#the other bits of that poem has a small horse in it

[diver5ion]

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. - R. Frost

#elementary #sherlock holmes #joan watson #remembered to finish the ep #and yep i last gif'd it ten years ago #but it still hits #jonny lee miller #lucy liu #// #poetry #hm #the other bits of that poem has a small horse in it

[thedeathofduty]

Motion Sickness

I hate you for what you did

And I miss you like a little kid

Summary: You went for a morning ride in the Kingswood, as you sometimes did when you were a young girl in King's Landing. Unfortunately, you'd barely enough time to enjoy your hard-earned solitude before Prince Aemond arrived and started trying to speak with you. Reluctantly, you agree to work with him to mend the bonds that were broken years ago.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!F!Reader

Word Count: 8,305 (I got a little carried away)

Warning(s): Mentions and very brief description of child abuse, detailed description of a fight between two kids (not the eye incident), vague references to sexual trauma (Aemond)

A/N: So in the canon, Aemond claims Vhagar and gets his eye cut out when he's 10 years old, but I decided to change things a bit here and make it so that it happened when he was about 12. I messed with the canon timeline a few times here and aged Aemond up (babygirl is ~22 here), but every other change is actually addressed in-text. Also, I'm not 100% sure what the technical difference is between and OC fic and a Reader fic, but I am definitely on that line here. If anyone has an actual answer to that conundrum for me, please DM me and explain it to me, I am desperate to understand. I've been editing this as I go, but there might still be a few issues, so just be forewarned.

Though it had been close to ten years since you had ridden your white mare down this twisted path in the Kingswood, you found that the memory of it was deeper than you thought. Despite the years, you still knew where to turn, where to slow down, and where to duck your head so a stray branch would miss your face. You'd been gifted Nymeria at the tender age of only twelve and, now as you were a young woman of twenty-two years of age, she was every bit an extension of you as the short nails just barely peeking past your fingertips and the golden braid bouncing off your back as you galloped through the forest.

The crisp morning air nipped at your flushed cheeks and your steady breaths came out of your mouth in thick clouds. You were grateful you had not left your riding gloves in your chambers or else you knew your fingers would be too stiff. As the trees around you thinned, you tugged on the reins and brought Nymeria to a slow walk. Soon enough, the two of you reached your destination: the apex of the little rivers that ran through the Kingswood. As a girl, you had loved this place, though you'd only laid eyes on it a mere handful of times. Back then, you had been too young to go out riding on your own as often as you did now.

You jumped down from Nymeria's saddle, your muddy riding boots crunching in the pebbles below. The soothing murmur of the water was a balm on your senses after the extravagant feast you'd been forced to attend the night before. With a deep breath, you led your horse to a nearby tree and hastily tied her there with the soft rope you'd grabbed from the stables in the Red Keep.

"Here you go, sweet girl," you crooned, petting her under her chin as she usually liked. After planting a kiss on her dark gray snout, you grabbed your book of poems from her saddlebags and wandered off to sit near the edge of the small river. It was shallow, barely a river at all, and perfectly clear. From your spot on the bank, you saw a few peach-colored fish swimming against the gentle current. Around you was the sound of a cool breeze stirring the tops of the trees, the rising chirping of morning larks, and a faint crunching off in the distance. It was far enough that you could ignore it for now.

You settled into your seat, balancing your book in your lap and humming contentedly as your face slowly warmed with the clear sunlight. With the cold still nibbling at you, the light did not feel golden so much as it did silver. Almost like moonlight. You wanted to truly soak in every moment you had left alone out here. After the unfortunate journey to King's Landing from Casterly Rock, then that overwhelming feast last night, you were desperate to have some time to collect yourself. It would inevitably be interrupted, though.

The crunching in the distance got closer and you could feel the pounding of hooves through the earth beneath you. You sighed, already pushing yourself up to stand as the sound behind you came to an awkward halt.

"Prince Aemond," you said, not even bothering to turn towards him as he struggled to get his horse to stop completely. He had always been a clumsy rider, at least when it came to horses. You hoped for the sake of the realm that he was better with his dragon. "It is both a pleasure and an honor to see you again." You refused to look at him until he had finally dismounted, considering it a great mercy on your part. As a child, he had fallen out of his saddle enough times that any attempts to help him would just infuriate him. Granted, he had been much smaller back then, bigger only than Princess Rhaenyra's second son.

When you did fix your gaze on him, it was without a warmer greet or even a smile, just your hands clasped together in front of you over your book and your chin held high. His riding boots were cleaner than yours and still held some shine, unlike yours, which had been dull and scuffed for some time now. Just as he had been the previous night, he was clad entirely in black. His thick overcoat had little splashes of mud along the bottom and the sight of it did admittedly cause your lips to curl a bit. He was fixing his eye patch, trying to adjust the strap over his windswept hair with one hand while the other held tight to the reins of his dark horse. Unlike you, he had forgotten his riding gloves.

"It did not seem to be either last night, Lady Y/N." His eye met yours and you snorted, shaking your head in disbelief.

He was referring, of course, to your refusal to dance with him. Given the farewell he had gifted you before you left King's Landing nine years ago, he should hardly have been surprised at your cold demeanor. It was, in truth, because of his harsh farewell that you and your family had been compelled to leave. After the way he had treated you, it was clear he no longer wanted you and so the royal family had no use for you and your ilk either. To say your father had been cross would be entirely inaccurate. No, he had been well and truly raging, swearing to the gods that you must have done something to displease the Prince.

You had, though you never shared it with him. Your mother, at least, had been kind to you in those early years, even as you pulled away from her. No matter how kind she was, though, or how close you sometimes felt to any of your sisters, you never told any of them the truth of it.

"I was weary from my travels and did not wish to be paraded around like a jester." It was not a complete lie. You probably would have danced with someone else, if a desirable hand had been offered to you. Prince Aemond's hand, however, was little more than an insult, a thick glob of spit in your left eye. "Come," you sighed, walking towards him and grabbing the reins from his hand. This close to him, you could feel how warm he must be under his layers of thick clothing. He was standing rigidly like a little wooden toy. "I will fasten your horse."

You redid your rope tie for Nymeria so it could hold both, smoothing another hand over your mare's soft face before putting your book away. Maybe you would have the opportunity to read later, but you doubted the Prince had lowered himself to come out here just to sit in silence with you. Though you were not eager to, you would listen to him. He was more than just your childhood companion now. He was the King's younger brother and possible heir to the throne.

"There are matters," Prince Aemond paused, rubbing his hands together before balling them into stiff fists at his sides, "matters we must discuss." He was having a hard time meeting your eyes, only being able to meet your gaze for a brief moment before looking away again.

"And what matters are those, Prince Aemond?"

"The manner of your return to King's Landing."

"Well, I came mostly on horseback, but whenever I grew tired, I rode in the carriage with my mother and sister." You offered him a cheeky smile as he sighed wearily and rolled his eyes.

"Gods, you are still just an intolerable as you were when we were children."

Intolerable? And yet he had spent nearly all of his time with you as a boy? Oh yes, that sounded quite reasonable. You crossed your arms over your chest, forearms digging into the golden lion's head clasps in your crimson riding coat. "Perhaps you would find me more tolerable if I was simply able to divine your motives for questioning me. Alas, I cannot."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before speaking. "It has been many years since we have last seen each other. I am simply trying to get reacquainted."

On your last day in King's Landing, you had woken up before the sun and scrawled out a simple note asking him to meet you in the courtyard when he awoke if he wished to speak. With a thundering heart, you had given the folded paper to Ser Criston who stood guarding the door to Prince Aemond's chambers. He had promised to pass on your message, though he could scarcely look you in the eye.

Your family had planned to leave as the sun set to avoid the heat. He'd had all day to respond and to speak with you, but he had chosen not to even send a response. All you had wanted to do was apologize to him, but you knew now as a woman that you truly had nothing for which to apologize. In truth, what you had been feeling back then was a deep sense of shame and guilt for having hurt and angered the Prince as much as you had, but it had not been your fault.

You uncrossed your arms with a heavy sigh. "What is it you wish to know?" He pulled his hand away from his face.

"Did your parents tell you why you've returned?"

You shrugged. "In truth, I can see a few reasons why my family has dragged me back to this circus. There may be a war coming, after all."

"The Princess accepted our terms."

You smiled at him with feigned pity. "The Princess, yes, but what of her husband? Do you think they call him the Rogue Prince for his mild disposition and penchant for peace? Perhaps he'll kill her, return to King's Landing on dragonback, and burn the whole thing to the ground under cover of night."

He visibly swallowed, his pale neck bobbing. "Perhaps. But I doubt it."

"Let us hope you are correct, Prince Aemond."

He squared his shoulders and stood up straight, towering at his full height. There was enough distance between you that you did not feel dwarfed by him, but you knew it would be different if he were close enough to touch. As children, you had been the taller one for a time, until you stopped growing. When he had asked you to dance last night, your neck had actually hurt a bit at the strain of looking up at him. Your heart had been in your throat, breath hitching at the way the orange light in the grand hall danced on the side of his chiseled face. Prince Aemond was truly a man now, and the sight of him so grown twisted your insides.

"My brother is King now," he declared and you nodded with a slight smile on your face. "There are few who would dare stand against us."

If war was not an immediate concern, there was only one other reason for your family's return that seemed feasible to you. As a girl, you had been promised to the Prince who now stood before you, but the betrothal had been broken shortly after the loss of his eye. To this day, you were not sure who had finally decided to sever that tie. You only knew that before Prince Aemond left for his cousin's funeral on Driftmark, you were betrothed to him, and then a mere fortnight after his return, your father was screaming at you with his large fist in your hair, demanding to know what you had done wrong as your mother corralled your youngest sister out of the room. A lady only in station, as your mother often said of you, you refused to cower or cry whenever he flew into one of his rages. He was your Lord Father and you were the first in a line of five daughters, and the least ladylike girl at court. Was it any surprise he was often angry with you? In his eyes, you were his first failure as a man. Even with that, you were the only one of his daughters to inherit his temperament.

"Hm, then perhaps we are to be married off just as when we were children."

He wet his lips. "Does this displease you?"

"Oh, yes. Deeply." Something stirred in your chest then, some deep threatening rumble. Prince Aemond had written to you for years after your return to Casterly Rock and you devoured each and every word he wrote, but never once did he impart upon you the words you had wanted to read most of all. For two years now, he had stopped, and you would be lying if you said the loss had not broken your heart anew. "To be married to a man so proud and self-satisfied that he cannot even apologize?" You chuckled cheerlessly. "Gods, how unfortunate."

The atmosphere between the two of you grew heavy and oppressive. It seemed as though the trees around you were leaning closer to catch every single word exchanged. The water rushing behind the man in front of you grew louder, or maybe you were the one growing more tense and ready to strike back if he raised a hand to you out here.

His nostrils flared. "I was a child, Y/N."

"So was I," you hissed, jabbing a finger into your chest and baring your teeth at him. "You promised me that-"

"When you saw what had been done to me, you looked at me with so much-"

"I was devastated, Aemond!" Gods, your voice sounded so wild and shrill even to your own ears. You felt yourself get hot, tears coming to life in your clear eyes as you desperately blinked them away.

His mouth curled downwards in disgust. "Yes, I am aware of what you thought of the sorry state I was in."

You glared at him, your body vibrating as you fought to keep it in place. "Oh, and what is that exactly?"

When he spoke to you, he looked you up and down as if you were covered in manure and offending him just by being where he could see you. "That my deformity would shame you and your family, that I was incomplete."

"You are such a fucking imbecile!" you bellowed, your scream echoing briefly and then being swallowed in the cold air. "You were ashamed, you felt incomplete!" You swung your arms in the air, aching to punch him in the face, to climb on top of him and strike him as he had you all those years ago.

When Aemond's hand had made contact with your cheek back then, you remembered feeling an absolute, resounding emptiness inside yourself for one eternal moment before he was on you again, making you howl in pain as he fought you with all the desperation of a wounded animal. Thankfully, the milk of the poppy the maesters had given him had weakened him. His tears were hot and thick as they landed on your face wet with your own tears. You had managed to claw at his hands and neck, slashing blindly to try to create space between your bodies.

When Ser Criston stormed in with his sword drawn, he immediately sheathed it and separated the writhing tangle of screams and violence the two of you had become. You were only thirteen at the time, but you felt so much younger as you cowered behind the knight's white cloak, clinging to the fabric with your hands wet with blood, snot, and tears. It took nearly an hour before you could stop shaking. The Prince was not supposed to have visitors so soon after his injury, but nobody would tell you what had happen and you had gotten curious, so you had scaled the tall tree outside his chambers and climbed in through the open window. How you had grown to regret that curiosity...

You were both trembling in front of each other now, your legs and arms feeling like they were filled with tight copper coils. What would happen if you were to release that tension? Would you really attack the Prince? Would he attack you? More importantly, did he not deserve your ire, your ferocity, and your violence?

"You knew about the sort of man my father was," you said in a low voice, "And you..." You pointed an accusatory finger at Aemond and he flinched, looking at his shiny boots briefly before meeting your gaze again. "You promised me you would never raise a hand to me. You promised me that violence was not an inevitability. We were both children back then, yes, but were you still a child when you stopped writing to me?"

"Oh, spare me the theatrics," he groaned, "you never even wrote back!"

"I was waiting for an apology! Just one. That was all I wanted, all I would have needed. I know you were in pain, that you were not yourself, and I can forgive that. But I cannot forgive this lack of an apology."

"Did it ever occur to you that I was too ashamed to ask for your forgiveness?"

"Did it ever occur to you that I looked at you the way I did when I saw what that boy had done to you because it pained me to see you that way?" Neither of you said anything for a few long moments before you continued. "Nobody would tell me what was going on. All I knew was that you were not to be allowed any visitors, not even me. I begged your brother and sister to share their knowledge with me, but even Aegon kept the secret." You rubbed your arms as you felt yourself start shaking. Whether it was from the wind rushing through the clearing or the emotions surging through your body, you were unsure. "You were my only true friend in this ridiculous place and I was afraid for you and when I showed you my fear, you punished me for it. And then you never once offered any sort of apology, you just continued living your life and writing me those stupid fucking letters."

Guilt settled onto his pained face as he pursed his lips. "I am sorry, Y/N. Hurting you like that, it has been my biggest shame."

His words were like a lance through your heart. Why could he not have written that to you years ago? You shook your head, blinking away more tears as they twinkled in your vision. "I don't want it anymore. You had years for that, Aemond." Your lower lip trembled and you turned away, placing your hands flat on Nymeria's flank and focusing for a moment just on matching her breathing. It was an exercise you had tried for the first time after an explosive fight with your father and it was now one of the few things that could ground you when you were in genuine distress.

"What must I do to earn your forgiveness? Tell me, and it will be done. Please, Y/N, you were my friend as well. I wrote to you because I could not forget you."

You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your horse, your face rising and falling with her breathing.

When Aemond had allowed you to peek under his bandages to see the damage, his eye had been closed tightly. The angry cut underneath, coupled with the swelling, the thick black stitches, yes, it had all unnerved you. A deep primal feeling roared in your chest, a possessive need to both destroy and protect. You had never felt that way before. A sob had torn its way out of your throat, your eyes drowning in angry, impotent tears. If his own mother could not help him, what could you do? It seemed your look of horror and anguish was too close to disgust or, as was more likely, Aemond's own pain distorted your expression into one of pure revulsion.

