#this was originally supposed to follow canon from this point on

[thetomorrowshow]

to die in your sleep

hola folks and welcome back to the trust au. I have been grinding on trust au to post while on hiatus soo here u go enjoy (i'd like to apologize for the ending)

cw: violence, torture, blood, brief tooth-related gore

~

"Just tell us where he is," fWhip says, crouching down close to Scott's face.

His mouth tastes like blood. He can't feel his arms. He can't feel his wings. That can't mean anything good.

"Never," Scott manages. Blood drips down his chin.

He's shaking. He can't stop shaking. 

He's going to die here, Scott realizes distantly. He's going to die, in this dark void of nothingness.

fWhip grabs his chin, forces him to look up. Unwillingly, Scott meets his eyes.

"We can keep you alive for as long as we need," fWhip murmurs. "And we can make it hurt. Give up the god."

If Scott had any more strength, he would laugh. "You don't . . . scare me."

fWhip clicks his tongue. "I don't have to scare you," he says simply, dropping Scott's chin and taking a step back. Almost absently, he wipes his hand on his trousers, leaving a smear of blood. "You've got a visitor. Maybe then you'll talk."

Oh no.

The void where they exist grows somehow darker, little specks of color filling it, as a maroon mist fills Scott's sharp vision—

And then he wakes up with a hoarse gasp, and immediately buries his face into Jimmy's chest.

Jimmy shifts, just slightly, to put an arm around Scott. "Hey," he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. "Nightmare?"

Scott doesn't answer. He still feels half in that dream state, like at any moment he could be pulled back under and into whatever that was.

His wings twinge, spasm, as he can suddenly feel them—filled with pins and needles. He must've laid on them in his sleep.

"Mmf," Scott grunts into Jimmy's nightshirt. He stretches his wings out as far as he can bear, grimaces when they snap back into place, muscles too tight.

He tenses when he feels hands in his wings, but forces himself to relax. It's just Jimmy. Jimmy can touch his wings.

And he slowly relaxes more as Jimmy gently rubs his wings, massaging out the knots and tense places.

It feels so terribly nice. Scott just lets himself melt into the touch, his eyes slowly fluttering shut. His thoughts slow to molasses, lazily dripping from one side of his mind to the other.

"Is this good?" Jimmy whispers in the silence of the room. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Mhm." Scott really doesn't want to move off of Jimmy. He's comfortable.

And safe, for now.

The warmth and peacefulness that he'd been sinking into vanish, swallowed up in the sickening recollection of his dream.

He sighs, blinking his eyes back open so he can at least see Jimmy's arm. They never leave their rooms dark, a lantern left casting a low glow across the room, illuminating enough of his partner that Scott knows he isn't alone.

That hadn't been the usual nightmare. Usually, it's some twisted replay of his six days in captivity, or not being able to catch Jimmy in time and watching him disintegrate in the Void.

And while it was to an extent similar to the first brand, it had been so . . . vivid. His dreams tend to be blurry, confusing, cut through with terror that accentuates the shadowy shapes.

He'd seen fWhip so clearly. He'd almost seen Xornoth, uncommon for his dreams.

Usually, Scott would write it off as a one-off, strange but something that just happens sometimes.

But the dream feels familiar. So very, very familiar.

He thinks he dreamed something similar last night, but it's just out of the grasp of his conscious mind.

"You gonna go back to sleep?" whispers Jimmy, pulling him from his thoughts. "You've probably got another hour or two before sunrise."

Scott sighs. He's pretty much fully awake at this point, and there's always work to be done no matter what time of day or night it is.

They're headed into a full-blown war, after all. Skirmishes have already begun to break out along the borders. The real fight could start any day now. There's always someone awake in the war room, drafting new back-up plans for their back-up plans, or writing up training evaluations and strategies for the layman army.

So Scott could definitely get up out of his warm bed into the frigid night air of Rivendell, change into something proper, and head down there to stare at numbers of resources for the next several hours until breakfast.

Or he could stay here with his lover under the blankets for the rest of the time he's allotted himself to sleep, and either fall back asleep or have some much-needed recuperation time before heading to the war room with renewed vigor.

If Scott was any sort of king, he'd pick the first. His people come before his personal interest, which is precisely the reason why he and Jimmy are kind of no longer betrothed (a complicated situation in which they technically might still be betrothed, depending on whether or not the court deems the war enough of a state of emergency to eschew tradition). He needs to spend every moment possible doing what he can to protect the citizens under his care.

But Scott's never professed to be a particularly good king.

"Just want to stay here with you," he says quietly.

Jimmy chuckles, his hands going still in Scott's feathers.

"If your people knew we sleep in the same bed, they'd have a fit," he says absently.

Scott snorts. "Oh, the people absolutely know," he tells Jimmy. "It's the councils that we have to keep from knowing."

"How in the world would the people know anything?"

"The servant that does our laundry has got to notice that your blankets are never rearranged and my bed has two dips in it," Scott points out. "The one who cleans the room probably has seen that, more often than not, your clothing manages to find itself in my closet. Various messengers have absolutely guessed that you've just sprinted into the other room when they knock. And remember that time a cooking apprentice was bringing us a late dinner, and you were fast asleep on the bed while I worked?"

". . . What happens if they all know?"

"Usually, nothing," says Scott. "It would be bad if one of my advisors walked in on us sharing a bed. Until then, they'll just turn a deaf ear and act as if they haven't heard the gossip."

"Encouraging," Jimmy mutters.

A shiver runs down Scott's spine as Jimmy presses a soft kiss into his hair.

They've moved fast, for elves. Sure, they've technically already been betrothed, but it's not even been a month since the actual love confessions occurred. If it were any other situation, Scott likely would have chickened out by now, tried to shut Jimmy out of his life as a way of protecting himself.

But it's wartimes. It's wartimes, and Scott needs someone to lean on, someone who loves him too.

And, as his advisors keep reminding him, in the case of his untimely death, he needs someone to run the empire until an heir can be selected. Jimmy, at the moment, is that person.

Which is kind of awkward, seeing as Jimmy has a kingdom of his own. And Scott knows for a fact that he's third in line (after Lizzie) for the Cod Empire. That's the issue when royalty only engages with royalty—there aren't a lot of people with the right to rule.

Maybe Scott ought to look into adoption. He's probably never going to have a kid of his own. If he adopts two or three children, there'll be enough to get spread around to various parts of the empire, enough of a temporary back-up that if all the rulers die, there'll be someone to cover the necessary bases.

Of course, there is the fact that Scott doesn't really want to adopt a kid. And the fact that their claim to the throne might be disputed anyway, due to not having royal blood.

For being at the center of them, Scott hates politics.

For now he won't worry about it. If one of his advisors brings it up, then he can figure something out. At this point, as long as Xornoth or any of his minions don't get control of Rivendell, Scott doesn't care all that much about what happens.

He'd sacrifice any amount of history and tradition to save his people from a terrible fate, including the royal line.

Which is a sentiment he'd better not let any of his council members hear, because then Rivendell very well may become leaderless without the help of Xornoth.

Jimmy's hands start moving again, shifting to lay in between his wings, rubbing the muscles in his back there.

Scott melts a little further against Jimmy. That feels heavenly. It's the perfect amount of pressure to force him to relax, but not so much that he feels overwhelmed.

Elves aren't a people of touch. Scott probably hasn't been casually touched in years, if not decades, and he's slowly been building up a tolerance to it, because Jimmy is a very touchy person.

Now that they're 'official', Scott supposes, Jimmy hates being apart, clinging to him whenever they happen to be in the same room. Even in broad daylight, in front of people, Jimmy's arms always find their way around Scott's waist, or his head to his shoulder, or his fingers to intertwine with Scott's.

Jimmy seems especially inclined to give backrubs, whenever he sees Scott's shoulders tense. Scott, as good as they feel, flat-out refuses to allow this in public. He can't relax when there are people watching, and while he can still at least pretend to be regal with Jimmy clinging to him, he can't when Jimmy's massaging his shoulders.

It's okay here, though. In the quiet darkness of their—of Scott's room. Where if Scott gets overwhelmed, he can take time to recover without having to embarrass himself.

"How about you go back to sleep," Jimmy murmurs.

Scott feels that instinctive leap of fear at the suggestion, quickly quashed. It's been months since he was held captive. He doesn't need to be afraid of sleep anymore.

And he isn't. He truly thinks that he would be able to sleep alone.

And yet, despite the war beginning and both their kingdoms desperately needing them, Scott and Jimmy share a bed every night.

They trade off every couple of days—Scott gets any urgent work done here while Jimmy does remote work, then Scott packs up whatever papers he can take with him and spends several days in the Cod Empire. They always say something about maintaining the alliance by showing the trust that they have for the other empire, but in reality they just miss each other (and even if he can, Scott still doesn't like to sleep without Jimmy there).

That all changes today.

"When are you leaving?" Scott mumbles.

"After breakfast. Sure you can't come?"

That's the problem. Scott would absolutely love to fly out to the Cod Empire after breakfast, but today he's supposed to start a tour of the empire, of sorts. He and his party will be traveling as far as they can go in the morning, from the largest cities to the smallest hamlet, just to show support for the soldiers and to garner support in return. After all, a king who will stay in the house of the poorest farmer is one who the farmers will follow.

He sighs. "I can't. I'll message you, of course."

Jimmy hums, a somewhat disgruntled sound. "Well. If you can't sleep, I'll be there in an instant, okay? Or if you want anything. Let me know."

Scott knows he isn't going to do that. Not unless he gets out-of-control sleep-deprived. He isn't going to drag Jimmy away from his important work for any childish fear.

He nods, though. Better to reassure Jimmy now rather than argue about it.

Scott closes his eyes. He could sleep, probably. It's still peaceful in this early morning darkness, the calm before the storm.

Not if Jimmy doesn't fall back asleep, though. If Jimmy's going to stay up, then he is too. He wants all the time possible with his lover.

"Are you staying awake right now?" he asks, trying not to sound too bleary.

Jimmy's chest shifts against his cheek as he shrugs. "Probably not. I wasn't really asleep earlier, just dozing. I might doze a bit more if you sleep."

Scott frowns. "Why weren't you asleep?"

Again, Jimmy shrugs. "I . . . kinda get stuck in the dozing phase lately?" he says. "I'm fine, I just drift. And it's not every night, so I'm getting some rest and all."

"How long has that been going on?"

"I dunno, a couple of weeks?"

So, since the fall. Scott doesn't like that.

His own symptoms have been improving—he only gets the occasional dizzy spell, and the scabs on his knuckles have become red marks. Jimmy's are healing slower, though, bumpy scars where his scales had been and enough dizziness that Scott catches him leaning against him or the wall once or twice a day. "You should report it as a symptom. It's not for any mental or emotional reason, is it?"

"I don't think so?" Jimmy says. "I just kind of . . . drift. I feel like there's something I'm trying to reach, but I can't get it while I'm awake or asleep, you know? Something missing. Does that make sense?"

It doesn't, really, but Scott nods. Weird sleep is weird sleep, and Scott knows that it can affect someone in a weirdly specific way so much that they need a weirdly specific solution. And sometimes that weirdly specific solution leads to getting engaged to your crush.

Honestly, if it weren't for all the Xornoth-fWhip-war stuff, Scott would kind of be living his best life.

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott groans.

So his time with Jimmy is going to be interrupted, is it?

He reluctantly shifts off of his partner, allowing Jimmy to slip out of bed and tiptoe across the room, through the open door and into their connected sitting room. Scott waits an extra couple of seconds, giving Jimmy time to get into his own bedroom. Then he gets up, reluctantly relinquishing his warm blankets, and crosses the freezing wooden floor of his room.

Scott pulls open the door right before the servant knocks again, cir hand raised and ready.

"Oh! Milord," ce says, taking a hurried step back. "General Maldrion has requested your presence. Would you like me to tell xem you are on your way?"

Scott barely holds himself back from rubbing his forehead. What on earth could be so urgent that the general needs him at whatever time in the morning it is?

"Yes, I'll be with xem as soon as I can," Scott tells cir. "Thank you for letting me know."

Ce bows, and Scott absolutely catches cir eyes looking around him, stealing a glance of the room behind.

Scott rolls his eyes before shutting the door. They're not going to be that careless.

"I have to head down to the war room," he tells Jimmy when the man pokes his head back into the room. "Feel like coming with?"

"May as well," Jimmy says, moving past Scott to the closet. "I love learning about your top secret war plans."

"It's likely another border disturbance," Scott waves. "You can just sit there and look pretty."

"Sit there and sleep, more likely," says Jimmy, pulling one of Scott's tunics over his head.

Scott sighs and pulls it right back off of him. "You can't wear my clothing to a meeting with members of my inner circle," he says firmly when Jimmy gives him a confused look. "Go put your own clothes on."

-

Scott's right about the meeting, and there's nothing he can really do but agree with the general's recommendations to strengthen the border patrol. Then he has to see Jimmy off, escorting him down to the pier. Jimmy would normally just strap on his elytra and fly out, but with the tightened security of the current times, he's got to be accompanied by a couple of guards, and since only the royals have elytra, they have to take the day's trip back overseas. At some point, Scott assumes that dolphins from the Ocean Kingdom will join them to speed up the journey.

Jimmy leaves reluctantly, giving Scott a chaste kiss (Scott's knees feel a little shaky despite the closed lips) before heading out with a wave.

And then Scott barely has any time to finish packing before he has to head out as well, his clothes bundled up into two cases and thrown onto the wagon.

