his hands.

You take a deep breath, trying to let it not bother you. At this point, you should be used to it by now.

You stride with purpose into the room, stopping beside where he sits at the desk. You hold your palm out, presenting the tiny scroll. You can see him eye it curiously.

“It is from your mother and sister,” you tell him. At that, he glances up at you, sees the kind smile on your face before sharply looking back down to cautiously take the note from your hand. While he pulls at the string, you let him know, “You’ll be staying for a couple more weeks so you can heal properly, then my father and a few of our bannerman will take you home.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “Lord Mormont already told me earlier.”

Your father already visited him? Then why did he not just give him the note then? You can’t help but playfully roll your eyes at your father’s antics. He must have known how hard you have been trying to befriend the prince.

As Aemond opens the note, you give him some privacy, turning away to look and touch at the knick knacks on the desk he has made his own. Some things you can tell are from your brothers, but most were given to him by you. That is when you notice that the book he had been reading is the one you told him is your favorite. It makes you smile a little, but you remind yourself not to make a big deal of it. He was probably just bored.

“What are you wearing?” You hear Aemond ask, and when you turn to him, he is staring at you, the note placed neatly on the desk. You almost want to point at yourself and go, ‘ who me ?’ because this is the first time he has ever said something directed at you without you having to prompt him first. But you guess your outfit for today is very different from your usual. Instead of skirts and dresses, you have dressed up in your new favorite pants.

Taking a step back, you proudly show it off, spinning for him. “It’s my new training outfit! Dorothea made it for–”

“Training…?”

Smiling wide, you excitedly nod. “Yes! Today, Ser Gregory is teaching me how to block–”

“Girls don’t fight,” Aemond says like it is a fact, taking you aback.

“Yes, they do!’ You snap back, getting a bit heated now.

“No, they don’t,” he says again, though a confused frown sits on his face. “My mother, the Queen, doesn't. My sister doesn’t. A lady doesn’t fight.”

You glare at him. If you weren’t so mad, it would have dawned on you that this is the first time he has held your gaze for longer than a second.

“ I’m a lady too! I’m ten and two already, and they do fight, like my mother and grandmother and—”

“You’re ten and two?”

You let out a frustrated huff, sick of his interruptions and his backwards way of thinking. So entitled and rude. Are all princes like this? Do you even want to be his friend anymore?

“What’s it to you ?”

He glances at you from under his pale lashes and says softly as if shy, “I am as well…”

Your eyes widen, eagerly asking him when his date of birth is. Turns out, yours and his are only a few days apart. And just like, everything he has done to you and the way he treated you prior to this is forgotten. You excitedly ask him a million more questions, and this time, he indulges you with the answer.

Some time passed and although you hated to halt this development between you and the prince, you had to get going to train with Ser Gregory.

“I guess I should get going,” you tell him after the both of you had died down from a fit of laughter because of a story you told about Septa Earla and a hornets’ nest.

Maybe you are imagining things, but you could have sworn you saw a flicker of disappointment on his face. “I suppose you should…”

Even after bidding each other a good day, you shift in place awkwardly. Although you had been waiting for today’s training for so long, you just did not want to leave… But you should. With a sigh, you turn, about to head out, when–

“Oh!” You turn back to him, remembering you had something else for him. From your pocket, you take it out to give to him. Once he has it in his hand and is examining it, you start explaining, “I know this might not be like the one you lost but I hope you’ll like it! I don’t know what your old one looks like but I borrowed Butcher Pate’s for reference. You see, he lost his eye from a fishing accident way before I was born. But anyway, I think I must have weirded him out when I asked for it. Dorothea and I made it – well, okay, mostly Dorothea made it but look–” you proudly point out the little purple embroidery on the band of the leather eyepatch, “I did that! Isn’t it nice? I’m not usually good at lettering but I tried really hard to perfect your initials!”

You were talking so fast, a million words per second, that Aemond can’t help but giggle a bit. When you are done, you wait expectantly, nervous as well in the way you toy your fingers together. Then Aemond’s lilac eye is on you, a big smile spreading on his face, rounding his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he says, so genuinely that it makes all of Dorothea’s chores that you did to have her make it worth it. Then he looks away, back at the eyepatch in his hands, fingers feeling the threading, “And I’m sorry… For being so… Unsavory towards you.”

Your heart warms at his apology, almost tearing up. But you blink it back when he looks up at you again and repeats, “I’m truly sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you forgive easily. This is what you wanted. All your hard work had paid off. Then with a toothy grin, you add teasingly, “At least you know that you were being a jerk.”

His head dips sheepishly. Before he can drown in sorrow, you hit his good shoulder playfully.

“Would you like to watch my brothers and I train?”

When Aemond nods, you hold your hand out, offering it for him to take.

He does.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #hotd imagine #hotd #aemond #aemond targaryen

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yufloria · 1 year

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Soft!Task Force 141 x Reader

A/N: This is my first fanfic and the characters might be too OOC. I hope is good.

ALSO: I sprinkled some praise ;3

Word Count: 3.2k

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After a mission gone wrong in an undisclosed location Task Force 141 is forced to stay in a safe house, a cabin, in the middle of a dense forest and high between the mountains. It is no task for the team but unfortunately for you. You were injured.

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Ghost and you were paired together on this mission. It was supposed to be a “quick in and out” mission but as you were following behind Ghost; and heard him say something on the radio. You could not hear what he said. Your radio had been broken by getting hit by the butt of a gun but nothing you couldn’t handle you took care of it no problem. As both of you entered the room, the door suddenly slammed behind you and the lights were shut off leaving you on a disadvantage you were surrounded by armed men and Ghost was the first one to react, shooting with precise accuracy men started to fall left and right. Using the flashing lights, movement, and your hearing, you followed in suit shooting with Ghost, you were already pulling the trigger before you can properly aim, and the room quickly became deathly still, before you could even get out a sigh of relief it came out as a gasp of pain. You were attacked from behind because you felt it before you saw it. With his aim, Ghost’s shot went straight through the head. "Bullseye!" You called out watching the body slumped near your feet. You gasped at the shock at how much effort you needed to speak. Looking down at your hand pressing on the side of your torso seeing how both your shirt and hand start turning into a deep red. Ghost is on you, lifting your shirt enough just to see how bad your wound is. "I'll live. Been through worse," you say nonchalantly trying not to make it sound like a big deal. "Captain, Scorpion has been stabbed and her wound is not life-threatening but needs medical attention." A line of 'what's' responded to Ghost. "Repeat that again Ghost." Soap said. "Scorpion has been stabbed but she won't die" Repeated Ghost. "I won't die but Holy Jesus! It hurts like a motherfu--"you groaned out and getting cut off by Price announcing, "Everyone regroup on the Eastside of the church." Ghost motioned towards you moving to wrap your left arm around his shoulders and with his sheer size you are lifted enough for you to start to tiptoe when walking. Flinching and wincing every few steps, you start leaning most of your body weight onto Ghost. "Atta girl almost there, we just need to cross the hallway, so we can patch you up." Ghost said with a hint of concern. You would tease him about it if the doors adjacent to the hallway toward the church hadn’t busted open to show a very panicked Soap. "They're here!" Soap yelled back to the team, took your right arm, wrapped it around his shoulders, and put pressure on your wound, causing you to hiss out, "I thought you could handle it." Soap teased. "Shut it." You remarked back. Now with the height difference, they are basically dragging you down the aisle toward Gaz and Price. They laid you down on the floor. "I thought it wasn't going to be this bad," Gaz gasped after looking at your gash, blood was still spilling at an alarming rate "This needs medical attention, and we need to return to the medic-bay." "About that..." Price uttered, catching the attention of everyone "Our exfil can't be processed due to our location and weather." “What the hell! What do you mean by that!” Soap shouted. “Have you seen the weather outside? It is a blizzard out there!” Price countered, pointing out through a broken stained glass. A voice was heard on Price’s radio, “Price, this is Laswell we have noticed movement towards your location. Estimation around 50-100 men. Unless you want your team to perish, I say you start moving toward the safe house up north-west from the graveyard.” “Copy that Laswell. Gaz try your best to stabilize Scorpion so we can all move out. I know that you are more than capable of neutralizing the enemy, but I don’t want another injury if we don’t have a fast form of transportation out of these mountains.”

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No matter how much you get them you’ll never get used to the feeling of someone stitching you up with no anesthesia still sends a shiver down your spine. You were grunting as Gaz tried to make the process less painful and fast as possible. Lifting your uniform enough to have your midriff exposed so he could wrap the medical gauze around your body. “Come on. Up you go!” Soap grunted as he pulled you up onto your feet. “Careful with her if not I'll do you worst than what she has!” Ghost grunts out before turning back to you “Are you okay?” he asked in a hushed whisper. “I’m okay. We need to move out before the weather gets worse,” you replied. “Can you walk without support?” asked Gaz with outstretched arms as if you were to fall without notice. “I think I can manage.” you breathe out walking with a limp “Yeah...yeah, I think I can manage. Price how long is the walk," you questioned. “Walking? Oh, Sweetheart from here to the safe house it's going to be a hike.” Price chuckled, removing his gaze from the stained glass, and turned to face you. “If you can’t handle it, I can always carry you like a princess and I’ll be your prince in shining armor.” Soap teased with a wink. Chuckling to yourself, you playfully punch his shoulder as a form of saying you’re going to be okay, and you were going to stick to yourself, and you start following behind Ghost and out the door walking through the graveyard with unmarked tombs.

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“Facken Hell” Soap grunted, he was the first one to complain about the freezing weather as you and the team struggled to push through the almost knee-high snow. Ghost was at least kind enough to go in front of you unintentionally making a small path and making it a bit easier for you to walk. You have never been more grateful about his size more than today (not that you’ll ever admit it) and even with his help you still staggered behind. You haven't even started walking for 30 minutes and you felt like you just ran a marathon. You tried to even out your breathing thinking that you might be overreacting. You started giving yourself little motivation so you could keep up with the team. That was before your side felt like it was on fire, your body slowly started to get warm, and you started to slow down into a stop. Gaz noticed that you had stopped walking and turned back to you. “Are you doing alright?” he asked, slowing his pace to stand next to you. “As much as I want to say I’m fine. I’m starting to feel a little lightheaded” you replied with gasps in between, holding your head with a hand on your forehead. You wanted to start walking again but your whole body seemed like it was underwater even though Gaz was next to you his voice started to sound muffled and far away. You decided that you wanted to push more, and you didn’t check your stepping and your foot slipped on a rock causing you to lose your balance. You were not able to stop yourself from both cushioning the fall and tumbling down a steep trench that you hadn't noticed until now and you landed face down and you swear you felt like someone has pressed a branding iron on your wound. You used the last bit of energy to roll yourself over onto your back staring up at the soft pearl clouds blanketing the whole sky, the subtle flickering of the snow glistening as they twisted and turned with their slow grace down to earth. It was a peaceful sight other than the blinding pain your body had to currently endure. Your vision was fighting to stay awake slowly blinking as 4 dark figures were running down the hill towards you, a stark contrast on the untouched snow. Price was the first one in your line of vision holding your head and through your blurred vision you see his mouth moving but you can’t hear anything other than the ringing in your ears. You try to focus your eyes on him, trying to understand what he is shouting to the rest of your team then your eyes started straining signifying that you were slowly losing your fight on staying conscious, letting your head loose, it tilted away from Price as you closed your eyes for a well-deserved break into the darkness.

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A pounding in your head disrupted your sleep causing you to groan softly against a mattress. You slowly stretch yourself enough to feel the rough texture of the mattress grinding on your soft skin. You were relishing a few seconds to yourself before a cry broke out from your lips causing you to sit up quickly and your hands flying to the side of your torso. As you were cradling your wound, a pair of hands were suddenly pushing you down by your shoulders. By instinct you tried to look for a way to defend yourself, that was until the hands on your shoulders managed to push you into the mattress, a soft shushing caught your attention. “Hey! Take it easy. Look at me. Breathe. It’s just me, Soap.’’ You relaxed on the mattress and looked around at your surroundings. It seems that the team had settled down into an abandoned cabin that consisted of a fireplace that was still covered in dust, probably not used in years and especially not now. You guessed because the smoke might give your location away if you were to build a fire. The lack of light caused you to try and look outside through the snow and frosted-covered glass plane, but it was still enough to confirm that it was dark outside. “What happened? It was barely noon last time I remember,” you asked absentminded. “Well... We heard that you started to slow down, and Gaz went to check on you and he did nothing to stop you from falling off the cliff.” Soap explained, raising his voice towards the end. “Hey! It just happened too fast and-” Before he could finish Soap hit him on the head and he sat down next to him leaving you alone and he started continuing what he was saying “You took a nasty fall and hit your head and you seemed out of it. Nothing big though, you’re just going to have to deal with a migraine for a while and you managed to rip your stitches apart. Gaz was able to secure them again, but you were out like a light. Ghost piggybacked you all the way over here!” he laughed.

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You nodded slowly, seemingly lost in your mind. “She seems dazed, guess that fall took a lot more than we thought” Price noted watching as you weakly started to stand and slowly made your way to where Gaz and Soap were sitting and plopped down next to them. Groaning out softly you curiously looked at your puff of condensed air. They all watched in silence as you giggled like a little girl then a shiver rolled down your spine you then did the unthinkable, since Soap was the nearest to you sat and curled up between Soap’s legs and cuddled your head into his shoulder. It seemed that the whole room froze towards your actions. You aren’t usually like this with your tough demeanor, you usually never asked for help, and even on the rare times you do ask for help you’ll be embarrassed and cuss them out as if the problem was somehow caused by them, and it was (at least to the team) weird to see you open to your actions. You felt him tense up against you raising his hands as if he was being held at gunpoint, he was about to push you away until he hears you softly whine something he wasn’t going to hear if you weren’t so close. “Gosh, you’re so warm it's so cold in here.” You pulled up your hands to your mouth and let little puffs into them and rubbed them together. You’re slowly settling down to rest again until Ghost’s voice broke the silence “You haven’t eaten all day. You need to eat something before sleeping again without food you won't heal as fast.’ You turned to face him as he sat silently in a dark corner and slightly opened one of your eyes and sheepishly shook your head saying no. “Jesus Christ you’re burning up there, lass, aren't you?” His hand suddenly came to rest on your forehead and Price gently rubbed the back of his hand onto your cheek muttering more to himself, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear “She’s running a fever.” “Here make her drink a lot of water.” Ghost urges holding out a bottled water; Price takes the bottle from him and extends it to you. You once again shake your head. “Don’t you back away. Come on. It's just water.” ”Don't wanna” you replied. “Would you drink if I help you?” You said nothing this time. Price takes your silence as a yes. Confused, he carefully tested the waters by slowly tilting the bottled water to your lips allowing you to take small sips. After you finished half of the bottle he praises “That’s my girl.” He closes the bottle, places it on the floor, leans back, and sits silently. After a few minutes, everyone continued to settle down, especially Soap since he was busy embracing and enjoying your warmth then one by one started noticing that your breathing came out as deep breaths. Gaz suddenly perks up and says, “She still has to eat too” Once again all their attention was now on you. Everyone stares at Soap and expects him to do something “What? Do you really think I’m going to wake her up just for her to eat?” he said defensively, subconsciously pulling you tighter into his chest and embrace.