It mattered little now. You had no marks anywhere on your person from that unfortunate day, not from Aemond or from your father. If nothing else, you were thankful for that. You never climbed again, having more than learned your lesson about curiosity and how little you stood to benefit from it.

You turned to him again, your heart clenching at the sight of his open, unguarded stare. "You broke my heart," you said simply, "but I read every letter. I wanted so badly to know that you were all right. What I wanted then was to protect you."

"You wanted to protect me?"

You nodded. "Do you not ever feel that way for someone in your life? The desire to defy time, to go back, and be there when they needed you most?"

"I often feel that way for my mother and sister, and... for you. Cole gave me your note that day, though..."

"You did not read it."

"I did not. What did it say?"

The years had washed away the specific words. "I wanted to see you in the courtyard before my family left. I had been hoping to beg for your forgiveness for having angered you so, and perhaps to salvage our betrothal. It's funny, I look back now and all I see is a scared little girl who just wanted her father so stop being mad at her. I am glad you did not come. I owed you no apology."

"You did not, I saw that even back then."

If only you had been able to see it, too.

You were the only one of your sisters to be born at Casterly Rock, but you had spent the vast majority of your life here in King's Landing. Your father traveled back and forth between the Rock and the Keep, leaving your uncle to look after the family in his stead. It was because of your uncle that you had even had the opportunity to meet Prince Aemond, his brother, and Princess Rhaenyra's sons in the training yard.

Your uncle did not care that you wore pants, thinking it to be a silly habit of childhood that you would willingly outgrow as you blossomed into a woman. He would be wrong, but freedom was always welcome. You had scaled the high stone walls around the training yard, carefully climbing up into the high branches of a tall tree to lounge in a cloud of bright green leaves and watch the boys practice. It was a few days before any of them even noticed you.

You had known Prince Aemond almost your entire life. The trust you'd had for him had been near-infinite before he hurt you. But you were a woman grown now. It had been nine long years since your departure and you had grown to understand why it had all happened the way it had. If Aemond understood that he had to earn your trust again and you understood why he reacted to you in such a cruel way, then what else was left but to continue in some simple way? If you knew your father at all, the reason he had dragged you back here was for a marriage pact.

"I think it is best to begin to make our peace with each other out here, away from prying eyes."

"Shall we say I left for Driftmark all those years ago and never returned?"

Your heart clenched. "It seems near enough to the truth to bring some comfort."

You both nodded, your bodies shuffling awkwardly before he broke the silence. "Shall we go for a ride?" You snorted when he gestured to the horses behind you. "What?"

"My Prince, it is not my wish to humiliate you."

"I'm not so bad."

"Some might find that to be just another way of saying you are not so good. Dragon riding and horseback riding are not the same. I cannot simply tell Nymeria to obey me and have it be done. She must know me first. It has nothing to do with me being worthy. I must earn her trust, her obedience, and her love everyday. What is your horse's name?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the faintest notion. He was the first horse I was able to find in the stables."

You nodded sagely. "Ah, so you are a fool." When he sputtered and opened his mouth to argue with you, you held your hands up with a laugh. "It is only a jape, my Prince! I would prefer to go for a walk along the water, if it pleases you."

In a few minutes, the two do you were walking side by side along the riverbank with your respective horses. When you looked down at your feet, you noticed that you and Prince were walking in step together and it brought a faint smile to your lips. You had missed him for many years, those letters he sent you making it near impossible to move on. After two full years without them, you had declared yourself cured of any affection for or attachment to the man beside you, but it was clear to you now that you had been deluding yourself. All your emotions had just been pushed into the darkest depths of your heart and being around him again brought sent them floating back to the surface.

"Is it true that you have an ever-burning blue flame under that eye patch?"

He snorted. "Obviously not. Is that what people are saying about me?"

"It's mostly just the women." You both smiled at each other. "You have striking features, it is no surprise you find yourself the subject of idle gossip."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Merely a neutral statement of truth, my Prince."

The apples of his cheeks were a dusty pink like the inside of a rose, but you were sure it was just the biting wind. "I must admit, my Lady, I never thought I would see you in a dress." At the mention of it, your ears burned red and hot like irons in a fire. You only wore dresses when your Lady Mother demanded it of you. Whatever your differences, you knew everything about you reflected on your house and it was not your desire to have a relationship with her that was full of constant strife. Because of that, you had acquiesced and worn the uncomfortable, form-fitting dress your mother had presented for you.

It was pretty. The fabric was a deep crimson and it hugged your curves, exposing you in a way that make you feel weak and irritable. Your breasts bulged over the top with every inhale, so you'd hunched your shoulders to try to hide it. Your mother had noticed, though, and corrected you with a firm hand on your back. Your bare neck and shoulders felt too much like an invitation to you and, as you'd expected, more men let their gazes linger on every bit of exposed skin and even worked up the nerve to speak with you. Of course your appearance emboldened them. You'd felt like a prey animal lost in the woods, naked and trembling in the breeze.

When you retired to your chambers last night, you had the servants draw you a hot bath and practically ripped the dress off your body. It seemed to cling to you like a desperate lover, but you took great pleasure in throwing it on the floor, along with your dainty golden rings, your ruby earrings, and the thin chain one of the servants had wound into your braids. You were not a doll, not a decoration, not a flower. You were a lion.

"My Lady Mother has me very well trained." If you so much as suggested wearing pants to any sort of gathering, she would immediately start wailing about how you did not love her and lived every moment of your life as a ploy to personally humiliate her and destroy your father's standing. After a few years, it became tiring to constantly be accused of plotting to overthrow your own house, and you learned to simply smile and wear a dress for a few hours.

"Hm, I thought it would be your father."

"No, he only demanded I dance with you, but I told him I would sooner put my neck on the executioner's block than agree to that. He told me he could arrange for it if I truly wanted it." The fights you had with your father now frequently bordered on the ridiculous.

"So you and your father still fight."

After your return from Essos six moons ago, it was not infrequent for him to threaten to cut out your tongue if you spoke out of turn, to which you would respond with a similar threat to his manhood. Whatever fear you'd had of him had worn away throughout the years, finally fading into nothing after your travels.

"Not as much. Maybe he's grown bored of the constant struggle, but my mother has taken up the mantle for him. I suppose that is what marriage is all about: sharing burdens. In truth, I do not believe the gods fashioned me for that."

"The gods fashioned us for love." You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Aemond had always been the pious sort, forever dutiful and tangled in his mother's skirts. It seemed time had not changed that, and it endeared you to him.

"Love, perhaps, but marriage? Childrearing? Do you truly see yourself in that?"

"I have always known it was my destiny to be married off to a Lady of a Great House and have children with her."

"But is it what you want?"

"I do not think those in our position can ask those sorts of questions. It is my duty, so it will be done. It is your duty as well. We should see ourselves as lucky that we have been able to outrun fate as long as we have."

You hummed, looking up towards the muted sunlight streaming through the tops of the trees around you. "An easy thing for you to say, my Prince, when you will never have to face the threat of bleeding to death in a birthing bed. Were we to have children, I would be the wound and you the knife."

"It needn't be that way," he said softly and you looked at him curiously. "A child can grow strong without a father, but he needs his mother. I would never risk that."

"So if it came down to it, you would not cut me open to save the babe?" It was a bold question, yes, but a necessary one. You had a right to know if your Lord Husband planned to kill you someday. If nothing else, you could make better use of your remaining time alive.

"Never."

You knew most men, considering the wife's use to be at its end, would kill her to keep the son. Your own grandsire had done it to his first wife and had even boasted about his unflinching, steadfast commitment to having an heir. What a barbarian. When he finally died and your father was named the new Lord of Casterly Rock, your cheeks had hurt from how much you grinned at his funeral.

You gifted Aemond an affectionate smile, looking back down at your feet still marching in step together when he gazed back at you. "If you are being truthful, then you are a unique man indeed, peerless and without equal."

"You are kind, my Lady."

You let silence fill the space between your bodies, listening to the crunch of grass and pebbles beneath your boots as you walked together. The river felt even quieter now, a mere whisper in your ear. The sun was settling into its spot high in the sky, the light hitting you now closer to gold than silver. Though the day was still cold, you were starting to grow a touch too warm under your coat.

"What have you done with yourself these past few years?" You turned your head to Aemond in surprise. Curiosity was normal, you supposed, but it still confounded you. "You never answered my letters, so I was left to piece together gossip and tell myself stories."

"In truth, there is little to share. After my return to Casterly Rock, my relationship with my father was... difficult to manage, at first. I often felt that he saw me as little more than a failed son, but he grew to accept me in his own way. He allowed me to train with the sword, and to study nearly whatever I wished."

"You are fortunate. Perhaps when we return to the Red Keep, we can explore the library together." You could not help but grin sheepishly at his invitation, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel young and girlish. "You can show me your book, if you'd like."

"I would like that very much. I am afraid I do not have many peers. Though I love my sisters, we do not understand each other."

It felt as though your sisters and your mother all lived in their own world and had their own language-the language of girls, you'd heard it be called. Whatever it was, your tongue could not shape any of the words. You had been born a girl, but you did not fit with them or with the men. Mostly, you fit only with yourself.

"I feel the same way with my brother. Though we are both men, that is where the similarities end." Aemond at least felt a strong kinship with the women in his family. You... Well.

You supposed you did feel a certain strength in the bond you had with your father now, a certain comfort you could never have hoped for as a child. When you returned from your travels, the two of you spoke at length about Aemond, since he had found your hidden cache of old letters. There was nothing indecent in them, nor was there any mention of what had happened in the Prince's room that fateful day, so you were not punished for keeping the secret.

The two of you were in his study, where he managed the taxes and most of the trade out of Lannisport. For the first time in your life, you were sharing a pitcher of wine with him. 'It seems the boy still holds a torch for you, so why have you not answered him?'

'If he truly wanted me,' you'd said, swishing your drink around in its cup absently, 'he would have ridden his dragon out here to speak with me himself. These letters are nothing but the words of a craven masquerading as a romantic.'

He had leaned his head back then, and looked down his nose at you with a curious glint in his eye, as if he was regarding you for the very first time. The next morning, he gave you a present: a golden ring just like his but smaller. It was a signet ring with the Lannister crest on it held in the mouth of a lion with bright ruby eyes. Unless you were unable to wear it, it never left your hand.

"Yes, you and I have always been alike. Both dragonless."

"Both lonesome."

Your chest tightened at the memories his words brought back: memories of the rejection you had both faced for the ways you were different, but also of the comfort you had been able to find with each other. Mostly, you fit only with yourself, yes, but you had once fit with Aemond as well.

"You stopped writing to me," you grumbled. "I left Westeros with a cousin of mine for a time and upon my return, I expected a stack of letters to be waiting for me. To my surprise, there were only a few. Did you stop because I did not answer?"

"In part, yes."

"And the other part?" you pressed.

"I met a woman." Stupidly, you felt your mood sour, a bitter taste coating your tongue. Silly though it may be, some part of you imagined him to have been loveless and celibate all these years as a form of penance for you. The fact that he had well and truly gone on to live a life without you felt so indecent and wrong. Of course, you were being hypocritical. You, too, had lived your own life.

"Oh? May I ask her name?"

"You may not." Shame spread through your chest like spilled ink on parchment. "She is gone now anyway, and the less said about her, the better."

"She was not good to you?"

He hesitated before speaking. "She was lowborn, a witch, and a bastard."

You gaped at him. "Oh my. Your mother must not have liked that."

"No, she was furious with me." He sighed. "Looking back on my indiscretions now, I just feel foolish. Never in my right mind would I have pursued someone like that woman."

"But you did pursue her."

"She chose me, I did not choose her."

Slowly, you worked to complete the puzzle he was laying out for you. If he could speak plainly, it would be easier. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

He gave an exasperated sigh, twisting his mouth. "She bewitched me somehow, Y/N," he said slowly as if he were explaining the mixing of colors to a child, "I do not know how, but I know I was not myself. When I finally left her to return home, it was as though a great fog had been lifted from my mind and I could see her clearly again. By then, it was too late."

"Too-"

"But you needn't worry about her. My grandsire helped to secure her and her son safe passage to one of the Free Cities. I did not ask which one." You stopped walking abruptly, your eyebrows furrowed in frustration. After a few steps, he too stopped and turned to face you. "Is something wrong?"

"Her son or your son?" He didn't answer. "Aemond. Did the child look like you?"

His gaze turned upwards, towards the sky, the trees, the gods. Away from you. "He was my son, yes. I don't know where she is now, but I hope never to see her again."

You smacked your lips together, rolling your eyes. It was true that jealousy was likely muddying your thoughts, but you could not help but feel anger towards him for sullying that unnamed woman's honor with a bastard child and then washing his hands of her so carelessly. Otto Hightower was an intimidating man with a steady, calculating gaze. As a child, you had been so scared of him that you could never even look him in the eye, much less speak to him. If he was intelligent, he had sent assassins to clean the Prince's mess instead of allowing her to flee to the east. It was what you would do.

It was more likely that the girl and her bastard son were cut from ear to ear and dumped in a river than that they were living a peaceful life in a manse on the coast of Pentos. Of course, if the Prince wanted to continue to delude himself, you would let him. The fantasy likely served as a way to ease a guilty conscience and, though you were unfamiliar with that feeling as a woman, you remembered it from your girlhood.

"I hope he sent her to Myr," you finally said and at your words, his body visibly relaxed, "I spent a few months there and I found it to be quite beautiful. The beaches are lovely at night."

"You will have to tell me about it, my Lady. I have never been to the Free Cities."

"That is very unfortunate, my Prince. Travelling broadens the mind and strengthens the spirit."

"If that is all it does, I've no need for it. I see enough of the world from atop Vhagar."

"You lack imagination, my Prince." Either that or he was afraid. You were not sure which option was pitiful and which deserving of sympathy. "Would you like me to regale you with stories of my travels? With a dragon, you could arrive in Pentos in mere hours. Perhaps my tales will light a fire in you and you will grow more adventurous."

"My last adventure ended with me as a witch's thrall," he muttered. Though the thorn of jealousy still pricked your chest, you softened at the bitterness in his voice. If the two of you were still children, this would be the moment where you reached out to take his hand or pulled him into a tight embrace until his breathing matched yours. Instead, you bit your lip and looked down at the dry grass below your feet.

"When I traveled with my cousin, I was rarely alone. We kept each other safe."

"Are you saying you would keep me safe?" There was a bemused smile on his face and the melody of his voice was soft like the song of a silver syrinx.

"I did tell you that I wanted to protect you when we were children. It appears you still need it." His eye swept over your face and down your body like a paintbrush over canvas. Though you tried, you could not help but squirm as he stared.

"How fortunate I am to have such a champion," he chuckled, gesturing for the two of you to keep walking. As you continued your aimless trek through the woods, you worked to swallow the pulsing lump in your throat. The day was warming up noticably now.