His escort is made up of six soldiers (he'd managed to argue it down from twelve, as long as he accepts local guard details in each place he stops), two servants, and far too many beasts of burden. The trip is going to be an estimated maximum of three weeks, from what he recalls, and while he understands logically that they need enough food for nine people to last a week at a time (with money allotted for restocking), it still feels to him like three wagons is excessive, plus a fourth for clothing.

But Scott's been traveling as a royal for his entire life, and he knows it isn't worth it to try to pare down their supplies any more. It's good to be prepared, after all.

They set out at noon, Scott riding a stag, the other elves surrounding him on horseback. He imagines they cut a rather imposing group, hopefully enough to dissuade any attackers. He feels a bit like a sore thumb, though, their little party trundling slowly down the mountain, vulnerable to attack. It's a demon after them, unbound by laws and capable of wearing away at their magically-reinforced borders. Maybe he ought to have accepted the twelve guards.

It's not like Scott can go back now, so he scratches around Loth's antlers when he gets anxious, and just hopes that his guards have some sort of idea of what they're doing.

When Scott was very young, the few times he'd been on a road trip he had absolutely loved it. His wings hadn't fully finished growing until he was close to fifty, so although his father took care of most royal trips by flying there alone, occasionally the whim to bring his firstborn along would strike and they would journey there together, in a guard such as this. He'd coveted the time with his distant father, and the rare treks across the country became one of his favorite activities. There had been an older guard that would talk to him, who would point out various plants and explain their properties, likely more to keep him occupied than out of any fondness.

Now, like so long ago, as they spend hours on the road, Scott finds himself examining the plant growth, naming them in his head, seeing the occasional landmark that he remembers from his younger years. It helps pass the hours, helps keep his mind off the danger and off of Jimmy.

Although, thinking about Jimmy is a fairly good distraction as well. At some points, when his mind wanders, he finds himself grinning stupidly as he replays conversations with his lover.

That first day, they stop to rest at a small town called Gladieron at the base of the mountain where the City of Rivendell is built, after six or seven hours of riding, and Scott is thoroughly exhausted. He hasn't ridden anywhere in quite a while, and his whole spine feels jolted all the way up. He just wants to lie down and stretch and sleep for two days straight.

The people of Gladieron welcome them with open arms, and Scott doesn't have to do much but hold polite conversation with the mayor over dinner before being led to a room in the mayor's house and being able to sink into an old, creaky mattress.

Despite being alone, no Jimmy there to ensure his safety, Scott's tired enough from the travels of the day that he falls asleep instantly.

-

He's again at fWhip's mercy, the man tossing aside a whip that shines with red.

Scott shivers, the cool air of the darkness against his open wounds biting.

"I told you we could make it hurt," fWhip says, slightly out of breath. "That was just a taste. Want more of it?"

Scott can't help it; he shakes his head. His entire body stings inside and out, and he vaguely wonders what kind of enchantment the whip must have had to affect him in such a way.

"Of course you don't! So all you have to tell me is this: where is the god?"

He can't give that up. He can't. No matter how badly it hurts.

Scott bites his lip, winces when he finds it already bitten through. That's right. He was trying not to scream, and it had been the only way to keep his mouth closed.

fWhip lets out a disappointed sigh. He crouches down in front of Scott, places a soft and patronizing hand on his shoulder.

Scott can vividly see every line of color in his irises, every blemish on his nose, every hair in the stubble on his cheeks. Whatever these words are, they're important.

And then Scott jolts awake in bed, a rooster crowing somewhere outside.

For a moment, lying there on his stomach in the darkness, Scott can still feel the tearing pain of a whip on his back. It's a clear feeling, a memory acrid in the back of his mouth. The first and only time he'd been whipped had been months ago in Sausage's dungeon, alone and sleep-deprived and barely conscious of his feathers being torn from his wings, yet he feels it as if it had been yesterday.

That was bad. That was terrifying.

fWhip had whipped him bloody and Scott hadn't been able to do anything about it, every ounce of pain sharply present in his sleeping mind.

He's breathing too fast, Scott realizes, when the cold air scrapes down his throat. He swallows, pulls the surprisingly soft blanket around himself.

He misses Jimmy. Usually, he can find instant peace after a nightmare by just rolling over, his lover there beside him with open arms.

And it had been another strange nightmare. One that felt far too real for having never happened.

It wasn't real, was it? There's no way it was real. fWhip isn't actually here to torture him.

Scott, daringly, glances around the room quickly before squeezing his eyes shut again. He isn't afraid. It's not like fWhip's going to be creeping out from under his bed.

Scott steals another glance at the floor beside him just to make sure.

Something was wrong with that dream. Something was off, wasn't it?

There's just no way. He doesn't just have nightmares like that, especially one so similar to the one of the night before.

Scott doesn't know how to explain it, but that wasn't normal. He doesn't have to be a genius to know that repeated vivid dreams of being tortured aren't normal.

What is he supposed to do?

What can he even do?

In all honesty, Scott can do nothing except hope that they pass, he supposes. And hope that he can sleep through them. It would be just like him to retraumatize himself right after he finally is able to sleep by himself.

He doesn't go back to sleep now, even though he probably has the time. Scott stays there, under the covers, until the room begins to properly lighten.

Then he gets up, dresses in something a little fancier than his travel clothes (he's here for another day to conduct military inspections), and dabs a bit of foundation under his eyes in the small mirror.

Time to be a king, he supposes, and he does his best to leave the fear and nightmares behind him.

-

Finally, he lets out a short scream.

"There we are," Sausage encourages. He pets Scott's hair in an almost fond way. "Knew you could do it!"

Now that the dam's broken, Scott can't hold back a whimper, distorted by the way his mouth is being held open by one of Sausage's metal instruments.

Sausage holds up his pliers, a bloody tooth clenched in them. "For every minute you don't talk, I take another tooth! Sound fair?"

He waits for an answer that Scott can't give before laughing to himself.

"Just scream if you want to talk, okay? Then you tell us where the god is, and everything will stop."

Then the pliers are in his mouth again, and Scott's hyperventilating, he's choking on his own spit, it hurts it hurts it hurts—

The tooth is pulled free with a crescendo of pain, and again Scott screams, and Sausage pauses with a question in his eyes before shrugging.

"That probably wasn't a signal to stop, huh," he says cheerfully, before going in again.

And again, Scott wakes up, heart pounding and jaw aching.

He's going to throw up. All over the forest floor beside him. And that'll bring running the guard on watch, and then Scott will have to be all embarrassed about everything.

He's not going to throw up, then. That would be awful.

But the feeling of losing his molars is so vividly painful and nauseating. He can still taste the blood pooling in the back of his mouth, and he has to poke around with his tongue to make sure that all his teeth are there.

That was a bad one.

Scott's been on the road for a week, and every night he's exhausted enough that he falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down. And every night, he has dreams of the same theme. He would message Jimmy if he thought it was anything he could help with, but Scott had been having these nightmares before Jimmy had even left. There's nothing anyone can do.

And Scott has a feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he can figure out why he's having them, he'll be able to stop them.

In every dream, he's in the Void—he'd figured that out after the fifth one. The swallowing blackness with tiny specks of floating color ought to have helped him catch on earlier, but it had usually escaped his notice what with the torture and everything.

Whoever it is tormenting him—either fWhip, Sausage, or Joey, with sometimes a guest appearance from Xornoth right before he wakes—is always asking for the same thing.

"Where's the god?" Joey asks petulantly.

"C'mon, Scott, you know you want to tell us where the god is!" Sausage says.

"Just tell us where the god is," fWhip says lowly, dangerously. "Then we can stop."

And suddenly, right there wrapped in his bedroll, a realization hits him.

These aren't just dreams. This is magic.

They're too clear. He sees everything as if it's actually happening, he feels every moment of pain.

Xornoth wants something from him.

Xornoth wants to know where Aeor is.

Which is all well and good, but how on earth does he expect Scott to know?

Scott has, technically, communed with Aeor. Not much—just enough to ask for (and receive) a strengthening of the empire's crops, and to receive His crown of legend.

And, yeah. Scott can see how someone might interpret that as being highly favored of the god. And he is favored, but not enough to know where Aeor is, or engage with Him face to face. That would require more strength or faith than Scott has. He doesn't have any need for that, either. It's not like he's Aeor's champion, after all.

Unless. . . .

Wait a second.

Scott has received the crown of legend, the first ruler of Rivendell to be gifted as such. In fact, he doesn't think any other ruler short of Alinar has been quite so favored. 

Xornoth is clearly Exor's champion; the fight in the End and the release of Xornoth's power through the death of the dragon had proven that. If Exor's champion is here right now, then Aeor's champion is sure to either already be here or is about to appear.

And Scott, lucky him, is the only current direct descendant of the royal line—and, as already mentioned, highly favored unto Aeor.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Scott is Aeor's champion.

He sits up abruptly, kicking away the blankets that are tangled around his legs. No. No, he isn't—he isn't worthy of this, he isn't ready for this, he can't have that kind of power—

"Milord?"

Scott starts, whips around. One of the guards is standing there, her bow held loosely at her side. She nods sharply when his eyes meet hers.

"Is everything all right?" she asks. "Do you require my assistance with anything?"

Scott stares at her for a long moment before his brain processes exactly what she had asked.

"Um, thank you, Calidil, no," he says, rubbing a hand down his cheek. His jaw still hurts. He hates when nightmares linger, leaving physical sensations. He can only hope Calidil doesn't notice the way he gingerly holds his mouth, nor the way his wings twitch anxiously behind him.

His father had told him time and time again that the natural respondency of wings were a royal's greatest foil, and he ought to get in the habit of ensuring that his never gave away his thoughts or feelings.

Unfortunately, while he once was quite good at that, in recent months he's found his skill at controlling his wings to be lacking.

"Does your sleep disturb you, sire?" she asks, a frown crossing her face. "Not that it is my place, but I have noticed that you sleep restlessly and wake early. Might I suggest a tea that my mother used to make, an infusion of woodlace bark and calming plants?"

Scott is shaking his head almost before she finishes speaking. He still doesn't do well with food and drink prepared by others, especially if, in instances such as this, he isn't familiar with how the ingredients will affect him. "Thank you, but I will be all right," he tells her. Then, to change the subject (and distract himself, he can't be Aeor's champion that's too much), "Do you happen to know when we plan to continue?"

-

Four days later, after Scott wakes up crying from the pain of needles being slowly pushed under his fingernails, he takes Calidil up on her offer of tea.

He hadn't wanted to, but it's gotten to the point where he can't think about sleeping without panicking, can't get in bed without his heart leaping into his throat. He can't bother Jimmy about it, and he definitely needs rest for this journey, so the next best option is to force himself to sleep.

He watches her prepare the concoction that she calls tea, asks about the properties of every ingredient, then drinks it slowly and reluctantly before bed, stomach already jumping and throat barely able to choke it down. It doesn't really taste all that good, either, kind of flowery and too-sweet with a bitter aftertaste. He forces it down still, then changes into sleep clothes.

His bed for tonight is on the floor of the main room of a farmhouse (the elderly couple running the farm had tried to make him take the bed, but he'd refused), and he tries to get comfortable while waiting for it to kick—

Whoa.

He feels . . . so sleepy.

He just wants to close his eyes.

He doesn't like the feeling, Scott decides blearily. It feels too much like being drugged. Too much like leaving himself open for attacks.

But he doesn't get to think about it any more than that, because only moments later, he's opening his eyes in the Void.

His body is trembling. His knees smart from supporting him on whatever hard, invisible surface he kneels on. His wings are bound together painfully.

And Scott, for the first time, is aware that he's dreaming while he's dreaming.

And just a moment later he's screaming, his side exploding into searing pain.

It takes him a moment to register fWhip stepping in front of him, one hand twirling a—a red-hot branding iron, in the shape of the Grimlands' signet.

Belatedly, Scott smells something like cooking meat.

If this wasn't a dream, he might throw up.

But it is a dream, he reminds himself firmly. Does dream logic still apply?

His thoughts are cut off by a gloved hand gripping his hair and forcing his sagging body to straighten up. Scott cries out, briefly, before biting his tongue.

"The god, Smajor," fWhip says, and he sounds annoyed. "Tell us, and it'll stop. All we want is the god."

Dear Aeor, they're persistent. No wonder fWhip is annoyed, if they've been giving Scott the same brand of nightmare for days, just waiting for his subconscious mind to give up this information—information that, mind you, he doesn't have.

They want Aeor. How is Scott supposed to know where a literal god is? Especially one he's never seen, or technically even spoken to.

In an unexpected move, fWhip jabs the iron hard into Scott's stomach.

Scott gasps, the breath punched out of him, then holds back a scream as fWhip holds it there. He can hear his own flesh sizzling, can feel the awful, sickening pain that pulses out from his stomach—he tries, he tries to get away from it by instinct more than anything, but as far back as his back can bow fWhip can reach farther.

He's actually shaking with the effort of not screaming, involuntary little whimpers escaping his throat, and finally fWhip sighs and slowly pulls it away, taking some of Scott's skin with it, he's sure.

Scott's body holds its position for a moment more, then sags in relief, twitching against his will with every wave of pain that hits.

He can't do this. He's going to die if he doesn't give up the information.

It's just a dream, he reminds himself. It's just a dream. He can just—he can just wake up, right?

How does he normally wake up?

He doesn't think he's ever lucid-dreamed before, he doesn't know how to force himself out of the dream, he's hyperventilating and his mind is full of so much pain—

"Scott."

He looks up; fWhip is still standing before him, arms crossed.

"Remember how bad it was?" fWhip asks, one eyebrow raised, seemingly unimpressed. "When we had you for six days? Remember how much it hurt, how much it still hurts? That's never going to end, Scott."