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“You know we have to.” Ghost sighs. “Not even 5 more minutes.” Soap said while shying away from the harsh stares of the team. Ghost forces Soap’s arms away from your body slowly and gently shaking your shoulder to wake up. You stirred from your short-lived slumber and looked up at him confused. He crouched down to your eye level and whispered “Luv, you must eat something before going back to bed.” “But I’m going to get cold though.” “Here you can have my blanket.” Price immediately covers you in the soft material that seemingly had his scent covered all over the blanket. He gently started pulling you away from Soap which had begrudgingly agreed to let you go. Price starts getting an MRE out of his backpack opens it up for you and puts it in your hands. Your head jolted back in disgust upon seeing and smelling the MRE, and you pushed it back to Price “Eww I don’t want to eat that it looks horrible,” you replied with a huff and tried to cross your arms over your chest before Price forces them down once more and he responded, “Come on, sweetheart you know you have to eat at least something”. “Do you have anything that tastes better than that?’” you pleaded. “I think I might have something you like!” Gaz exclaims while reaching into his backpack looking for something and he pulls out a Chocolate bar. Your eyes sparkled when your eyes landed on the candy. You moved to the outstretched hand with the candy, your hand was barely closing on the sugary goodness before it was snatched away by Price. You softly gasp and shockingly look at Price, your eyes begging for an answer. He just smirks and holds the bar next to his face and simply tells “I promise to give it to you once you have finished your food.’’ “Promise?” “I promise in fact I’ll help you” Price said as he continues to sit directly in front of you, place the chocolate bar next to him and scooped a spoonful out of the MRE and holding it a mere inches away from your mouth. “Don’t be shy, open up”. You became rigid as you noticed that you are in the middle of attention, and you knew that Price is stubborn enough not to have it your way and as you open your mouth to eat what was on the spoon a small involuntary ‘ah∼’ squeaked from you. You looked down embarrassedly and chewed slowly. You could hear the stifled laughs from everyone as your face turns bright pink. Price once again hold out a spoonful toward you and shook your head in denial. Price once again holds up the chocolate bar and teasingly said “Come on, Princess if you want this you must finish.” You closed your eyes, swallowed your pride, and ate more. The whole process went on in a somewhat comfortable silence. You got used to the routine so much that you started to nod off bit by bit until Price startled you when he shoved the chocolate into your hands and softly muttered “You did such a good job, Princess.”

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You stared happily at the chocolate on your hands and before you could open it, you sneezed and broke into a coughing fit. You tried to huddle yourself tighter into the blanket, but it didn’t stop you from shaking like a leaf. A small commotion broke out but once your coughing fit calmed down you realize that you have been picked up and carried by someone you only noticed once you suddenly felt a wave of warmth spread through your body that you, in fact, are laying on top of Ghost. Once you settled down in that conclusion you tried to scramble away from him, before he held you down by hugging you and squeezing you closer to him. You noticed that he wasn’t wearing his protective gear, you felt some but not all of it under his hoodie that you didn’t notice that he was wearing because he was sitting in the dark up until now. Your head was placed directly on top of Ghost’s chest, and you can hear his heartbeat quicken just a little. The rhythm of his heart and the warmth of his body slowly coaxed you closer to a deep slumber. Your eyes fought to stay awake until a heavy hand slowly petted your head and dragged down your back. You slowly relaxed into his strong embrace and unconsciously rubbed your nose into his chest until you found a comfortable place for your head to rest. Unknowing to you Price, Gaz, and especially Soap gave Ghost the most hateful stare they could muster but Ghost simply shrugged as he continued to comb his fingers through your hair.

Silently wishing that the night would last forever just to have you in his arms.

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ironclark · 1 year

Text

To see even more Keyblades, check out @KeybladeForge and the discord! https://discord.gg/JV6NFtTA4c

SWAMP GAS -

A Keyblade modeled after the world of DreamWork's Shrek! This keyblade makes your Fire spells a higher tear! The handle and hilt of the Keyblade is designed after Shrek's swamp home, with it's green aesthetic. The shaft of the blade is designed after Fiona's tower where she was held, with the very top having the top of Duloc's castle. The teeth of the blade is formed by Dragon. The token is the iconic Shrek "S".

The World Logo is designed after Shrek's home, his favorite place in the world. The name comes from the plot centering around Shrek's swamp, as well as his gassy nature.

QUANTONIUM-

This Keyblade is designed after the sci-fi nature of DreamWorks' Monsters vs Aliens. This keyblade is designed to increase the damage of combo finishers! The hilt guard of this blade is designed after the containment cells of the government facility housing the monsters. The shaft and teeth of the Keyblade is designed after the meteor contianing the Quantonium flying through space, with a bit of the comet tail forming Insectosaurous' wing. The keychain is designed after BOB, with the token being Insectosaurous.

The World Logo is that of Susan's home town of Modesto. The name comes from the energy that provides Susan her giant form.

FURY OF THE NIGHT-

A Keyblade designed after the viking style of DreamWorks' How to Train Your Dragon. This Keyblade is designed to give protection against any lightning and fire attacks. The entire Keyblade is inspired by a Vikings' ship with Toothless designs. The top of the Keyblade has the helmet given to Hiccup from his father. The teeth of the Keyblade is designed after Toothless' tail fin. The token is the symbol of that of the Vikings of Berk.

The World logo is the central isles of Berk. The name comes from Toothless' species name: Nightfury.

COLD CENTER-

A simple keyblade designed afte the dreams and iciness of DreamWorks' Rise of the Guardians. This keyblade is designed to have high blizzard damage. The shaft and handle of the Keyblade is designed after Jack Frost's staff. The hilt and keychain is designed after Sandman's magical sand. The teeth of the blade is designed after Jack's ice abilities. The token is that of Baby Tooth.

The world logo is that of Burgess, where Jack Frost is from. The name comes from North urging Jack to find his center, as well as Jack being a spirit of Winter.

PANDA WARRIOR-

A Keyblade designed after the Jade Palace of DreamWorks' Kung Fu Panda. This keyblade is designed to have high combos and greater effects from food. The hiltguard of the blade is designed after the Jade Palace, with the handle being inspired by Oogway's staff. The shaft of the blade is designed to have the Furious Five designs through it. The teeth is a stylized version of a panda fist. The token is that of a dumpling, Po's motivation.

The World Logo is that of where the Furious Five train and call home. The name is a combination of Dragon Warrior and Po being a Panda.

BLACK MAMBA-

A Keyblade designed after the mechanical mind of DreamWorks' Megamind! This keyblade is designed to have high thunder damage. The bottom half of the hilt and teeth of the blade is designed after Megamind's Brainbots, his self-made minions. The top half of the hilt is designed after Megamind's Black Mamba's suit. The shaft is designed after the robot suit of the Black Mamba. The token is that of Megamind's logo.

The World Logo is that of Metro City (or Metrocity), the central city of the movie. The name comes from the special suit that Minion had designed.

#Kingdom Hearts #Keyblades #Crossovers #Shrek #Monsters vs Aliens #HTTYD #Rise of the Guardians #Kung Fu Panda #Megamind

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rreskk · 5 months

Text

MIDWEST DESIRES

Summary: A desire. All it took was the desire to spiral out of control. You didn’t want to ignore the past argument but he had persuaded you with pure confidence. That man was the death of you and he left you breathless.

TW: Smut.

Pairings: Fem!reader/Trevor Philips

Word count: 2496

Daring to touch, he stood motionless in front of you, shoulders just about fitting the doorway of your humble home. Them puffy sleeves from the winter coat he was wearing thickened the width of his shoulders, hence the slight mishap of size. Yet the winter coat warmed him up greatly, his cheeks turning a bushed red and his nose sniffling with the after effects of seizing the cold North Yankton snow outside. The blizzard was only an open doors away, and you could already feel the radiation from his shivering frame. The front door – that was open in retaliation of his presence – interrogated the warmth of your home.

“Trevor.” You addressed as the last time you had said his name, it wasn’t in a wanting manner. Not at all. You felt the urge to close the door since you were developing the shivers as well, and you were dressed in clothes for bedtime. It was selfish of him to keep the door open with his wide figure and snarky face that didn’t exactly express the delightfulness of you answering his knocks in the first place. Bitter, you thought, but you couldn’t shut him out. He had no other home. Nothing.

“Mph…” He’d huff and refuse to acknowledge the changing temperatures of your house. His mullet was hidden, shying away in this ushanka that covered his ears as well, only leaving the crest of his face and shifty, all-knowing eyes, the moustache sitting over his top lip that you couldn’t see it shiver at the cold. His breath even struggled to straighten it’s posture when speaking after the shortened grunt. “Don’t say my name like that.”

The irony of not wanting to be named was almost alien to his personality as everything resulting to this argument would be the product of his attention-seeking tongue. So your interest was instantly aroused. There was lack of corresponsive evidence to believe it.

“Why?” You questioned, moving aside and gently tugging the door closed. The freezing bite of the weather evaporated within that second.

Trevor hung his head low and ignored your question. He took the signal of the door closing and misunderstood it for a “I’m making myself at home” note, claiming the sofa as his own, his scrawny, long limbs hogging the two seats. There wasn’t even a space for you. But it wasn’t like you wanted to sit next to him. The grudge remained; the distance thickening as he’d spitefully avoid the need to communicate.

It placed you in a position of risking another fight, or letting him toy you around with his unpredictable mannerism. Neither you wanted to happen. The last thing you wanted was his dirty, scandal-grasping fingers touching any surface of your house while he’s sitting in the spotlight of the local FEDs. Knowing someone has probably died in his arms through the last 24 hours would always stain your mind, yet it didn’t repel you from him.

He threw off his ushanka and ruffled up the messy locks that were thinning and lessening. Even his hair looked unbothered about the situation your relationship was it. This is when you decided to stand up for yourself and walked over to the sofa, standing before him, his eyes inspecting you with judgement and annoyance.

“What?” Trevor grumbled lowly, his voice rumbling deep from his chest.

Pretending it didn’t give you butterflies, you tried to remain monotonal. “This wasn’t an invite for you to stay.” However, it came off like you were struggling to maintain a stern tone. It wobbled a bit.

“You closed the door.” He scoffed when rolling his neck and staring at your chest area with confliction and pervasion.

“To keep the heat in.”

“Sure.” Sarcasm dripping from his abrasive mouth.

“Why’d you come?” For once, you wanted a truer word from him, not just some smart-ass remark that’s not really smart. It would just be irritating and dimly witted.

His eyes searched your face and his shoulders shrugged in response. His coat would even rustle from his forced movement, the silence disturbed and your will-power to embrace disapproval collapsed. It made you tick, itch, clench your jaw, the slightest sounds from his stupid, green coa –

“The fuck you glaring at?” Trevor murmured, “I wasn’t the one starting the argument. On my behalf, I was the peacemaker.”

This made you laugh, stomach clenching and your posture bending as you’d hold your knees for stability. The seriousness of his defence made it worse. He has to be joking, you thought. There was no way he was playing the peacemaker when he spiralled the debate into an argument and refused to solve it as he’d disappear for 3 days straight, leaving you with the suspense of believing your relationship had ended.

“Yeah, because that’s the truth.” You mocked, not laughing anymore.

“Are you calling me a liar?” He eruptively stood up from the sofa – livid. You were stunned when he stood less than an arms-length away, finding your little mockery offensive and disrespectful. “Don’t be a fucking prude, eh? Don’t you wanna make-up? Don’t you wanna have dear ol’ Trevy back? Or have you never loved me.”

“Oh, I’ve loved you. Still do. And it gives me a migraine.” You whispered.

“A migraine I can cure, baby. You know how it is…” His softness was inviting but you knew this was just a manipulation tactic to avoid the blame. He took notice of your sudden shyness the moment he stood up, and he abused it. That dickhead.

“I don’t think you can cure it this time.”

“How so?” Trevor tickled and placed a bare hand, so cold and cruel, around your waist. You could feel it through the fabrics of your shirt. Like you’d imagine, he grazed the surface of your neck with his shivering lips that were dry as desert. It felt like prickles whenever he spoke against you. “Don’t stay mad forever, sugar.”

Future corpse: death by Trevor and his charismatic density. Even if you tried to fight back, your body language denied access. You fell into him, his arms – without hesitation – suffocating you and his lips immediately trailed up your sweet neck with his sweet kisses.

His hungry mouth fell over your throat and jawline, mercilessly slandering the acres of your skin like there was no sign of life in you. You had to clench the back of his jacket for stability as he was diving in – big time. If you lessened your grip, you’d both fall backwards and into the coffee table. Praise be, you weren’t going to let anything disrupt this process of “making-up”, or whatever he referred it. Make-up, make-out; his moto, most likely? Who knows. He doesn’t do communication despite blaming the lack of understanding on you.

But ignoring the present problems as you were too busy growing eager for the heat.

Trevor reached your lips and was stealing words, thoughts, your breath. His kisses were intense to the point of panting, your lungs struggling to sway around the oxygen he’s threatening to take. You both were heavily breathing, the blood rushing over to your head, the room becoming increasingly hot. God knows how he’s coping in that coat. While he selfishly abused your lips with his own, your hands grasped the zip and tugged it down. Trevor grunted lowly when it was thrown off his shoulders and onto the floor. The chills crawled down his spine when the air touched his naked arms. You felt him shiver, the closeness between you both becoming inseparable.

“I can’t fucking wait anymore,” He whined and clenched your wrist, “Lemme see you, ay? Take it off…” You made eye-contact and he pressed his forehead against yours, grinning. “Take it all off.”

The thought of facing the chilly temperatures with only his body temperature aroused you beyond belief. And it wasn’t like you had a choice. Before you could answer, Trevor had plunged the back of your shirt, disregarding it by tossing it over your head, the forceable nature causing the material to rip a bit as you’d hear a small stretch. The cold punched you in the stomach and your arms crawled with the need of comfort. As you rubbed yourself for warmth, he threw off his own shirt and wasted no time, pulling you back into the proximity, his touchy fingers groping the cups of your bra, smirking and giggling at the feeling of your clothed breasts.

Trevor toyed you around for a few minutes. The bra stayed on but he pulled one of the cups down as your breast would hang out and into his sight. He made it bounce, squishing it, caressing it, worshipping it. You had to stand there with a throbbing throat, becoming ugly for him. Nonetheless, you were left red and puffy. He had poked for too long that you breast had marks of his hands outlining around the nipples. Such pride, he groaned kiddingly, biting down his bottom lip.

And your neck. Fuck. His moustache left rashes all over your jaw and neck. Even your mouth. Just like your chest area, you were becoming red all over. The kind touch of Mr Philips was as guilty as any murderer.

“Mhm.” You winced at the itchiness of the perceived rashes. It was silenced when Trevor returned his attention onto you and them hands harshly gripped your backside, edging you closer to the wall behind where he turned you around in a ridiculous speed. Swearing you were experiencing whiplash, it wasn’t know. Not like you could say anyway. He pushed you against the wall with your breasts being pressed and your hips being pushed against him. You felt a trembling hardness fight against your ass, making you murmur his name as pleas.

“I need you,” He said, “I’m gonna have you – “ He ruffled his belt and hissed with frustration when his jeans struggling to lower. You were forced against the wall anyways, not being able to help but hearing him groan so sensually.

“Just fuck me!” You protested to rile him up. There wasn’t anything like an angry Trevor treating you like a little to no person. It was hot, sexy, a desire.

Something zipped and then your arms were pinned against your back, your face planting the wall. The roughness you wanted; you got.

“I’ll fuck you so good.” Smirked Trevor, ripping off your trousers that dangled around your ankles. He gently felt around your naked backside before pushing you against his erection that sat to bully your pussy. It wasn’t in, but it was there, warming you both up. The fact it was there was winding you up. So bad, you wanted it, so bad.

“C’mon.” You pled and grinded against him.

A sigh of pleasure escaped his throat when you took control. He held onto your waist and watched the way your ass moved against him. The wonders came wondering and you gasped in surprise when he removed himself before digging into your pussy, fucking the Hell out of you.

Trevor rocked you back and forth as he thrusting in and out. You both groaned and made sexual noises at the matched efforts to feel each other’s skin and friction.

“Atta girl…” He panted, “Jesus, argh!”

You took him in, wetness seeping and drooling. Trevor used a hand and grabbed the back of your neck, making sure he was keeping you in your place with your face, all scrunched up with pleasure, against the wall. A little power-play made it better. While you were sizing him up from your aggressive rocking hips, he maintained that place and kept you working while he groaned.

“Fuck, fuck!”

“I love your voice, sugar.” He murmured, the sound of slapping making it harder to hear him.

Now the room was the opposite of cold. It was fucking boiling. You kept your arms invisibly tied to your back during this but it itched to wipe the sweat from your brow. The overstimulating yell storming around your lower stomach. It was approaching, all that bottled up annoyance dissolving into a waiting release.