The Prince asked you about your studies and your time in the Free Cities, to which you responded with open enthusiasm. His blue eye sparkled in the warm sunlight like a precious jewel, the edges wrinkled by the easy smile on his lips. You knew you looked very much the same. The anger that had been bursting in your chest the night before was almost entirely forgotten as the two of you meandered back to where you had started.

Even on the other side of Planetos as you stood in the gardens of a lavish manse on the coast of the Narrow Sea in Pentos, your drooping eyes had been fixed on where you knew King's Landing to be on the horizon. For years, you had assumed the story you had begun to write with Aemond as a child was over, though you had not truly wanted it to be that way. A fantasy of him riding in on the dragon he had traded an eye for had filled your head with longing all that time. Despite all your various failings as a Lady, it seemed you still had some of the same dreams other women did: dreams of being a muse, of being love, desired, and adored completely, of being a home someone could return to and find comfort in. Though you had taken a few lovers during your travels, none truly moved you in the way you wanted.

You did not tell Aemond any of this. Instead, you simply answered the questions he asked you and offered him some of your own. Wherever his heart had lead him during your time apart, he was here with you now. If nothing else, you would have your friend back. You longed to reach a hand out and run your fingers along the strap of his eye patch, to slide it off his face and look upon him in a soft, restrained way.

Had his witch woman seen what lay beneath the dark leather? Had she been kind to him when he showed it to her? You hoped she had been, almost as much as you hoped he had not shown her. Despite the distance that had separated you all this time, he had remained in a class of his own in your mind. You wanted to cling to the idea that somehow, in some way, he had felt the same.

It was time to part and go back to the Red Keep and you were lingering, knowing you would immediately lose him the moment you starting riding. The sun was high in the sky now and you had unfastened all the ornate clasps in your coat to allow the breeze to cool you.

"Do you still wish to come to the library with me?"

"I do," you said. "I will bring my book of poems." You both swayed in place, unable to look at each other directly. "I suppose... we should ride back now, yes?"

"Yes," he murmured, but the moment you grabbed Nymeria's saddle, he spoke again, "wait. I... I have a question for you, so that I may understand what you hope to gain from this arrangement." His hands were flexing open and closed by his sides and you remembered the habit from childhood. He was nervous. When he noticed you looking at him hands, he hid them behind his back.

You dragged your eyes back up to his tense face. "What is your question?"

His face grew flushed and he opened his mouth once, twice, before finally asking, "did... did you think of me in our time apart?" His eye darted back and forth between yours, seemingly hoping to find the truth buried inside them.

There was a sharp tug in your chest, pulling you forward as you took a careful step towards him like you were approaching a frightened child. With your heart pounding the way it was, you very much felt like a frightened child. You cut the cord that was trapping you, allowing yourself to reach out to him slowly. If what he desired was to stop you, he had ample opportunity to do so, but he did not. With a shuddering breath, he allowed you to lay your hand on his cheek and cup the side of his face, the tip of your thumb brushing against the edge of his eye patch.

"I thought of you," you confessed, "long and often." Your eyes drifted down to his lips and the short breaths coming out of them.

As a girl, you had never kissed Aemond, though you had often wanted to as you both grew older. You considered it for a moment, tilting your mouth towards him so slightly, until you noticed the tension he was holding in his body, the way his breathing was still erratic, and how he could not seem to look at you. Gods, he looked terrified. This wasn't how you wanted it. A bit crestfallen, you retreated and granted him his space once more.

His hand darted out to grab yours in a grip so tight, it was nearly painful. "Aemond?" His eye was fixed on your joined hands, his hold loosening as his thumb gently glided over your knuckles. Just as suddenly as he had grabbed you, he released you. Something was wrong, though you could not venture a guess as to what it was. He seemed so brittle in front of you, like a thin shard of glass or a lone snowflake.

Silently, Aemond nodded once, as if steeling himself before his transformation. His shoulder squared at once, his hands carefully tucked behind his back, and an easy smile graced his lips without reaching his one blue eye. "My Lady," he stated as if reading off a bit of parchment, "I will meet you in the stables, so that we may walk to the library together."

Your skin bristled at his formal tone and you opened your mouth in protest, then thought better of it. "I look forward to it," you said with a tight smile. After giving him a polite nod, you climbed into Nymeria's saddle and charged forward without sparing him a glance.

The wind on your face was warmer now, but no less fragrant. Your stomach was in tight knots as you rode through the Kingswood, your heart filled with excitement, confusion, and embarrassment. You wished you could make some sense of it and just feel one thing then another, arranging your emotions in a neat column so they may be easier to digest.

Though Aemond still felt familiar to you, there were parts of him that were foreign and hidden. You did not know his witch woman's name or his son's or why he had seemed so timid and frightened just before you left. It was as if he was a home you had lived in your whole life, only for you to awake one morning and discover that someone had changed something in every room.

You hoped he could truly be your friend again. No, you knew he would if you were only to be given the time necessary to nurture that bond.

Your hands tightened on your reins as you quickened your pace.

After all these years, Aemond was to finally be your Lord Husband. There was a slight chance you were wrong, but you did not see the value in entertaining the possibility just for the sake of self-doubt. You knew your father, you understood the importance of your own house, and... Well, it was what you wanted. You were correct. You knew you were.

You and Aemond would have nothing but time to connect and explore. In time, he would once again be as familiar to you as the air in your lungs or your own face in the mirror. You could hardly wait.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #mine #aemond fic #i actually wanted to make this so much longer because i ended up falling in love with this reader/oc/whatever #but good god it's already so long #and i wanna write other stuff but i'm not good at juggling in that way #anyway i love writing aemond being incompetent in certain things and i will be doing it more often

[petty-crush]

“Barbie” (2023)

-a big budget, pop art, visually interesting film with a vibrant personality. I love it!

-also, easily the best use of Ryan Gosling since “Drive”

-I’m truly impressed with what Greta Gerwig got away with here.

+she crammed this with energy and made me hearty laugh the whole time

-the story is Barbie discovering sadness, the real world, clashing with the patriarchy, and just the wonderment of being a woman

-there’s a couple small details I want to highlight before the big stuff

-Kate McKinnon’s look is almost certainly inspired by the awesome cult film “Liquid Sky”, another tone poem of a film

-the small, tender scene of Barbie telling the old woman (at the bus stop) she’s beautiful, and said woman saying “I know” with a vicious smirk is magical

+it says just as much as the soon to be famous “being a woman is impossible” monologue in its own beautiful warmth

-the opening riff on “2001: A Space Odyssey” is the film personified; irreverent, playing with greatness, funny, colorful, and just a blast

-(after a man notes he is not part of the board) “I’m a guy with no power...does that make me a woman?

-I like how there are two matrix tributes; picking between two choices/shoes (original) and the at first mysterious Ruth being the Oracle (“Reloaded”)

-“after I found out the patriarchy didn’t include horses, I honestly lost interest”

-alright then, onto the big pillars

-here is a film saying, with all earnestness and actual thought, that we should approach our hearts with collectivism, bond over our shared yearns and desires and messiness

-(only a scold could say this film excludes love, a scold who didn’t actually watch the film and just wants any kind of attention)

-Margot Robbie nails every bit, from first thinking about dying, to discovering tears, to making Barbie’s naïveté to growth a journey of substance

-this film is unapologetic about being feminist (which shocked the fuck out of me) and does so with actual insight, not checking off a list (which is rad)

-note too, cause grumps will try to bury this, it asks men to not define themselves by conquering others, or stepping on necks, but by creating worth on their own goals and just being present in the moment. It asks them to free themselves from their own shackles

-there is a certain richness to male characters when female directors (and writers, etc) take over; new colors are displayed in the rainbow

-it is so immensely satisfying to see actual sets (practical, on camera) and vivid primary colors (after years of blurred muted-ness)

+its value in the aesthetic form and character of the film is immeasurable

-there isn’t a single false note in the “impossible to be a woman” speech, aptly delivered by America Ferrara. It simply presents itself with the courage of its convictions

-said being truly sucks and absolutely rules; the sheer inconsistency is its beauty and power. Neatness does not contain growth

-I like how the film emphasizes the under seen will truly change and save the world

-oh, I almost forgot to mention; I just about rolled out of my chair at the ribbing of zealots for the Synder cut of Justice League

-this is an artificiality to this film that is staggeringly authentic

-this is truly one of the best examples of just being the world and subverting the world in the 2020’s (and frankly all time); this will be studied and admired for years

-also also, the battle at the beach and the dance street fight among Ken’s is an all timer of a scene (it uses the past to power the present)

-I have a sneaking suspicion this may be the “Iron Man”(2008) to the upcoming Mattel cinematic universe; the vast number of following films will largely be less interesting, less full of the personality of its creators (with some exceptions)

-but this film is worth it; it is alive and joyful. It cannot be accountable for the world(s) that comes after it, only how it exists during its run time.

-and, truly, Gerwig has made something special here. It’s just going to make the lives of everyone who accepts it for what it is (love and color of form) many times better. It is a triumph

#barbie #greta gerwig #margot robbie #ryan gosling #america ferrera #kate mckinnon #will ferrell #michael cera #film #barbie 2023

[spiritual-activity]

Headcanons! (Isaac & Nigel)

[Warning: Contains spoilers and talk of death (of course there will be)]

Have fun reading!

*Isaac*

I like to think that he is from Virginia, so he has a slight southern accent. He hides it well, but it does slip out every now and then. The accent does come out during specific pronunciations and whenever he is caught off guard. He doesn't hide it around Nigel, however.

The Iliad is one of his favorite Greek stories. Can and will recite it word for word. Give him a quote from it and he can tell exactly which book and line it came from.

This man is autistic. You can't tell me any different. The war was sensory hell for him. His handkerchief is essentially a main grounding object for him due to the texture. He will also fidget with the handkerchief when he is nervous. Prefers his room without too much light, but just enough to see (i.e. candles).

Has an extent amount of knowledge about horses. He grew up raising horses on the farms of either family members or family friends. He took great care of his horse (Chestnut- a bay-colored Arabian stallion) during the war since it reminded of the one he had took care of as a boy. Can name the breed of any horse just by looking at them for a second.

Tired a good chunk of the time. Dying of dysentery was not great- dehydration and malnourishment really took a toll on him in the afterlife. Some days, he can manage, but is really sluggish and attempts to hide it from everyone. Other times, it's hard to get out of the bed.

Has a scar on the left side of his face. Obtained said scar from trying to fix the bayonet onto the gun, dropping it and attempting to catch it, with the blade slicing him in the process. Proceeds to say he got it in a fight with another British soldier, but only few know the truth. (Nigel)

Loves giving Nigel top-of-the-head kisses due to his height.

Forgot everything he was originally going to say while proposing to Nigel. Practiced in the mirror for a full hour, went to go propose, then forgot everything due to nerves. Made up something he guessed was what he originally planned. Turned out great either way!

*Nigel*

Has named every duck on the property. Every duck has a different mannerism and/or marking that makes it subtle to tell which is which. Only him and a few other ghosts can tell which duck is which. (His favorite duck is Percy, a mallard that follows him around from time to time)

Has documented over 2 centuries worth of ant drama. By documented, I mean remembered everything and has not forgot a single event. He has given Isaac an overview of the lore so he can rant about what is going on in the ant colony.

Prefers The Odyssey over The Iliad. Him and Isaac have "debates" over which is superior. They both know that both stories are great on their own, but enjoys having to defend their favorite. It adds a bit of fun to their days.

Big on pet names for his beloved. Seems to come up with a different one every hour. Commonly used ones include: "love", "darling", and any variation of "dove" and "dear".

Enjoys the sudoku puzzles that Sam leaves out. Isaac joins him half of the time to assist in the solving. Record time to solve one alone is 5 minutes. With Isaac, 3 minutes.

Contrary to what Isaac says, Nigel fell first. Caught a glimpse across the field and saw him attempting to instruct his men on how to properly fix bayonets. It did not end well for Isaac, but Nigel thought it was adorable.

Complements Isaac's accent every chance he gets. Absolutely adores the accent.

Has a small poem book inside of his coat. He has most likely read it over 1000 times, and yet still enjoys it as well as the first time reading it.

There will be more to come!

#cbs ghosts #cbs ghosts spoilers #cbs ghosts headcanons #cbs ghosts season 2 spoilers #cbs ghosts season 2 #cbs ghosts isaac #cbs ghosts nigel #nisaac

[listlessdionysian]

Short fiction, fantasy: Broehain (BFS Horizons, 2020)

And here's the second (you can find the other one on my blog). This piece was a palate cleanser after finishing the novel that formed the bulk of my PhD. I'll probably share some chapters and extracts from that at some point.

Broehain was a minor character who showed up around the halfway point. He has a boat and rows two of the central characters out to an island to speak to a group of sages. But there was something about him - his little allusions to a sad, hard life - that kept bringing me back. I've always loved the Death of the Wild-West story structure, people living by violence to be later undone by it, and always thought it worked well in a fantasy setting. At the time my head was also full of the stories and accounts in David Stannard's "American Holocaust" and I found myself then, as I still am now, haunted by the poem 'Broken Spears'. These two things combined into a short tragic piece set a little while after his brief appearance in the novel.

It has its flaws. There are parts of the story that are underdeveloped, but I like the character. I like his daughters too - and I've a feeling they're still rattling around the world, preparing to have stories of their own. This is set in the same world that On Well-Wishers was an early glimpse of. Here, things are a bit more settled. I know which big bits go where. Still figuring the rest out. I'll shut up now.

Broehain

Broehain looked to the east, at the waves, and the winds that drove them, and the shrouded mounds of the archipelago in the distance. It had been four days since he’d sailed out there, with a storyteller and Aos Sí royalty to consult the sages that lived on the island. The winds had been high. Almost storming. Filling the boat, and their eyes and mouths, with briny spray. When he had collected them, after their meeting, they had not told him what the sages had said.

Broehain had not asked.

He had been eager to get away. To get home to his daughters, to see if today was the day when the soldiers and traders from Pyllwic decided to push him out of his home.

As they neared, he saw cookfires and lanterns burning in the windows of his disorderly cluster of shacks. The worried, dark face of Mairead, his eldest, peering out of the window at him. Deflating a little with a relieved sigh, before drawing deeper into the shack to see to her younger sister - Rhona.

When they disembarked, hauling the boat over the pebbles and hard sand, scraping and grating as they went, the storyteller and the queen went to their people and left. Broehain didn’t watch them go.

Mairead and Rhona were already tucked up in their bedrolls, closest to the hearth. Mairead curled around her sister. Knees drawn up under Rhona’s bare and grubby feet. Standing in the doorway, looking at them, Broehain felt something in him tremble, threatening to break. He turned away from them and stepped out into the night.

He took his bow and quiver, climbed the small rise behind his home, and hunkered down in the dry, sparse grass with his pipe. Broehain watched the curve of the road, in the distance. The mountains high above, lit up in silver and blue by the light of the moon.

Even in the dark he saw a few caravans and wagons. A slow procession of horses and humanity, ferrying their worldly goods to Pyllwic, to sell or to stow in the holds of their fat bottomed ships. Broehain watched those ungainly vessels bob past his home, some days, and wondered how they didn’t capsize. Weighed down in the water by the sheer quantity of their cargo.