He's right. It's always going to be so difficult to sleep without Jimmy, he's always going to have scars, the memories will always be raw and painful and jarring.

fWhip crouches down in front of him, the leather of his boots squeaking. Idly, he twirls the metal rod around in his hands.

"And you know what we're gonna do to that god?" he says softly, staring directly into Scott's eyes. "We're gonna make it even worse for him. The god will feel more pain than you can imagine."

Can gods feel pain? fWhip seems pretty confident about it.

"But he's a pretty slippery one. So if you tell us, right now, how to get to him, we'll make everything quick and painless for him and leave you alone as much as possible," fWhip promises. "So we're gonna give you two more times to try and answer, all right?"

He's stuck. Wake up, he silently shouts. Wake up wake up wake up!

But he remains stubbornly there, fWhip staring at him.

They want—they want Aeor. He doesn't know where Aeor is. They want him to tell them, somehow, where Aeor is.

Scott lets his eyes fall from fWhip's, down to the Void below.

It looks just like the Void had, those weeks ago when he chose to risk everything for Jimmy. It had hardly been a choice, really. Jimmy is his everything.

It had been terrifying to fall. To tuck his wings close to his body and dive, praying with every fiber of his being that he would reach Jimmy before he lost him forever.

And almost as if it's that easy, Scott careens forward and is falling again, just like he had back then, but his wings are bound to his back and his body is spasming in pain and he can't save himself—

There's something white twinkling below, growing larger and larger and—

Scott's sitting on the back of a sparkling white stag, the breath knocked out of him with the sudden landing.

The stag's head turns to look at him, blinking slowly. There's something wise in its eyes, something older than Scott has ever seen.

Well. He's found Aeor.

Scott slumps against the neck of the stag, utterly spent.

It's just a dream, and yet Scott doesn't think he could move a muscle with the pain that courses through him. His fingers (hadn't his hands been bound above his head?) grip loosely at the stag's silky hair as the beast begins to walk, slowly and gracefully as a wooded area slowly comes into view around them.

There's a bird singing somewhere, and Scott sees, sometimes, face turned outward with his cheek pressed against the stag, a deer poking curiously through the brush or a rabbit hopping through the long, dewy grass.

This would be nice if he didn't hurt so bad.

The stag doesn't speak (it is a stag, after all—but Scott kind of expects it to open its mouth and start spewing godly wisdom anyways), just carries him through the forest, hooves making light crunching sounds against the forest floor.

And then a new sound hits his ears—the sound of water.

The trees grow more sparse, the brush grows taller, thick with vines, and a bullfrog is making its loud, croaky call somewhere in the distance. The ground becomes softer, more marshy, until it begins to give way to pools of water. Then the stag stops. It huffs, paws at the ground.

Scott needs to look, doesn't he? He needs to lift his heavy head and see for what reason it is that the stag has stopped.

But he's so tired. He doesn't want to raise his head, pounding as it is. He wants to go to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and drift off, let his pain be swallowed up by the darkness.

An odd thought for a dreamer.

Is this even a dream anymore?

Without warning, Scott's stomach drops as he starts sliding forward.

The stag has bent its neck down, lower and lower, and Scott's weak fingers can't hold on tight enough to do anything but slide, right off the stag's neck between the antlers and gently, gracefully, into water.

Scott sinks into it, clouds of red billowing around him and bubbles streaming from his mouth in the clear water as he falls deeper, until his toes hit silty mud beneath him. It isn't too deep—he's sure that if he just pushed up a bit, his head would break the surface—but he doesn't fight it. He just rests there, under the water, and sighs.

It's cool, and fresh, and every little ebb of a current relaxes his muscles further and brings relief to his multitude of pains. His wings come loose, bonds floating away, and instead of being full of waterlogged, heavy feathers, they feel weightless.

Scott blinks down at himself, and feels nothing more than slight shock as the blistering burns on his body slowly fade away, angry red bubbles softening into unblemished skin.

That's quite nice. He wishes that would happen while awake, too.

A fish—a cod, it looks like—swims up to him, noses at his arms.

It's as if Jimmy is sending a little friend to check up on him in his sleep. That's nice.

Then the cod pokes, urgently, in the middle of his chest.

And Scott wakes up.

His eyes open slowly, reluctantly, as if the water is still dragging him down, pulling on his very bones to try and keep him under the spell of sleep.

Every part of his body feels heavy. His eyelids feel heavy. Every movement is an effort.

He's never taking a sleeping draught again.

Light filters in through the uncovered windows, leaving patches of gold on the rough wooden floor. Scott forces himself to push up into a kneel, relinquishing his nest of blankets on the floor, his back popping and wings shuddering.

That was . . . that was an experience.

He doesn't even know what part of the dream to think about. The healing pool of water in the swampy area, the shining stag, falling through the Void, fWhip burning him—

Scott tugs up his nightshirt, fingers clumsy and sleepy. No brand on his stomach—he twists around—no brand on his side. Not that he's ever woken up with any marks from a nightmare, but this one had felt so real. He'd been so conscious of everything that happened, conscious enough to think about the implications of the dream while it was happening.

Xornoth is looking for Aeor. fWhip told Scott that he would have two more tries to give up Aeor's location, or else they would subject the god to even worse torture than what Scott's gone through.

Two more tries. Two more nights of torment, and then they stop playing games.

The war is about to begin, isn't it?

Now this puts Scott up to a test of his leadership: does he continue on with the tour, spend the last week or so traveling until they circle back around to the City of Rivendell?

Or does he call for an emergency return, go back to the palace now in case of the beginning of the war?

Nobody will blame him if he sticks to the original plan. There's no way for him to know, logically, that the real fight is about to begin.

And if he returns now to prep for an emergency and nothing happens then he'll look like a fool, a scared king who can barely stand to be away from his safe castle walls for more than a week.

But can he continue on in this way, when he knows he ought to be at home, gathering the armies?

He has his communicator. It's not like he's totally cut off from everyone while out here—in fact, whenever he can get a connection, he messages his advisors and asks for updates.

And this is still important work, after all. It needs done just as desperately as anything else.

For the empire, and for his allies, it would be best to finish the journey, Scott decides. It was planned as a show of support for the country, and it wouldn't do to flee before the farther reaches of the country have been visited. They're expecting a good portion of their army to come from one of the cities near the border, which is where they'll be stopping next. To have such a place feel snubbed by their own king could very well be disastrous.

So on this day, Scott ignores the looming sense of doom and prepares for travel.

Such is the life of a king.

-

That night, Joey slams Scott's head against the invisible floor and kicks his teeth in.

The night after that, Sausage pulls his primary feathers out one by one.

And on the third night, fWhip is there again, arms crossed.

"Well, Scott, you had your chances," he says lightly. "But because I'm a nice guy, I'll give you one more. Where is the god?"

And, just like every night before, Scott can't give that up. Even if he knew the answer, he wouldn't.

He shakes his head, sending his blood-soaked hair flopping into his eyes.

He doesn't even know what injuries he has tonight. A cut on his head, at least, judging by the heat pulsing out from his temple. He's shirtless tonight, more drops of blood rolling down his bruised and battered chest.

fWhip clicks his tongue. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," he says. "Impressed, but not surprised. I gotta respect you, Scott. You're a strong guy."

Scott's laugh turns into a cough when he feels a sharp pain in his side. Broken rib, feels like. "I'm not strong," he manages eventually, voice a dull rasp. "Just . . . stupid."

fWhip laughs. "You're right," he says, almost fondly. "I don't know any other idiot who would go through all this to protect one person. Well," he adds, "I know one other idiot, I guess."

fWhip checks his watch. "You know what? It's about time to go track down a god," he says, giving Scott a cheeky wave. "Hope you don't mind. I'll be honest, I really won't miss our little nightly reunions—as fun as it is to make you scream, it's kind of exhausting being here every night."

"Tell me about it," Scott whispers.

And then he's awake.

That one hadn't been so bad, all things considered—but Scott's heart is still pounding like he just ran a mile. He hates those dreams, hates being stuck in whatever invisible chains they have, forced to feel pain at their will.

They're humiliating, too. A replay of all he'd gone through at the hands of those three just months ago, all packaged up into perfect bite-sized sessions. Scott just knows he looks paler than ever as the mortification washes over him anew. He's been screaming in the hands of his tormentors every night—he isn't a king, he isn't anything to them, just something to torture.

His mind feels pushed to its last fraying wire. Every day has been full of traveling or speeches or military inspections, and every night filled with torture and threats. He can't do it anymore. He just can't do it.

If his predictions are correct, then he won't have another one of those dreams. Not in the foreseeable future, at least.

But if he's wrong . . . it may be better to simply never sleep again.

Scott groans, pushing his fingers into his eyes. He really doesn't want to go through the whole not-sleeping thing again. It took weeks to get to a point where he could even think about sleeping without Jimmy there. He wants to actually get rest at some point in his life.

Maybe Jimmy can help him with these nightmares, too.

Or maybe Scott just really misses Jimmy. Maybe he just wants to spend time with his lover, and his idea that Jimmy might help with these nightmares is wishful thinking inspired by a lovesick heart.

He does miss Jimmy. He hadn't thought, just a year ago, that he would ever be so attached to any one person. He had friends—Gem and Katherine, certainly, were friends, right? Maybe more like allies—but no one close to him. Especially not Jimmy.

He'd hated Jimmy. He'd teased him and pushed his buttons and laughed when fWhip and Sausage and Joey would 'joke' about beating him up.

And now, he intends to marry the man. Now, he has friends like Lizzie and Joel, who joke with him, and sit around in pajamas in Jimmy's living room and gossip, and message him to check up on him and are always happy to see him.

And right now, they all might be marching out to fight the first battle.

Scott wants Jimmy here, right now, in front of him. He needs to know he's safe.

They're leaving the city of Milerienira later today to begin the journey back to the City of Rivendell, with plans to stop at five more towns for the night on the way. So about a week before they return?

A lot of things could happen in a week. His communicator likely won't have service for most, if not all of the rest of the journey.

Scott leans out of bed to his satchel on the floor, pulls out his communicator. He can just message Jimmy right now and warn him that he thinks something bad will happen.

The last message in their messaging history is from Jimmy, a quick miss you that he'd sent two days prior. Scott can't help the goofy smile that spreads across his face as he looks at it.

But he has something important to say, so he thinks for a moment before typing up a message. He stops halfway through explaining that he thinks the war is about to start and erases it. He doesn't want to seem paranoid. He considers the screen for a few more minutes before finally typing up a shorter, more vague message.

I have a bad feeling. Stay safe.

He copies the message and sends it to Lizzie, trusting that she'll pass it on to all their allies.

Then he pulls up the direct message to his main council.

He needs to sound more divine-kingly than 'I have a bad feeling', especially as he may or may not be Aeor's Champion (a revelation he's been firmly ignoring all journey).

I fear that darkness approaches, he writes. Is the empire prepared to defend herself?

A little pretentious, but just the kind of thing his advisors expect of him.

And though it's not even anywhere near time to rise, Scott gets up and changes out his night clothes for white leggings and a long, embroidered blue tunic, belted at his waist, slipping on his travel boots last of all.

Then he goes out among the few early-waking people, talking with those he serves, and ignores the way his communicator seems to burn in his pocket.

-

No news reaches him through the rest of the journey, and the nightmares cease. Scott's so exhausted from the daily journeying and lack of good rest for weeks that he doesn't even have the energy to freak out about sleeping, and he's also tired enough that he doesn't even dream.

He tries to put his friends out of his mind. Even if the war has begun, it could take any number of days for it to get bad—and maybe it's a terrible thought, but the emperors aren't likely to get hurt. For the most part, they won't be allowed to be out in the midst of the fighting. They'll be fine.

Jimmy will be fine.

He finishes the tour with a town near the base of the mountain on the other side from where they'd come out, and then they start the two-day trek back up to the capital.

Their spirits are high, surprisingly—perhaps they had noticed Scott's anxiety, but one of the guards starts up an old drinking song and everybody joins in, and when that one ends they pick up another, and so on and so forth. When they can't remember any more tunes, Eitvi—a guard with a renowned talent for storytelling, one of the servants whispers to Scott—picks up a story that goes on for more than an hour. Trading of stories follows amongst the troupe, and though Scott doesn't give one himself, he's content enough to listen, fingers gently combing any knots out of Loth's hair.

The second day begins with stories that transition into an encore round of songs, all the way up until they reach the City of Rivendell, when they fall silent one by one, a clear longing for home in the lines of their faces.

Scott waves to his people, gathered in the cobbled streets, as he rides by, up the winding paths to his palace. He's exhausted, he's worn this tunic three times since it was last washed, and he hasn't bathed in two days, but he does his best to hold his head high and smile like a king successful.

Until he reaches the palace.

One of his younger council members is waiting at the stables, almost appearing out of breath. Strange, but Scott gives them a nod as he dismounts, holding back a groan at the feeling of solid ground again.

It isn't customary for council members to meet him outside the palace after a trip. He's meant to have at least a moment to freshen up in his rooms before being pulled away into a meeting, and in times before the upcoming war, he was usually given a day to rest without interruption.

This

"Galidre," he greets, passing off Loth to a stablehand and hobbling out of the dark stables to stand beside his advisor, legs reluctant to straighten after so long riding. "What news?"

"Did the messenger reach you?"

That's never good.

"No, we didn't see a messenger," Scott replies. Galidre looks back and forth, something close to grief on their face.

Scott's stomach clenches. Has the war really started, as he'd hoped it wouldn't? As he'd known it was going to?