“I fucking missed you. Couldn’t stay away, angel. Just wanted to feel you.” Trevor whined when fastening the pace. He was due to get emotional when having sex with you. Always has, since the first-time. It was sweetening. It comforted you despite being hammered sloppily. It made you want to forgive him for every ungodly thing he has ever done while living.

“More…” You needed more reassurance, “Please. I want more. More. Trevor. More…”

“I fucking want more! Shit. Just gonna fuck you… Forever, damn, baby… I’m gonna fucking cum.” His words were broken in several pauses breathlessly. His hands deepened, now bruising your body. The way he was stammering forwards. There was no more thrusting. He was deep inside, letting himself beat against you.

You moaned against the wall and flattened out your chest, losing control. Unable to produce words, you could only weakly grunt and cry softly. Your pussy throbbed with him inside and he was visibly twitching. The sensation was going to kill you.

“I’m gonna…” He repeated dramatically, “Shit. Shit. Shit!” Then in a haze, like the blizzard happening outside your front door, he came inside you, his hips jerking and legs threatening to fall. Trevor leaned back and sobbed a painful moan as he attempted to move with the orgasm, leaving marks of himself and making you struggle with him.

After he had came, it was no longer an ability to deny your body. Stimulatingly, your core shrieked and it trickled down your thighs, drooling down his cock as well that laid inside you. There were no moans to moan since you were all out. You panted and gagged with your cheek hot from the wall. The orgasm spiralled out of control and you fell back into him, his arms grabbing your waist and his chest hitting your back.

“There she is…” Encouraged his raspy voice.

You whimpered, “Shit… Oh, yeah.”

“How’s that for an apology? Made you feel good, eh? I love my girl, would stay like this forever.”

“I… Accept – “ You took deep breaths, “ – Your apology. Jesus…”

Trevor pecked the back of your ear before swaying you to the sofa where you sunk into the cushions. He massaged your inner thighs as you were based in his lap, nakedly hogging each other’s personal space with the smell of nasty sex filling your living room space.

“More of this,” He pointed to your smile before smirking, “And less of your grumpiness, yeah?”

“Standard practice for you to say.”

“And less of the fucking cheek. I’m just a guy wanting his girl to love him.”

“Poor Trevor.” You teased.

“Love me…” He whined and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I do love you.”

“What was that?”

“I think you stink.”

“Of your sweet cunt, baby.”

“And dirt.”

Trevor glared but remained quiet, trapping you in his embrace as you both finally recovered from that argument. In a bang, as per usual.

#grand theft auto 5 #trevor philips #gta v #grand theft 5 #grand theft auto #gta 5 #trevor gta #grand theft auto v #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips x reader #trevor philips fanfiction #trevorphilips #trevor philips headcanons #trevor philips/you #my fanfic writing #my fanfic #my fanfiction #grand theft v #grandtheftauto

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idolatrybarbie · 5 months

Text

pairing: santa!francisco "frankie" morales x fem!reader

word count & rating: 886 words | explicit jesus christ

summary: you're joking, right?

tags: santa kink???, cockwarming, cum, like so much cum, unprotected vaginal sex, unethical use of a mall Santa Village, semi-public sex, dirty talk and pet names, mentions of free use.

notes: hiatus more like LIEatus. what am i supposed to say here. this is unedited, straight off the dome. blame the gin twins @atinylittlepain @wannab-urs. sorry?

You can’t tell how long you’ve been sat here. The sprawling hall is dim with light, security fluorescents shining from the glossy, guarded windows of each storefront. Without all this festive set dressing, the mall at night would be purely creepy. With Santa’s Village set up amid all the sleek chaos, though, it’s cheerfully welcome. And here you are, taking full advantage of the generous invite.

Sat on Santa’s lap, you shuffle your hips the slightest bit, trying to relieve the tingles that run up and down your calf. Frankie—err, Saint Nick slaps your ass with a solid gloved hand.

“Sit still,” he tells you.

“Sorry, Mr. Claus.”

You stutter on a sigh as you feel him twitch inside you. The last thing you expected was to be spending Christmas Eve speared on Santa’s cock, keeping him warm as a nasty blizzard blows wildly outside.

“Have you been a good girl for me this year?” he asks, voice gruff.

“Yes, I promise,” you keen.

Facing away from him, you can feel the tickle of his magically fluffy white beard against the nape of your neck. The only thing keeping you sane is the thought of that same plush softly running along the skin of your inner thighs. Imaging Santa’s tongue in your cunt has you clenching around him, earning you a groan.

“You seem pretty naughty to me,” Santa says.

“Please, Mr. Claus. Santa, I need it.”

Without warning, he punches his hips up. The tip of his jolly cock reaches the very ends of your cunt in a pinch of painful pleasure.

“You’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you,” he says. “Keeping me nice and warm right here, honey. Be a good girl for me and you’ll get a nice present this year. Promise.”

“Santa, please. I’ll be such a good girl next year, I promise.”

“Yeah? How am I gonna hold you to it, little girl?” Santa asks. “Maybe I’ll keep you with the rest of my elves. They all work real hard, you know. Maybe I could put you to work.” He starts to move his hips, thrusts lazy into your wet heat as he continues to ramble. “Yeah, think I’ll do just that. While the rest of ‘em make toys for all the good girls and boys, you can stay right here with me. You can be my toy, honey.”

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“A bad word? That wasn’t very nice.”

Santa picks up speed, cock practically sloshing through your sopping cunt like driven-through snow.

“I think you’ll like it up North. Christ knows you’ll be getting enough pole,” Santa continues. He grips the skin of your neck in his hand with his thick fingers, holding you up like a disobedient kitten. “That’ll teach you how to be a good little girl. Hard work, all day every day. Usually Mrs. Claus does the baking, but I’ve got a special icing for this little cookie.”

The thought of being fucked, purely used at any time of day for 365 days of the year has the soft embers in your belly growing to scorching flames. He lets go of your neck, bringing that hand to the column of your throat while his other hand skates down the naked plains of your chest. His fabric-covered hand slides between your breasts and past your diaphragm, pressing down at the soft spot between your stomach and pelvis.

Each upwards stroke has you almost gagging, tongue lolling out of your mouth as you surrender any intelligent thought or movement. You can feel yourself dripping down around him, pooling between your thighs to the dark, sticky velvet of his disheveled pants.

“Look at you, little girl. My sweet doll. All plug n’ play, aren’t you? You like being my hard little worker?” Santa asks, lips brushing against your ear. “Want me to fill you up?”

“Please, please, please,” you chant in time with each of his thrusts.

“It’s pretty chilly in here. Can’t wait to watch it drip out of you. Think it’d make an icicle for me?”

“Ah, oh god,” you cry.

“I’ll let it drip over you, right back into that pretty pussy. How’s that sound?”

You’re past the point of talking. Santa uses your body for his pleasure, legs spread out in front of you like the wings of a turtledove. The constant smack smack smack of wet thighs and pussy almost creates a caroling tune; something for your mind to grasp onto as he fucks you stupid.

“I’ll have to make sure my girl doesn’t get too greedy. Can’t have you hogging all the toys next Christmas. Can’t have you too naughty,” Santa says. Then, “Ho—oh, it’s coming, honey. You ready for your Christmas gift from Santa?”

You bob your head in a nod, biting your lip as he gets his last few thrusts in. Your cunt sucks him in hungrily, squeezing with your own orgasm as you simultaneously milk Santa of his wintry blast. Somewhere in your haze of pleasure, you hear the faint jingle of Christmas bells. Finally, you’re sat still in his lap again. His snowy spend leaks out of you slowly, soiling the crotch of his pants further.

“D’you like what you got this year, little girl?” Santa asks.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “Can’t wait for next year.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #pedrostories #pedro pascal fanfiction #fic: jingle balls

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spacebarbarianweird · 4 months

Note

headcanons or a one-shot of astarion x gn!tav baking cookies and/or doing other wintery things? thank you for the bonus prompt! i love domestic wintertime vibes 💙❄️

Hi! I fucked up with your last prompt, so here is your bonus one! And Merry Christmas!

Prompt ✶New Beginnings✶ for BG3 Winter Holiday Challenge

The pieces of the book Tav is reading are taken from Forgotten Realms Wiki.

Got inspired by this amazing piece of art by @demiesop

The Sea of Moving Ice

Synopsis: Astarion returns too early with a confession.

Tags: fluff, comfort

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Nestled by the fireplace, you find solace amidst the raging blizzard outside. The crackling flames cast a comforting glow, kissing your face and enveloping your arms in their gentle warmth. You slowly turn pages.

The Sea of Moving Ice is located west of Icewind Dale and northwest of the Cold Run. Almost completely uncharted, the ice masses set wide enough apart for a ship to pass.

You shiver. Well, as it wasn't cold enough. Now you can't stop thinking about the freezing hell stretching far to the north.

The domain of ice dragon and unimaginable horrors!

You wrap yourself in a fur blanket. You never had a chance to learn how to read and Astarion always teased you about that. Whenever you wanted him to read for you, he would try to sit you down and teach but you knew the dance. You would make puppy eyes and praise Astarion's voice and the vampire would give up and read any book you want.

But the end of autumn met you far in the north, in the town of Firesheer. You got sick and, by the time you fully recovered, it was already too cold and dangerous to keep travelling.

So you decided to wait until the beginning of spring. In the meantime, Astarion finally made you learn to read.

Along with seals, walruses and polar bears, the Sea of Moving Ice is also home to other dangers. Lairs of ice trolls can be found in errant shipwrecks, and white dragons often make home within larger icebergs.

White dragons! For some reason, the idea of seeing those creatures fascinates you. You turn pages further trying to find a chapter about them.

Adult white dragons have several abilities well suited to their arctic habitat: they can climb ice cliffs with ease, fly very high and fast, and are exceptional swimmers.

The door to the room opens and you see Astarion.

"I thought you wanted to walk around till sunrise?" you ask.

He doesn't say anything and sits behind you wrapping his hands around your chest and pressing his face against the crook of your neck.

"Astarion, is everything all right?"

He doesn't move as if frozen. You suppress a desire to stand up to hug him, to make him tell you everything. Maybe, a year ago you would have done it, but now you know better. Sometimes it's best not to pay attention.

You caress his knuckles.

"I've read a few chapters already. Well, of course, you would have finished the whole book, but I am trying my best."

Another page. The picture of a fortress captures your attention. It looks like a giant skull adorned with a crown.

Grimskalle.

No matter how much Far North scares you, your innate desire for adventure craves to see all these places.

Astarion is silent and motionless. He wraps you tightly not allowing you to move. Maybe something triggered him? Reminded him of his recent past? Or is he just overwhelmed? He almost never spends nights inside, even if there is a snowstorm like that.

"Thank you for having patience with me", you say. "You were right. Being able to read feels so nice."

Silence. You listen up. Astarion has a very unsettling skill of being able to cry without making almost any sound.

"I love you."

The words return you to reality. Astarion holds you tightly and presses his lips against the nape of your neck. You feel as if you were submerged in warm waters.

"I love you too, Astarion" You smile.

Expressing his feelings doesn't come easy for him. While he's become adept at discussing negative emotions, fears, and traumas with you, simple confessions are still quite rare.

"No, you don't understand," he muffles. "I love you. If I were alive, my heart would skip a beat every time I see you. You are so warm and kind, I can't believe you are real. Your sole presence is enough to wash away the nightmares from my mind. I feel new with you. I feel innocent. I feel … redeemed."

You finally set yourself free and turn to him. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes but he smiles with this sincere goofy smile you saw on the graveyard for the first time.

The real him.

You cup his face and kiss his forehead. Then you proceed kissing his cheeks and lips, making sure no part of his face is left untouched.

"So, you’ve returned earlier to tell me all that?"

"Yes. You always tell me good things. How much you love me; how much you care. You bath me with affection and I just wanted to reciprocate."

You shake your head. "My love, we agreed on that. You don't need to reciprocate. You don't owe me anything…"

He sighs. No his face looks serious. "Isn't love always about a fair exchange? One-sided affection sounds awful. I owe you and you owe me. That’s the deal, isn't it?"

You reluctantly agree. Yes, if Astarion never returned any love, you would probably have lost any interest in this relationship months ago.

But, gods, he loves you!

There is so much love and care in him! Somehow, Astarion managed to conceal them deep within his undead heart that he forgot about their existence.

But yet he found access to them as if finally obtaining the key from an intricate locked box.

Ability to love.

Ability to care.

Ability to laugh and enjoy life to its fullest.

When you wake up, the first thing you see is his eyes. He watches you sleeping with such adoration it makes your heart skip a beat. He cares about you so much; you can fully give yourself to him and not worry about anything.

Astarion, your beloved.

"You know... I lied"

"About what?"

"That nothing bothered me when I came back"

"Oh? What happened?"

He turns away collecting his thoughts. "You know... I've never really thought about the nature of our relationships. The very idea someone could love me the way I am seemed ridiculous. When I confessed to you, I expected you to break up with me. I couldn't understand what you are to me. My love? My partner? My significant other? I didn’t know. To this day."

The conversation takes an unexpected turn and you wait.

"I walked around the town and bumped into a woman - she was closing her jewerly store. She started bothering me with all these stupid questions. Where we are from, where we are heading. Who you are. Who I am. Who we are to each other. And, well… I ended up buying something."

"Buying? Not stealing?"

"We are going to spend here at least two months. Wouldn’t be smart to steal from locals. Close your eyes."

You oblige and in a second you feel something cold on your palm.

Two rings.

"W-what is this, Astarion?"

"She was trying to find out if you are single. Or if I am single. She probably couldn't decide which of us she liked more. I just… threw her money saying "We are going to marry so fuck off."

"Oh?"

"Listen... if you don’t like this idea... I..."

"I do."

You take his left hand and without hesitation put the ring on his finger. Then you kiss the knuckles and it seals the deal.

Astarion's hand is trembling as he puts on the second ring on you. "I want to see the world with you, Tav. I want to see all these weird and scary places. I want to be with you. I want to be with you in every possible form."

You lean for a kiss. "And we are going to see the Sea of Moving Ice !"

Tag List

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

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greetingfromthedead · 2 months

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Shepherd Story 1 (God!Knives x GN!Reader)

Plot: In a world where fallen gods live among you, there is the god of winter and death who leaves behind merciless blizzards and famine wherever he goes on his eternal search for his other half he fell for many millennia ago.

Series: Shepherd. Check out Story 2 (smut) and Story 3!

Pairing: God!Knives x GN!Reader

Raiting: Teen and up (some mild sexual/intimate content, no smut)

Tags: fantasy AU, no use of "y/n", gods, feathery plant, fated love, romance, legends, nature magic, reunion, intimacy, possessive behavior, tenderness, some fluff, body worship, implied smut

Word count: 4.2k

Author's Note: This story is heavily inspired by the incredible @triplesilverstar's god AU stories A so called God on a mountain top? Well, better then freezing to death and So its a tradition? Weird. These stories are just way too good for you to not go read them. So gogogo (unless you are underage or not into smut)...

In a world much different from our own, where fallen gods live among people, there is a story that spans over many millennia. In that world, there are countless higher beings, each with their own unique powers and abilities. They guide nature in the endless cycle of creation and destruction. Among them is a man more feared and despised than the rest, known as the god of winter and death. His icy touch is said to bring misery and despair to all who encounter him. None can escape his chilling grasp, as the harsh winters can last for years on end. Children are born within his icy domain; they live and die, never knowing the warmth of summer. But only a few know the curse put on this world by the jealous gods of ancient times.

The god of winter and death roams solemnly through the lands, bringing icy winds and blizzards in his wake. The soft steps of his bare feet on grassy fields spread frost, and the lakes get covered in ice as he passes by. He doesn't bring famine and illness, but they follow him like a shadow as he moves south on his endless search. This world has never seen a winter like this before; it has lasted for fifty years and brought the northern lands to their knees. Grain stores are empty, and people are starving. Yet the god moves further and further south with each passing day, leaving death in his wake. He is still looking, searching for the one who bears the curse.