He heard their voices. His ears twitching at the sound. Saw a few heads turn his way. They wouldn’t be able to see him, not in this dark. Their eyes were dim, where his were keen. He cupped his hand around the bowl of his pipe, masking the glow. Those watching eyes slipped away from him, returning to the road ahead.

Not today, then.

But soon.

He felt it on the wind.

‘Father,’ Mairead said.

Broehain jerked his head up from the netting he was fixing. Her bright eyes were looking over his shoulder, at something coming down from the road. Rhona, beside her, stood up. Eyes bright, always keen for some new adventure, some strange thing to happen.

He stood and turned.

Riders peeled off the road. Four of them. The one in the fore was all dressed up in furs and fine fabrics. A bronze chain around his throat, almost lost in the fat, sunburned folds of his neck. The man had a smile on his face. A smile that filled Broehain’s belly with ice and bile. Behind him were warriors. Armed. Missing teeth, or bits of ear, or strips of flesh from their faces.

‘Take your sister inside,’ he said.

He heard Rhona take in a sudden lungful, prepared to scream and shriek and stamp her feet in the sand. Mairead clamped a hand over her sister’s mouth and lifted her, before scuttling indoors. Broehain looked back at the nets, half mended, behind him.

There’d be no work today.

No work. No food.

Shit.

The thought gave him just enough anger to hold him firm. Keep him upright. He’d be having some words, soon. Words that could see him and his girls dead in the water or tossed out into the night to wander and starve.

The sun flashed on the fat man’s chain, in time with the rise and fall of his horse’s gait.

‘Help you?’ Broehain called.

The riders came to a halt. Their mounts, frustrated with the sudden stop, tramped and stamped and wheeled while their riders fought to control them. All save the fat man. He had the money for a good horse. Meek and mild. It stopped when it was asked, and he sat on it like you’d sit in a plush and comfortable chair.

‘Perhaps you can, my good sir, perhaps you can,’ the fat man said.

Broehain hated him already.

The fat man’s escort had taken charge of their horses and sat leering and staring at him. Gap-toothed sneers promising violence. Broehain cursed himself for not keeping weapons to hand. First time in a long time.

‘My name is-’ the fat man began.

‘Don’t want your name. What do you want?’

The fat man’s left eye twitched. But he masked it with a smile.

‘Charming place you have here,’ the fat man said.

‘It’s mine.’

‘Wonderful views of the sea.’

‘It’s mine.’

‘Really?’ the fat man’s smile spreading like oil on water, ‘I thought you Aos Sí didn’t believe in property.’

‘This one does. We done?’

The gap-toothed bastard on the left leaned forward in his saddle and said, ‘You’d best listen to the boss man.’

‘Really, Gib,’ the fat man shook his head, ‘There’s no need. No need at all.’

Gib didn’t blink. Kept on staring at Broehain. Broehain stared back.

‘I’ve come with a proposition,’ the fat man said. ‘Perhaps we could speak, in doors?’

‘Don’t care for propositions, and I like you just where you are.’

Again, the eye twitch. A slight twitching at the lips.

‘There’s no need to be so hostile,’ the fat man sighed. ‘We’re here as friends.’

‘Humans always come as friends,’ Broehain said. ‘Then they stay as conquerors.’

‘The old ways-’ the fat man began, shaking his head.

‘The always. Take your flunkeys and go.’

All the friendliness and charm vanished. The fat man gave him a hard stare. Broehain hadn’t marked the darkness in his eyes until that moment. Seeing it made him wish for his bow. The fat man sat, unblinking, before shrugging and turning his horse.

Gib gave him a last, long look. Smiling. Then he turned and followed the others.

Broehain watched them go. Four riders fading into a dust cloud, to join a larger caravan that waited, watching, on the road. Had to be another eight out there. Armed, as shifty as the rest of them. He watched them mount up and set off down the road, some looking back at him and talking to each other. Heard a few laugh.

He watched them go with his fists shaking at his sides.

For the next few days and nights, Broehain took to going about his day and his work with his bow and quiver with him. He made no trips out onto the water. Focused, instead, on whittling and forming the oddments and trinkets the townsfolk liked to barter for and cultivating what few crops they could grow on the harsh sands and dry earth.

Mairead watched him, watching the road. Starting and rising at every little noise out there. Rhona carried on as always. Half-attentive to her task. Often distracted by birds, or the sounds of the waves, or the glinting of the sun on the water. It did nothing to help Broehain’s mood when he looked around for her and found her missing. Only to then later discover her rolling down sand dunes. The golden granules sifting through her hair.

But they didn’t come.

Each hour they did not come, the tension and the sickness in his belly tightened and grew heavier. It wore him down. Put a twitch and a shake in his long fingers. Robbed of their usual intelligence, he fumbled at his task until he gave up altogether. He took to sitting and watching the road, chewing at his pipe without lighting it.

‘Father,’ Mairead said.

Broehain twitched, near bit clean through his pipe. He took it from his mouth and grunted, still watching the road. It was empty.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Dunno. Nothing good.’

‘What did those men want?’

‘Everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘The houses, the land, the jetty. All of it. Mostly, I think they want us gone.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re an eyesore. People see us from the road, on their way to town, and they forget the lie they’ve been swallowing. The lie that Pyllwic was built by human hands. They look at us and they remember that town is built on a graveyard. They look at us and remember what it cost the Aos Sí, for humanity to gain access to the sea.’

‘They going to hurt us?’

Broehain said nothing to this. Took arrows from his quiver and planted them, point first, in the sand and drew his bow across his knee. The wind stirred. Tousled his long hair, throwing it across his face. Mairead looked at him for a time, chewing her lower lip.

‘If they come, I’ll take Rhona. I’ll take Rhona and run.’

‘Run where?’ Broehain said, ‘There’s nowhere left for us.’

‘I could go to Fréimhe.’

‘Fréimhe didn’t help when they threw the Aos Sí into the bay. They didn’t help when those bastards did for your mother. No. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. If they come, we die here.’

Mairead couldn’t look at him. She turned her eyes to the road, found it hateful, and looked to the mountains beyond. She heard him stir, beside her. The ruffle of his clothing as he turned in his seat to look up at her.

‘Mairead,’ he said.

She wouldn’t look at him.

‘If they come, I will kill every last one of them. But they’ll send more. They’ll send soldiers, Mairead. They’ll take me in irons or hang me by the roadside there. They’ll take the land anyway.’

‘Then why don’t we leave? We can start again, somewhere else.’

Broehain said nothing. Said nothing for a long time. The wind stirred the sands about him, and it stung Mairead’s eyes to be there with him. So she left. Trudged back to the house, to see to Rhona. Broehain didn’t leave his perch until the sun slipped behind the mountains, but he didn’t put his bow down.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

When he was on watch, Broehain saw a wagon crack an axle. The road was poor in places. Uneven. Its surface giving way to sudden dips and rises. He saw the wagon dip suddenly with a crash. Its driver gave a cry. A few crates spilled out, to split and splinter on the hard ground. The horses screamed at the sudden shift in weight.

Broehain didn’t move.

He lit his pipe when the drive jumped down and stood, hands clawing at his hair, as he stared at the devastation. It was still a good fifteen miles into town. If they tried to walk it, when they returned the wagon would be picked clean. The horses either stolen or butchered for their meat.

Broehain saw the same thoughts pass through the driver’s mind as they looked up the road, and then back to their wagon. Even at a distance he could hear them mutter and curse.

‘What’s the man doing?’ Rhona said, beside him. She plonked down on the sand, knocking up a small cloud. Broehain cupped his hand over the bowl of his pipe to shield it from the sand.

‘He’s broken his wagon, child.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Hrm,’ Broehain stuck the pipe back between his teeth. 

‘You going to help him?’

‘No. I don’t think I will.’

‘But dad, you always say to help those that need helping.’

‘I always say, do I?’

‘Well. Sometimes. Not lately.’

‘What’ve I been saying lately?’

‘Nothing,’ Rhona kicked her feet and gouged deep hollows in the sands with her heels. She said nothing for a time. Then, ‘Those men, are they coming back?’

‘Probably.’

‘You going to hurt them?’

‘If I have to.’

‘Do you feel bad about it, when you hurt them?’

Broehain clicked his tongue, held the pipe clear of his mouth, and frowned. He’d never really thought about it.

‘Sometimes,’ he said.

‘Like?’

‘Like when people are just being stupid. They make me hurt them. I feel bad about that.’

‘What about the other times?’

‘The other times, I do what I have to. It keeps us in that house, with this land. No one can make us go.’

‘I feel bad when you hurt them.’

‘You’re still little. You haven’t had time to work it all out yet.’

‘I feel bad about that man.’

‘What man?’

‘The one with the wagon,’ she said. Then, without warning, she flung her arms around his neck, kissed his brow, and then lurched to her feet and skipped off back towards the house.

Broehain watched her go, mouth hanging open, wondering just what the hell had happened. But then he looked over at the road, at the wagon driver who crouched beside the sundered axle. The driver had folded his arms over his knees and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Broehain imagined he was crying. The driver probably had his whole life in that wagon. Everything he had to sell.

Broehain stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. When the thought of going over to help didn’t clear, he shook it again. It didn’t change anything.

‘Fuck it,’ he said, jamming the pipe in his belt pouch and taking up his bow and quiver.

‘Alright there?’ Broehain called from across the sand. He’d crossed three-quarters of the distance, and when the driver lifted his head from his arm, he could see the red puffiness of the driver’s eyes.

The driver saw his bow first, then his face. He stood up, lurched back against the side of the wagon hard enough to tip it a little.

‘Oh fuck,’ the driver said, ‘One of you.’

‘One of me?’

‘Aos Sí. Please, I don’t have much. Please just leave me be.’

Broehain stopped, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and thought about turning around and leaving him there with a broken axle. But then he remembered Rhona, and the way she’d sounded a few minutes before. He shook his head.

‘I’m not looking to rob you. I came to help.’

The driver’s eyes narrowed. Then they flitted, left and right. Taking in the full width and breadth of the road. Looking for others.

‘It’s just me,’ Broehain said.

‘You say that. Everyone knows how you lot hide and sneak about.’

‘Fuck this,’ Broehain sighed through his nose, ‘I came to help fix your wagon. Fix it yourself.’

‘Wait.’

‘No.’

‘Please. I’m- sorry.’

Broehain looked at him for a time, thought of Rhona, then shrugged and said, ‘Let’s take a look at her then.’

While he was crouched and probing at the splintered and bent axle, the driver took to talking.

‘You one of them fellers? Like whossname from Lammersby?’

‘Like who?’

‘I forget.’

‘Then no.’

‘I thought you could like, talk to it. The wood. Make it better.’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘Lost the knack.’

‘Oh.’

‘Mhm.’

Broehain didn’t know why he lied. True, he had not spoken to wood for some time. Nor stone or metal, or any of it. He worked with his hands. Like the humans. So far from his own kind, it left him feeling lesser. More- weighty. Something dense and inert that shuffled about on the ground, when he should be taking to the air. Light as anything.

Still, he wrapped his handles around the axle and made a show of inspecting it up close. But he spoke to it, quietly. The wood trembled at his touch. Quivered. Each vibration spoke of aches and suffering. Of long days and nights trundling along broken roads. He’d forgotten what it was like. It brought tears to his ears.

Its suffering was his suffering. Its pain was his pain. He shut his eyes. Could barely hear the driver wittering at his ankles.

But the wood knit together. It unbent. It still quivered and shook, but less so. Stilling and quietening little by little.

Broehain fought to control his breathing. Blinked back tears.

Then said, ‘I think that’ll get her a little ways,’ before crawling back out from underneath the wagon. He palmed the dust and dirt on his trousers and sat there, gasping a little.

‘Thank you,’ the driver said, ‘I never met an Aos Sí before. I shouldn’t have said all that.’

‘You said what you said,’ Broehain sighed, ‘But you still needed help. Look, the patch job won’t last you till town. But I live a little ways, over by the water. How about we take her there, and I’ll fix her up something proper?’

The driver stared at him for a moment. Turned to look across the sand, licked his lips. Broehain could see the struggle in him. His instinctive fear of the Aos Sí. Suspicion about betrayal. Fear of being led into an ambush. 

But at the same time, Broehain had helped him for nothing.

The driver took a deep breath, then nodded.

‘Hop on up, I’ll drive,’ he said.

The wagon struggled through the sand, but the horses that pulled it were strong and confident and sure-footed. They picked their way carefully across the sand, and through sheer determination hauled the wheels over the unlikely terrain.

Rhona took to the stranger immediately.

Silent as a shadow, she came running across the sand and slipped aboard the wagon. She crawled across the remaining crates and sacks and bundles, to crouch behind the driver’s seat.

‘I’ve never seen a wagon before,’ she said.

The driver about died. He screamed and dropped the reins, but the horses knew what they were about and forged on without direction or encouragement. Broehain laughed.

‘Child, you know better.’

‘I’ve never seen a wagon before.’

‘Well now you have.’

The driver stared at her, eyes wide, mouth open. Not making a noise, save a subtle sucking and blowing of air that whistled through his open lips.

‘Is he okay?’ Rhona said, ‘Did he fall and hit his head?’

‘He’s fine, you just scared him a little.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ Rhona said. ‘Dad says I shouldn’t come sneaking up on people that don’t expect it. But I’ve never seen a wagon before. It’s really pretty. Are those your horses? I like horses. I want to have a horse of my own one day, but dad says it’s wrong to keep horses. Says they were strong and noble things once, but now they’re stupid and don’t know anything anymore. Why do you own horses?’

The driver stared at her, opened mouthed, nodding along to the rhythm of her words but not taking in an ounce of meaning. Broehain shook his head and gave her a nudge.

‘Leave him be.’

Rhona dropped back amongst the driver’s goods and set about singing and humming to herself. The driver took up his reins again, but sat shaking his head, not looking at anyone. They drew up among the shacks, at the foot of the jetty. Mairead came to meet them.

She looked at the driver once, then at Broehain.

Broehain shrugged.

‘Axle’s broke. I said he could come by for a bit,’ he said. 

‘Father-’

Broehain held up a hand, and she fell silent.

‘It’s alright Mair. Take him inside, fix him a cup, and I’ll see to the wagon.’

The driver looked at him. Eyes about bulging out of his sockets. Aos Si children are rare. Each new generation arriving with every growth of the Great Oak above the city of Freimhe, a limit borne of the Aos Si’s fear of expanding beyond their means. The Oak grew slow, only advancing far enough for a new generation once every seventy years or so. For a human to see a single Aos Si child was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

To see two- that was something else. 

The driver didn’t know that Mair and Rhona had been born and raised above ground. Broehain himself had been born out of season. He and his parents had been invited to leave, with no hope of ever returning. The years of solitude and isolation flickered behind Broehain’s eyes as he studied the driver’s reaction.

Broehain smiled and clapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘It’s fine. Go in.’

The driver nodded, scooted down from his seat, and followed Mairead indoors. When the door shut, he heard Mairead speaking to the driver softly. As if to a frightened and startled animal that she had to coax into safety. Broehain watched and listened for a little while before shaking his head.