"The armies of Mythland have begun the war," Galidre says, and Scott's breath vanishes from his chest. Mythland? But they'd all assumed fWhip would start the war, had concentrated the main part of their plans on the Grimlands. How could—?

Jimmy—

Before he can even speak, Galidre makes his worst fears come true.

"The Cod Empire has fallen," they say dreadfully, hands twitching at their side.

No.

No.

"The Codfather—" Scott starts, desperately, Jimmy must be with Lizzie, he must've fled—

Galidre shakes their head. "No word," they say. "Likely—likely dead or captive."

Scott knows, in his heart, that Jimmy wouldn't be taken captive.

They want him dead.

If Jimmy hasn't managed to escape by some means, he's . . . he's. . . .

He would've made contact if he had escaped. Right?

But they haven't received word—

Scott fumbles for it, in his satchel, his communicator—he needs to know—

The only message is from Lizzie.

Have you heard from Jimmy?

No. No no no no no—

"You're needed in the war room immediately," Galidre says, their mouth slightly behind their words, the words that echo in Scott's head.

Jimmy's gone.

And the war continues.

#empires smp #esmp #empires fanfic #flower husbands #mas writes #trust au #032823 #hello i speak to you from the lands of hiatus #hope you enjoy this installment of trust au #the good news! scott kind of figures out his sleeping issues #the bad news: scott gains new sleeping issues #how gnc can i make the background elves #this was originally supposed to follow canon from this point on #can you even believe that? #i was planning to wrap it up in like two more parts #def not happening now lol #i'm gonna run out of song lyrics #anyway lmk what u think! #love you guys #(and from oasis aka the person posting this for mas: thank goodness it's not canon from there on out anymore lol) #byeee hope y'all enjoy :)) I will let mas know your comments btw <3!!! #love y'all :)

[wlntrsldler]

PLS MAKE A FULL BLURB OR ONESHOT FOR LUKE AND A KNIFE KINK ID EAT THAT UP💔💔😭😭

ur wish is my command... MDNI

not canon for the plot!

505 | luke castellan

luke couldn't stand it. everyone seemed to second-guess him. oh, luke wouldn't it be better if we did this? what if we combined these two strategies? this doesn't make sense, luke! we should just stick to the original plan.

luke wanted to yell at everyone to tell them to shut up! gods, they were getting on his nerves. didn't they understand that what he says goes? he was the one enacting the plan for kronos. he was the one kronos approached. he was the one the titan trusted to lead the return of the golden age. not them.

maybe luke had gotten soft. ever since you joined his side of the fight, he supposed he's been a little bit pre-occupied with dealing with you. it wasn't his fault, though-- really it wasn't! it took two months for you to come crawling back to him, begging him to forgive you for ever turning your back on him, and two months was a long time for luke not to fuck his favorite girl dumb with his cock.

sure, he may have gone overboard on your first night (or first three days, more like) on princess andromeda, but he didn't care. now, though, since his loyal followers thought that they could run their mouth about how he was leading the cause, he started to care.

luke wasn't allowed to have a weak spot, but with you around, he feared that he was breaking that rule. that can't happen.

luke entered your shared room with a loud slam of the door. you were laying in bed, in one of his t-shirts and panties on, reading a book, patiently waiting for him to get back. he huffed as he stared at himself in the mirror, analyzing the creases between his eyebrows from his anger. he took off his shirt, wiping the sweat from his face, as you walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his torso.

you pressed your face against his toned back, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, "you're tense, baby. what's going on?"

"nothin'," he muttered, playing with backbiter that was situated by his thigh, confined in its scabbard. "they're just pissin' me off. think they know better than i do."

"they don't," you began kissing down his back, letting your lips linger a bit longer on his scars. luke closed his eyes at the feeling of your hands traveling down his abs, stopping shy at his belt buckle. "need to blow off some steam?"

luke bit his bottom lip at the sound of your voice, all sultry and sexy. he loved it when you did this. it's like you knew exactly what he needed. "you offerin', sweetheart?"

"always, baby," you tapped his bicep to make him turn around. he faced you, leaning down to start nipping at the expanse of your neck. his hands gripped your waist, pushing you closer to his hardening cock. you moaned as he sucked on your pulse point, "you know i'm yours to use whenever you want."

luke wrapped your hair around his fist, pulling on it slightly to have you look up at him. your eyes were narrowed, pupils blown wide. you were a sight to see. luke leaned down to your lips, making you whine when he didn't bother to kiss you. instead, his teeth took your bottom lip between them and bit down. he sucked on your bottom lip harshly as he grinded his hips against yours. he let go of your lip, running his tongue over the faint bite mark he left on it. "i knew i could count on you."

your hands fiddled with his jeans, popping off the button as you sank down to your knees. luke removed the scabbard from his belt loop and had backbiter in his hand. you were unzipping his pants, palming his cock through the fabric of his jeans and boxers. your eyes were glued on his happy trail and his abs, mouth watering as you imagined the weight of his cock in your mouth again. it's only been a few hours since luke fucked you, but you were so cock-drunk that it felt too long since.

luke wanted to see your pretty face as you pushed his pants down. he took the tip of backbiter and led it to the underside of your jaw. you froze at the cold metal against your skin and luke thought maybe he'd gone too far by putting the celestial bronze against your neck, but then you moaned. and any restraint luke had flew out the window.

luke chuckled darkly at your reaction and dug backbiter harder into your skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to force you to look at him. your eyes were wide and dark, silently pleading for him to continue his actions. your bottom lip was poking out into a pout and luke wanted to take a picture of you right now to keep for himself for later. you looked so pretty like this, on your knees with his hard cock in front of your face, wearing his shirt, and his sword poking your neck.

"you like that?" he asked, letting his free hand cradle your jaw. he licked his lips as you placed a kiss on his palm-- a thank you of some sorts for unlocking a kink within you that you didn't know you had.

"yes," you sighed, feeling his thumb caress your cheekbone.

"oh, my baby," luke cooed, voice dripping with a mean, teasing tone. he tapped your jaw with backbiter twice, motioning for you to get up. you obliged and luke spun the two of you around so you were both facing the mirror. luke was behind you, lifting the oversized shirt above where your panties started. he moved your hair to one side, placing backbiter back on the side of your neck.

luke met your eyes in the mirror and he couldn't help but let a wicked grin take over his features. something about knowing that he's the only person who could get you in a position like this made a fire erupt in his chest. he was never a possessive person, but when it came to you-- you were his and he was going to make sure you knew that.

"you're gonna watch me fuck you with my sword against your neck," he whispered in your ear, teeth grazing over your earlobe. "sounds good, sweetheart?"

"s'good," you purred, leaning your head against his shoulder blade. you were already delirious and he hadn't even touched you yet.

luke pulled down his boxers and your panties, groaning at the arousal that stuck against the fabric. you were soaking. he pressed his tip against your eager pussy, hissing at the tightness. no matter how much he fucked you, it always felt like heaven when his cock pushed into your folds. he could never get tired of this feeling.

you moaned loudly when luke was all the way in, trying your best to keep your eyes open as pleasure took over your body. backbiter was still pushed against your neck, the feeling of the cold metal and luke's warm body against your back was the perfect contrast. luke's hips snapped against your ass. the sound of skin slapping was like music to his ears.

luke's eyes wandered to your face in the mirror, tongue poking out the corner of his lips when he saw your face contort in pleasure. your jaw was ajar as you mewled around his cock, eyes rolling back as luke hit that spot inside you that had you seeing stars. he'd fucked you enough times to know exactly where it was. luke watched as your ass bounced against him, flesh turning red at the constant pressure against it. a part of him wanted to make it difficult for you to sit down tomorrow.

as luke was getting close to his release, he removed backbiter from your throat and tugged on your hair. his other hand grabbed your jaw harshly and forced your head to twist so he could put his lips on yours. he roughly connected your lips, drinking in the sounds of your moans as his tongue explored your mouth. you were panting against his mouth, all breathy and desperate.

"i'm cumming," you whispered. luke separated your lips, turning your head to face the mirror again. he wanted to see you cum on his cock. it was his favorite view.

when your jaw dropped and your eyes screwed shut, luke sped up his thrusts as he felt your cum coating his cock. your pussy tightened around him and he had to grab onto the corner of the dresser beside him to steady himself. he came with long, spurts of cum coating your walls as you watched him fuck his cum deep inside you.

luke collapsed on top of your back, accidentally kicking backbiter away so that it hit the bottom of the dresser with a clang. when he heard you whimper as he pulled his softening cock out of you, all he could think about was how he'd gladly let all the stress and doubts of his team get to him more often if it meant he got to blow off steam like this.

#frances writes #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke pjo #luke castellan #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan x y/n #BARK!

[sunshinesteviee]

only you - s.h.

summary: steve finally wakes up after surviving the upside down, and all he can ask for is you, though you're not sure why; gn!reader wc: 2.1kwarnings: mentions of injuries, the hospital, a touch of angst?, slight enemies to lovers, canon? we don't know her a/n: this was originally supposed to be a blurb for my 8k celebration, but got way out of hand! for my wifey @sparklingsin

You’re lucky to have escaped the upside down fairly unscathed, you know that. You’d been scratched and bruised, briefly strangled by the vines, but aside from that, you’re okay. Most of your friends weren’t that lucky, and many of them sit in hospital beds still. Meaning you’re still rotating between their rooms, making conversation with Eddie, who, despite having literal chunks of his torso torn out by the demobats, seems to be in good spirits, comforting Max when she’s awake, and sitting silently in Steve’s room. Steve, who has yet to wake up. Steve, who you’re not totally sure would even want you there. 

The relationship you have with Steve is complicated, to say the least. You’d never liked him in high school. He’d been arrogant and rude, and at times, he could be a bully. It wasn’t until a weird twist of fate — Max being terrorized by this otherworldly creature — that you really got to know Steve. He wasn’t the same as he’d been in high school, but you still had your reservations. The feeling seemed to be mutual; Steve didn’t seem to care for you much either with how cold and distant he could be. And still, you find yourself spending a large chunk of your time sitting in the silence of Steve’s room by yourself, willing him to wake up.  

When it’s just you, though, you pull the chair in the corner of the room closer to his bed, and grasp his hand in yours, whispering soft encouragements to him, even though you’re not sure he can hear you, “Don’t give up now, Steve.” 

With each passing day, you lose a bit of hope. Eddie, who had suffered an arguably worse attack from the demobats, had woken up quickly. Max, who the doctors still don’t know if she’ll fully recover, is making conversation sometimes, even though she sleeps most of the day. The doctors think that on top of being attacked and bitten like Eddie, maybe Steve had just worn himself too thin. He had been attacked, and then carried on like nothing had happened. He’d winced as Eddie’s rough denim vest slid over his bitten back and arms, but hadn’t said anything else. You still don’t know Steve very well, but you saw how much he pushed himself to keep everyone else safe. And now everyone was worried he’d pushed himself past his breaking point. That he might not recover. 

One day, Dustin bursts into Max’s room with a breathless gasp of your name, eyes wide. Your heart races, and you know that something has happened, though you have no idea if it’s good or bad. Dustin’s eyes dart from you to Max, and then back to you, “Sorry to interrupt, I just— Steve’s finally awake.” 

“He is?!” Max asks, an urgency in her voice you haven’t heard before. 

Dustin nods, still looking at you intently. The way he’s looking at you gives you a funny feeling, and your stomach turns as he murmurs your name again and adds, “He’s asking for you.” 

“Me?” you ask, jaw dropping as you balk at your younger friend. You can’t imagine why Steve would ask for you, of all people. 

He nods again, “He won’t… All he can ask for is you. Won’t say anything other than your name.” 

You glance at Max, who quickly nods, and you shoot up out of your seat, following Dustin out of her room and down the hall to Steve’s room. There’s a bit more commotion behind the door than you’ve seen in a while, and it causes you to freeze. You’re not sure what you’ll find in there. Dustin notices your hesitation, the way your hand pauses at the handle. He knows about the moments you’d had with Steve, when no one else was around. It had been an accident, really, when he’d opened the door, and found you bent over Steve’s bedside, grasping his hand tightly in yours like you never wanted to let go. At the time, he’d quickly and quietly backed out of the room, but stored that bit of information in the back of his head for later. He knew the dynamic between you and Steve was odd, but he also knew that Steve cared about you, even if he hadn’t known how to show it. “It’s okay,” he assures, nodding to you, “He asked for you.”

Sucking in a deep breath, you nod and push open the door to find that Steve really is awake, and is half-sitting up in bed. He’s still connected to quite a few wires, and there are a bunch of nurses surrounding the bed, checking his vitals, but he’s awake. He’s awake, and he’s alive. You let out a soft gasp, hand flying to your mouth, as you breathe out his name, “Steve.” 

You’re not quite sure how he heard you, your voice had barely been above a whisper, but Steve’s head whips to the doorway, eyes going wide when he sees you there. His voice is raspy from not using it for a while as he croaks out your name. 

“Steve,” you say again, louder this time as you start across the room, “You… you’re okay. You’re awake.”

A few of the nurses step away, realizing that you’re the person he’d been asking for, letting you step up to his bed. Steve cracks a tight smile, and he nods, “Yeah, I am. At least I think I’m awake… this isn’t a dream, right?” 

Laughing a little, you shake your head, “No, not a dream. This is real. Are you…” You trail off, not even sure what you were going to ask, and your hand pauses it’s descent to Steve’s arm. You’d held his hand frequently while he was out, but you’re not sure he’d want you touching him now. Instead, you let out a soft sigh and ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Umm… you know. Weird. Everything… everything hurts.” His voice is still scratchy, and he stumbles over his words with a wince, eyebrows drawing together and nose scrunching up. “Shit.”