Restlessness has sunken its claws into you as of late. It's like something's tugging at your soul. You have always felt lucky that you were born quite far in the south, away from the dark shadows of the north. You are a winter child, and never in your years have you seen the bountiful summers the elders speak of. However, you haven't been plagued by winter's chill either, and for that, you are grateful. But as of late, your dreams have frozen over, set against a backdrop of white fields and icy winds. You feel it seeping into your waking hours; the breeze hasn't been gentle for weeks; instead, it cuts like knives into your flesh, leaving you shivering.

The fire roars in your little house, but its warmth can't chase away the chill in your bones. You wrap yourself tighter in blankets, trying to hold onto the last bit of heat before the darkness of night takes over. You count the herbs in your collection; you need to make sure you have as much stock as possible if winter indeed is to claim your little corner of the world too. You know you can't afford to run out; you are the herbalist that the entire nearby village relies on for healing remedies. As you put away the jars of dried leaves, you wonder if you can sleep tonight or will you be tortured again by the dangerous desire luring you into the night.

The flickering light of the fireplace seems to dim, the dancing of the light more lazy, barely reaching your feet, let alone your workbench. You shiver, feeling a chill run down your spine as the shadows in the room grow darker and more sinister. You turn around to inspect whether you need to add more logs to the dwindling fire, but your attention is grabbed by the window to your side. Icy flowers begin to form on the glass, their sharp angles glistening in the fading rays of the day.

Are these the last remnants of your blissful life? You wonder how long it will take for the cold to overtake the countryside and turn it into an icy wasteland. How many people will die, and will you ever see summer? You shake your head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts, and raise your gaze over the forming ice, as beautiful as it might be. You look at the grassy field and see glittering snow start to descend from the sky. While frost isn't all that uncommon, you've never seen it snow quite like this. The delicate flakes twirl and dance in the air, casting a magical spell over the landscape. You're in awe, and rush to the door, pulling the blanket around your shoulders tighter before stepping outside into the freezing twilight. The air is so still, not even a whisper of wind dares disturb the enchanting scene, like nature itself is holding its breath in anticipation. The soft flakes brush against your cheeks, melting on contact and leaving a cold, damp feeling on your skin. You try to imagine your home being transformed into a winter wonderland, with snow covering every surface in sight. You know you should fear that image more than anything else, but there's a strange sense of peace that comes with it.

You glance over your little yard to the edge of the forest, and there you see a figure. Your eyes are caught by his icy gaze, and you can't see anything else beside his piercing blue irises. You feel a chill run along your spine, but not from the cold, but from the kind of terror you would feel while staring down a wild wolf.

"I found you at last, my sweet darling." The nearly emotionless words of the god of winter and death carry over the silent landscape, echoing in your ears like a haunting melody. The coldness in his face softens slightly, replaced by something akin to a gentle smile.

You are too stunned to speak or move; the knowledge of who you've come across freezes you in place. But it isn't all fear that has made your legs so heavy; the restlessness of your soul is rearing its head again, calling out to the unknown like it's an old friend. You stay quiet as you look into the eyes of the god before you, feeling a sense of both terror and excitement. He turns toward you and steps closer. Your eyes are released from the shackles of his gaze. As you look at the rest of the figure, you see the mass of wings behind him. They aren't made up of feathers, but of shards of ice that reflect the light in a dazzling display. His body is clad in a flowy white robe, partially revealing his pale skin, some of it covered by the icy shards, the same as the wings. His hair and eyelashes look like they are frosted over due to the cold that emanates from his very being. He is breathtaking as he approaches you, his bare feet make no sound as he walks along the path. The blades of grass freeze in his presence, the puddle of water forms jagged crystals on its surface like razors.

"It has been too long, my dear," he whispers, his voice low and level, the sound crossing the empty space between you effortlessly to caress your ears.

His expression is tender yet filled with a cold intensity. This is not how you imagined such an infamous god to look at a mortal being like yourself. His eyes seem to pierce your very soul, making you feel both terrified and strangely alive.

With every step he takes, the surrounding air gets colder. Every inhale stings your lungs, every exhale produces a white cloud. Your fingers grip the blanket tighter. You can't shake the feeling that he knows something about you that you don't. His eyes have never left your face as he finally stops at your doorstep.

"I am sorry for being so impossibly late," he says, holding out a hand to you, palm up. His voice has a cold edge to it.

"Am I going to die?" The words slip over your lips before you even realize you've spoken them.

"One day, darling, but hopefully not any time soon. I cannot bear to lose you again." A slight smile flickers on the corners of his lips. "Take my hand."

"What do you mean? What do you want from me?" You know you should be afraid of him, but your soul tells you to place your hand in his.

"You will remember, sweet Shepherd." He waits patiently. "Take my hand."

"I'm not a shepherd; I'm a herbalist. You must have confused me with someone else." Saying a god is wrong seems like a surefire way to die, yet you do it anyway. Your reaction paints a slightly more obvious smile on his face as he looks at you through his low eyebrows with amusement. Your heart tells you to reach for his fingers.

"I will recognize you in any life, with any face. I will always find you, as your soul calls out to me. Take my hand." His piercing blue eyes look into yours, and you know that he is the source of your restless nights. You take a deep breath and finally allow yourself to surrender to your heart and soul. Your right hand lets go of the blanket and reaches out into the freezing night air to rest on his open palm. His skin feels like marble against yours, but his touch is comforting and familiar.

"Wake up, my love." His words echo in your mind as you realize the meaning behind them. Hundreds of previous lives come flooding back to you with a sense of recognition and understanding.

"Nai!" Your eyes open wide as you remember who he truly is, "You found me!" The cycle of reincarnation finally feels familiar once again.

He shifts closer, leaning his cold forehead against yours, your hand pressed against his chest.

"Do you still have it?" he asks softly.

"Of course I do; it's been with me all this time," you reply as you shut your eyes. His cold fingers squeeze yours tighter, and he lifts his forehead, replacing it with his lips. A gentle kiss on your skin as his free hand caresses your cheek. You would be shivering if it weren't for the fire lit up inside you.

"Thank you, sweet Shepherd," he says, placing his cheek against yours as he speaks by your ear. "For keeping it safe all this time."

"It is yours after all," you say, keeping your eyes closed, savoring the moment.

"No, sweetling, it is yours," he replies, his voice warm and comforting. He doesn't quite sound like a god of winter and death, one that brings merciless cold and darkness wherever he goes. Instead, he is the guardian and lover of all your past lives, reaching back to the ancient times before you were cast out from the Higher Plane. He is the one who cradles you in his arms and whispers promises of love eternal. The freezing stares are saved for everyone else but you, for you are his chosen one.

"Why don't you come inside?" You smile as you turn your head slightly towards him, feeling the frigid air of his breath against your ear.

"I doubt I would make it through the door," his silky voice chuckles softly. "I've been searching for so long, I fear I myself have frozen."

You can see his massive, crystalline wings over his shoulder. It has never gone on so long that he himself starts to freeze as well. His body feels more rigid, and the softness of his flesh has turned to ice.

"I can fix that, my love," you say softly, reaching out to touch his frozen skin with warmth in your fingertips. The blanket that you released slides off your shoulders, exposing the goosebumps on your skin. The cold air bites at your uncovered flesh, but you don't mind; you are in love with winter. Your fingers slide along his jaw, turning his face toward you. Your breath escapes you as a white vapor before you close the gap between the two of you, capturing his lips with yours.

The kiss you share is deep, filled with a kind of longing that has been building up for many thousands of years. You feel his body warm up; the coldness of his skin no longer cuts you like knives; and your fingers get to press into the suppleness of his cheek. The quiet air is filled with a sound reminding you of delicate glass breaking. His hand that has been tracing the curve of your neck moves down to rest on the small of your back and pulls you closer, flush against his body. You feel his feathers brush against your skin as he wraps you up in his numerous wings, enveloping you in his embrace, protecting you from the frost he brings to the rest of the world.

You pull back to admire the sight you know you will find—the glowing markings etched into his eyes and skin, the pattern traveling along his body, gracing his face, and decorating his arms with intricate designs that seem to come alive in the dim light of nightfall. He is still pressing your hand against his chest, where you can start to feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that matches the intensity of your own.

The frost in his hair is gone, his skin taking on a tone of warmth, a blush of cold darkening his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The marks still linger on him, pulsing lightly, and you are mesmerized by the blue eyes that no longer remind you of a dangerous beast but of a soul who carries too many burdens.

You lead him into the warmth of your cottage, but with every step he takes, the fire flickers, threatening to die down completely. A kind of darkness and cold emanate from him, yet it doesn't touch you anymore. His hand in yours is warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the atmosphere around him. You refuse to let it bother you as your heart is set ablaze. His hand slides out of yours and he takes a longer step forward to be right beside you. His hand moves onto your back, and with gentle pressure, he guides you to the seat by the window, where the silvery moonlight starts to creep in. With a rustle of feathers, he spreads his wings before sitting down on the soft cushion, pulling you with him. Not once has he averted his eyes, looking at you like you're a treasure of priceless value. The hand not resting on your lower back caresses up your arm, sending shivers through your body. This seems to amuse him as you see the curve of his lips in the dim light. You settle more comfortably into his lap, and his wings fold and reach over to you like a soft blanket.

"Tell me, Shepherd, do you remember it all now?" His knuckles brush gently over your cheek.

"I have lived so many mortal lives that I can hardly keep them all straight, so I'm still piecing it together." You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "But I remember you in all of them, one way or another. Why do you keep calling me Shepherd, love?"

"I don't mean to be impatient with you, but I've been waiting to find you for so very long. I can call you by your new name if you would like me to." His fingers trace along your jaw and lips as he speaks. "But you are the Shepherd. My other half. I may be the god of death, but I need you to guide the souls of the deceased into the afterlife so they can be born again."

"What?" Your eyebrows move closer together in confusion. He takes your hand out of your lap to place kisses on your knuckles.

"I meant to find you sooner, my love. This winter was never meant to last so long. But it is over now. We are reunited. I have made you a lot of work. I am sorry. Some of these souls have been waiting for 50 years to move on. I reaped them from their earthly existence, I brought death, and now they need you so my brother can bring them life once again. To offer them a new beginning in spring so that my sister can fill them up with the joy of summer. Don't you remember?"

His eyes are solemn as they look into yours. Deep regret plagues them—a kind of hurt you don't remember seeing in them before. The pain is clearly etched in every line of his face.

"I will. Just keep holding me, and it will come back; it always has." You squeeze his fingers tightly, and his lips move to your wrist, brushing against your skin.

"You can ask me anything you want, love." His piercing eyes look into yours as he measures your forearm with his kisses. "Perhaps it will help."

"Your brother—he lives on a mountain, right?" You watch him carefully. "Why do you have to roam around and not him?"

"Because people don't pray for winter and only the desperate hope for death," he replies softly. His lips trail to your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes anymore. "But even if I had the power to dictate winter and death from just one little corner of the world, I still need you to put an end to it. I do not wish to turn this world into a wasteland because you still live in it. You alone can rein in the northern winds and calm the raging blizzards, for I only love you. You alone."

You feel his sharp teeth brush against the skin of your neck, and you lean back, letting out a deep sigh as you enjoy his touch. Your hand that's been resting on his chest moves to his head, your fingers lacing into his hair. You close your eyes and savor the moment, knowing that you are completely captivated by him.

"Why must gods be so cruel and jealous? To not only curse us but the whole world with it. All that because you gave your heart to me. How spiteful, they cannot kill me, so they force me into a mortal body to ensure I'm a slave to reincarnation until the end of time." Your quiet voice fills the room as you feel his mouth move to your ear.

"And I would wage another war and fall all over again just to rectify it," he whispers into your ear. "You just say the word, my sweetest love, and I will fight for an eternity, I will lay waste to everything. Until then, I will keep searching for you in each and every one of your lives."

His hand on your back pulls you tighter, and the cocoon of feathers surrounding you rustles softly as his breath gets heavy against your skin. His lips trail along your cheek until they reach yours. He moves softly, capturing your mouth with a gentle kiss that speaks of promises fulfilled and passion unleashed.

"You are so breathtakingly gorgeous," he whispers, his voice filled with love and desire, barely moving away from your lips. "No god of beauty could ever compare to you. To think you are mine... all mine."

You lean into him as his lips meet yours in a passionate kiss, knowing that this love has not dwindled over the passing millennia. Your souls date back to a time before this world was created, in the Higher Plane, among other gods, you had found each other, and now, in this mortal realm, your devotion continues to burn just as brightly. His hands trace along the curves of your body, exploring every dip and valley with a hunger that matches your own. The kisses of the winter god burn on your neck as his face presses into your skin. You lean back as his fingers undo the buttons on your blouse. The fabric falls away, revealing your bare chest as his lips map every inch of it.

"Open your eyes, my darling, look at me." You hear his insistent voice as a gap forms between your bodies, "I have been waiting for too long to see them glimmer in the moonlight, for they hold all that my soul yearns for."

The god of winter and death spends most of the night worshiping your mortal body. He kisses every mark and freckle that adorn your skin like stars. He whispers poems of adoration against the scars time has etched into you. He declares his unyielding love for you in every way two people can. He leaves trails of fire in his wake that burn with his passion. Every inch of your body is a canvas for him to paint upon. His love leaves marks where his teeth have been and where his lips have lingered. His desire leaves bruises on your skin, but you know he takes care not to break your human body.

You lay in his embrace, surrounded by the massive wings that shield you from the cold he brought with him into your home. Your fingers trace patterns into his skin, your body is exhausted, but you know that dawn is creeping ever closer and the time for him to leave is near. Your eyes remain on him as he strokes along your tingling skin. His sharp gaze catches yours.

"You're staring," you say with both amusement and slight awkwardness.

"I can't help it, you're beautiful." His low voice caresses your ears.

"Why must you leave?" The words escape you.

"Because I'm the god of winter and death, my passing alone brings calamity, I cannot linger for long," he says mournfully.

"Then can't I come with you?" You say hopefully, a glimmer appears in your eyes.

"Alas, you are chained to a mortal body, and I reside in the north, far beyond human settlements, where only demons roam the dead forests. Even if my presence alone wouldn't kill you, the merciless nature of my frozen hell would. It's no place for someone as precious as you, my sweetling." You feel a slight chuckle ripple in his body. "Yet every time you wake, you ask me that same question."

"Then when will you return?" Your voice gets quieter as you see the darkness behind your window retreat.

"An army of war gods wouldn't be able to keep us apart. They tried." His voice is soft, and he touches your cheek. "I will come back once it's my turn again, the year will be guided through its seasons, and now I know where to find you. Until my return, guide the ones I have reaped back into the circle of life, sweet Shepherd. Guide them well until we meet again."

"I hope it won't be this long again, for our sake and theirs. I don't want the humans to fear you as much as they do."

"I too wish to be apart from you for as little time as possible, yet I will engulf this world in eternal winter if it means I can return to you." His voice has a sharpness to it, his words are both a promise and a threat. "Their fear means nothing to me compared to your love."

Dawn arrives too soon, the first rays of light brushing the tops of the trees acting as a warning. Your time has run out, and your fated love must bid you farewell. His touch lingers longer, the fingers tracing the outline of your face as if etching it into his memory for eternity. His stern eyes can't hide the tender look of adoration they hold for you. His lips press against yours as the layers of wings peel away from you. Before the coolness of the outside air reaches you again, your love drapes a blanket around you, never breaking away from the kiss.

You want to reach out to him, but his long fingers catch your wrists into his grasp. He holds on tight, gripping your hands with his. He pulls away slightly and places a kiss on your cheek.

"I love you, my darling," his voice whispers in your ear. You feel another firm press of his lips on your forehead. "Keep it safe for me."

"Your heart is always safe with me. I will guard it, and I will warm it when you come again." You smile as you look up into his piercing blue eyes. "I love you in every life I live."

He releases your hands, his fingers lightly brushing your chin, before he turns to leave. He steps away from your door into the snow covered yard. His majestic wings unfurl into the still air, each feather seemingly stretching out.

"Until I see you again, my sweet Shepherd!" He doesn't show you his face, but you hear the warm smile in his voice.

"Until then, darling!"