‘Are they all that strange?’ Rhona said, behind him. Chin propped up on the backrest of the driver’s seat.

Broehain twisted to look at her. Put a hand to her head and kissed her brow.

‘Most of them. Yeah.’

Then he clucked to the horses and steered the wagon closer to the storage shed.

The axle was fine. He’d fixed it on the road but didn’t want word that an Aos Sí craftsman was living on the shore. Broehain didn’t want the attention, so he made a show of taking nails and tack and all sorts and lying under the wagon for a bit. Banging a hammer. He didn’t see the driver until sunset.

The driver came out of the shack with a steaming cup of hot cider. He stood by Broehain’s feet for a while, just looking at him, then looking out to sea.

‘Those your daughters, in there?’ the driver said.

‘Yup.’

‘Where’s their mother?’

Broehain stopped, then drew himself out from under the wagon. The driver staggered back, probably afraid Broehain was about to hit him. But Broehain just sat, one wrist dangling over his knee while he watched the waves.

‘She died.’

‘Oh.’

‘Some folk came one night, few years back. Tried to steal anything that weren’t nailed down. I did for two of them with my bow, but one of them got ahold of her. Dragged her out across the sands. I followed them, for three days. Then I found her. Throat cut. He just left her there.’

‘Shit.’

‘I found him, an hour or two later. Cut him up so bad he looked like something the wolves got at. I was so out of my head with anger- I hated him. Hated him more than I hated anything else. But I left her there, behind me. With no one to say kind words, to cry over her. I just left her there on the sand, I was so fixed on killing him. When I went back her body was gone. Reckon the tide took it.’

The driver nodded and said nothing. The crashing of the waves filled the gulf of silence between them. He offered his mug of hot cider, and Broehain took it. Drank deep and sighed.

‘Got a wife and two daughters of my own, back home,’ the driver said, ‘A little place over by Hoddershill. It’s not much but it’s ours, you know?’

Broehain nodded.

‘One of my girls is sick. Sick to dying. And we don’t have anything that can help her, but there’s a healer in Hodderton. Trouble is I can’t afford him. So, I packed up whatever we had to sell, and I was taking it to Pyllwic.’

Broehain nodded. But the driver didn’t say anything more. After a few moments, Broehain looked up and saw the driver was crying. Eyes closed, chin tucked to his chest, hands by his side just shaking and shaking and shaking.

The driver took a great whooping breath and said, ‘I got word they died. All of them. Whatever sickness were in my girl, it got into all of them. A neighbour wrote to me, while I stopped off in Aurora. They’re all dead, and I just keep going and going and going to Pyllwic. Because if I stop, then I remember. And if I remember I get to thinking I should go home.’

Broehain offered the mug back, but the driver wasn’t looking at him.

‘If I go home, I have to bury them. If I have to bury them, I have to see that they’re dead. I have to tell myself that they’re dead. And then what do I do after? Do I sit there, in our place, with nothing and no one? Just me and the silence. Just me and the places where they should be.’

The driver sniffed. Palmed tears and snot from his face and shook his head, laughing a little.

‘I’m sorry. You and your girls have been good to me, and I’ve not spoken to anyone for a long time.’

‘It’s fine,’ Broehain said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

The driver nodded. Fresh tears ran free and dripped from his chin. Then he gasped and looked out to sea, blinking and coughing to clear his throat.

‘Your girl, Mairead?’

Broehain nodded.

‘She said you’ve got some trouble. Please don’t be angry with her, she wanted to know if I could do anything.’

Broehain looked at him, then took his own turn to sigh and shake his head.

‘We’ve always got trouble, out here. This is no different than before. Some rich fuck wants my land, and is prepared to kill me and my girls for it.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’

‘I can kill them. But then more will come, with more arms, more violence. I don’t have arrows for them all.’

The driver nodded, then licked his lips.

‘Look. You don’t know me from anybody. But you’ve helped me, helped me after I said all that awful shit. I want to help. I’m not much good with a bow. Never held a sword, or nothing my whole life. But I want to help.’

Broehain met his eye. Met his eye and thought about telling him no. But he thought of his girls, in doors, trying to sleep but plagued by nightmares. Every night since the fat man had come, he’d heard them whimper and twitch in their blankets. He’d give anything to make that stop.

‘Okay. But on one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘Something happens to me, you take those girls, and you take them home. You look after them like they’re your own.’

‘That’s a lot to ask-’

‘I’m not asking,’ Broehain said. ‘I’m not going to be here much longer. This world it – there’s nothing for me here. And I have nothing for it. It’ll chew me up and spit me out into the water there, and those girls will have nothing. Do you know how much Aos Sí girls go for?’

The driver didn’t say anything. Didn’t even blink. But Broehain saw the darkness creep into his face.

‘Yeah,’ Broehain said. ‘They’ll take them. Won’t kill them outright. They’ll just ship them elsewhere, to whoever’s got a taste for it. That’s worse than death. Worse than anything, ‘cause they’ll break them apart. Separate them and then hurt them and use them then kill them when they’re all used up. So you take them with you. You take them and you run and you give them a good life.’

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Do you need it?’

‘I’d like to hear it.’

Broehain snorted and shook his head, then offered his hand.

‘Broehain.’

‘Barrett.’

‘Well then, Barrett. Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Alright then.’ Broehain nodded, then dropped onto his back and closed his eyes with a sigh. ‘I’d recommend getting some sleep. Won’t be long till they come back.’

Barrett watched him for a bit. Watched him until Broehain started snoring softly. Then he took his mug and went inside.

The fat man didn’t show, but Gib and six others did. All strewn over the backs of their saddles like they were half asleep or bored already. Wearing filthy leathers and dented ring mail showing rust. Some had axes, others had swords. There wasn’t a bow between them, and Broehain was glad.

It gave him an edge.

Mairead and Rhona tried to leave the house, but he shooed them back in. Took his bow and quiver and strapped a short sword around his waist.

‘Stay here. Stay with Barrett. If anything happens, if anything goes wrong, he’ll take care of you.’

‘Dad-’ Mairead began.

‘No. Listen to me now and remember me like I was.’

Broehain kissed them each on the brow. Then opened the door. The sun was high and bright, and the sea blazed and burned before him. Glinting and flashing gold and blinding. He nodded to himself, stepped around the house and back up the rise to where he could see the riders.

‘Good afternoon,’ Gib shouted through cupped hands, ‘Must say I’m disappointed to see you.’

Broehain dropped his quiver. Took the arrows out in a fistful and planted them headfirst into the sand. He put one to the string and looked out across the sand at them. The riders kept coming. Some of them smiling. Others grim and hungry for blood.

‘Where’s your boss?’ Broehain shouted.

Gib shrugged.

‘He thought it’d be best if it were just us. Reckoned we could come to an understanding.’

Broehain pursed his lips and nodded. He glanced to the road. Saw a few more riders, stood watching. Maybe four, maybe five. Thought he saw a glint, there, when the wind picked up. A bronze glint.

‘That him on the road?’

Gib glanced back, horse still plodding along, then looked back and shrugged.

‘Could be,’ he called.

Broehain nodded.

He aimed high, drew the fletching to his ear, and let the arrow loose.

It disappeared into the open blue sky. Its iron head flashed once, twice, then gone. The riders stopped. Twisted in their saddles to watch it go. Glib smiled, started to shake his head.

But Broehain had seen that bronze glint, and his aim had never failed him.

One of the riders on the road twisted. A strangled scream on the air. They listed to one side, clawing at the rains, and then thudded headfirst to the road. Their attendants jumped down from their horses and ran to the body.

When Gib looked back at him, his mouth was wide open. He was missing more than a few teeth. The gums black and rotting.

Broehain smiled, took up another arrow.

Gib drew steel and kicked his horse into a charge. A heartbeat later, the rest followed. Axes and swords in hand, they rushed him. Whooping and screaming and roaring. Behind him, Broehain heard the shack door bang open, followed by a flurry of footfalls headed to the wagon by the tool shed.

He nodded to himself. Took a deep, shaking breath.

Fletching to ear.

Arrow to sky.

A rider twisted to the right as the arrow caught him in the throat. A thin arc of blood flecking the sand. They slipped a little from their saddle, but their foot snagged in the stirrup. They dangled, helmeted head bashing and banging on the sand. The horse peeled off from the middle of the group, sowing chaos among the other riders who wrestled and yanked on their own reins.

But Gib kept coming for him.

Broehain fired a couple of arrows straight at him, but nothing seemed to land right. Gib ducked and weaved in his saddle.

They were getting too close.

Switching targets, he took up three arrows. Held two between his teeth and fired one. Hit a rider flush in the eye. They fell straight back, bent at the waist, flat along the horse’s back before falling and thumping to the sand. A moment later he’d fired another, knocked another rider down.

He heard the clopping of hooves behind him, scuffing the sand, as the wagon pulled away from the shed. Thought he heard Rhona call his name but couldn’t let himself think about it. Broehain only had eyes for the riders.

Arrow after arrow.

The riders tumbled from their saddles. But Gib kept coming. Gib kept coming. He got so close, Broehain thought he could smell the rancid man’s breath. Could feel it’s hot, reeking touch on his face.

Gib’s shadow fell over him. Broehain lifted his bow, lengthways. Gib’s sword split the bow and its string down the middle. The tip traced a thin line of fire up the middle of Broehain’s brow and he fell flat on his back.

Gib rode past. Whirled. Made to charge again.

Broehain shook his head, palmed the blood out of his eyes. Drew his short sword but held it low and tight against his body. When the horse came close, he stepped clear of it and Gib’s swing. He cut the saddle straps as the horse swept past, and Gib slipped over and fell to the sand.

Broehain charged him, but Gib was already up. Gib threw a fistful of sand in his face, then drove his shoulder into Broehain’s midriff. The blow knocked him clear off his feet and down hard on his back. His wind left him in a wheezing rush. His lungs spasmed in his chest. Broehain had enough strength to roll clear of Gib’s downward thrust, but when he tried to get up on his feet again, the sand slipped out from under him.

He lost his footing, and fell into an awkward, backwards roll that jammed his chin against his chest and clicked his teeth together.

Gib came after him. Sword wheeling and flashing in the sun. The other riders were gone. Scattered or dead, but neither of them cared. 

Broehain deflected the first swing from a crouch, but the follow-up punch knocked him down again. Gib put a knee to his back, gathered up a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. Broehain hissed at the searing pain in his scalp. Felt the cold edge of the blade kiss his exposed throat.

But he saw, for a moment, the wagon disappearing in a cloud of sand and dust, headed south. He didn’t know if Gib saw it yet, but he wasn’t about to give him a chance. 

Broehain bent at the waist. The blade bit into his throat, bit deep, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. It pulled Gib off balance. Broehain lashed out with his elbow, struck Gib in the side of his knee, and dropped him to the ground.

Blood ran free from the wound in his throat. The cut was deeper than he thought. He could feel it all draining out of his head. His vision swam. The beach bucked and heaved before him, the lights flaring and dimming. But Gib was on the ground, dazed.

So Broehain fell on him. Fell on him and put his calloused hands around the bastard’s throat. Squeezed the rank hot air out of his throat. Stared into his open, choking, toothless mouth and smiled.

His own blood ran fat and heavy and giddy, dripping and pooling on Gib’s chest.

The world dimmed again. Broehain had a brief panic, thinking he’d die right there before finishing the job. Gib kicked and clawed under him. Choking and wheezing. Face purpling, eyes bulging, the whites growing pinker, then redder as the vessels in them burst under the strain.

Broehain bore down, put all of his weight into his hands. His face was close enough to Gib’s that the dying man’s chokes rushed into his ears. Drowned everything else out. There was just him, his hands, and Gib’s throat and the sound of Gib dying under his hands. He squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, until Gib stopped fighting. Until the choking stopped.

Then Broehain fell forward, toppling over. He stared out across the water, set to burning by the light of the sun.

He would never see it set again.

But that was alright.

That was alright.

Because he’d got to see it rise.

#fantasy writing #writeblr #writer stuff #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing #writerslife #writer things #fantasy #short stories #short story #short fiction #fiction writing #fiction #high fantasy #fantasy fiction #fantasy short story #indie author #original fiction #original fantasy

[veggiehotdog1]

Time to promote my fanfic on AO3!

I mostly write TLOU2 fics, but have recently delved into a few short stories based on the HBO series.

I have also written two Colin/Penelope (Polin) Bridgerton poems dedicated to my partner who is a fanfic writer herself.

TLOU2 Fics:

**When the Smoke Clears (aka Story 1)**

My first (and ongoing) fic and my one true love. If you read any, read this one 😊

It's been six years since Ellie and Dina last saw each other. They reconnect as they remember their close childhood friendship and get to know each other again as adults.

Ellie is out of the military and still adjusting to life back in Jackson. She and Abby, who served with her, work on the Miller family cattle ranch. Dina has just moved back to the small town and is eager to reignite old friendships.

Ellie harbors secrets from family and friends as she struggles with addiction and trauma from combat. Dina struggles with her own trauma and how to navigate a relationship with Ellie.

**The Birthday**

JJ and Ellie bond on his birthday

**Allium**

Short poem imagined as Ellie's journal entry. Two images plus descriptor

**The Feast**

Maria nurtures Ellie back to health upon her return from California

**Good Advice Left in Santa Barbara**

Ellie is almost there, she can just feel how close Abby is. It all goes off course when she is taken prisoner by a group who wants something from her. She needs to escape and fast.

** Você é tudo o que eu quero (You are all I want)**

This was supposed to be a relaxing trip, but can Abby and Ellie quell the urge to compete or will it ruin the vacation?

**Kinktober 2022**

Very short, quickly written stories each day of Kinktober. Some stories are erotica, some are straight up smut. Most of them have a bit of plot too. Specific tags in beginning notes of each chapter.

**Mild and Spicy**

A mysterious stranger has been frequenting a food truck where a worker has caught her eye.

**Light My Cigarette and Engulf Me in Flames**

Two strangers meet at a lesbian bar in 1950s Seattle and share a dance.

**My Heart Longs for Home: Part 1**

A home is a person, a place, a sense of belonging and love.

The couple navigates their relationship after Ellie's return from Santa Barbara.

A push for deeper intimacy, and a pull away. Dina's persistence finally breaks through Ellie's powerful intrusive thoughts and avoidance.

**My Heart Longs for Home: Part 2**

The couple returns to the farmhouse to revisit memories and build trust. Plot continuation from part 1, but can stand alone if only want to read this part. Starts out with plot and ends with just pure smut.

HBO's TLOU fics:

**Princess**

Riley tells Ellie about a horse she rode after sneaking out of the military school. Combines both the events of the tv show and and game DLC Left Behind.

**First Impressions**

We were shown Ellie's first impressions of Dina. But what did Dina think of Ellie and Joel?

**Dangerous Infection**

The reason for the slo-mo (Episode 5: Endure and Survive) was because two lost souls found each other, drawn like moth to flame in the heat of the moment. Pure gonzo style satire.

Bridgerton Fics:

**How to Say It Best**

A poem about how Colin wants to profess his love for Penelope…until he quickly gets distracted by other thoughts. Inspired by, and poking fun at, how sex is sometimes described in fanfic.