“Shit,” you echo softly, sinking into the same chair you’d already spent many hours in over the last few days. The same chair you’d sat in only an hour ago, begging Steve to wake up for the millionth time. Your eyes dart down to your lap where your fingers pick at a piece of fraying denim. For some reason, your voice comes out shaky when you speak again, “I-I’m glad you’re awake, Steve. Dustin, he—“

Steve cuts you off abruptly, unable to help himself from blurting out, “I heard you, you know.”

You feel like the air has been sucked out of your lungs, and the only thing you can think of saying is, “What?”

“While I… while I was out, I could still hear everything. When people were talking to me and stuff. I heard the things you were saying. About the kids, and Max and Eddie. And… about me not giving up, needing me to wake up.”

Heat rushes to your face, and no matter how far you sink into your chair, it won’t swallow you whole, unfortunately. Unsure of what to say, you pull one foot up off of the floor, hugging your knee to your chest, and press your cheek into your shoulder in an attempt to hide. You can’t look at Steve as you reply, “Oh… Steve, I—”

He interrupts you again, voice as firm as it can be in his current state, “Thank you.”

Your gaze snaps up to meet his, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Shaking your head slightly, you murmur, “What for?”

“For caring.” This time, Steve is the first to look away as he tilts his head back against his pillows, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly. “I mean, I know those twerps care, and Robin and Nance, too, but… I don’t know. Means a lot that you care even when you don’t particularly like me.”

“Steve, I don’t—“ you pause, taking a moment to collect yourself, and then scoot the chair you’re sitting in closer to his bed. “In high school, yeah, I wasn’t particularly fond of you.” Steve opens his mouth to say something, but you keep talking, “But you’re a different person now, I think. I hope. Max is like a little sister to me, so seeing how much you care about her — how much you did to protect her — means a lot.”

A soft pink springs to Steve’s cheeks, crawling up to his ears as he stares at you. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods, glancing away again, “I am. A completely different person, I mean. I-I’m sorry if I was ever awful to you in high school. How… how is Max, by the way?” 

You wave your hand in the air, dismissing Steve’s worries. Whatever had happened in high school was behind you now. His question, though, makes you realize that the still doesn’t know everything, and that you’re taking up all of his time. “She’s okay. I mean, she’s alive. Not totally herself, though. I can— I don’t want to take up all of your time, I’m sure you’d rather talk to Robin or Dustin or Max. I’ll see if a nurse can bring Max to your room.” 

As you stand up to leave, Steve’s hand darts out, fingers catching yours to stop you from moving. You notice a flash of pain on his face as he outstretches his arm towards you and mumbles, “Stay.” 

“Okay,” you nod quickly, not wanting him to push himself any further, and drop back down into your chair next to him, “Okay, I’ll stay. Don’t hurt yourself on my behalf, Harrington.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh in an attempt to mask the pain on his face. Instead of saying anything, though, he asks, “What about Munson? I was worried he wouldn’t make it when we got to him.” 

“Oh, Eddie’s fine. They treated him, and he was begging to be up on his feet after like two days. He’s still here, his room is down the hall, but he’s doing well. Maybe I could ask for you guys to room together?” You finish with a mischievous grin, and don’t realize that the pad of your thumb is rubbing back and forth across the top of Steve’s hand. 

“Oh, god, please don’t,” Steve groans with a grimace, nose wrinkling, “Turns out I don’t mind the guy, but I think he’d drive me insane in here.”

Letting out a small laugh, you nod in agreement, “I know what you mean. But it’s actually been good to have him around, he’s been keeping everyone’s spirits up.”

“Has it been bad?” Steve asks after a beat of silence, pursing his lips slightly, eyebrows furrowing together.

“Steve, no one was sure when — or if, quite frankly — you’d wake up.”

“Oh.” His voice is small as the reality of the situation starts to set in, “I didn’t realize.” 

“Needless to say, we’re all glad you’re awake,” you murmur in reply, your gaze set on him.

It’s quiet again as Steve glances down to where your fingers are still intertwined with his, but he can’t find it in himself to pull back. Just as he’s about to reply, the door to Steve’s room flies open, the handle nearly banging into the wall as Robin bursts in, eyes wide and voice frantic, “Steve!” 

The two of you jump in surprise, your hands flying apart as you scramble backwards into your chair. 

Robin looks and sounds nearly angry, but you know she’s on the verge of tears as she rushes across the room, pointing at Steve, “You just had to wake up the one time I went home, didn’t you, you asshole?! If you ever scare me like that again, Steven, so help me god—“ 

Steve grins, wincing once more as he pushes himself further up in bed, and Robin gives him a hug that you’re worried will cause him even more pain. You’ve come to learn that Robin is quite the talker, and she’s quick to launch into a rant — something about how worried she’s been, and updating Steve on everything that’s happened. 

You know that your conversation with Steve is done for now, and start moving towards the door. He notices, giving you an apologetic look over Robin’s shoulder — a fleeting look before turning his full attention back to his best friend. It’s only a moment, but you have a feeling there’s much more to be discussed at a later time. You'd sit by his bed all day, if he asked.

And he does ask for you again, only an hour later.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington angst #sunshinehollandd writing #sunshinehollandd

[antimony-medusa]

I just have vauge thoughts about Fandom, and Creator Notices, and Boundaries, and I'm just gonna ramble for a second here.

Okay, so you end up really liking a show or event to the point that you want to make something for it, generally you want to show it off. You want to share it with other people who like the show or event, and have them go !!!!!!!. That's fun, that's normal. We all want to be enthusiastic about [show/event] together. That's our starting point.

Enter social media and official actor/streamer/writer accounts.

Now fan artists, a good portion of the time, can make their art and then thanks to the wonders of social media, they can go straight up to the actual people who made the show and show their art, and have them go !!!!, and get the actual creators to like it. Maybe not if they're drawing hard gore or NSFW, but if you're drawing a soft canon family moment, or a cyberpunk au, or behind the scenes look illuminated, or kick-ass character design, you can get a creator notice.

Fan writers, by and large, do not get creator notices. This is because looking at art takes two seconds, and reading a fic takes between ten minutes to ten hours. Creators can be out there scrolling art in a way that most of them, frankly, do not have the time to devote to Ao3 searches sorted by kudos. And I think among writers there's a little bit of a sense that that's unfair, and writing is just as much as art as visual art is, so we should be getting creator notices, and we should all act as though we might get a creator notice at any time. On all platforms. Cause what we're doing is real art, right? And we all saw the art get retweeted?

And this sense that creator notices— cause we've all seen them happen with art— spreads until we all think that they could happen at any time. Thanks to the wonders of social media. And very rapidly, the "you can get a creator notice" turns into "the highest honour is a creator notice", and we're all gunning for that, and you SHOULD be gunning for that. You should be looking for the creator to weigh in on your art. You should make sure that there's nothing in your work that the creator doesn't like. If you're an artist, you shouldn't be playing with gender in your art, or draw them being tortured, or anythign NSFW, and if you're a writer, you need to make sure that you don't have anything "weird" in your writing. In practice, let's be honest, this just turns into demonizing NSFW work and saying that anything we don't like is NSFW. Looking at you the "you can't draw the streamers with boobs" discourse.

Anyways, I think going after creator notices is a bad idea for many reasons— a, let them rest, b, bad atmosphere for the fandom, c, let's be honest, an awful lot of fandom stuff is weird from the outside. Let it stay in the fandom.

First thing is like, there are only so many hours in a day. Fan artists can tag their people but it's SO much of a huge and rude demand on someone's time to ask them to read your fic and tell you if it's good. That's the request you make cautiously to your beta reader, and then everybody else on this planet earth gets to opt in to your work. Do not TTS stories to people, do not hand them copies at cons, like— if they want to find it they can find it.

Second thing, creator notices hovering over the fandom like a sword is not a good attitude for creativity. Fan work is supposed to be transformative, it's about taking the original work and going "oh but what if they didn't die" and "what if they lived in space" and "what if they were a family" and "what if they kissed". Gunning towards a creator notice at all times takes you from an independent person following your creativity to a contractor working under someone else's vision. All the time.

Trying to adhere to the source material isn't bad in essence, there's a spectrum of "how do you feel about canon" in fan work that ranges from "trying to hit all the same beats just with a twist" to straight up adversarial attacks, and all of that is fine and part of what fan works are. But if the only stuff that gets written is the stuff that we think the creator would approve of, a) that's stifling to both creativity and people who have an adversarial relationship with canon, you shouldn't start to be branded as "weird within the fandom" cause you're mad at a plot arc b) you very rapidly run into the issue where you're adhering to someone else's morals, and sometimes you don't agree with random person's morals. Anne McCaffrey famously said that fan works were okay as long as you didn't make any of the dragon riders gay. I guesture at you about that. Sometimes a creator is way more comfortable with NSFW stuff than you are, that doesn't mean you should feel forced to make NSFW stuff for their approval! You shouldn't have to 100% agree with someone's vision for an art piece to be able to roll up and go "yes but I think there should be like 50% more evicerations in here" and acting like the creators are the ultimate authority in fan spaces is a bad atmosphere for making fan works.

Sure, absolutely, showrunners get to decide canon. But the whole point of fandom is that sometimes I have a better vision for my story, and maybe I don't want to think about what the creator says at all. If I'm not gunning for the creator's approval, let me stay in my little circle with the creator blocked and adding more pregnancy to the QSMP, or whatever. Follow your bliss.

Third thing, like, okay. There has been a move in fan circles, and especially in mcyt circles, to say that if we just cut the NSFW stuff out, everything we're doing isn't weird, and the creators can look at it. I honestly think this is a failure of both imagination and perspective.

If you have written someone being vivisected, it's gonna be a trifle weird for the actor of that someone to come into contact with that. It is doubly weird if you're depicting a character who shares the same name as the actor. Is it bad to write the vivisection? No, this is fandom, we get to do terrible things to characters here, and that's not for the actors, that's for the audience of two hundred people who saw the words "Schlackity vivisection cannibalism necromancy" and said "clear my schedule, I know what I'm doing tonight". Awesome, continue with the gore.

And like, again, this isn't just NSFW. You can have something that is the fluffiest most platonic story in the world, and I'm saying look at me, look at me honestly, consider this; isn't it going to be just a little bit weird for a grown-ass man to open up a story where they've been aged down to four years old and they're lost and sad and their friends are their family and rescue them and there's cuddling and petting and snackies and pet names and they get their blanket and suck their thumb and take a nap. Look me in the eye and tell me that's not gonna be weird for an adult to read that about their character who shares their name. Okay? We're all on the same page here? Awesome. Is it bad to write kidfic? No. Kidfic rocks. I am your target audience, I am clicking through. I am leaving a keysmash comment. It is also, like, look at me here, focus— it's weird if you're outside the fandom. Platonic? Yes. for the actors/streamers? No. And that's because it's not FOR outsiders to the fandom, it's for the fandom. It's for people who rotate the characters so much that they go 'wouldn't it be sooooo cute if they were babies wouldn't it be adorable', it's not for the actual guys who had a meeting with an accountant today.

MCYT in particular has a horrible practice of saying that because everything has to be for the streamers, nothing can be NSFW unless they've approved it specifically, but somehow everything else is cool? I cannot express to you how much stuff I've read and enjoyed that even the smallest amount of thinking about should let you know that we keep that stuff away from the guys driving the block men around. Fine to write it, I say again, go for it. Please completely divorce yourself of the idea of a creator notice for it at the same time.

Should we show the streamers porn? No. We also should not show the streamers the thing where they're physically abusive parents of their friends. We should not show them the stuff where they're babies. We should not show them things where they're bigots. We should not show them things where they have hybrid instincts that tell them to kidnap someone. Really not sure about showing them a story where they're a cop who takes bribes. Like come on now. Really, as soon as you diverge from canon you're getting into stuff that's probably going to be weird for the crdeators. And that's why again, we don't show it to them, because it shouldn't be for them, it should be for the other people who are like "oh you're doing something fun with the character there, awesome" and click through. Weird for the creators, because it's for us.

Fandom should not be for for the creators. We can make stuff for the creators ocassionally, but I really think it's healthier for the fandom, and probably a lot less weird for the actors/streamers/writers, if we stop acting like what we make is all for them and should be shown to them. Some of it is just for us! That's fine! Make it for the people who have an rss feed for "autistic technoblade" on Ao3! Make it for the people who show up in your inbox asking about your "Philza gets arranged married to a different QSMP guy every week" au! ! Make it for the people who have three spellings of "charlie slimecicle" followed on Tumblr! Make it for the people making helsmit fancams! Make it for the fifteen people who suscribed to you after you posted that fic about the various wilbur bursonas kissing each other! Make it for the people who have Puffychu art saved to their phones! Make it for the fandom!

Leave the creators alone, make the fandom for the fans.