The god's quiet footsteps lead him towards the forest again. The bare feet don't make a single noise, and the white robe emits only the slightest rustle. He might be leaving, but the world itself seems fundamentally different to you than it did yesterday. Even as he disappeared, leaving snow and ice behind and a coolness in your chambers, the dawn that came brought new colors with it you had never seen before in this lifetime.

This was originally going to be smut, but I got carried away and then it didn't seem right anymore. If my brainrot doesn't pack its bags in the next few days then I might make a part 2 that follows the original plan...

There is now a smutty Part 2.

And even a 3rd installment.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

#trigun #trigun stampede #tristamp #trigun 98 #trigun maximum #millions knives #knives x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #plant boi #writing #knivesxreader

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ohnoitstbskyen · 1 year

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Building a Better Ashe

About a year ago I took a pass at redesigning Ashe the Frost Archer from League of Legends with the help of Ainsworth "Apple_Cork" Lin (https://www.instagram.com/apple_cork/ || https://linktr.ee/apple_cork) who I commissioned for the artwork.

We took Ashe through a number of ideations and various approaches to her character design, which you'll find below the Read More cutoff.

If you want to watch the video version of our design process (it's pretty good!) you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fi5fuv1nLs

Goals:

The goal was to create a version of Ashe that puts less priority of simply making her "appealing" or look pretty, and more on doing storytelling for the kind of role she plays in the story of the Freljord.

Ashe as she exists now is basically a riff on the Drow Ranger from Dota, complete with WarCraft 3 style Hot Elven Ranger getup. She's a queen of the frozen north, but she runs around in a miniskirt, thigh-highs and a paper-thin cloak because

this design was originally put together to be running around sunny Elven forests on Azeroth, and got interpolated through Dota into League of Legends without ever really reconsidering the concept

it was designed for League of Legends at a time when worldbuilding and character storytelling simply were not priorities in their character design - characters were broad recognizable fantasy archetypes being thrown together Smash Bros style for a fighting tournament

Late 2000s high fantasy character design in gaming had a default preference for Sexy Cleavage Babes for female character design that permeated the entire design space, especially at Blizzard, whose influence formed the basis for League of Legends

Over a decade later, Ashe has been fleshed out as much more of a real character, with a place and role in the world and cosmology of the Freljord far beyond her original archetype. Now she is specifically constructed as a counterpart to Lissandra's imperious, manipulative, sovereign mysticism and to Sejuani's martial brutality. The Avarosa are the only faction in the Freljord (and one of the very few in Runeterra) who argue explicitly for a softer life with less violence and struggle as the ideal. Ashe wants to reform and abolish the blood-soaked warrior culture of the Freljord and replace it with communal mutual aid and sharing, with tribes pooling their collective resources rather than relying on constant raiding and warfare. She's also a notable champion of the Hearthbound, the "normal" people of the Freljord who are not blessed with Iceborn blood or noble lineages.

The Avarosa have successfully recruited a huge swath of tribes to their cause, and through collaboration and a focus on agriculture and mutual protection have become the breadbasket of the Freljord, able to extend their political reach simply by offering new tribes access to reliable sources of food.

The power and rhetoric of the Avarosa thus rests on

A rejection of martial warrior culture in favor of a culture of nurturing and mutual care

Embrace of vulnerability and "weakness"

The promise of plenty, of full food stores and protection from failed harvests and the bitter winter cold

So, the design goals are:

Contrast Ashe visually with both Lissandra and especially with Sejuani, who is her most direct opposite.

Tell the story not only of Ashe herself, but of the faction she represents, and represent its values in her design.

Make her unique and recognizable against the lineup of other League of Legends characters in a way that currently she simply isn't.

Early ideation:

Here we start by identifying silhouettes and the basic ideas of costuming that we want to run with. Since League of Legends women also generally have a bad case of Chronic Sameface Syndrome, we also explore a bunch of different face shapes and ideas for distinguishing Ashe physically outside of costuming and body shape.

Refinement:

We pick out a smaller number of variations to play with, and Apple_Cork explores various options for the costuming.

At this point we've settled on two main ideas: a "Warrior" Ashe, who is characterized by the hard life she's had to lead. Her struggles and suffering, especially the loss of her mother and the betrayal of Sejuani, are the emotional impetus that leads to her reaching the ideals of the Avarosans as an antidote to and rebellion against the Freljord's bloody history. We decide to use the A2 and A3 variation as a base for this, with addition of details like scarring and a somewhat bulkier musculature. This runs the risk of making her physically quite similar to Sejuani, which is a trade-off that might be worth it since the two of them are repeatedly positioned as sisters (even if not by blood) in their stories, and are very alike in their experiences and traumas, even if they've reached opposite conclusions from it.

The other idea is "Warmother Ashe." The Freljord is organized around matrilineal tribal leadership, with a significant emphasis on the social role of motherhood, with the leader of the tribe conceptualized as its primary mother figure. Most Warmothers we've known are hard-bitten, violent and domineering matriarchs, emphasizing the war bit of the name, and since Ashe represents a decisive break with that tradition, we want to create a design that puts emphasis on the mother part of the idea.

So an Ashe who is visually soft, associated with typical traits of nurturing motherhood and who visibly rejects struggle, deprivation and violence as part of her identity. The C1 and C2 variations form the basis for this character.

Both designs are intended to provide a strong visual contrast to the stark black-and-blue statuesque angularity of Lissandra, as well as the armored, hard-shelled, segmented look of Sejuani

A note on body politics and character design

It is generally Problematic™ to equate any one body type with any one set of personality traits, whether positively or negatively. A lot of common character design associations and shorthand is based on body stereotypes, and on a systemic scale, they can reinforce existing social bigotries.

The most common example: character design often employ the idea that good people tend to be beautiful and evil people tend to be ugly, and that a person's inner moral character can be read in their physical traits.

This is a trope with an extremely bad history, especially when it intersects with the politics of beauty, with eugenics and with racial caricature. Whiteness and the constructed features of whiteness are often used as the basis of beauty ideals, while traits and features associated with non-whiteness are considered ugly or undesirable, and thus in visual storytelling these traits can become markers of moral degeneracy or evil. Disney villains do this all the time, to various degrees of Problematicness.

I bring this up here because we decided to use a fat body-type on one of our Ashe designs specifically to code the design to be associated with softness, kindness, motherly nurturing and so on. These are positive traits, and it is meant to establish her as a contrast with Sejuani who is hard-edged, muscled and brutal. But also, yeah, fat bodies being associated with those traits is a reductive stereotype, just the same as associating highly trained, skinny and fit bodies with emotional coldness, lack of kindness and violence is reductive.

Character design is a tightrope walk between using available associations and stereotypes to create coding and shorthand so the audience can easily read the design on the one hand, and trying to redefine and re-associate traits in creative ways to create better storytelling on the other hand. League of Legends is a game that relies very, very heavily on existing and known archetypes, and we redesigned Ashe on those terms as well. It is fair to criticize our redesign for those trade-offs, within reason, and within the context of the problems of the design it is intended to improve upon. League of Legends as a franchise is generally unwilling to allow fat bodies to exist in ANY positive context, and especially not in women, whose visual priority 9 times out of 10 is to be conventionally beautiful and skinny above all else.

Final designs:

Warrior Ashe This design hews closer to her original design, employing the skirt, waist-wrap and thigh-high boots, albeit updated to look more appropriate for the fashion culture and environment of the Freljord.

The emphasis here is on Ashe as a war-leader and fighter, and we've added facial scars and her design generally features more hard and sharp lines and metallic accents to give her a more hard-bitten and warlike look. This is an Ashe who has led a heard and difficult life, marked by fighting and struggle.

Warmother Ashe This design pulls away hard from the original design, with only really the hood and cloak and white hair as identifying feature of the old version. She wears a lot of fabrics and furs, and is generally designed around stoutness and visual softness, and does not share the hardness or angular facial features of Warrior Ashe. Her clothes are finely embroidered with her tribe's iconography and she has pendants and trinkets associated with the various tribes that have been integrated into the Avarosa, or perhaps gifted to her by allies or friends.

She still has leather chest armor, albeit covered up by her cloak, and a shoulder pauldron, but it's ringed by fine feathers making it more of a showpiece. Same with the archery bracer, which is ostentatious and the bright brass makes it contrast with the rest of the design, which is meant to give the vibe of "this is a thing she puts on when necessary" but not a natural, integrated part of her fashion. Compare and contrast with the bracers on Warrior Ashe above.

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#tb essay #league of legends #riot games #freljord #ashe league of legends #warmother #sejuani #lissandra #ashe lol #character design #tbskyen

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vienssunshine · 10 months

Text

What do you really want, you psychopath?

pairing: Josh Washington x fem reader nsfw word count: 6.7k content warning: blood, violence, needles, manipulation, non-con elements (nonconsensual filming, deception) author's note: My obsession with Until Dawn returns every summer like clockwork.

You hope he's doing okay.

It's the only thought sticking in your mind as you pace on the cable car platform. After everything last year, after him shutting down, not able to talk to anyone, you hope that now, a year later, things are at least better than they were. He has mentioned a therapist, so it's a little comforting knowing he's getting the professional help he needs.

You lean your hands against the wooden railing and admire the snowy landscape, trying to push Josh out of your mind. Instead, you shift your focus to Sam, because where the hell is she? Sam insisted on you both being the first ones up the mountain, but it's fifteen minutes past the time you agreed to meet and she has yet to arrive.

Your phone buzzes with a message from your friend:

"Hey! So sorry but traffic is terrible and I'm gonna be a bit. I don't want to keep you waiting out in the cold so take the cable car up and I'll see you up there!"

Turning your phone off, you sigh. Things are going to be awkward this year. Walking in with Sam would have eased your nerves about seeing everyone again, but it looks like you aren't being afforded that comfort anymore. Worse comes to worst, you can spend the evening holed up in your guest room with your favorite book.

You step into the cable car and try to ignore how the whole thing creaks and sways with the wind. The Washingtons are rich, so they must have the money to get this thing safety checked. Right?

The music you play in your earbuds somewhat drowns out the loud groans of the car as it travels up the snowy peak. Through the frosty window, you can see what looks like a blizzard rolling in. Good thing you'll be able to hunker down in Josh's cabin.

At the top of the mountain, the doors open and you see him, Josh Washington, standing alone in the snow. After all this time, the sight takes you aback; he seems to be an apparition, not fully there.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he says, hands in the pockets of his winter jacket, "Well, I guess it was the cable car, not a cat." His lazy grin is unshakable as he speaks.

"Hi Josh," you respond, fighting the smile creeping up on your face.

"Here, let me grab that for you," he says, stepping forward and helping you out of the straps of your North Face backpack. He swings it over his shoulder and beckons you up the path.

You thank him, bashful, and follow. The trail is white with snow and dimly lit, a few lanterns hanging from the fences, their wood corroded from the harsh winters before.

"So, is anyone else here yet?" you ask, pulling your gloves on. The wind feels stronger here than it did at the bottom of the mountain, it's icy and cutting into the skin of your fingers.

"Nah, the other party people aren't due for another hour or two." He leans in with an evil grin, "So it'll be just us for a while, scared?"

You giggle, pushing the man away from you, "I don't know if I'll survive all of your ultra-corny jokes, Josh."

"Yeah? Then, any requests for what they should put on your tombstone?" he asks, giving you a lighthearted push back.

"Shut up." You shake your head, smiling, before stealing a glance at your watch: 8:03 p.m. "Actually, I guess I won't have to survive for long since I'm on time. So everyone should be due soon."

"Aww, come on," Josh says, "You know they're all gonna be late."

You punch Josh in the arm and he fakes serious injury, "Don't talk about our friends like that, I trust in their punctuality. Sam, our good, timely friend even took the initiative to get us to come early."

Josh looks around in an exaggerated manner, squinting into the dark forest, "Do you see Sammy here? Or anyone else? 'Cause I don't. Face it, they're all gonna be late. Sam at least had the decency to give me a heads-up about it."

"Yeah, the traffic's terrible apparently."

"Damn, I guess she's gonna be even later then."

You furrow your brow, "What do you mean?"

"Sam told me to expect her around 9. So, if there's traffic, it might not be until like 9:30 or 10. Right?"

"Wait, when did she tell you to expect her at 9?"

"Uh...a few days ago, maybe?" Josh glances at you sideways, "Something up?"

Confused at the discrepancy between Sam and Josh's stories, you wrack your brain. Why did Sam want you to go early with her but tell Josh she was going to show up late?

You clench your fist, Sam wanted you and Josh alone. She's known you've had a crush on him for so long and has been relentless in encouraging you to go for it. This must be her fucked up way of forcing you to.

Josh studies you, still puzzled. Staring ahead, you notice the silhouette of the lodge at the end of the path. You weigh your options: should you be honest about what you think Sam is up to or just let it go?

You elect to give Sam a stern talking-to later, reassuring Josh by saying, "Ah it's nothing." You point to the cabin, "Hey, we're almost there!"

He follows your finger and gazes at the lodge ahead, "You're right, soon we can party all night long," he says with a mischievous smirk.

You lumber up the old stairs and find that the door to the lodge is unable to be opened.

"Ah, shit. The lock's frozen," Josh observes.

"Is there another way we can get in? Or get the door unfrozen? I'm not gonna lie, I am freezing my buns off out here."

Yeah, you'd like to spend more time with Josh, but not in nearly subzero temperatures.

"Now, now, you know Josh wouldn't keep a pretty girl outside freezing her buns off for long. Wait here, I have an idea."

Josh hurries off behind the lodge, leaving you on the porch, arms wrapped around your body in a fruitless attempt to warm yourself. You look around at the dark woods surrounding the cabin. It's a dense forest, filled with gnarly trees that look like they're twisting into one another in a warped dance.

A small trace of movement pulls your attention, something shifting its position in the tree line. Anxiety begins to pour into your stomach and you look around for Josh who is nowhere to be seen. Is something—or someone—out there? You step forward, placing your hands on the railing and leaning over to get a better look when the door behind you flies open.

"Honey, you're home!" Josh cries out.

"Josh!" you respond in a harsh whisper, "Keep it down!"

Josh laughs, placing his hand on the small of your back and guiding you into the house, "For who? No one is out here besides me," he points to himself, "and you," he presses his finger to your chest, right beneath your zipper.

His small touch flusters you, bringing a welcomed warmth to your cheeks. It makes you forget about whatever you saw in the woods. Must have been a bird.

He leads you into the living room and motions with a bow for you to sit on the couch. "Now, if the lovely lady would allow me, I'd adore starting a fire to warm her freezing buns."

Assuming a janky upper-class accent, you respond, "Why, of course, fine gentleman. I suppose that will suffice to toast said freezing buns."

You both laugh, and it makes you forget how cold you are. It's nice to kid around like old times. Like times before Hannah and Beth ran off into the woods and were never seen again. Things were easier then, it was easier to make jokes, easier to laugh.

You sink further into the couch as Josh piles wood into the fireplace.

"Josh?"

"Yeah?" He throws one last log in and pulls out a matchbook from his jeans.

"I'm happy to see you again. It's been a while."

"Too long," he agrees, striking and lighting the match.

You shift in your seat on the couch. "I guess I wanted to ask, are you okay?"

He freezes, and the match dies in his hand.

Shit, you went too far. What were you thinking, asking him how he is doing on the anniversary of the death of his little sisters? You begin to ramble, "Josh, I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that if you don't-"

"It's fine," he interrupts, "I'm fine."

You lean forward on the couch, "It's okay if you're not. Honestly, I wouldn't be."

He strikes the match again and lights the kindling as he talks. "I know that having our friends up here is going to help. It really means a lot to me that everyone is coming back to spend this weekend together."

The flickering flame nestled in the piled-on logs is growing in size, blossoming into a healthy, cozy fire. You can feel its warmth on your cheeks already.

Josh ambles over to the couch, sitting next to you—sitting very closely next to you. You almost scooch away, but decide to stay still.

Josh turns his body towards yours. "It means a lot to me that you came."