**The Moth and The Light**

Brief poem about Colin's evolving attraction to, and relationship with, Penelope.

#ellie williams #the last of us part 2 #ellie tlou #tlou2 #dina tlou #ellie x dina #dinellie #ao3 fanfic #ao3fic #elliedina #dellie #the last of us hbo #the fanfic of us #tlou hbo #hbo tlou fanfic #tlou2 fanfic #tlou dina #bridgerton #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #polin fanfiction #bridgerton fanfiction

[wttf-if]

OMG I LOVE THIS! Can you give me facts about the ROs?!

hi jaune and thank you so much skjhfshdkfhksdf! and yes, yes I can give you some facts! This is a bit of a long boi, so read more under the cut!

Irina has a bunch of voodoo dolls that looks like her family, and she sometimes dresses them up with textiles from the tailor shop in Idovale.

Irina has a ton of journals with poems that she has made, but she's a touch embarrassed by them. The last person who has seen them was Uncle Pocket when he found one of her journals in the hallway. No-one knows where he went after that.

Irina carries a ton of decorative knives in her pocket, and she's very dexterous with her knife-throwing. Her last knife was gifted to her by her father.

Valentin individually named all the bats that live in the attic, so if you hear him calling some names, that's the bats. Probably.

He's the, ironically, the one who's the most socially acceptable in society that can speak with others normally. He hates it.

Valentin gets all of his romance from books in the library and his father's advice. One time, he tried to court someone by riding on a horse. The problem was is that he couldn't find a horse in time, so Nicolae carried him and he asked the person if they wanted to date, while staying in Nicolae's arms. This failed spectacularly.

Nicolae once mentioned to Adrian that he loves to take care of plants, because plants were his friends when he was growing up. Adrian immediately bought a large greenhouse and immediately gifted to him, and asked Nicolae to house every plant he wants to grow in there.

Nicolae often sleeps under the sun when he has free-time. He finds the sunlight soothing.

Nicolae can play the violin, and he plays it when the family requests it. He's in the middle of composing a song dedicated to the Varias family.

Ash tried all manners of pocky, but they love the chocolate-flavored ones the most. Yes. They have eaten every kind of pocky in existence. Adrian helped procure some of them with his contacts, co-workers, and business partners. Their second favorite is the strawberry-flavored one.

Ash was Adrian's friend since they were in Middle School, and it was them who helped Adrian get together with Rozalia. They die a little inside whenever they remember the 'trials and tribulations' the two went through just so Adrian can ask for Rozalia's hand.

Ash wanted to be a detective like their dad, and they were gifted a pocket-watch from him as a graduation gift.

Li cannot wake up on their own. And because they hate coffee, they'll often drink tea to help wake themselves up. Prison doesn't carry any tea, so they usually have to bribe the officers for some. They jump for joy whenever the Varias family sends them some pre-packaged tea.

When Li was a child, they loved to watch the moon. They still like to watch the moon now, and actually had requested to be in a prison cell where they're able to see the moon.

Li's feelings changes a lot, and it really depends on their mood. One time, they chased down a small bunny for fun. They eventually got bored of it and made a small house for it, and left afterwards to find some lettuce because they wanted to. That poor bunny was left very confused.

??? likes to eat sweet food. They find the taste to be refreshing. They will die the moment their tongue hits anything spicy.

??? doesn't like people. They prefer to be near animals.

??? is cynical, but still believes that somewhere out there, there will be someone who can have your back. They have yet to meet that person.

#ask #ro ask #wttf #wttf if #ro: valentin varias #ro: irina varias #ro: nicolae dimir #ro: l roman #ro: a blackmore #edited it because i hated that the bullets are literally all stuck in a single place-

[eruverse]

What does Mongolia like to do when he meets up with others?

With Russia, Kazakhstan, and Turkey. Not an exhaustive list since there are soo many things people can do together!!

Russia:

When Mongolia and Russia get together, it’s guaranteed that they would end up drinking. Mongolia usually would serve his guests milk vodka or shimiin arkhi, but with alcohol content of 20% at most (and that’s when the ayrag it’s made from is especially sour, as milk vodka is usually about 10% instead) it’s definitely too mild for Russia and in all honesty him as well since they would be drinking in order to get drunk, so Mongolia would serve Russia regular vodka (40%) or something else stronger. Even with stronger liquors, these two also don’t get drunk so easily since they have crazily high tolerance. If they’re doing drinking challenges, perhaps it would be a tie!!

Russia is generally relaxed around Mongolia, but a tipsy or drunk Russia would waste no time to immediately climb onto Mongolia’s lap and butt his head on his strong torso like a cat seeking affection. This is a pretty common occurrence with them, yes. Ivan loves that even though Mongolia’s much shorter than him, his chest is still large enough to give him a proper embrace as he loves feeling small and huggable (he sometimes hates being 2 meter tall for this reason lol). Mongolia would then ruffle Ivan’s soft downy hair a lot and lull him to sleep like a smol bebe. Yes, Ivan loves it lol.

Chess, with Russia generally packing more wins. Mongolia isn’t actually bad, but Russia is much better and professional level.

Russia loves horses, so Mongolia would take him to see his many horses!! Mongolia doesn’t actually own all of them of course, as at best he only has a few horses himself — but he thinks of everything in the steppe as his by default. Russia would ride some of the horses, but in all honesty his 202 cm self looks rather awkward on short Mongolian horses even though they’re really strong, ahah. He would also unthinkingly recite poems with horses and nature with them, like the ones from Yesenin, and Mongolia would comment that those poems aren’t even actually about horses in the end. Then Mongolia would tell him bits from his own folktales surrounding horses.

Ivan also loves seeing all kinds of rural animals as it reminds him of his childhood in barely developed Russian cities during Golden Horde era, so Mongolia takes him to see the nomads in the countryside when the time of his visits coincides with birthing lambs and goats, castrating lambs or horses, or branding horses.

Mongolia might still be able to speak Russian since he’s practically a boomer (usually it’s the older generations in Mongolia who are able to speak Russian), but he’s no longer super fluent in it that he’s still able to read difficult classics. Still good for a conversation, of course.

They would watch ballet and opera sometimes, but the highlight of Mongolia’s day in regards to this is when Ivan would do ballet moves in public out of nowhere, like how an oblivious child does as he is enjoying himself. It makes a great spectacle in the square whenever it happens.

They would also rave about rifles and firearms from Russian Empire/Soviet era and even modern day ones. Mongolia used to have prized possessions of firearms and rifles like Nagant, Mosin-Nagant and Tokarev, and today he also owns rifles for hunting.

Kazakhstan

Kazakhstan usually comes to visit Mongolian Kazakhs in Western Mongolia, and Mongolia would accompany him. Why yes, Kazakhstan is also his translator at times lol since Mongolia isn’t fluent in Kazakh. Not that all Mongolian Kazakhs can’t speak Mongolian (Kazakhs who live around Mongols typically speak it just fine) but Kazakhs who extensively live around Kazakhs like in Bayan-Ulgii which is 91% Kazakh might be having language problems.

Bayan-Ulgii also has a personification, and Kazakhstan would regularly visit him (he looks like a seventeen year old boy). Bayan-Ulgii is quite a curious kid; he feels an affinity to both Kazakhstan and Mongolia but at times would also feel he doesn’t quite belong in either Kazakhstan and Mongolia, so he gets edgy a lot. When he visits Kazakhstan he would miss Mongolia terribly, but when he’s only with Mongolia he would start raving about Kazakhstan. He would resolve his edginess by going out and meet more people, but he’s also unfortunately an introvert lol.

Kazakhstan loves watching eagle hunting by Mongolian Kazakhs. This is an art that’s mostly lost in Kazakhstan, but still kept alive by Mongolian Kazakhs. Kazakhs of Mongolia hold Golden Eagle festival every October in Bayan-Ulgii, and Mongolia and Bayan-Ulgii would invite Kazakhstan to come watch. But of course, the festival is mainly for tourism purposes so it might not convey the whole thing about eagle hunting, therefore Kazakhstan would stay with Kazakh nomads when he has the time and hunt together with them for nostalgia.

Wrestling!! Both Mongolia and Kazakhstan have deep wrestling culture (in Mongolian, called bökh; in Kazakhstan, kuresi). When they wrestle with each other though Mongolia usually wins because he has a wrestler physique which Kazakhstan doesn’t possess.

They love discussing about motorcycles and occasionally cars. Kazakhstan especially loves them since he lives in Almaty and has come to see motorcycles as replacement for horses (but of course, he still is an excellent horserider. It’s just that he has less opportunities to do that in Kazakhstan compared to in Mongolia). Anyway, the motorcycles Kazakhstan owns/has owned are the ultra expensive kinds that have Mongolia bulge out his eyes when he realizes how much those would cost. Those are motorcycles Mongolia doesn’t even dream to have since 1) he doesn’t have as much money 2) he lives more frugally than Kazakhstan who’s indeed more materialistic.

Archery hunting and wolf seeing. This they often make into some kind of a competition, like whoever hunts foxes, marmot, or other small animals the most with the bow would win. Sometimes they would come close with wolves (good omen!!), or even accompany nomads during wolf hunting.

Why yes, they also sometimes gossip about their two giant neighbors over drinks.

If Kazakhstan and Mongolia make drinking into competition, Mongolia would win 7 times out of 10. But then he has to deal with the disaster drunk that is Kazakhstan, lol. He’s dealt with this hidden (almost realest) side of Kazakhstan for at least a few times.

Kazakhstan loves to eat horses so whenever he visits Mongolia makes sure that he has more horse on the menu than other stuff. Very considerate of him.

Cooking and eating together in the wild, because why not? Of course, often it’s with Bayan-Ulgii. Like a picture of a good family lol.

Camping!!! Also stargazing. The stars are such important aspects in Kazakh and Mongol myth as they believe souls are transformed into stars, and thus shooting stars are bad omen. When they catch them, Kazakhs would wish for their stars to be higher and Mongols would wish that it’s not their stars but somebody else’s.

Turkey (thanks @justknocking for inspiring me on this!!)

Turkey is a BIG nerd about Turkish/Turkic history or even other people’s history especially when they relate to Turkish history, and since a bulk of historical Turkic monuments and other findings are with Mongolia he likes to visit the man just for that alone. They like to visit the Orkhon valley and look around the monuments together, as the area was once a deeply sacred place for them both as a Turk and a Mongol. While they’re at it they would visit the ruins of Karakorum and maybe go to Erdene Zuu monastery. There are also many other Turkic monuments and tombs all over so they would take cross country trips just to see them!! As Turkey is also interested in ancient Mongol archeological findings like the Slab Grave culture and deer stones, they would also make this into their itinerary.

Turkey LOVES Mongolia’s dog and playing with him, and in turn Mongolia likes watching him be affectionate with his dog. Turkey also loves ALL the street cats in Mongolia and scoffs at the fact that Mongolia’s cat culture is basically nonexistent (after all, no one treats cats and dogs better than he does!)

Turkey doesn’t much enjoy visiting or staying with the nomads since he’s a man spoiled by urban luxuries, and Mongolia shakes his head at that because Turkey has a proud nomadic lineage so he’s not supposed to just forsake nomadic living like that. Turkey would tell him it’s not that he dislikes the nomadic ways, but rather its the peasant way of living he’s not fond of. He likes the lifestyle of nomadic royals just fine. Mongolia would then roll his eyes at Turkey’s cheekiness.

Mongolia’s mostly stopped smoking these days, but he still enjoys seeing people smoke (and be a passive smoker, yes) and would occasionally smoke together with them, making it some kind of a social smoking. Turkey isn’t actually a heavy smoker himself but he would smoke leisurely at times using a special carved pipe, and whenever they meet up they would have long talks over cigs or even share Turkey’s pipe together. They would also kiss smoke into each other’s mouth, which both find tremendously sexy.

Turkey is fond of jewelries and wears some on his body; so these came from his own treasury from when he was an empire, and are worth crazy number of dollars today. He should’ve sold them off but he is rather territorial about them, as they remind him of his glory days and wearing them makes him feel like he’s still the same great thing back then? That’s what Mongolia thinks anyway, who knows the real truth. Anyway, he still has plenty from his treasury, and seeing Mongolia so spartan and frugal he once gifted him bejeweled golden earrings sort of similar to the ones he wore long ago during medieval era. Mongolia almost never wears them, but he still keeps them safely and will probably never sell them. As he doesn’t like feeling indebted, he gifted Turkey afterwards an engraved leather bracelet dotted with precious metal he made with his own hands from start to finish. It clashed with Turkey’s other jewelries, but he was very much pleased with it and wears it a lot.

They spar a lot, and they love it. It takes them back to the time they were just young nomads frolicking about the steppe, even though they never actually met as young children; and even though Turkey didn’t remember any time of his life in the Eastern steppe where his ancestors came from. They are not even related, not even neighbors; and yet, they feel a lot familiar like kins.

#hetalia #aph mongolia #aph turkey #aph kazakhstan #aph russia #hws mongolia #hws kazakhstan #hws turkey #hws russia #oc kazakhstan #russia my love #my headcanon

[webheadedhero]

29. Who are your favourite characters?

MUNDAY RP MEMES 

okay well to no one's surprise, obviously the goat himself: pete. I could go on about why him but that'd be an essay.

but lets see, I'll name five others. this got long so i'ma put it under a read more.

tim drake aka robin aka red robin. he was actually the first character I ever wrote, I adore him. I love how damaged he is and he's so much fun to write in contrast to pete. pete who's outgoing, friendly, warm, etc. and tim is just cold, calculating, almost a sociopath fjaskljdlf.

katara from ATLA. I mean, how can you not love her growth from teaching herself the art and then going through the struggle in a sexist society and proving herself capable? I love seeing her slow growth from barely able to hold up a ball of water to becoming the most powerful water bender we've seen in the show. I actually really like how she keeps her caring side, but she has an edge to her too. she has her limits of what she's willing to do for someone and what she'll let go of.

luke skywalker. I know, kinda basic but what can I say? farmboy being thrust into a galactic conflict, finding out that he has a connection to the main villain. also the way he was so determined to turn anakin back to the light, his growth from being a whiny brat to being a stone cold badass?? I love his conflicts and struggles in the later books too. I love him bringing the jedi order back and reforming it because he learned from the mistakes of the old jedi order (which it was, the jedi order at the prequels was terrible and deserved to be destroyed #palpatinedidnothingwrong) luke trying to find where his jedi order is going to fit into the new galaxy too, learning to be a father and husband and mentor to his nephews and later his son.

samwise from lotr<3 tbh I could've put any of the hobbits on here but sam is just the best man. I love the fact that he's so young at the start of the journey, he's so innocent. you see him getting wowed by things like seeing the trolls turned to stone, i love him making the little poems of stuff that they see throughout their journey in the books. I love the idea that he's willing to go through all of this pain and turmoil with frodo simply because they are friends. it's such a beautiful thing and so heartwarming, the fact that someone is willing to put their life on hold and help someone else simply because of the bond they have as friends. I mean how can you not love the "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you!" like...come on.

another lotr one but gandalf. I love that he's so wise and patient and full of compassion. the fact that he was close with Nienna who's whole thing is making wisdom from grief and sadness and I mean, that's what gandalf takes with him. I love the fact that he sees true strength coming from small, every day acts of kindness. simple things are all it takes to keep darkness at bay and that's something that's so true. you'd be surprised how just being kind and showing a bit of outgoing love can help someone's entire day shift, you never know what people are going through. i mean also the fact that he's a badass wizard. I never understood why there was ever a debate over which kind of wizard you'd wanna be, one from harry potter or lotr? like bRUH FOR REAL? Yeah, lemme go to fucking hogwarts and study and take notes during class and take some fucking wizard SAT-NO! Bruh, I wanna be an immortal spirit who comes down to earth, you wield a sword called the FOE-HAMMER, you ride the king of the horses and you fight hell-demons for three days, kill them and then get all the xp and come back after you leveled up.