#discourse #dsmp #qsmp #fandom meta

[adobe-outdesign]

Nigel: The Muppets' Most Interesting Uninteresting Character

(This was supposed to be a fun little post about an obscure Muppet character but now I fell down a hole doing too much research and sunk cost fallacy won't let me live it down unless I include all of the useless information I've learned so enjoy knowing more about this character than you ever have or ever will want to know)

Nigel was created to be the host of the Muppet Show's Sex and Violence pilot instead of Kermit (who only appears in the pilot for like 30 seconds)

He was originally puppeteered by Jim Henson himself, giving him a vaguely Kermit-esq voice initially

Nigel Voice Count: 1

Nigel is a yellow... something. You’d assume he’s just a stylized human Muppet but in S4E18 Sam refers to him as a “thing”

He actually looks near-identical to a Fraggle minus the tail. I don’t know what to do with this information

Nigel was diagnosed with terminal Boring Personality disease due to the following attributes:

He’s very meek. Unlike Kermit, who will freak out and tell people they suck to their faces, Nigel raises his voice one (1) time and mostly relies on Sam the Eagle and Crazy Harry to deal with the assorted chaos

His face is flexible like Kermit’s, but he has permanently partially-lidded eyes that leave him looking exhausted in every scene he’s in

He’s generally unenthusiastic and seems like he wants to go home constantly

Jim Henson: The Works describes him as "lacking in spunk and charisma," which is hilariously cruel yet 100% accurate

What’s surprising at this point is that instead of scrapping him, he instead took on the role of orchestra conductor on the show proper, where he proceeds to do almost nothing for five seasons

The Muppets Character Encyclopedia actually provides a canon reason for this: Nigel lost the job of host due to his “shy manner”, and Kermit, feeling bad for replacing him, gave him his new job

He can technically be seen in basically every episode during the theme song, but aside from that, he often pops up in the chorus during songs

Which is funny when you consider he should be in the pit Doing His Job during those sequences

A quick list of his more important (if you can even call them that) appearances:

S1E2: He has Zoot play a song called “Sax and Violence” b/c pilot references

It’s actually implied the Mayhem falls under his jurisdiction as he threatens to fire Zoot, but this never comes up again

S1E24: Playing the part of a library patron noisily chewing gum (despite not having teeth. idk you figure it out). This one’s only notable because he’s wearing the same outfit from the pilot

S3E16: Nigel’s eyelids are not connected to the rest of his body and he’s facing backwards through the entire backstage segment so you’re uncomfortably aware of this

S1E23 has Floyd complaining that the theme song is cringe(TM), at which point it’s casually revealed that Nigel wrote it?? how is this character so important and unimportant at the exact same time

If you’ve seen this episode and aren’t deaf you might have noticed he has a completely different voice here. This is because John Lovelady has taken over as his puppeteer, presumably because Jim was busy Running The Entire Show

Nigel Voice Count: 2

Nigel has a talent for whistling, which is shown off in S2E18 during a performance with Floyd (this is the only time he comes on stage to perform that isn’t with a crowd)

He shows this off again in S4E18 to participate in the age-old sport of Annoying Sam the Eagle backstage

As of the 2011 movie Walter takes over as the show’s resident whistler because Nigel isn’t allowed to have character traits

He briefly shows up during the credits of The Muppet Movie (now puppeteered by Dave Goelz). Because of this, in the UK version of the end credits, he has another completely different voice

Nigel Voice Count: 3

After a brief background appearance in The Jim Henson Hour (S1E12), Nigel proceeded to completely disappear for 20 years

I’m guessing the reason was that his puppet was becoming unusable. The foam used for the muppets disintegrates over time, and his puppet was ~15 years old at this point

Things were particularly bleak for him in the 90s because Muppets Tonight came out with a new unrelated TV director character named... Nigel. Because Jim had passed away at this point and I think everyone working on the show literally Forgot they already had a character named that

Not that it would be that big of a problem, seeing as the chances of yellow Nigel returning were bleak. who was gonna spend time and money rebuilding an incredibly minor background character like him

TRICK QUESTION because he was rebuilt for The Muppets (2011), which is pretty amazing when you consider that he does Nothing during this movie

The new puppet looks pretty similar to the old one. I think the face is a bit rounder/more structured but I could also be losing my mind

(Side note: shoutout to whoever decided to give him a scarf in this scene. that’s such an unnecessary detail)

What’s great is that now that the puppet’s been rebuilt he’s shown up in a lot of stuff because they have no reason not to include him. Some of the more notable examples include:

The music video for OK Go’s cover of the theme song (which I certainly hope he would show up in I mean. it’s his song)

In the live shows (The Muppets Take the Bowl and The Muppets Take the O2) there’s a parade of overlooked characters, which includes Nigel. I just find it funny that:

A) The writers fully acknowledge that he’s King of the Background Characters

B) The in-universe implication that Kermit was like “no one knows who you are, wanna be in a parade celebrating that fact” and Nigel was like “okay”

His most recent appearance was in Muppets Haunted Mansion, where he’s dead (don’t worry about it). More importantly, he gets an entire shot to himself conducting some skulls, which I think is the first time the camera’s been focused solely on him in literally 40 years. Good job, buddy!

Here’s some other misc appearances that I couldn’t fit elsewhere:

He appears alongside Jim and a few other Muppets in a 1977 commercial for American Express (once again wearing his pilot outfit), which is particularly strange considering he’s the only character there that used to be puppeteered by Jim

In 2010 he got a somewhat important role in the first issue of Muppet Sherlock Holmes, playing the part of a butler suspected of poisoning the head of the house

He gets one whole page in The Muppets Character Encyclopedia from 2014 (right next to other Nigel). In addition to the aforementioned info bridging the gap between the pilot and the show proper, it also states that he’s susceptible to hypnosis and he trained at the Tommy Newsom Academy for Music and Charisma

In terms of future projects: there is both a Jim Henson biopic and documentary coming in the future (side note: why???), so it’s possible he might be discussed briefly in one of those

I have no thesis statement or reason for writing this, but I guess I’ll close out by saying that I find it fascinating that a failed main character from a pilot episode is still appearing in recent Muppet productions but solely as a background character. I hope that in 2073 I can put on some Muppet media and Nigel will still be there still doing absolutely nothing

thanks for coming to my TED talk

#muppets #the muppets #the muppet show #the muppets 2011 #nigel #outdesign posts things #long post #nigel is like The character to throw in a scene if you want to show you know your stuff #because all the hardcore fans will be like 'omg nigel' without fail every time while regular fans literally won't even notice him #tumblr stop removing my sub bullets you're making my rambly incoherent posts look even more incoherent #greatest hits

[piosplayhouse]

Binghe's cutie mark in MLP aus is an interesting thing to contemplate because it feels obvious to just give him the demon mark, but there's quite a bit of debate regarding what exactly the cutie mark is supposed to represent and why/when ponies earn it. I'm personally inclined to the interpretation that cutie marks are earned not when a pony discovers their talent, but instead when they discover who they are (the example that rlly hits this for me is how Rarity, despite having diamonds as her mark, earns her mark not when she finds gemstones, but instead after she uses those stones to design costumes for her school play, an act which shows her creativity and generosity). So there's a few routes you can take with Binghe depending on what you want to emphasize:

A. He earns his mark with his adoptive mother and enters qjp with it. This could work as he is his truest self with her-- filial and innocent, but I personally feel him entering qjp as a blank flank would make more sense as it further emphasizes his vulnerability to bullying and ostracization from the other disciples

B. He earns his mark on Qing Jing Peak. I assume most disciples earn their marks at this point, and binghe could very well follow that pattern. I think this is much more likely for bingmei for obvious reasons, but if bingmei develops a cutie mark before bingge was supposed to that might tip sqq off that he really fucked the story up earlier than someone might want for world building reasons.

C. He earns his mark at the Abyss OR his mark changes at the Abyss. This is the most angsty for obvious reasons, on both a meta narrative level and on a character development level as this would suggest to Binghe that his "true self" is being a dangerous heavenly demon and that he can never return to being an innocent disciple. Of course, we could also get into the weeds here with if the heavenly demon equivalent to ponies are creatures with no cutie marks and therefore him being a hybrid means that he has unusual cutie mark expression under the influence of heavy demonic energy. If bingge made it this long as a blank flank I expect him earning the demon mark would be the natural outcome at this point in the story, or even within the abyss. Alternatively:

D. Bingge was intended to be markless for the entirety of PIDW. This slots in as an equivalent to the "bingge was never supposed to find true love" element of his character, going further to hit on the implication that the original Binghe is a deeply hollow person who doesn't truly know who he is despite appearances (I imagine he would keep his flank covered, or even use magic to disguise it as a demon mark cutie mark). Obviously this would not happen to bingmei which brings us to the alternative for him:

D.2. Bingmei earns his cutie mark sometime during the falling arc/postcanon after getting together with sqq. This makes sense in that this is really when Bingmei is fully free to be his true self with no inhibitions, but it could be argued that he had his life figured out as a teenager (see B) and got lost along the way, which wouldn't have much of an impact on his mark as we see various canon villains go through redemption arcs where their marks don't change. Of course, though, this would open the way for his mark to be something much more romantic, like a lotus blooming on a fan or something. So this could be a cute route that would provide a nice, if a bit less dramatic, end to his journey.

#svsss meta

[kerubimcrepin]

Dofus: The Production - what is left of the old movie

Originally, the movie was supposed to tie in with the game and the Welsh & Shedar series, and be a trilogy.

As we had already explored on this blog, this did not happen for a variety of reasons.

Welsh and Shedar got cannibalized by other projects due to its cancellation, and the script of the movie "Dofus Book 1: Joris Jurgen" had to be completely rewritten from its old plot;

In that movie, Joris was likely supposed to be a street urchin, who survived together with Lilotte, who was a rogue, and the trailer we have for the older version of the movie reflects that:

As we can also see from the trailer, and the poster featured earlier, proto-Kerubim is also a part of the movie, and Khan was not yet meant to be a boufbowler.

(And considering the posters, the cat that inspired Kerubim's design was also a part of the movie. I wonder if it's related to Welsh's cat from Welsh and Shedar? But maybe I'm just crazy.)

Subsequently, the movie came out at a much later date than planned originally.

(two images included because, bizarrely, there are two versions - one with Joris's tail censored, and the other with his tail uncensored. This proves that already at this point they had a draconic backstory in mind for him, though we do know that at the time of Wakfu season 1 (and, likely, the cancelled DS game, as was noted in my post about it) it was not the case.)

Also, interestingly, it is the only art of this time to include the tail. A possible error on Xa's part, or something that was considered very briefly?

In the end, Kerubim (as well as Simone) swallowed up not just the design of Welsh's cat, clothes, and Ecaflip friend;

He also got the role Julith was supposed to have, both metaphorically, and also literally.

Or not entirely — considering the fact that Joris was supposed to spend time with him anyway, since we have art of Joris on his mount from that old draft.

It's quite interesting, to think of all that could have been different in the 2009-2012 version of the movie!

But even during the making of the second draft of the movie, a lot of things have changed. From the first idea of Joris winning Kerubim back at a pachinko machine, to the concept art of Joris's non-possessed appearance.

The movie was being actively rewritten at the time of the making of Aux Tresors, so some of the early drafts were already tied in with its canon — taking place in Astrub, to be specific — but not with its ending, because the show was still ongoing.

At one point there was supposed to be a whole cast of Huppermage characters, and judging from the fact one of them is mentioned in the following text, they did play some sort of role in the plot:

It is likely that from this early draft it was decided that Joris would be a boufbowl fan, which was then worked in as a plot point in Aux Tresors.

(Stélina may be a proto-version of Bakara.)

It also seems that at this stage, it would be likely that Lilotte was reworked to be the Princess of Bonta, before eventually becoming the Ouginak we know and love.

After this Ankama once again returned to the concept of Lilotte as an orphan, though — even when the movie was still set in Astrub!

And it seems that the draft involved travel between Astrub and Bonta, judging from the usage of a Zaap to attack Luis.

And even at this point they have come up with the tragically cut "Joris and Khan go to adult industry workers and Joris (10yo boy) engages in depressed underaged drinking" scene.

(I'll never forgive Ankama for cutting this. I still argue that it's in character for Khan, our detested/beloved turbovirgin, to do this — as long as he doesn't get together with any of the women due to thinking himself "too good" for them.)

Also, at some point the gods were supposed to play a role. And personally, I am glad it was cut — it feels a bit too grand for the first movie in what was supposed to be a series.

I don't have any grand statement, or conclusion, but it is interesting to see all the ways the movie has changed.

#ro liveblogs dofus #dofus #wakfu #krosmoz #moviehistory

[slushiepizza]

Prêt à Manger

this fanfiction has suggestive themes. but not actual depictions of sexual interaction. still, i'd prefer it if minors don't interact.

Pairing : Doc/Hush

Tags : Meat Themes, Food as a form of love, hunger as a form of love, knifeplay (for the sake of teasing and not to the point of wounding), graphic depictions of eating, getting together, kissing, vaguely horny, unhinged doc, depictions of corpses

Word Count : 3,192

ao3

Notes : Thank you so much to @joshusten for accompanying me through writing this whole thing. This wouldn't have been finished without their help! This is a challenge for myself to describe the intersection of the feeling of being hungry for food, and being hungry for love and companionship/desiring over someone. Also to describe love interests appetizingly, while describing food titillatingly. I think Hush and Doc's dynamic is perfect for those themes- considering he isn't human and thus is unfamiliar with those sensations, and also that he canonically DID learn how to cook for Doc's sake.

To Hush, hunger used to be a foreign concept.

But ever since he took on his humanoid form- the fleshy disguise that was a mockery of what he was capable of- there’s a simmering under his skin, crawling and clawing for something. There’s a sort of hollowness that couldn’t be filled.

Hush manifested in an underground tunnel full of humans. There were signs above him with words like ‘to Union Station’, ‘Santa Monica’ and ‘Mind the gap’. He followed the crowd to a stationary vehicle, ethereal and glowing with artificial light. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, the metal doors closed. Inside, it was cramped and narrow.

Someone’s elbow was digging into his side and someone pressed against his back. He found the fact interesting, as he discovered that most humans liked their personal space. But not here. Not inside the tunnel that currently moved in speeds that reminded him of Aria, the windows that lead to outside blurred what remained of the scenery into long lines of color. 