It's hard to keep your composure; his words feel too intimate and, god, his arm is resting on the couch behind you, one movement away from wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Thanks, Josh," you force out, looking down at your hands. Your fingers are anxiously knotted together, a clear sign that your body is short-circuiting at his proximity.

He follows your gaze, watching you fidget in your lap. He then moves in, resting a hand on yours to quiet your restless fingers and placing the other beneath your jaw, using his knuckle to gently move your chin up so you face him.

You're freaking out. This is crazy. Why is he touching you like this?

"I-uh...well..." you stammer.

"Do you like me?" he whispers.

You freeze up; what do you even say to that? There's no way you can tell him you've had an embarrassingly unmanageable crush on him since the day you met. It could blow up the entire friendship. But, it's possible that he feels the same way you do, isn't it? His face is mere inches from yours!

Unless he doesn't feel the same way. After countless cruel and mean-spirited pranks, this friend group has sown distrust into every fiber of your body. You want to trust Josh with your true feelings, but can you?

Your mouth gapes, unable to articulate the paralyzing swirl of desire and fear coursing through you.

So you stay silent, and he retreats from your personal space, leaning back against the couch cushion, "Don't worry about answering now, I have a feeling everyone will know each other a lot better after tonight."

Your brow furrows at the crypticness of his statement, but before you can think about it too much, Josh's phone vibrates, and he gives you a knowing smirk, "Speak of the devil."

He gets off the couch and answers the phone while you try to keep your brain from spinning out of control. He was so close to you, which was really scary, but at the same time, it felt really good.

Josh teases the recipient on the other line about Ashley, so you take a guess that he's speaking to Chris.

He ends the phone call and turns to you, "Gotta go pick up the kids at the end of the trail, wanna come with?"

You press your lips together, "Um, I think I'll hang back. Y'know, unpack and stuff."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, grabbing a flashlight and exiting the cabin.

Still in a daze, you head down the dark hallway and find your guest room. You unpack your clothes into the wooden dresser and throw your diary onto the patchwork quilt atop your bed. The bedroom is a familiar space to you, but it doesn't bring the comfort familiarity typically does.

You take some time to journal out your feelings, trying to work out the complex emotions that come with being back at this lodge after last year. Then, you take some time to write about Josh. How he had possibly come on to you tonight. How you wanted it to go further.

Voices begin to fill up the halls, so you leave your bedroom and journal to join everyone out in the living room. The fire is now roaring and Sam has arrived, so you go to greet her.

You expected everyone to be making an effort to get along considering the reason you're all up here, but since Josh has to separate Jess and Emily by sending Jess and Mike to the guest cabin, it's clear that no one is putting in the work.

The rest of the group swiftly and awkwardly disperse, each couple running off to deal with something whether it be finding a lost bag or a Ouija board. Whether they're making excuses so they don't have to stick around, you don't know, but it hurts to realize that your friend group will probably never recover from last year.

For a moment, Josh looks defeated, but he quickly plasters on his usual devil-may-care smirk.

Sam heads upstairs for a bath, but not before you pull her aside and whisper-shout about her audacious set-up. She laughs it off, and you both agree she can make it up to you with a card game in your room after she washes off.

Still feeling weird about Josh and the exchange earlier, you elect to read in your room instead of hanging out with him. Only, when you go back to the guest room to grab your book, you can't find it in your bag. What you don't notice is how your journal has also disappeared from its place on top of your bed.

"Hey, Josh?" You walk back into the living room to see Josh as well as Chris and Ashley sitting in front of a Ouija board, "Oh hi, Chris, Ashley. Have any of you seen my book?"

"There's a bunch of books around here," Chris shares unhelpfully.

Josh turns toward you, "What does it look like?"

You position your hands to give them a visual aid, "About this big? Green? Signed by the author on the inside?"

Your friends stare at you, blank, and you let your hands fall to your sides.

"Are you sure you packed it?" Ashley asks.

"Yes, I'm sure, and it's special so I really need to find it."

"Maybe it fell out when we were walking up?" Josh suggests.

"Ugh. You're probably right. I'm gonna go check," you say, zipping up your coat.

"I'll go with you," Josh offers, about to stand up before you say, "No, it's...it's fine."

"Are you sure you don't want some alone time with Josh?" Chris teases. Ashley laughs a little too hard.

With a grin, Josh adds on, "What if there are some baddies out there?"

You offer a weak smile, "I'll be fine. Like you said, there's no one else up here but us this weekend. Besides, Emily and Matt are down there getting a bag or whatever."

"Okay," Josh says, throwing his hands up in defeat.

You take a flashlight and head down the trail, squinting as the snow comes down heavier and heavier. After following your friends' footsteps all the way down the path, you spot your book on the bank of a narrow creek a little ways off the trail. You're not sure how it got there but are just happy to have it again.

Brushing off the light dusting of snow atop the book's cover, you're pleased to realize that the weather hasn't damaged the book at all. You're less pleased when you hear an arguing couple headed your way. You silently curse; you had hoped to make your journey as short as possible to avoid this dysfunctional pair.

They turn the corner and Matt sees you, calling out your name with a wave. Emily stares ahead with her arms crossed.

"Hey, guys!" you respond.

They walk up to join you, but your presence doesn't make an impact as they continue bickering all the way back up to the lodge. You succeed in tuning them out until Chris and Ashley appear out of the snowfall.

Your mouth falls open as you take the scene in: Ashley is curled into Chris's chest and her clothes are soaked with blood.

You hurry over to them, "Are you guys okay? What happened?"

Emily gasps, "Ashley, whose blood is that?"

Ashley lets out a strangled sob, clinging onto Chris.

"Chris, what happened?" Matt asks.

"J-Josh," Chris chokes out.

You take a step forward, "Josh what, Chris?"

"He's gone. It's all my fault. There's...there's a psycho on the mountain."

His words are like cold hands that squeeze your heart. There's no way.

"What did you say?" Emily cries, "There's like a serial killer up here?"

Ashley begins sobbing uncontrollably, "Yes! There's a killer and he's gonna kill us all if we don't get out of here!"

"It's okay, it's all gonna be okay," Matt says, and he turns to Emily, "We need to get help."

"But Sam," you interrupt, "Sam's still at the lodge!"

"You're right," Chris says, "We need to get everyone back together first."

"But we also need help!" Emily says, "If there's some psycho up here, I'm not just gonna go back and run into his arms!"

"Here," you say, "You and Matt go get help while Chris, Ashley, and I go back to the lodge to get Sam and everyone else."

"Fine!" Emily responds, "But we need to go, now!"

You split off into your separate directions. Ashley and Chris decide to check the upstairs bathroom while you hurry to check the guest rooms.

You fly down the hallway, opening and searching all the rooms lining the corridor. When you get to your room, you close your eyes and crack open the door, praying that when you open your eyes, your friend will be there, cards in hand, ready to play your make-up game.

"Sam?" you cry out. Nothing.

You check the closet and under the bed, thinking she could be hiding but still come up empty.

You're about to turn around to go check the rest of the rooms when a large hand clamps around your mouth, slamming your back into a hard chest so another arm can ambush you, wrapping around your waist and holding you still.

"Looking for your friend?" a distorted voice asks. Your eyes widen. Shit. This must be the psycho Ashley and Chris were talking about.

You begin to thrash against the body behind you, desperate to do anything to avoid whatever fate Josh had suffered. Your fight does nothing but make the arms around you constrict, the strength of the maniac locking you in place, pressed against their body.

"I wouldn't be difficult, if I were you," the voice states, and you're frightened into compliance when the maniac presses a syringe of mystery liquid up to your neck. You whimper against his glove.

"Now, now, there's no need to be scared," he tucks the syringe away and begins stroking your hair, "As long as you behave, you'll be in good hands."

Tears well up in your eyes and you suppress the urge to fight back again.

He seems lost in thought for a moment as he uses his gloved fingers to play with your hair, but shortly regains his focus, "If you promise to keep quiet, I won't have to use that syringe I showed you earlier," he chuckles, the sound metallic with the voice changer, before adding, "Not that anyone would hear you or be able to help."

You gasp, are Chris and Ashley okay? Is Sam?

He looks down at you, and you can see a part of the mask he's wearing in your peripheral vision. "Can you do that for me? Be nice and quiet like a good little kitten?" As he speaks, he slowly pulls down the zipper of your coat, exposing your tight v-neck shirt.

You press your eyes shut and give a curt nod. It's best to just go along with what he says, you want to try to make it out of this alive.

The man releases the hand over your mouth, and you make an effort to keep from breaking down in tears. The psycho takes a step back and away as you manually even your breathing.

"Sit on the bed and face me," he says.

You take a few uncertain steps forward, as though you were walking on a lurching boat, and sit on the patchwork quilt, cramming yourself close to the wall behind you and pulling your knees up to your chest. You raise your chin to face your attacker and cold fear washes over you.

He's tall, built, and looks like something right out of a slasher film. He's wearing oversized overalls dirtied with dried mud and a creepy skull-like mask that covers his entire head and neck. The syringe he threatened you with pokes out of his pocket, a reminder of the consequences if you don't comply. Down by his side, his gloved hand grips a journal—your journal.

He opens your diary and begins to carelessly flip through it, "Hmmm...maybe I should tell you a bedtime story to calm you down. There's a lot of great material in here."

Your fists ball up, scrunching the fabric of the quilt beneath them. "What do you want?" you grit out. Those entries are personal, and you'd have no idea why this intruder would be interested in reading them.

Ignoring you, the psycho flips to the page you had left your bookmark in. "Look at that, a recent entry," he darkly chuckles at his discovery, "I wonder what it says."

Your lips tighten, of all entries, why did it have to be that one?

"It's nothing, just random fucking friend group shit," you say.

The psycho looks up, gazing at you for once instead of the pages in his hands. "Then you wouldn't mind me reading it, would you?"

You open your mouth, helpless, "Um, no...you don't need to-"

The maniac lumbers towards you, just a few steps away, before he begins to recite your words.

"Fuck, Josh is so hot. It's literally torture. I want to take him into one of these guest rooms and just have my way with him. I'd let him do anything he wanted too, like let him just use my body for his pleasure. Ugh, I'm getting all hot just thinking about it. It's killing me that we were literally alone, and I think he was making a move on me, but I just didn't do anything about it. But I don't know, I don't want to push it after his sisters..." the psycho trails off.

Your face burns, feeling more embarrassed than scared now, even with a potential murderer standing before you. Your words sound so much more extreme and mortifying after being read aloud. Is that what he's trying to do, humiliate you?

The psycho closes the journal, steps forward, and tosses it onto the dresser. He's close now, boots planted on the red carpet in front of the bed, just a few paces away. He's watching you, his gaze suffocating, so you avert your own, instead focusing on the area above his left shoulder.

A glint in the corner of the room, right where the ceiling meets the two adjacent walls, catches your eye.

"Nothing to say about that entry, sweetheart?" the psycho asks, standing there with his gloved hands by his side as if he has all the time in the world.

This is getting suspicious; why is he asking you about your crush instead of, I don't know, killing you? It seems like such a trivial topic for a killer to be focused on...if he actually is one. Were Chris and Ashley wrong?

You peer at the shady corner of the room and are able to make out a circular object: a black and shiny lens. Above it is a dim but steadily blinking red light. You're being filmed. With that realization, you put it together.

They're pranking you.

It started with Sam tricking you into being alone with Josh, and then Chris teasing you about him, and then Ashley and Chris putting on a hell of a show trying to convince you some psycho is running around. Now, they're trying to terrify you into confessing your feelings. It's all some stupid, immature prank where you are the butt of the joke.

A deep frown forms on your face and you unfurl your body from its curled up position on the bed. Fury begins to pulse through your body.

"Now that I think about it, I actually have plenty to say about that entry." You stand up, taking a bold stride toward the "psycho". His hand raises to the pocket the syringe sticks out of, but you continue unfazed.

"First, let me start off with the fact that I will not let you guys scare and embarrass me for your own entertainment, alright?" You're almost yelling now, and the man watches as you continue your tirade.

You stare down the camera, gesticulating wildly, "I have feelings for Josh, okay? I want to fuck Josh. Hard." You throw your hands in the air, "And you can play all these stupid little tricks you want on me but I'm not going to let you guys make me feel bad about it. I don't give a fuck about what any of you think of me."

You sigh, exasperated, and face the speechless man standing in front of you. "There you go, hope you guys got the laugh you wanted."

He observes you as you shift your weight, the creepy eyes of the mask staring uncomfortably deep into you. You fold your arms, "So you can take the mask off now, okay? The prank's over, Chris."

"It's not Chris."

You press your lips together, "Okay, then who is it, Mike?"

The psycho speaks again, but this time, the voice-changer has been turned off.

"I think you know who it is."

Your eyes widen. There's no way you just confessed to-

The psycho's gloved hands rise to his head, and his fingers hook behind his mask and bring it down, revealing Josh's smirking face.

You take a wobbly step back, your anger disintegrating and leaving you without the confidence to speak as casually as you just were.

He chuckles, amused by your surprise and confusion. "This isn't how I imagined this going, but I'm not complaining about it." He places his mask next to your journal that's on top of the dresser.

A million thoughts and feelings begin swirling around your head and body at a vertigo-inducing pace, but they are all quieted when Josh steps forward and takes your hands in his gloves.

"Josh, what...what's going on?" you ask meekly, "Where is everyone?" It feels so contradictory, but knowing it's him near you, with his hands in yours, makes you feel so safe.

"I set up a few games for them," Josh says, "They should be entertained for a bit. But yeah, it's all one big prank. Gotcha!"

It feels like he's holding back a full reply. You look up at him, searching his green eyes for a complete answer, only to be met with a warm rush to your stomach at the fact that his gaze is soft, loving, and entirely focused on you. It's easier to fall into his warm embrace than insist on knowing more about the stupid prank, so you choose to just let it go.

Josh looks down and away, “Y’know, I’ve always been into you. I’m not good with this kind of thing but…I’ve always wanted to ask you out. I never got the courage to tell you that until now.”

Your heart flutters. “I was scared to tell you too, I just didn’t know how you’d react given…everything.”

He nods, “It feels like sometimes it takes a life-or-death situation to get people to confess their true feelings. Like Chris and Ashley, it’d take a gun to their head to get either of them to spill their guts.”

“You’re probably right,” you giggle.

Josh leans closer to you, hands moving from yours so they can rest on the curve of your waist. His thumbs slowly stroke your sides, provoking the urge to move his hands underneath your shirt to feel the sensation unobstructed.

“So,” he starts, his voice quieter, dripping with something darker, “Was everything you wrote in your diary true?”

You bring your arms up so they’re around his neck, pressing your body into his. Your soft chest melds into his hard sternum and heat radiates through his overalls to warm your skin.

You tilt your head so your lips are centimeters from his, “You mean how I wrote pages upon pages of how bad I wanted to fuck you?”

His hands tighten, squeezing your waist, and with his chest so close to yours, you can feel his heartbeat speed up at your words.

“Fuck,” he says, “I guess I didn’t know you wanted it as much as I have.”

You lean forward, closing the gap between your lips and kiss him, hard. You melt into each other, bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, devoid of any negative space. One of his hands comes up to your jaw and the other travels to the small of your back, pushing you further into him.

Threading your fingers into his hair, you deepen the kiss, parting your lips and allowing your tongues to push into each other's mouths. He’s a little hesitant at first, but any self-consciousness vanishes when you begin to moan breathily into your open-mouthed kisses. Thoroughly encouraged by your noises of delight, he indulges in his desire, indulges in you.

His kisses are becoming messy and desperate as he works to keep receiving your pretty little noises. He runs his hands all over your body, feeling every dip and curve, wanting to touch all of you at the same time. Each brush of his hands sends tingles up your spine and you move with him, desiring nothing more but to keep your body underneath the palms of his hands.

You allow your hands to explore too, taking them downward, past the buttons of his shirt, the large pocket of his overalls, and his belt until they reach the hardness in his pants. You rest delicate fingers on it, tracing the outline and Josh breaks from your kiss to groan.

You let out a shaky breath, “Shit, Josh. I want this. I want you.”