#outofquips ; ooc

[seeasunset]

CHARACTER SHEET ―

FULL NAME. Vasco (Preferred name)

Léandre d'Arcy (Real / biological name)

NICKNAME. Captain, Vasc, Vas, Tattoos, sailor.

ALIASES. See above!

PRONOUNS. he / him

HEIGHT. 5'6 (167 cm)

AGE. 27 + (verse dependent)

ZODIAC. Taurus

SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English, Portuguese (both European & Brazilian), Spanish, Japanese, Korean, and many other languages.

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 ―

HAIR. Brunette, though it can be seen almost blonde in some lighting or darker in other types of lighting.ㅤ

FACIAL HAIR. ‎‏‏‎Clean-shaven, unless we're going for older!Vasco.

EYES. Goldish-brown

SKIN TONE. tanned

BODY TYPE. He's not too muscular, but he is built enough to withstand the tossing and roughness when things goes sideways sailing. A bit of muscles throughout his body.

VOICE. ‎‏‏‎Not deep, though he has what is called a west country accent. ‎‏‏‎ ‎

DOMINANT HAND. Right, but he is mbidextrous.

POSTURE. Straight with confidence surrounding him as well as an air of authority. Much like the leader he is.

SCARS. Just small scars you have to look closely at to notice. The biggest one you could see is when he lost his arm during his fleet commander verse.

BIRTHMARKS. Nope.

MOST NOTABLE FEATURES. A mole on the left side of his cheek, sharp yet piercing eyes, tattoos covering his face and down his neck to the rest of his body, earrings on his left ear, and long hair.

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 ―

PLACE OF BIRTH. Modern day: Unknown. In the game, Serene.

HOMETOWN. N/A

SIBLINGS. Bastian D'Arcy (Brother)

Unnamed brother (Twin brother / separate timeline I'm doing with a friend's Vasco)

The Nauts (some being seen as siblings)

PARENTS.

Felisberta D’Arcy (biological mother)

Nicéphore D’Arcy (biological father)

𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ―

OCCUPATION. Sea Captain / Naut's life.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. On the sea / on his ship (Sea-Horse). Depending on the verse, he may have a small apartment / place to go to if he has to go further on land. It also depends on with the person he falls in love with.

CLOSE FRIENDS. De Sardet, Kurt, Aphra, Petrus, Síora, and Constantin. It also is verse dependent for anyone else.

FINANCIAL STATUS. Pretty wealthy.

DRIVER'S LICENSE. Yes, he has one, but he rarely uses it, given he sucks at driving.

CRIMINAL RECORD. Not exactly / complicated. He has petty criminals, but nothing he got caught with. It's mostly clean.

𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ―

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. bisexual.

PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE. ㅤN/A

PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE. switch / bottom

TURN OFFS. Pulling hair (it really depends on his mood), knife play, anything regarding his neck (biting is iffy, but nothing else).

TURN ON'S. Anything regarding his thighs or stomach area, hair pulling (again, it depends).

LOVE LANGUAGE. Acts of service, words of affirmative, & gift giving.

RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. Vasco has a habit of reading a poem or giving something to his lover if it reminds him of them. He's a bit flustered when it comes to such things, but he will go ahead and do it. And much like mentioned before, he does get flustered a lot, especially at the beginning stages of the relationship. He tends to be that supportive and caring boyfriend.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 ―

CHARACTER'S THEME TUNE. Raise the Black Flags - Teminite

HOBBIES TO PASS THE TIME. Reading poems / books, writing his own poems (or just his thoughts / feelings of the day), fishing, walking down the beach, collecting seashells, researching sea animals, and anything sea-related.‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ㅤ

LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. Left brained ㅤ‏‏‎

‎ SELF-CONFIDENCE LEVEL. Complicated. On one hand, Vasco is confident in his skills in many areas if not all. Being a leader, in combat, communicating, etc. At the same time, he is that depressed gifted kid. ‎

Tagged by: Stolen

Tagging: Y'all <3

#『hᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴs﹕』

[shipcestuous]

The bit about Loki accusing Freyr and Freya of incest comes from Lokasenna, one of the poems in the Poetic Edda:

"Loki spake: 32. "Be silent, Freyja! | thou foulest witch, And steeped full sore in sin; In the arms of thy brother | the bright gods caught thee When Freyja her wind set free."

Njorth spake: 33. "Small ill does it work | though a woman may have A lord or a lover or both; But a wonder it is | that this womanish god Comes hither, though babes he has borne.""

(https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe10.htm)

Lokasenna is a poem in the "senna" genre, essentially an exchange of insults in poetic form, where Loki gets drunk and insults all the other gods, one by one, at a feast before being driven away by Thor. It has indeed been questioned how much of what Loki says in it was accepted as part of this or that mythical tradition, or if all if his accusations are made-up wholesome as part of a satirical poetic exercise. However, it's also been read as an expression of Loki as an ambiguous figure (as a jotun who was welcomed among the gods as Odin's blood-brother and friend but may act either for or against the gods and bringing positive or negative changes to their world depending on the myth) able to weave in and out of the gods' in-group, knowing it intimately but also offering an outsider's perspective on it at the same time, thus being able to bring up and expose uncomfortable and harsh truths, and highlighting what can be read as the hypocrisy of the gods, who are held as shining, dignified authorities in certain contexts but have plenty of flaws and make plenty of mistakes in others.

Also, we know for sure that at least SOME things Loki are true, which does cast some level of doubt *on* the doubt we might cast on the others: he accuses Odin of being unmanly (we know that's true because we know he is associated with a type of magic that's always regarded as "womanly" or "unmanly") and Frigg of having slept with both of Odin's brothers (an idea also reported elsewhere, together with the idea of her generally being an adulterer), mocks Tyr for having had his hand bitten off by Fenrir (that's the most important Tyr myth that survived after the Viking Age) and Freyr for giving up his sword (and the advantage it would have given him during Ragnarok) to gain Gerd as a bride (also an attested myth) then Heimdall for his unlucky position as the eternally-watchful sentinel of the gods (his main role in the myths), and claims to have slept with Sif (not *technically* attested, but fits well with Harbardsljod, another senna-type poem, where Thor is told in no uncertain terms that his wife has a lover that she has fun with while he's away from home, and also with Sif having a son, Ullr, who's on record as a *stepson* to Thor). He even admits to killing Balder (true... at the least in the version of the events the poem references) and foretells his own binding.

Then, there's also the fact that, for as many insults as Loki shoots at the gods, the gods fire just as many back, and the majority of those are also true: he's accused of being unmanly (true in many different ways), of having given birth (just look at the myth of the building of the wall of Asgard and how Odin got his horse Sleipnir), and of being unpleasant and sowing discord (... hard to argue with that, especially in context).

A point that should also be considered is that we do know from at least two pieces of writing that the Vanir gods (unlike the Aesir, who forbid it) practice incestuous relationships and even marriages. Specifically, brother/sister ones.

Again from the Lokasenna:

"Njorth spake: 35. "Great was my gain, | though long was I gone, To the gods as a hostage given; The son did I have | whom no man hates, And foremost of gods is found."

Loki spake: 36. "Give heed now, Njorth, | nor boast too high, No longer I hold it hid; With thy sister hadst thou | so fair a son, Thus hadst thou no worse a hope.""

From the Ynglinga Saga, in the context of an euhemerized account of the gods as kings and heroes of old:

"While Njord was with the Vanaland people he had taken his own sister in marriage, for that was allowed by their law; and their children were Frey and Freya. But among the Asaland people it was forbidden to intermarry with such near relations."

(https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/heim/02ynglga.htm)

Personally, I tend not to give too much credit to people who look at the Norse gods doing weird/uncomfortable/gross/very sexual/kinky things and say "oh, but SURELY that must be a satire! A later invention that could NEVER be referencing some older tradition! A slanderous invention! The Christians putting their grubby little hands all over the myths to make the heathen gods look bad, even in the case of authors we know were just trying to preserve their people's history as they knew it or their traditional poetry and were actually more likely to try and ennoble or at least normalize them!" It's true that Germanic people did hold their gods in high regard and pray and sacrifice to them like any other culture, but that doesn't mean they thought of them as perfect, or were never wary of them, or never told stories about them doing things that they themselves wouldn't do.

There is a chance that Freyr and Freya weren't actually thought of as incestuous, and there is a chance they weren't even born out of an incestuous relationship (not only but chiefly due to wonky timelines/topics not being presented in the order we'd normally expect in a certain section of the Prose Edda ... which was written by Snorri Sturluson, the same guy who wrote the Ynglinga Saga, but make of that what you will), but honestly, I just don't see enough evidence to dismiss the material presented in the Lokasenna. Freya is also known as a very proud and headstrong character as well as overly lustful (like in the Hyndluljod poem, where she's accused of having allowed plenty of men under her skirts, or in the late Sorla thattr story, where she agrees to spend one night with each of the four dwarves working on a necklace for her, or in her association with love poetry, which was actually considered so powerful and dangerous, it was sometimes outlawed) so following her desires without caring for a law that's not even really her own doesn't strike me as particularly weird of her.

That's just my opinion, of course! Although, I would argue that, taken at face value and without digging into whatever mythological and literary nuances we might theorize, they ARE canon.

Please forgive the rant, I've always been really into Norse mythology and I actually had a lot of fun doing this little write-up! ^^

[x]

Thank you so much for this! It was wonderful to get a description of the facts from someone who is clearly very knowledgeable on the topic. I think we're all very inclined to agree with your conclusions.

I didn't realize that Loki's accusation against Freya was part of a series of accusations, at least some of which are "confirmed", so to speak. That's very promising indeed.

I only did a tiny bit of research but I did find at least a couple of sources that seemed very biased against Vanir incest, straining to disprove and such. A more open-minded approach might see Frey/Freya considered canon more often.

#asks #anonymous #norse mythology #frey and freya #mythology #r: brosis #commentary #noiv #nr

[arrow-dodger]

My dad's mom died on Saturday. I called her Nanny.

I can't put what I feel into words. I can barely sit down and think about it at all. But I can try to write it just to get it out of my head.

I haven't seen her in years. I've been estranged from that side of my family since I was maybe 22 or 23. To paraphrase, they're bad people. They were emotionally abusive, purposefully cruel, manipulative, selfish and volatile my entire childhood. I don't think either of my grandparents loved me, or even knew how to feel or show love in a way that I would recognize. I don't think they know me or anything about me, nor have they ever tried. The concept of "family" on my dad's side is just an endless loop of people possessing other people.

My mom always told me that since Nanny wasn't a loving person and Pawpaw (her husband) was a serial philanderer, my dad grew up in a household where not only did he have emotionally absent parents, but parents who fucking hated each other. And that's true. My entire life they had separate bedrooms and seemed to loathe one another entirely, but were just together because they had already been together that long, so they might as well ride it out. I know my dad is an adult and a father himself so he should have some kind of blame in his own actions. I just think I resent my grandparents a bit for growing him to be as emotionally absent as they are. My dad is still a little boy hiding under a bed in many ways.

As a person, I would say Nanny was best described as "unhappy." She barely smiled and always had something to fret about. She was always affronted by everything other people did, even if it had nothing to do with her. My mom has many stories of her throwing fits about things as an adult woman. She was critical and high-strung. At the same time, I know she was good natured in some ways. She gave a lot of gifts. She was always there to offer food or do laundry with a particularly challenging stain on it. She watched us as kids often enough and I know she watched her great-grandson (my cousin's kid) a lot too. I wasn't afraid of her as a child and I didn't dislike her, I mostly felt such a distance from her, especially compared to my mom's mom who I have always been very close to.

Every good memory I have with Nanny or that was set in her house ties directly back to some other weird or bad one in my head. I remember decorating Easter eggs with her, using dyes and stickers with crosses and other religious symbols on them, and her snapping at me for putting the stickers on my body because it was sacrilegious. I remember that day we ate Dairy Queen. I assume my sister was there, but we might have been so small that my brother wasn't even born yet. That would be over 20 years ago now. That story is funny because she was by far the most religious person in my family. She collected ceramic angels and claimed that once after she had some kind of surgery, Jesus himself visited her room and she kissed his feet.

I remember breaking one of her glass birds and cutting my hand on it. I remember climbing through her bedroom window because we locked ourselves out. I remember my sister and I playing with our Palm Beach Barbies in the fishing boat in the backyard. I remember mixing "potions" in her second bathroom. I remember her big black dog Magic, who seemed like he was the size of a horse to me because I was so small. I remember watching The Last Unicorn on VHS countless times in her bedroom, with an out-of-order treadmill in front of the bed and images of Christian angels decorating every surface. At her house we had the most random collection of toys, and books about dinosaurs. I always played with the toys in the sink of the big bathroom, the one with the poem about the color purple on the wall, and rummaged the drawers for her lipstick. Her feet were so small I could wear her little gold lamé slippers.

I remember her walking with us to Dollar General and buying us random little toys sometimes. Once I went there with her by myself when I was probably about nine and I remember her going on about how I was prettier than my sister and not to tell her. When I got older and my brother decided he didn't want to come visit my dad anymore because my dad was always drunk and terrifying, I remember Nanny and my aunts talking about how selfish that was of him. My brother, not my dad. And my brother was eleven years old.

I remember getting catalogues and catalogues of childrens' toys to pick from for Christmas. My grandparents and aunts always viewed buying us things as their way of expressing love, and even then it was barely that because it was always held over our heads later. I don't remember my grandparents ever asking me questions about myself or getting to know me. I don't remember them ever hugging me or being physically affectionate besides when we'd say goodbye. I don't remember ever feeling close to them in any way other than by proximity. In fact, most of my memories of going to their house involve them being in other rooms (or Pawpaw being in his shed in the back yard) ignoring us while we made our own fun, playing in the sink or watching a movie in the bedroom alone or playing Harry Potter in the front yard. In those memories everything is extremely quiet and empty.

When I'd go to her house as an adult she'd always give me random bits of food. Once she gave me a whole bunch of bananas. Then she'd spend the entire time guilt tripping me about how I didn't chat or visit often enough (I can't think of one time my grandparents have ever called me on the phone or invited me to their house) and talking about what things in her house I'd inherit when she died. It was always a pretty grim time.