Between the sea of people, Hush took in the surroundings as best he could with people breathing down his neck. A man was sitting on the far end of the cargo. He took out a bowl with a transparent lid. He opened it, revealing the insides of rice, meat, and vegetables. He spooned the food into his mouth and chewed with vigor. Beside him, a woman is holding a cup with a dark liquid, steam wafting off of it. She took a sip and winced. The next time she approached the drink, she slowly blew on it, disturbing the vapor. She let out a sigh as she swallowed. In the forgotten corner near the window- a couple was kissing and sucking on each other’s lips. One of them slid their hand down the other’s thigh. The action produced wet, smacking noises and the humans around them looked revolted, turning their backs away. 

He sensed that they all felt a similar sort of feeling, a concoction of desire, relief, hunger, craving mixed into one. Hush didn’t find other humans interesting, but he noted that there was something to be made of the fact that there’s an animal-like primalness to the act of eating something. To him, Arcana is just a source of power floating in the vastness of Aria. He didn’t need to chew or swallow- it’s just absorbed into his form, imbuing him with energy. Hush recounted that Doc also took pleasure in the act, losing themselves in the morsel. 

—

Doc pulled a chair and joined Hush at the kitchen table. “Oh, man. I’m starving,” they sighed as they took a burger out from its paper bag, the colorful logo of its origins crumpled beyond recognition. “Still not into food? Eating in general? We can share it if you want,” they gestured the bun towards his direction across the table.

“No, thank you. Arcana is more than enough sustenance.”

Although he still relied on Arcana as a source of energy, his body never seemed to be rid of the feeling of lacking something. It’s a phantom sort of sensation- like it knew how it’s supposed to act when unfed, but couldn’t seem to find the right functions to do it.

“Suit yourself, then.” They took a bite and hummed in pleasure. Their white, ivory colored teeth sank into the bread and patty. It was pliant under their grasp, their fingers marking it with dents. A crunch from the lettuce. “Wow. That really hit the spot.”

Doc wiped off their mouth with the back of their hand, yet their lips were still shiny, slick with oil, the meal marking an evidence of their appetite just. Hush watched unblinkingly as they chewed, barely swallowing before inhaling and going in for another bite. He noted that there’s something strangely intimate yet taboo about the way humans eat. Like it should be done behind closed doors, away from onlookers.

His human companion themself- had a particular affinity for food that was eaten directly with their hands. “Tastes better that way. Burrito, fries, sliced fruit. Sushi. It’s kind of nice to touch and feel it going into my mouth,” they said, muffled between bites.

There’s something sacred about the way Doc eats. They always do it with a reverent sort of enthusiasm. Completely indulging themself in it, not holding anything back. They cradled the burger as if with affection, with tenderness.

Hush felt oddly shameful, as he watched the food disappear past their lips into the cavern of their wet mouth. The act of watching them eat, almost voyeuristic in nature.

He imagined what it would be like to cook them a meal- the food that they metabolized being his own picking. He’d gather out the ingredients, meticulously cut and sear it.

He made up his mind to do so.

—

Hush found himself in front of a glass display of animal carcasses hanging from hooks. The flesh was plenty, hanging off the bone with white fat between the muscles. He couldn’t recognize what they used to be. The hook twisted the carcass slightly when a stray gust of wind moved it. On the rack, other rolls of meat filled with what looked like herbs sat. It was bound with twine rope, the layers of meat dimpled out provocatively. 

“You!” the burly man beside the display acknowledged him, sharpening his knife with a clink, clink, clink. “Are ya’ buyin’ anything or are you just gonna stare?” 

“Sorry.” 

Doc told him that it was wise to apologize whenever someone is displeased with him. They said it could get him out of unsavory situations. 

“What do people usually buy?” he asked, taking good care to make himself look as conventional as possible. 

“Eh,” he mindlessly tapped the cutting board with his knife. The cuts of meat around him shook slightly. “Rib’s popular if ya’ got the money. Shank for broth. Maybe…flank? For steak.” 

“The flank, then,” he said, looking him in the eyes as a sign of respect. He looked uncomfortable under his stare, and averted his gaze down to the board. 

“Ya got it.” He groaned with effort as he took one of the hanging pieces and put it on the table. Hush noticed that there’s hints of extremities, like two protruding hind legs. The man’s knife scored the top membrane- a thin film with a pinkish hue- to reveal ruby-red fibrous muscle. He cut the muscle away and folded it into a neat roll. “She’s a beauty, this one.” 

There’s a strange sort of tenderness the butcher had for the meat. The man was protective of them, like a father might for a daughter. He’d give Hush a glare whenever he stood too close to the chops, and cut the skin with a delicate hand when he himself was anything but. 

“How do you usually cook it?”

–

The flank sizzled in a sea of butter and garlic, red slowly turning into brown. Hush flipped the meat and it made a loud sound. 

Strangely, it reminded him of the demon in his companion’s apartment. The surge of rage and power that ran through his veins when he saw them threaten his companion. The explosion of connective tissue and viscera on the kitchen floor.

Both an act of devotion, he thought. His power tore through sinews and bone- and the knife in his hand sliced the flank clean, revealing the pink, rare, inside. Tempting in its dampness. 

Doc opened the door with a clatter of their keys when Hush was setting the steak on the dining table. It looked accurate enough to the pictures he saw in the books he studied. A firm, supple steak in the middle of the plate. A fork and knife on its side. He even set the table with a tablecloth, candleholders and a bowl of apples in the center. Romantic wasn’t quite the word he looked for when he did all this, but it was quite accurate to how picturesque the spread was. 

“I made you dinner,” he turned to them. “Oh, I was wondering why it smelled so strong,” they laughed as they put away their shoes. “Thanks, Hush. Appreciate the effort.” 

They looked surprised when they saw that the kitchen was clean despite the smell- although he committed to making the meal by hand, he’d used the help of magic to wash the dishes. “You really know how to spoil me,” they teased. “What’s the occasion?” 

“I like seeing you eat,” he confessed. “There’s something…appealing about it.” 

They raised an eyebrow, and good-naturedly huffed as they walked over to the dining table. “Thanks. I guess. I’ll take that as a compliment. Hey, you even set the table and everything.” 

“Yes. It’s to add to the experience. Humans eat with their eyes first, before their mouth.” 

Doc sat themselves down in front of the plate and gave Hush a strange look when he kept standing. They pat the seat beside them.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” 

“Okay,” he obeyed and mirrored their sitting position. Hush watched as the human took the fork on the side of the plate and put a piece of steak in their mouth. “Mm. It’s really good,” they groaned. “Definitely not bad for a first try, Hush.” 

Hush felt satisfaction when he saw them enjoying the meal, the warm light of the candle lighting the planes of their face that twisted into indulgence. “To be honest, it’s kind of odd to be eating just steak and nothing else. But y’know what. I think there’s an appeal to it.” 

They cut another piece with the knife and pierced it with a fork before nudging it to Hush. “It’s your first time cooking anything, is it not? I think you should at least try what you made. Fruits of your labor and all.” 

“Why didn’t you eat with your hands?” he asked. “You said that it makes things taste better.” 

“Oh. Well I guess steak isn’t really a…hand food. In this scenario, anyway. Do you still wanna try this?” 

“No,” Hush answered. 

Doc hummed an assent and continued eating, Hush watching intently as they swirled the steak in butter before slowly closing their lips around it. He wondered if they did it on purpose.

“I’ve told you that there’s a lot of things I’d like to give you,” he broke the silence. “But, there’s something…I’d like you to give me.” 

They set the utensils on the plate, resting it. Their expression was thoughtful, unreadable. “...What do you want me to do?” 

“There’s a…feeling I get when I’m with you. Like I’m starving but there’s nothing that could fix that. It’s like…” 

Hush reached out to hold Doc’s hand. They gently squeezed it back and traced the back of his palm with their thumb. He guided it to hover above his neck, before lightly pressing it against his skin. He let out a noise from the back of his throat as he moved it down his clavicle, to his sternum. Their hand was warm when he moved it down his stomach in a straight line. 

He brought it up again, back to his neck and traced a horizontal line across the base of his throat. He felt Doc’s heart speed up, along with the tension in the atmosphere. He started another line at the bottom of his ribs, tracing across the fabric of his clothes.

“Like gutting a fish,” they muttered, entranced. “Or…butchering lamb.”

“Yes,” he approved. “Like meat. Like something alive.”

“I share a similar sentiment,” Doc uttered, half-lidded. In a quick gesture, they dropped themselves down to the table, pulling Hush down with them. The remaining plates clinked with the sudden movement. Hush noticed that they looked utterly pleased with themselves, as if laying between leftover steak and utensils like they were part of dinner was an indulgence he couldn’t understand. 

“I have something to offer you. A form of thanks for dinner.” 

Doc reached for Hush’s right hand and covered it with their own, not unlike how he held theirs earlier. Hush balanced on his other arm, caging them in with his body. They flashed him a rakish grin from below. Hush licked his dry lips, feeling like he was going to be swallowed whole, even when they couldn’t hurt him in a way that matters. He could feel their intense emotions: hunger, thrill, desire, frustration. Doc trailed both of their hands against their sternum, moving it past the collar of their shirt. It stopped on the right side of their neck, slightly below their jawline. They sighed into a pleasured smile, their eyes rolling back before meeting his gaze. “Do you feel it?” They whispered, wide-eyed and frenzied, firmly pressing his hand against their supple, pliant skin. 

Hush could feel the thump of a pulse, loud and clear through his heightened senses. It was a delicious sort of sound, the rush of something and its channel opening, closing, and opening again. A rhythm. “There’s thumping. Like your heart in your chest. I don’t understand what you’ve offered me.” 

“You will, in a bit,” they replied. “Your lack of pulse,  the lack of breathing, the lack of body temperature- it suggests that there’s nothing to be revealed. As it should, if what you told me was right- a disguise, a vessel for you to put a fraction of your power in.”

“That’s true. In a way,” he said, noting that he could feel their breath on his face- contrasting his lack of. “This isn’t… me. But more of a form of me.” 

Doc toyed with the ends of his hair that pooled on the side of their head, twirling it with their fingers. They laugh sardonically,” To a being like you, the human body is simple, inconsequential. But we have our secrets, too.” 

“It’s not,” Hush rebutted. “Human bodies are irrelevant to my purpose. Not yours, somehow. I want to know more about yours.” 

“Oh, you flatter me,” Doc slurred, their eyes ravenous. “Much like how you’re a container of instrumental force, the human body is also teeming with energy. Our veins are thrumming with life. Blood rushes to our extremities, pumping. Stomachs shrink and expand and absorb. This body…is the opposite of silence. It’s noise. Mechanical and biological in the way magic isn’t.” 

Hush could feel the pulse in their skin get louder and louder, along with the sloshing of blood, its passage narrowing and widening. A drop of sweat dripped down his human companion’s face. They reached for the knife- still dirty from the steak earlier. Doc finally let go of Hush’s hand in favor of wiping it off with their shirt, revealing their abdomen. 

“Hold this with me,” they pleaded.

Doc repeated their earlier position, his hand under theirs. They breathe heavily, their chest rising and falling. Doc guided the knife to the left of their chest. “Between the third and fourth rib- closest way you can reach the heart,” they muttered shakily, letting out a sound of pleasure from the back of their throat. They let the knife dig into their skin, not enough to pierce through, but enough to let the fabric of their shirt sink into its edge. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hush whispered. “Why do you want me to?” 

“Why?” the word rolled in their mouth. “You had every chance to. I know you could do it, even without the knife. I’ve seen you destroy Reticuli in seconds. What made me different? Just because you’re interested in me?” 

“If I’m in the way of your purpose- if I stood in the way of your mission, would you? You let me go after capturing me when we first met- is that not a defiance of your purpose?” 

“I-” he faltered, eyes searching for meaning when there was none. 

“Aw,” they cooed. “Am I so important that you’d forgo what you were made for?” 

“Either way, I’m not asking you to,” they laughed warmly, their breath warm against Hush’s pulseless neck. “I’m giving you an option because I know you wouldn’t do it.”

“You knew? What’s the point of doing that, then?” 

“I like you. And I trust you. I need to know that this isn’t a mistake,” Doc said lightly, as if they were used to being on the other end of a knife. Realization dawned on Hush- the fact that unlike himself, who did the things he did for the sake of his larger purpose- Doc seeks thrill, jumping headfirst into an opportunity to put their life in danger. It’s a strange form of taking control, being out of it and accepting that they couldn’t do anything but give in. 

“I can feel the gears turning in your head, Hush.” 

Doc tangled Hush’s hair in their fingers and tucked it behind his ear, lightly grazing his cheek with intention. “It’s cute.”

Hush felt the ever-so-familiar feeling, the clawing mix of hunger and desire coiling in his immaterial gut. He licked his lips. Doc shrugged at the lack of an answer,”Well, If you’re not interested. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.” 

Doc supported their weight on one of their elbows and leaned forward. They reached back for an apple from the centerpiece bowl and started to peel it with nimble hands. They cut a piece and popped it into their mouth while keeping their gaze on him, as if daring Hush to do something. 

For once, Hush felt himself break. 

He took the apple from Doc’s hands and did something that would’ve been unthinkable before he met them. 

Completely irrelevant to his purpose, completely self indulgent. 

He took a large bite out of it, tasting the odd flavor. There’s a crunch, and he could feel his teeth sinking into the flesh. Cloying and sweet. Wet. The juice drips down his lips, down his chin, onto his clothes. He let it and watched Doc swallow, wordless. It’s succulent, ripe. Unmoored, he finished what he could, leaving only the core intact. 

“Delicious,” Hush commented, looking down at Doc, sprawled and pinned like a butchered animal.