He leans down and grabs the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up and against him. Now suspended, you tighten your arms around his neck, holding onto him. Josh lays you down on the quilt and you spread your body out, relaxing into the soft fabric and the euphoric buzz your body swims in. He crawls on top of you, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your neck, and finally, to your collarbone all while you giggle and pull him close.

He hovers over you, “You know where I want to take you right?”

You laugh and point your finger into his chest, “Don’t you dare say that perverted phrase.”

He smiles, bringing his hand up to his mouth to lock his lips and throw away the key.

He begins to kiss your neck once more, and you squirm underneath him, overwhelmed by the sensation his warm and wet lips shock through your body. His shirt’s sleeves are rolled up, so you wrap your hands around his thick forearms to stabilize yourself.

Josh moves the neckline of your t-shirt, kissing further down on the increasingly exposed skin. Each kiss sends heat blooming deep in your stomach, making it even harder to keep still with the waves of pleasure overtaking you. His fingers tug on the hem of your t-shirt, a silent ask for removal. You’re about to comply when the shine of the camera in the corner catches your eye once more, the lens trained directly on the bed.

“Josh, the camera?” you ask.

“Not on,” he mumbles, entranced by the sight and feeling of your chest.

It’s enough reassurance for you to pull your coat and shirt off, uncovering your bra and torso. Your exposure gives you a sudden wave of self-doubt about the prank pulled on you and everyone's role in it. You still have questions since some things aren’t fitting together, but, shamefully, it’s hard to think critically when Josh’s lips feel so good against you.

“Fuck, y’know you’re so pretty?” Josh whispers into your torso, lavishing your chest with kisses and licks as he worships your body, “All of our winter trips…s’been so hard to focus with you here. Just wanted to touch you.”

Your fingernails begin to dig into his forearms. “It was so hard for me too, Josh, I’ve had a crush on you for like ever.” He kisses just above your jeans and you let out a gasp. Your hand comes up to your mouth in an attempt to muffle your noises, but Josh pins your wrist to the bedspread.

“Please,” he says, “I want…to hear you,” he presses another kiss to your pelvis, “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

“Okay,” you answer, breath hitching as he unbuttons your pants. He pulls your jeans off and throws them onto the rug. “Mmm, no fair,” you whine, using your free hand to knock one of his overall straps off his shoulder. He smiles, complying with your wishes by taking his overalls off, leaving him in his button-up and dark jeans.

“Is this satisfactory for the princess?” he asks, waiting for you to evaluate his outfit.

You tilt your head and grin, “Hmmm…satisfactory for now.”

“Then, may I continue pleasuring my fair maiden?”

“You may,” you giggle.

He kneels between your thighs and strokes his fingers along the curves of your legs, marveling at your beauty.

“You have such a tight bod,” he says, breathless. He places a big hand on your lower stomach, “And so soft, too.”

A shy smile spreads across your face; the words from your crush make you feel tingly and giddy. “It makes me happy that you like my body,” you respond.

“I love it,” he says, bending your knees and pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, amused by how you instinctively jerk at the sensation. “You like when I kiss you there?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Your breathing becomes uneven as he kisses further down your inner thigh, closing in on your underwear and the darkened patch where your wetness has soaked through the fabric. Josh’s rough hands slip down your thighs, holding them open and still despite the way you squirm when his lips feel a little too good.

He pauses for a quick moment to pull off his shirt, leaving him in his dark henley top that hugs his lean build perfectly.

“I want more off of you,” you demand, and Josh grins, stating that “Somebody’s eager.”

His henley top comes off and shirtless Josh is between your legs once more, kissing just a few inches shy of your underwear. His hands roam as he does, gratefully squeezing the flesh of your thighs.

He moans your name as he licks a stripe across the inside of your leg, sending the thoughts straight out of your brain. All you know is that he sounds so fucking hot when he moans your name.

“C-can I take these off now?” he asks, placing a hand on your underwear, a twinge of desperation underlying his voice.

“Yes, please, Josh,” you gasp, thumbs already tucking into your waistband to get the burdensome fabric off as quickly as possible.

He groans as your glistening folds are exposed, looking like he’s about to come just from the sight of you. Within seconds he’s nestled between your legs again, kissing your thighs until he gets to your soaked entrance. His hot breath fans against you, sending butterflies of anticipation up your sides.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for so long,” he admits before licking up your cunt with a flattened tongue, sending one of your hands down to get knotted into his hair and the other gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life.

He continues to lick his tongue through your folds, and you begin to writhe underneath his touch, “Fuck, Josh, it…it feels really good.”

He groans against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your body. Your hips kick up against your will, but Josh pushes your pelvis back down into the mattress, palm firmly placed on your lower stomach, fingers spread.

“Can’t have you wiggling around, now can we?” he says before diving into your pussy one more. He bathes your clit with attention, holding your hips down and keeping you still every time a flick of his tongue is too powerful for you to handle.

Your fingers dig deep into Josh’s hair, pulling it gently, which he seems to enjoy with the way he groans into you. His hips buck a little into the mattress whenever you pull tighter, so desperate to get off to you.

He watches you as he pleasures you, devouring every little reaction with his dark and hungry green eyes. When you look down, you can see that one of his hands has slipped underneath his jeans, allowing him to palm himself to your delightful reactions.

He begins to suck on your clit, kissing and taking it into his mouth rhythmically in a way that might just drive you out of your right mind. His mouth is warm and wet against you and each shockwave of pleasure it gifts breaks you down into smaller and smaller pieces.

Honestly, it’s frightening how the bliss consumes you in totality: thoughts, body, everything. It’s better than any smutty fantasy you scribbled down in your journal. Your imagination could have never conjured up what it feels like to have Josh go down on you.

“You’re s’hot,” he says in between licks, “And taste so good, fuck.”

You moan, and he becomes sloppier with his movements, too overcome by desire to think straight. You buck your hips against him and he lets you, allowing his hand to just sit on your pelvis instead of push it down.

Tingles of electricity shoot up your sides as you ride Josh’s tongue. He accommodates his mouth to every jerky thrust of your hips, fully giving in to your carnal pleasure. He watches you, eyes half-lidded, touching himself, and completely under the spell of your gyrating body.

“Ah—fuck, Josh I’m so close.”

“Please,” he mumbles, his tongue and mouth inseparable from your wet cunt, “I want you to, I want you to come so bad.”

A strangled moan rips through your throat as an orgasm comes crashing down on you. You throw your head back against the quilt, eyes crinkled shut and mouth agape. The pleasure hits you in unforgiving waves, slamming into your poor body until it's through with you.

Josh strokes your quaking thighs, soothing the intensity of your climax and helping you through it.

“Fuck—that’s it, there you go” Josh coos.

Your whole body falls limp, and you lie supine on the bed, the aftershocks of your orgasm still buzzing through you. Your canal throbs, squeezing around but the copious amount of slick dripping out of your pussy.

Josh clambers up to your face, kissing your cheek and forehead as you try to slow your panting.

“Josh,” you slur, still trying to return to Earth.

“Mmm?” he answers, placing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“That was really good,” you manage to express.

He smiles against your skin, lies down next to you, and wraps his arms around your body, holding you to him with a comforting firmness. Your hands rest on the bicep settled over your chest, and you snuggle into Josh’s embrace. He’s so warm, and smells so good. He’s exactly what you need after such a violent orgasm.

Your energy depleted, you slip off, so comfortable and safe in Josh’s arms.

Josh waits until you're fully asleep before checking his watch. Based on the time, Ashley and Chris should be waking up soon from the sleeping gas he had poisoned them with.

Careful not to wake you, Josh slips out of the bed, dresses himself, and picks up the mask on the dresser.

"Sleep well, honey," he says with a smile before shutting the door behind him.

#josh washington x reader #until dawn smut #until dawn josh #josh washington #josh washington x you #sam giddings #ashley brown #chris hartley #josh until dawn #josh until dawn smut #josh washington smut #until dawn

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theconstitutionisgayculture · 4 months

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Why should I strive to accurately reflect your argument when you've refused to do the same with climate change? Ignoring all evidence of humans being capable of affecting their environment and dismissively referring to it as "controlling the weather" which is not close to anyone's argument. The problem isn't me not repeating your argument the problem is you don't like people treating you the same way as you treat others.

Except you guys think that you can literally control the weather if we just tax enough billionaires, regulate enough energy industries, and give up enough freedoms. If the goal is to reduce global carbon emissions, not a single proposed plan to "fight climate change" would do that because they all ignore China and India, which are by far the largest producers of artificial carbon in the world. Even if the west turned off every coal plant and banned carbon production tomorrow, China and India would still be putting out way more carbon than we reduced, to the point where reducing our "carbon footprint" is meaningless. What these plans do accomplish, though, is restricting our freedoms and granting government greater control over the lives of individuals and what's left of the free market. None of the people pushing this climate narrative seem very interested in actually fighting the supposed source of "climate change", so why should I take them seriously?

Humans do affect the environment. I never said otherwise. That's your strawman. My argument is that, if the climate is changing, then human activity is not the main cause. And that's a pretty big if, since your side loves to claim that any weather is evidence of "climate change". One hurricane goes farther north than most hurricanes do? Climate change! Normal amount of hurricanes during hurricane season? Climate change! Indian summer? Climate change! Blizzard in winter? Climate change! Forest fires in a dry, brush covered forest that was started by a human? Climate change! Christ, you people even blame civil wars and riots on climate change. Combine all that with the fact that literally every single climate apocalypse that has ever been predicted, many using the same climate models "scientists" rely on today for their predictions, has never come true, and yeah, I don't believe "the experts" or their manipulated data when they say "No, this time we're totally right you guys. Climate apocalypse is right around the corner!" Climate cultists, because you people do act like a cult, are doing their own supposed cause no favors by acting like hysterical children who keep saying the sky is gonna fall any day now.

I'll make the same deal with you that I've made with other climate weirdos. You live your life like the world is going to end any year now, and I'll live my life like it's not. In 50 years, we can meet up and see which one of us was right and which one of us enjoyed their life more. Maybe on one of the coasts that won't be even remotely close to being underwater.

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txttletale · 7 months

Text

i'll actually in a limited capacity defend the overwatch league's regional teams gimmick but the execution was bad. having regional teams could have been hype. like--during astralis' 2018-2019 csgo run, danish esports fans went fucking insane for them. and like of course they did. there's inherently something exciting about having a team you can in some way 'identify' with. and geography does create natural sports rivalries and pre-writes your stories.

there were two glaring bad problems in the dumb way blizzard did this though. one is forcing teams to come up with brand new branding. this was a horrible idea. it forced well-established esports organizations with strong fanbases across different games like cloud9 and optic to try and build new brands up from scratch. they realized this with their call of duty leage where they let teams play as 'atlanta faze' and 'optic texas' but yknow. kind of too little too late

the other one (and this is also the glaring fatal flaw in the overwatch league's entire silly, silly business plan) is the idea of a global league. now if you don't know much about esports you might think 'wait whats wrong with that. its gaming you can do it online players can be anywhere'. however that's not true! first of all, esports--well esports doesn't make money, esports when managed correctly is essentially a loss leader for the game it's an esport for--but esports makes a lot of its money on live events. yeah, people go to see esports games:

much more importantly, ping is a huge factor in esports. the higher the level you're playing at, especially in a game like overwatch that's full of twitchy hitscan aiming, the more a 10ms latency difference can make or break a game. you need to be running in-person events in order to have a competitive esports league and to make a good chunk of your revenue.

and that means that a global esports league runs into the exact same problem a global normal sports league would run into and the reason why that doesn't exist, which is travel logistics. the overwatch league has a london team, a san francisco team, and a chengdu team. these cities are very far away from each other [citation needed] and although overwatch league people will often blame covid for ruining their plans, i honestly think it actually saved them by preventing the horrible idea they had for how the league would work from actually happening. imagine all the problems that travel causes in a league like the NBA--jet lag, exhaustion, the obvious budgetary expenditure. now imagine that the travel itinerary also includes flights across the atlantic and/or pacific.

that's not even all! the thing about esports is that, because practicing for ten hours a day doesn't physically destroy your body like it would for regular sports, esports players and teams... do that. if you spend seventeen hours on a plane from paris to hangzhou for a match that's seventeen hours where you're not practicing. when you arrive, you can't just stay at a hotel--you need to be able to practice in the days leading up to the match too, especially because it's esports, which means the game can change. if you miss some practice as a sports team, you're gonna be rusty--if you miss some practice as an esports team, the rules of the game might have literally changed since your last practice session.

the result of this, by the way, is that the london and paris teams have never been actually based in europe--and that right now the dallas team is based in korea. it is very silly. every other multinational esport ever invented has created regional leagues--league of legends has a league for korea, china, europe, north america, pacific, vietnam, brazil, japan, and latin america. but blizzard entertainment are god's special little gamers and they weren't going to let something like 'the ocean' get in the way of their global league dream.

and ultimately this means that the entire local team concept was pointless. most of the teams aren't locally based. and even if they were -- the madcap way they play against each other mean that those city affiliations don't matter. when manchester united play liverpool f.c., even if you are not a big football fan, if you're from manchester you presumably have an opinion of liverpool and liverpudlians, and vice versa. there is an emotional hook to latch on to. if manchester united were to play khon khaen united, you would probably say 'where the fuck is khon khaen'. for the localisation to work, the overwatch league's london team needed a manchester or glasgow or dublin or amsterdam or brussels team (etc.) to play against. if you're invested in the esport itself and the players, you can get invested in a philadelphia-london or chengdu-houston rivalry--but the localisation aspect of it isn't doing the work it should there.

tldr: the overwatch league was a bad idea ever since the moment it was announced. people are too harsh on the team localization idea but the way it was executed was hot garbage and it's no wonder this entire venture failed badly

#tattletxt

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

North To The Future [Chapter 1: Building A Mystery]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life...but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

A/N: This is a work of au fiction utilizing characters from HBO’s House Of The Dragon series. It will have humor, drama, angst, danger, bears, bars, boats, boy bands, blizzards, dogs, 90s nostalgia, and lots more!

Chapter warnings: Language, lowkey sexual tension, alcoholism (obvi), poor life choices, minor injury to an animal but he’s totally fine.

Word count: 3.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

*** I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 ***

@aemcndtargaryen @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-and-curiouser-fics @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“He’s going to hit the mailbox,” Jennifer says. She’s peering out of the window with her hands cupped around her eyes like goggles. “He’s going to hit it…he’s going to hit it…” There is a snapping sound, a crunch, squealing brakes. “Mailbox down.”

It’s mid-November and nearly 4:00 p.m., so it’s pitch black outside except for the dim, sepia luminescence of streetlights. Blazing high-beams skate across the window. Jen steps back, blinking.

“Who is it?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Some guy in a green Nova.”

A Chevy Nova? Front-wheel drive? Not advisable. Almost everyone here has an SUV…or, better yet, a pickup truck. Outside, the high-beams die and a car door slams. Five seconds later, he bursts into the lobby carrying a massive golden retriever. There’s blood all over the dog’s head and chest, drying clumps snared in his fur; still, his tail is wagging. It starts wagging harder when he sees you.

“You’re a vet, right?” Nova guy asks frantically. He’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater, a red flannel shirt, light-wash Levi’s, and black Converses. Another bad choice; he should have boots. “I saw the sign outside.”

“I sure am.” You point him to the exam room. “Right this way.”

Nova guy staggers through the doorway and heaves the golden retriever up onto the high metal table. Jen follows you both into the exam room with a clipboard to record her notes. She is the all-purpose assistant and your sole employee. The veterinary clinic is otherwise empty; your last appointment—a routine and uneventful checkup of Mr. Sullivan’s cantankerous tomcat Biggie Smalls—ended twenty minutes ago. You begin to evaluate the golden retriever. He has a laceration on his muzzle, but seems otherwise unharmed. His tail is still wagging. Head wounds bleed a lot and can thus incite disproportionate panic. Oftentimes, they aren’t half as bad as they look.

“You can fix him, right?” Nova guy pleads. There’s a streak of tacky crimson blood on his cheek, you notice now. “A bear got him. Clawed him, I think. I let him outside when I got off work, and next thing I knew I turned around and he was chasing off a bear. A goddamn bear. Like a huge bear. A Smokey Bear bear.”