When I got old enough and realized I was allowed to not be around my family anymore, I just... wasn't. There's no talking to them or reasoning with them, so I just fucked off. Nanny wasn't ever the reason for my estrangement honestly, it was my aunts (her daughters) who have both said and done way nastier shit, though she did join in things like enabling my dad to be an abusive drunk and actively sabotaging my parents' relationship. If I told every story about my aunts being awful throughout my life, I would be stuck here for days. Nanny might not have been as bad but she didn't separate herself from them in my mind, as she was always quieter than them but definitely on their side. We were never close. I never felt like she cared much about me or whether I was around or not. If she did she certainly never said anything about it to me, nor did anyone ever convey the message.

Not very long after I distanced myself, both of my dad's parents got pretty deep into dementia. My sister still visited every now and again but they didn't really know who she was. So even if I had still been around it wouldn't have made a difference, I think.

I've been distancing myself from my dad a lot lately already, so her death comes at an extremely weird time. I also can't attend her funeral tomorrow because there's a massive winter storm headed this way and I would risk being stranded. I wanted to go, too. I wavered on it because I'd have to see my goddamn aunts and their families and I know I'd be accosted and chastised and harangued by many different people. It would have been an emotionally exhausting experience for everyone, but it would have at least functioned as some kind of closure for me.

I can barely mourn my Nanny. There wasn't a loving relationship there to mourn. But I'm mourning some other things instead, like how my dad lost a parent, and my other family lost a loved one, and as weird and self-centered as it sounds, how I never had a relationship with my grandparents. The only relationship I've had with that side of the family the majority of my life has been manipulation, verbal abuse, them viewing my siblings and I as possessions and bargaining chips and using us as weapons, never being truly loved or truly known but existing as a concept and told to fit into a specific mold and to sit down and shut up and pretend along with the rest of them that we like each other. And that sucks shit.

Other people talk about these great relationships they have with their families. Other people have stories about grandparents who have always been there for them and supported them. Support is the last thing I ever got from any of those people. They have always actively resented me. They all wish I was someone else. I was the first niece and granddaughter born on that side and I know they all wanted a do-over. Luckily for them they have my sister instead, who barely remembers our childhood and lived far away for most of hers and also has some kind of infinite bandwidth for people who are cruel to her.

I wish to god I could say I was sad and hurt and missing something important from my life. Instead I never had it to begin with, and that hurts in a different way.

Editing this to say: I know it may come across harsh to anyone who doesn't know the full story of my childhood, my parents' divorce, my dad's alcoholism, etc. etc. and the roles my family played in all of those things. I will never be telling the full story so just know the nothing I've said here is harsh.

[katkit14]

The follow-up to the last post I made that no one wanted but still got. Cause I actually made up characters for the idea. Also I am as American as a cheeseburger so if you find something you dislike or something feel free to message me and I'll fix it. I don't want to be offensive

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So we have yuu who is the twisted version of Mickey but now we have...

Minnie - Milie Magaña

Looks - black textured hair that's put up into buns, darker skin tone with round marble grey eyes. Short (5'0) and small ( petite all around )

Personality - very polite and quite, loves feminine things, is very responsible

Triva - the oldest out of 2 children but the 4th oldest cousins. Loves to crochet and knit to. Likes to garden and help around the community. Is constantly being belittled by some of her older cousins for liking fimmine things. Her father died when she was young , right after her younger sister was born.

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Dominate hand - right

Homeland - Mexico

Hobbies - sewing and baking

Best subject at NRC - Science

Best subject before NRC - Foreign Languages

Pet peves - When someone thinks they're superior because they don't like "girly things"

Favorite food - Sopapilla Cheesecake

Least favorite food- eggplant ( it freaks her out)

Club at NRC - science club (joined to grow plants, didn't except the weirdness)

Talent - singing and gardening

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Goofy - Gabriel Garcia

Looks - black short hair, tanish skin, monolided brown eyes, tall ( 6'2) and skinny, wears glasses

Personality - Chill and is constantly cracking jokes, clumsy, and a bit dumb, you'd think he was a stoner but has never done any form of weed in his life.

Trivia - the middle child of 3 children. Has a huge appetite. Is often called lazy because despite being good at sports doesn't play them. always being belittled for his clumsyness. Loves his younger sibling and plays with them all the time. Him and his younger sibling are compared to their oldest brother a lot.

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Dominant hand - left

Homeland - Philippines

Best subject at NRC- PE

Best Subject before NRC - PE

Hobbies- playing video games

Pet peeves - when someone compares him to his older brother

Favorite food- Sinigang

Least favorite food - doesn't have one

Talent- sports

Club at NRC- basketball ( was dragged there by ace )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Donald- Daniel Markow

Looks - short blonde hair, baby blue eyes, pale blue undertone skin, Short (5'1) and slightly chubby ( has a slight pear shape)

Personality - angry very easily, is really smart though, a bit dense since he was born with money.

Triva - the only child and will take over his fathers company. Rich boy. Mom and dad are divorced. Loves his step mom because his real mom isn't there a lot because she works as a traveling model. Dads not there a lot either. Really just his stepmom who is only 10 years older then him.

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Dominate hand - right

Homeland - Russia

Best subject at NRC - Alchemy

Best subject before NRC - English

Hobbies - reading

Favorite food - Syrniki

Least Favorite food- Baked Chicken

Pet peeves- When someone tells him to calm down ( don't talk to me I angy)

Talent - writing stories and poems along with doing nails ( him and his step mom do each others nails)

Club at nrc - horse riding club ( I forgot the official name )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daisy - Daniella Kilpatric

Looks - short (5'2) with a small top half and chubby bottom ( more dramatic pear shape) , pale skin, grey/blue eyes, medium blue wavy hair ( originally brown but dyed) , wears glasses.

Personality - Sassy, Smart, Sacastic, The goth chick who acts big and bad but is actually soft.

Trivia - is the you youngest out of triplets. Is the only girl. Dad is a Single dad who is pretty young. Lives on a homestead farm that makes money from selling all natural products . She feels very embrassed about her farming background and tries to cover it up. Going as far as to hide her accent ( ye-haw ) when speaking english. Tells everyone she is from California but is from the south Also has T1D and constantly makes jokes about it.

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Domainte hand - right

Homeland - USA

Best subject at NRC : History

Best subject before NRC : Art class

Hobbies - Listening to music and art of many sorts

Favorite food - strawberry ice cream

Least Favorite food - BBQ ribs

Pet Peeves - When people hit on her father (he prof. Crewel style pretty)

Talent - art ( drawing, and painting with acrlic paint are her strong suits ) , good with plants and animals

Club at NRC - light music club

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#twistedwonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland #twst oc #twsited wonderland oc #oc #T1Doc #OC #T1Dcharacter #different cultures #i tried my best

[qserasera]

for the writing meme! 1, 36, 40 🥺

from this writing meme here! (still taking questions hehe)

1.What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting? i don't actually care that much on this :D i think sans serifs are definitely easier to read when typing, and generally it would be the default font!

36.They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice…what do you Know? hmmm.......not sure how to fully describe this, but like. a character and possible social dynamics interactions might be something i think i know how to write decently?? who has a positive/neutral/negative impression of them and why, and how that might impact a scene etc. i also know a Decent amount about food or how to research a bit on it to include it into a fic!! hahaha. i also enjoy including not.....microexpressions, but whatever the equivalent of that is in terms of small body language actions within a scene (esp when the otp is being. extra sugary with each other hahahahah T W T ) 40.Please share a poem with me, I need it.

i went searching for one and enjoyed this one!!

Why Poetry Cannot be Skimmed by Jessica Jopp

In response to a student who told me he just “skims” the poetry right before class

The barn was in the Netherlands, in a field where fierce night wind caught the straw as if to fuse the winter stars to their coldness. A farmer, woken by the sound, knowing his animals would be agitated, walked to the barn and by lantern brushed the tails of his horses. In calming them he gathered many long, gleaming strands of their nut-brown hair. Given over to what he heard in the swishing of their tails— the lash, the taut string of grief, turned slow, persistence turned to rhythmic movement— he hoped that if he listened long enough the layered sound would become a salve... [Cont reading]

#half-infinite #memeity meme #replies to an admiring bog

[kissagii]

sorry for this, but is there a little chance i could get a moodboard with my new description for matchups? 👉🏻👈🏻

my name's tsuki, i'm 17, my pronouns are she/her, i'm bisexual with female preferences and bilingual, i can speak italian which is my native language and english because i have foreign and living abroad relatives.

i'm 5'11, i have fair skin, round shaped face with a small double chin, potato nose, long brown hair with blonde shatush, undercut and bangs usually tied up or braided, dark brown/hazel eyes, thick black eyebrows, small and rosy lips, i wear glasses and i'm chubby. i don't think i have a specific aesthetic or clothing style, but i like dressing cute but comfortable.

my occupation: i'm a student at artistic high school with specialization in scenography and i take singing lessons at a music academy, probably i'm gonna start riding horses soon.

infp, enneagram type 4, kuudere, ravenclaw, lawful good, sun gemini ascending pisces with moon gemini and descending virgo, i have both daddy issues and mommy issues, i have ADHD focused more on the attention disorder, borderline tendenting and i also suffer from emotional dependency.

i'm fatherless and i have a complicated relationship with my mom, i also lost a lot of people that meant the world to me so that's why i tend to get attached to people.

i'd describe myself as a crybaby, impulsive, anxious, envious, touchy, logorroic, stubborn, ambivert, loyal, friendly, honest, sensitive, empathic, open-minded, insecure (i have a low self-esteem), patient, imaginative, little bit of a perfectionist, easily affectionating and trusting people who are nice to me, i usually relate to dark/goth characters but i'm actually a softie and whenever i'm interested in someone, i can act very awkward, trying to get close to them. i can't control my emotions by myself well.

my love language are words of affermation, acts of services, gifts and physical contact (both giving and receiving).

my hobbies are singing, dancing, writing, cosplay, manga reading, drawing and baking, i would say cooking but i mostly do that to survive.

i like: listening to music, mugs, crystals, yankee candles, witchcraft, astrology, butterflies, art, makeup, self-care, perfumes, rainy days, staying in bed all day, comedy, shopping, plushies, watching youtube, cats, dark colors, pastel colors, musicals, sweaters, sunflowers, lillies, travel abroad, vampires, mermaids and nymphs, junk food, desserts.

i own a pandora bracelet and each charm i collect describes my personality and hobbies, but most of time I forget to wear it.

i dislike: anxiety, panic attacks, being the tallest, discussing news and policity, raspberry kisses, tickle, balloons, fireworks, static electricity, snakes, watermelon, eggplants and zucchini with seeds, citrus fruits, coffee, sodas, being alone for too long, spending too much time on my phone, when someone close to me is sad like crying or has an important medical check-up, foot fetish, horror stuff (I'm rarely into it), eat in front of other people, i can't stand parents which don't allow their kids to go to therapy when they ask for it because they need.

thank you in advance and sorry for the poem... 😅

of course!! i was actually hoping you'd request so i could get an example matchup on the blog haha

i match you with...

𝕞𝕚𝕜𝕒𝕤𝕒 𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟

and

𝕟𝕠𝕓𝕒𝕣𝕒 𝕜𝕦𝕘𝕚𝕤𝕒𝕜𝕚

#{🌼 - wildflowers} #aot matchup #attack on titan matchups #jjk matchup #jujutsu kaisen matchup #nobara kugisaki #mikasa ackerman

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Tuesday, January 9, 2024

december 27_january 9

VENERABLE THEODORE ( THE BRANDED) OF PALESTINE AND BITHYNIA , CONFESSOR ( 840) THE , BROTHER OF ST THEOPHANES THE CONFESSOR AND HYMNOGRAPHER (850)

Saint Theodore the Confessor, and his brother Theophanes (October 11) were born in Jerusalem of Christian parents. From early childhood Theodore shunned childish amusements and loved to attend church services. With his younger brother Theophanes (October 11), he was sent to the Lavra of Saint Savva to be educated by a pious priest. Both brothers became monks, and Saint Theodore was ordained to the holy priesthood.

The iconoclast emperor Leo V the Armenian (813-820) expelled and replaced the pious ruler Michael I Rhangabe (811-813). In the beginning, Leo concealed his heretical views, but later declared himself an iconoclast. The Patriarch of Jerusalem sent the two brothers to Constantinople to defend the holy icons. Theodore refuted Leo’s arguments, proving the falseness of his beliefs. Leo ordered that both brothers be beaten mercilessly, and then had them sent into exile, forbidding anyone to help them in any way.

Under the subsequent emperors, Michael II (820-829), and particularly under the iconoclast Theophilus (829-842), both brothers returned from exile. Again they were urged to accept iconoclasm, but they bravely endured all the tortures. They were sent into exile once more, but later returned. This time they were subjected to fierce torture, and finally, their faces were branded with the verses of a poem which mocked the holy confessors. Therefore, the brothers were called “the Branded.”

The city prefect asked Saint Theodore to take communion with the iconoclasts just once, promising him freedom if he did. But the holy martyr replied, “Your proposal is the same as saying: ‘Let me cut off your head once, and then you may go wherever you wish.’”

After torture the holy brothers were banished to Apamea in Bithynia, where Saint Theodore died around the year 840. Saint Theophanes survived until the end of the iconoclast heresy, and died as Bishop of Nicea. Saint Theophanes was author of many writings in defense of Orthodoxy. The relics of Saint Theodore were transferred to Chalcedon, where they worked many healings.

JAMES 3:1-10

1 My brethren, let not many of you become teachers, knowing that we shall receive a stricter judgment. 2 For we all stumble in many things. If anyone does not stumble in word, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle the whole body. 3 Indeed, we put bits in horses' mouths that they may obey us, and we turn their whole body. 4 Look also at ships: although they are so large and are driven by fierce winds, they are turned by a very small rudder wherever the pilot desires. 5 Even so the tongue is a little member and boasts great things. See how great a forest a little fire kindles! 6 And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity. The tongue is so set among our members that it defiles the whole body, and sets on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire by hell. 7 For every kind of beast and bird, of reptile and creature of the sea, is tamed and has been tamed by mankind. 8 But no man can tame the tongue. It is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. 9 With it we bless our God and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in the similitude of God. 10 Out of the same mouth proceed blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not to be so.

MATTHEW 21:33-42

33 Hear another parable: There was a certain landowner who planted a vineyard and set a hedge around it, dug a winepress in it and built a tower. And he leased it to vinedressers and went into a far country. 34 Now when vintage-time drew near, he sent his servants to the vinedressers, that they might receive its fruit. 35 And the vinedressers took his servants, beat one, killed one, and stoned another. 36 Again he sent other servants, more than the first, and they did likewise to them. 37 Then last of all he sent his son to them, saying, 'They will respect my son.' 38 But when the vinedressers saw the son, they said among themselves, 'This is the heir. Come, let us kill him and seize his inheritance.' 39 So they took him and cast him out of the vineyard and killed him. 40 Therefore, when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those vinedressers? 41 They said to Him, "He will destroy those wicked men miserably, and lease his vineyard to other vinedressers who will render to him the fruits in their seasons." 42 Jesus said to them, "Have you never read in the Scriptures: 'The stone which the builders rejected Has become the chief cornerstone. This was the LORD's doing, And it is marvelous in our eyes'?

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #easternorthodoxchurch #originofchristianity #spirituality #holyscriptures #gospel #bible #wisdom #saints