“Yes,” you say, amused. “We have bears here.” Then you add: “Your dog is going to be just fine.”

“Oh, thank God,” Nova guy exhales, clutching his chest. You numb the golden retriever’s muzzle with lidocaine and begin disinfecting the wound with povidone-iodine solution.

“What’s his name?” Jen asks. She is busily jotting down notes.

“Sunfyre.”

Jen pauses, pen hovering in mid-air. “Sun…fire…?”

“Sunfyre,” Nova guy repeats irritably. “One word. With a Y.”

“…Where is the Y…?”

“In fire.”

Jen frowns down at her form as she fills in the letters. “Why would you spell fire with a Y?”

“To make him more awesome, obviously,” Nova guy murmurs. He leans down to rub the golden retriever’s shaggy ears and wobbles as he does. Sunfyre’s tail thumps on the exam table. “You’re gonna be okay, buddy. Yes you are. You’re gonna be just fine, the nice vet lady says so.”

You catch a whiff of him, dark bitterness and sweetness and spice: rum, a lot of rum. “Did you drive here drunk?”

He narrows his eyes at you. They’re bleary and royal blue. “Maybe.”

“It’s like 4 p.m. on a Monday, why are you drunk right now?”

“I’m sorry, are you a people doctor? Because I thought I came here so you could fix my fucking dog.”

“He’s getting fixed,” you assure the man calmly. You’re accustomed to dealing with rather unhinged pet owners. To some people, animals are like children; and you wouldn’t expect someone to act rational if their kid was lying here bloodied from a bear attack, would you?

“How old is he?” Jen asks.

“I don’t know, like, young?”

“About five,” you say, checking Sunfyre’s teeth. Then you begin suturing. Nova guy moves to pet the dog’s side to give you more room to work; Sunfyre is so relaxed he’s nearly dozing. “Has he had his rabies shots?”

“Yeah, he’s had them, he…” The man pats his jeans pockets. “Oh shit, I mean I don’t have the paperwork with me or anything, but I know he’s good because he got vaccinations in San Francisco and that’s the last place we were. Less than a year ago. Like eight months tops.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because this is important.”

“Look lady, I don’t even know if I’m up to date on my shots, but I know for a fact he is.”

“Okay,” you concede.

“What’s your name, sir?” Jen asks Nova guy, relieved in anticipation of a nice simple human answer: Jason, Michael, Daniel, Brian, Steven.

“Aegon,” he says.

“…Aegon?!”

He glares at Jen with a dreadful sort of resignation, as if he’s repeated this moment a thousand times in a thousand different universes. “It’s Greek.”

“You don’t look Greek.”

“You don’t look like a genealogist.”

Jen recoils and continues her notes. She has a point: Nova guy—Aegon, you mentally amend—has pale sunless skin, dark semi-circles under his eyes, hair so light a blond it’s nearly pure white. Jen begins her next question tentatively, like she’s afraid to ask. “Last name?”

“Targaryen.” And then he adds: “Also Greek.”

She stares at him. “Tar…?”

He sighs. “T-A-R-G…”

As they go back and forth—again, Jen is baffled by the placement of a Y—you instinctively glance up at the flier on the wall. The police have plastered them across every business in town: Report suspicious activity immediately! Beware of strangers! Help keep Juneau safe! The words are bright red beneath the sketch of a menacing, scarlet-eyed specter in a trench coat. The first body was found almost exactly a month ago. The second was found two weeks after that. You and Aegon catch each other looking at the flier and then pretend you didn’t.

You finish stitching and give the golden retriever an encouraging pat on the head. His tail thuds rhythmically against the table. “Alright, Sunfyre is good to go. I’d like him to stay one night so I can put him on an IV just in case. And he’ll have to wear a cone until his stitches come out. Your total is $300.”

“$300?!” Aegon exclaims. “What are you gonna put in the IV, cocaine?!”

“Antibiotics,” you say. “And they had to be shipped in from Seattle.”

“Jesus Christ. Okay, Pablo Escobar, hold on, hold on…” He pulls crumpled dollar bills out of his tattered leather wallet. “I’ve got…fifteen…uh…sixteen…” He starts counting quarters.

“Jen can write you up a bill,” you offer.

“Oh, yeah. Great.” He replaces his cash with palpable relief. “I can pick him up tomorrow?”

“Anytime after noon.”

“Cool.” He plants a loud smacking kiss on the crown of Sunfyre’s head. “I’ll see you soon, buddy.” Then he lurches out into the lobby. You tell Jen to put Sunfyre in one of the kennels and bolt after him.

“You can’t drive home like this,” you tell Aegon, horrified.

He whirls. “…Why?”

“Uh, because you’re drunk?!”

He drums his palms against the front door and groans dramatically. “I’m not gonna hit anybody. There are like six people in this whole town, I live ten minutes away, what’s gonna happen?”

“You can’t drive home,” you insist.

“I’ll go super slowly.”

“Don’t make me take your keys. I’ll do it.”

He throws up his hands, exasperated. “Fine. I’ll walk.

“It’s dark, it’s 30 degrees outside, you’re not even wearing a coat. You could get lost and freeze to death. Or eaten by a bear.” Or murdered by the Ice Fisher.

“Lady, what do you want from me?!”

You grab your parka off the coatrack. “I’ll drive you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Jen can watch Sunfyre and I’ll start his IV when I get back.”

Aegon considers this, considers you. He’s not suspicious; he’s more…how can you describe it? Caught off-guard. Out of practice. “Okay,” he says finally. “Oh. Also.” He scratches his chin, avoiding your eyes. “I think I ran over your mailbox.”

“That’s fine. My dad will fix it.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah, he lives next door. He’s recently retired and always looking for new projects. You might have done him a favor, actually. Saved him from a night of Dateline and Buffy The Vampire Slayer.”

Slowly, cautiously, Aegon smiles. “Happy to help, I guess.”

Your Jeep Cherokee is brand new. It has grey upholstered seats, cupholders, a Starfleet Academy bumper sticker, and automatic windows. The license plate is blue and embossed with Alaska’s state motto: North To The Future. There’s a Sarah McLachlan tape in the cassette player. Heat blasts through the vents; Building A Mystery tumbles out of the speakers. Aegon tells you that he’s renting a place downtown near the harbor and gives you vague, generally unhelpful directions. You listen as he speaks, of course, but you study him too, as much as you dare to without being too obvious, stealing rapid-fire glimpses. He talks with his hands a lot: clasps them together, touches his face, gestures lethargically, runs his fingers through his hair. There’s a lock that keeps escaping from behind his ear to rest on his right cheek, the one with the bloodstain. You have this strange compulsion to tuck it back into place.

“Cupholders,” Aegon remarks as you pull out of the small gravel parking lot, banging his fist on them. He has a British accent, but it’s diluted somewhat, understated. “Nice.”

“Yeah. I hate to tell you this, but the Nova was a really bad idea. You’re going to be snowed in half the winter.”

“Fantastic,” he quips. “I just bought the cheapest thing I could find when I got here.”

You peek over at him. Streetlights illuminate the bruise-like shadows under his eyes, the height of his cheekbones. “Your people don’t usually stick around this late in the year. Tourist season is over.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Aegon replies with a crooked grin, and does not elaborate. And then, when your Jeep rolls to a stop outside his apartment building: “Look, I know this is super random and all, but…like…” He stalls. “Can I get you some hot chocolate or something? I happen to be an aficionado of truly exceptional hot chocolate.”

“Oh, really? Homemade?”

“Swiss Miss,” he says. “But I have a secret ingredient.”

“I’m really not interested in getting roofied this evening.”

He laughs. “The secret ingredient is not roofies. It’s French vanilla coffee creamer.”

You hesitate. The words from the flier blare in your skull like a neon sign: Beware of strangers! Help keep Juneau safe! “I really shouldn’t.”

“I’m not gonna murder you,” Aegon says with probably too much bluntness. He starts turning out all his pockets. “You can search me, I got nothing on me except my wallet and keys. I just…well…” He smirks guiltily. He is sobering up. “I feel like I made a really bad first impression.”

“You definitely did.”

“And I want to make up for that because you helped my dog and everything. And now you’re helping me. And I just don’t want you to think I’m a horrible person.”

“Are you?”

“What, a horrible person?”

“Yeah.” You’re only half-joking.

Aegon doesn’t appear to be joking at all. “I think I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.”

You should go back to work. You should definitely go back to work. You should definitely not follow this weird drunk man up to his apartment. “Okay, but I can’t stay long. And I’ll ask you to remember that Jen has your full and highly unusual name and is more than capable of telling the cops that you’re the last person I was seen alive with. So it is in your best interests not to murder me.”

“Deal,” he says, and scrambles clumsily out of the Jeep.

Aegon’s apartment isn’t even a one-bedroom; it’s a studio with a couch and tv at one end, a bed at the other end by the windows, and a practically microscopic kitchen. As he bangs around in the cabinets locating a pot and two mugs, you admire his collection of refrigerator magnets. They represent a kaleidoscope of American cities: a dolphin from San Diego, the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, a blue crab from Baltimore, a boiled lobster from Portland, a gold nugget from Denver, a cowboy on horseback from Dallas, the Sears Tower from Chicago, a cactus from Phoenix, a pair of dice suspended in glittery pink liquid from Las Vegas, many more.

“You’ve been to all these places?” you ask, awed in spite of your explicit intention not to be.

“Yeah. I found Sunfyre in Phoenix. That was three cities ago.”

“Found him?”

“Wandering emaciated and terrified on the side of a highway.” He’s stirring the pot over a red-hot electric burner. On the counter wait two mismatched mugs: the blue one is bigger, but the green one is more opulent, gilded with tiny gold stars. “You ever been outside of Alaska?”

“I got as far as Colorado for vet school.” Not far enough, you almost add. “How long have you been here?”

“Seven weeks. No. Eight.”

“So you’re the Ice Fisher.”

He tosses back his head and cackles wildly. “You are not the first person to think it, but you are the first to ask.” His smile dies and he looks at you directly, deadly serious. “No. I’m not the Ice Fisher.”

For some reason, you believe him. “Why Juneau?”

“Because it’s really, really far from Miami.”

“What’s in Miami?”

“Beaches. Bikinis.” You stare at him, waiting for further explanation. He stares back, offering none. He returns his attention to the hot chocolate. “I’m here for the winter trolling. Chinook salmon.”

“So only six months.”

He nods. “Only six months.”

“Where are you going next?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll let Sunfyre pick. I’ll dip a bunch of travel postcards in peanut butter and see which one he eats first.”

“So you just bounce around like that? Constantly? Perpetually?”

“Yeah.”

“It never gets lonely? You don’t miss anyone? Family, friends…?” A girlfriend? A wife? Five charming white-blond children?

“No,” he says flatly. He yanks open the refrigerator and pulls out a small glass bottle with a yellow label: 99 Whipped, Whipped Cream Liqueur, 49.5% ALC/VOL. He holds it up to show you, to offer it to you.

“No, I’m good, thanks though.”

“You sure? It’s whipped cream flavored.”

“I’m majorly sure.”

He unscrews the top with his teeth and takes a swig. Then he dumps the rest in the green mug. He flicks open a cabinet, produces a jar of French vanilla coffee creamer, and scoops a generous amount of the snowy powder into both mugs. He lifts the pot of hot chocolate from the stove and empties it into the mugs like molten metal into molds. He stirs the contents: separate spoons, oddly considerate. You move to take the blue mug, but Aegon stops you.

“Not quite yet,” he says. He rummages around in the refrigerator until he finds a can of whipped cream. He tops off both mugs with a fluffy white swirl. “One last thing…” He grabs a Hershey bar from the freezer and a flat metal cheese grater from a drawer. He leans over the mugs and—with startling, painstaking, somehow vulnerable care—shears just enough chocolate off the bar to dust the whipped cream with fine dark shavings. He passes you the blue mug and grins triumphantly. “You have to freeze the chocolate or it’ll melt when you try to grate it. A girl showed me how to do that.”

“Wow. You’re literally Martha Stewart.”

He is waiting for you to take a sip. You do. The hot chocolate is, in all honestly, ridiculously good: rich, creamy, smooth. He sees this on your face. “Told you.”

“Maybe you’re not so horrible.”

“Don’t be hasty. The roofies haven’t kicked in yet.”

You stand in the kitchen together drinking hot chocolate under dull, flaxen lights; Aegon doesn’t own a table or chairs. Your gaze roams around his apartment and settles on a jade green, extremely battered electric guitar propped against the wall by his bed. “Do you play?”

He turns to look. “Oh, that? No, no way.”

“Why do you have a guitar if you don’t play guitar?”

He grins, holding his mug with both hands. Steam curls up around his face like fog, like smoke. “Makes chicks think I’m more interesting than I am.”

“And yet you told me the truth,” you say. “You are really blowing this.”

“Yeah, that sounds like me.” He slurps his hot chocolate and licks the whipped cream off his lips. There is a deep, not entirely unpleasant silence that descends over the kitchen. Still, you feel compelled to break it.

“You seem to like green a lot.”

“I guess so.”

“Why? Because it’s the color of money…or trees…or Subway…or Heineken…or…?”

“Or…” He contemplates this for a while before he decides. “Camouflage.”

The silence reappears, less comfortable this time. “I really do need to go,” you tell him. It comes out like an apology, a regret. “Jen is supposed to get off work at 5:00 and I don’t want to make her stay too late.”

He replies with an unexpected question. “You ever go to Ursa Minor?”

Ursa Minor? The little bar beside the harbor? No, never. Your best friend Heather has been trying to cajole you into going—her brother Trent is always asking about you or something—but you have yet to succumb to her peer pressure. You aren’t really a bar girl. You’re a stay up half the night comforting sad animals girl. “Yeah, totally, sometimes. Why?”

Aegon smiles, a little dazedly, a little pleased. “No reason.”

All the way back to the veterinary clinic, your brains are wrangling with Aegon: everything about him, parts you wish you didn’t care enough to notice. When you enter the lobby—along with a gale of ice-cold wind peppered with snow flurries—an incredulous Jen is waiting for you.

“You drove him home? Alone?!” She jabs an index finger at the flier on the wall, one of so many. “While that lunatic is still out there somewhere?!” The cartoonish figure in the trench coat leers at you with red eyes. They call him the Ice Fisher because of what he does with the bodies. He goes out to Dredge Lake, drills a hole in the ice just wide enough for the shoulders to fit through, shoves his victim down into the frigid water to wait there in the dark and the cold until they are brought up. He leaves blood smeared on the ice. That’s how the police found the bodies, how they’ll keep finding them.

You shrug. “He needed a ride.”

“He needs an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, that’s what he needs.”

You sigh loudly. “Thank you for your sage advice, Jennifer. You are free to go.”

“Yeah yeah. I’ll give the cops his name when you go missing. Tell them to look for the drunk white-haired loser with the Nova.”

More forcefully, you repeat: “Thank you, Jennifer.”

“Take a chill pill, I’m going.” She pulls on her parka and disappears out into the night. You stand in the lobby—in the silence, in the solitude—staring at the flier for a long time.

In one of the kennels, you find your lone current tenant. “Hey buddy,” you say to Sunfyre, using Aegon’s nickname for him, and the golden retriever perks up. You pet his silky fur (well cared for, you observe), ensure he has enough food and water, get him an extra blanket, and start an IV: antibiotics with a light sedative so he hopefully doesn’t manage to wriggle out of his cone. You’ll set a few alarms and get up throughout the night to check on Sunfyre…although your dad will almost certainly volunteer to do it for you. This clinic used to be his, after all.

Before you leave, you spend fifteen minutes sitting with Sunfyre: brushing his fur, humming to him, letting him lick your knuckles like wordless little thank you notes. Not for the first time in your life, you find yourself wishing that animals could speak as well as we do, could spill secrets like blood or falling snow.

“Interesting human you’ve got there,” you say.

Sunfyre, peering up at you with his trusting umber eyes, only wags his tail in reply.

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