Hush sensed the want to gorge, a craving. He could no longer tell whether it was Doc’s or his. It’s hazy, like his being was covered in fog and he only relied on the sense of taste for sensation. Doc looked at him, hungry, ravenous. When their gazes met, they both understood, a phrase coming to both their minds. Good enough to eat, his thoughts repeated. It wasn’t a fight for dominance, but rather submission. The will to give in to be ravaged by the other. 

He pressed his lips to theirs. It was Doc who deepened it, eating his face and mouth, draining him of what he has to offer. It was frantic, depraved, spit-slick and messy. He let out a noise. Hush noted that it was not unlike the pleasured sigh Doc did when they ate the burger. 

On the dinner table, Hush felt himself consumed as he indulged in what he had deprived himself of. This was the closest Hush was to being human since his half-death. 

The closest he was to being sated.

Satisfied. 

Full.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted hush #redacted doc

[hobiebrownismygod]

"Sorry, Dove" Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader - Part 2/2

Summary: Hobie Brown's canon event, or in which basically you were the Gwen Stacy to Hobie Brown's Spider-Punk

TW: Blood, Mention of murder, Reader death, Angst, Hobie crying

WC: ~1.8k

A/N: You and Hobie are young, around 14 to 15 in this. It's supposed to be sort of his origin story. Btw, Hobie's dialogue are bolded. I recommend reading the first part before moving onto this part, its linked below.

Taglist: @therealloopylupin2099 @spiderrinn @l0starl @daydreaming-en-pointe @itsparis-07 @vileviale @puff-hugs @lauryn2558 @sunasslut69

Taglist link & Masterlist

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Hobie was completely unaware of what was happening to you when he swung down to the city, stumbling as he fell onto the ground. The bomb had started multiple fires in the surrounding buildings, and he quickly went around, webbing open the fire hydrants in the streets and eventually calming the fires down enough for him to go and save the civilians trapped beneath the rubble.

He was doing really well too, pushing the rubble up, grabbing the people one by one and swinging them to safer places before sending them home. The only problem was, the person who set the bomb off was nowhere in sight.

That was, until he heard that quiet chuckle he hated so much. His spider-sense immediately flared and he crouched back, ready to pounce on the first glimpse of the Goblin he saw. "Goblin! Show yourself!" He said, seething with anger as he waited for the masked man to show up.

And then, his expression dropped when instead of the Goblin appearing in front of him, you did. You were shaking your head, eyes silently begging him not to approach you as you walked out from behind the rubble. Of course, he didn't listen, immediately rushing over to you. "What happen-"

He was cut off as his spider-sense flared once again and he leapt up, just barely dodging one of the Goblin's many trick knives. His eyes narrowed as he finally caught sight of the Goblin, who rushed right past Hobie on his hoverboard, grabbing you in the process before heading towards the building that'd exploded, half of it turned to rubble.

Hobie followed as quickly as he could. "Let her go!" He exclaimed, shooting a web towards the Goblin, which the man promptly dodged. "Make me."

Once Hobie got to the top, he lost sight of you and the Green Goblin once again. "Y/N!" He called out desperately, furiously turning his head around as he scanned his surroundings for any sight of you. "Goblin, where are you?!"

"I see you've made yourself a friend. A sidekick, even." Hobie watched as the Goblin appeared from the shadows, slowly walking with a knife in his hand, that same wide smile on his face. "Congratulations, Spider-punk."

"What did you do with her?" He asked angrily, holding his arms up threateningly at the Goblin, ready to shoot his webs at any moment. "Where is she?!"

The Goblin simply chuckled in response, taking a deep, obvious breath. "It's quite a nice night, isn't it?"

"Cut the crap and tell me where she is!"

"Oh?" The Goblin raised an eyebrow. "Have you run out of jokes already? What happened to the little quips I love so much?"

"Give me back my friend." Hobie said coldly. He shot a web towards the Goblin but the man simply swat it out of the way with his knife, cutting through the web like it was nothing and standing up straight. "No."

Hobie's expression drooped slightly. "Please. I'll do anything." He pleaded, eyes widening. "Just let her go. Please."

"Anything?" The Goblin chuckled, bringing his knife up to his face and tapping it on his lips. "Then why don't you show me your face, Spider-punk?" He suggested, his smile widening.

Hobie hesitated for a moment. "Bring her out first." The Goblin tilted his head to the side slightly. "Fine."

A whirring sound caught Hobie's attention and he watched in horror as you were brought into the light, tied back to the hoverboard while you struggled. You were shaking your head furiously, eyes wide as you let out muffled grunts, your mouth covered by rope. "Y/N-"

"Get close to her, and I'll set off the bombs."

Hobie backed away slightly, the bombs on the hoverboard catching his attention. If he tried anything, the Goblin would set them off, and you'd be killed. You had tears in your eyes as you continued to struggle and the sight made Hobie's heart twist. 

"It's gonna be okay." He said quietly, looking back towards the Goblin. "You want me to take my mask off? I'll take it off. But you have to promise to let her go."

The Goblin nodded, putting his hands behind his back as he watched curiously, to see what Hobie would do. Hobie slowly reached towards his mask, and pulled it off. You let out a gasp of protest, but he ignored you. He dropped the mask on the floor and looked up at the Goblin.

The Goblin stared back at Hobie for a moment, processing the sight. He probably hadn't been expecting his enemy to be so...young. "Let her go." Hobie said quietly. He felt extremely vulnerable at the moment and was itching to pull his mask back up.

The Goblin obliged and the ropes untied themselves, causing you to collapse to the floor. "Spider-man!" you exclaimed, getting up so you could approach him, but the Goblin stopped you, pointing his knife in your direction. "Not a single step."

"You said you'd let her go. So let her go!" Hobie was exasperated and he pointed his fist towards the Goblin. "I let her go. But we're not done." The Goblin replied, the smile slowly returning to his face. "I don't care that you're a kid. You're going to fight me." He said coldly.

"Fine." Hobie huffed out, putting his fists up. You couldn't do anything but helplessly watch as a fight ensued, with Hobie dodging the knives and bombs being thrown at him while shooting his own webs towards the Goblin. The scuffle was causing the building to shake and rubble kept falling.

"Just surrender!" The Goblin screamed out, lunging towards Hobie who barely dodged, covered in blood and scratches at this point. "NO." He leapt up, guitar in hand as he brought it smashing down onto the Goblin, causing him to be flung back. The Goblin cursed under his breath, looking up at the winning vigilante who was approaching him again.

And then, he decided to use his last hope.

The Goblin pounced towards you, using his gadgets to tie you up once again. "No!" You exclaimed, struggling and extremely annoyed at this point. This was the second time he'd caught you, but it wasn't like you could fight back. You kicked at the Goblin as he grabbed onto your throat, holding you up.

"You little-" He muttered. Hobie stood back slightly, eyes wide as he tried to calm the Goblin down. "Wait-wait you said you'd let her go. Please. Please let her go!"

The Goblin tightened his grip around your throat, effectively choking you as he held you above the edge of the building, a dangerous glint to his eyes. "You've ruined everything I've worked for, Spider-man. So I'm going to ruin you."

"Please." Hobie begged, putting his hands up. "Please, don't do this. Let her go." He whispered.

The Goblin looked back with a smile. "Gladly."

A blur of events followed. You felt yourself being flung off the building, your heart and stomach dropping as gravity did its job, pulling you towards the far-away ground. Hobie lunged after you, arms outstretched in an attempt to grab you before you reached the ground. Your hand reached out towards him and he shot a web towards you.

But before you could grab it, he was knocked out of the way by the Goblin's hoverboard. The last thing you remembered was dread creeping up your stomach and through your body as you accepted your fate, realizing he wasn't going to be able to catch you. You fell.

"NO!" Hobie yelled out, fighting to get back to his feet. He leapt towards the Goblin, tackling him in a fit of fury. He got on top of the dazed Goblin who was struggling to catch his breath, trying to push Hobie off of him. Hobie pulled his guitar off his back, holding it above his head.

And then, he slammed it down. But once wasn't enough. He brought the guitar down again, and again, and again. He wasn't even thinking at this point, he was simply acting on instinct, stabbing the Goblin long after he was already dead. 

Eventually, his movements slowed down, and Hobie dropped the guitar, looking down at the mangled mess that had used to be the face of the man he hated most in the world. His chest was rising up and down rapidly, his heart rate faster than it'd ever been before.

Hobie slowly got up, looking around as he tried to collect his senses. He stumbled towards the edge of the building, looking down to where you fell, a flicker of hope flashing across his face.

Maybe, just maybe...

He jumped down to the ground, letting out a groan as his foot slipped and he fell onto his side. "Y/N? Y/N?!" He called out, silently begging for you to respond. "Come on, where are you!? You're here, you have to be..."

A slight shine caught his eye. He felt his heart drop as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he caught sight of a body. It was lying there, head tilted slightly back, completely unmoving. He slowly approached the body, feeling the hot tears begin to build up in his eyes. "Y/N?" He whispered softly.

His gaze dropped to the figure's hand, where the shine he'd caught a glimpse of had come from. The person's wrist had a small slab of metal encircling it, connecting back to their palm. Web-shooters. 

"No..." He whispered, falling to his knees and turning the body over slightly. "No, no, no, no..."

It was you.

And you were dead.

The tears began to fall as he looked down at you, lifeless with your eyes closed. "No, please, no-" He whispered, swallowing back a hot lump in his throat as he pulled you into his arms, shaking gently. "Wake up, come on, dove, wake up-"

He caressed your face as gently as he could, running his fingers over your skin and slowly feeling the warmth disappear under his cold touch. "Please. Please don't go." he choked out, quiet sobs escaping his lips as he held you close, burying his face in your neck while he cried.

"Dove..." he whispered, looking back down at your body. His tears had fallen onto your face, making it seem as though you were crying too, the drops slipping down your cheeks and onto the hard, cold floor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He looked down at you, shaking his head and sniffling. "This is all my fault. I'm so sorry, dove." His voice broke. His hand rubbed against your cheek gently, wiping the droplets away. 

"I love you." he whispered. The words simply fell out of his mouth and he was unable to stop himself at this point. "I love you so much." His sobs were sounding more like gasps as he ran his fingers through your hair, shaking his head. "I love you, please come back. Dove? Dove, please."

But his pleading was useless. You weren't coming back. You were gone and there was nothing he could do about it. "I love you." He whispered again. "I should've told you. I'm sorry." The sound of sirens were approaching in the distance, causing Hobie to flinch slightly. He couldn't stay any longer. He had to go.

But before he left, he had one last thing to do. One final gesture.

He slowly leaned down, and pressed his lips to your cold ones, just for a moment, before pulling back and crying into your neck. "I'm sorry."

After a moment of silence, he gently laid you back down, the tears still streaming down his face, before he finally stood up. "Goodbye."

He shot his web towards the closest building and swung away right as the ambulances arrived, along with the police cars and officers. He wiped his tears with the back of his gloved hand before he pulled his mask back on and disappeared into the distance, not leaving behind a single trace, besides one last whisper that left his lips.

"Bye, dove."

#I think this is the first time ive posted in chronological order #wuaw :3 #atsv #across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spiderman atsv #spiderman #atsv hobie #spider punk #across the spider verse #hobie #hobie spiderverse #astv hobie #hobie brown headcanons #hobie my beloved #hobie x reader #spiderverse hobie #atsv brainrot #hobart brown #hobie brown x y/n #hobie x y/n #hobie x you #hobie brown x fem!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x female reader #hobie angst #Hobie brown angst #atsv angst #so much for fluffy fridays

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 4;;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them lmao - dubious consent, canon typical violence, lack of Jacaerys, death, blood and gore, Aemond - who forces the reader into holy matrimony in this one (oh yes it's happening), and of course engages in petty masturbation (it's not THW without him going ham on his own hand ♡)

Word Count: 15k+ (wowza i know)

Author's Note: Low and behold, part 4 is here!! Originally, this was supposed to be a 4 parts series, but that obviously isn't the case anymore. THIS TOOK SO LONG AND I'M SO SORRY - I had major issues with the tag list, and at some point, tumblr wouldn’t let me post this; I unfortunately couldn't solve those problems, no matter how hard I tried, so most of you haven't been properly tagged :") This update is a hot mess, and I haven't actually had the time to read through all the paragraphs that I wrote. I SHALL BE BACK TO EDIT

A huge thank you to everyone who's still following the story, though, and I hope you enjoy!

A war is in its midst.

When everyone else is readying themselves for the following decisive battles, you and Aemond are busy playing house.

Things get heated in Harrenhal, and one must decide when and where to pick their side.

The contact of the hot water upon Aemond’s ivory skin made the man shudder in naught but blinding pain. Achingly slow movements, followed by slow grunts echoed throughout the room – and Lady Tully stilled upon the silken sheets, moving her eyes over the book’s page for the thousandth time since he returned; thus driving all her peace away.

The baths Aemond determinedly took in the raptures of the late-night hours never failed to make her uncomfortable, and keep her on edge. Even so, being forced to hear the pained man move with such little stability and lack of confidence almost teetered the girl to the brink of madness.

Harrenhal had been in shambles since its proud conqueror beckoned his return on dragon back that very eve. Two young maids shouted for maesters, and Alys Rivers nearly caused a scene. As he got off his leather saddle, the Prince all but collapsed from tiredness and blood loss.

'He commanded his features to turn brave and taciturn,' his paramour had told her, 'as to not let a single hint of his condition spread throughout the Keep. My poor Aemond.'

The fool had been reached by an arrow.

An impressive feat, one had to agree – and wonder further on the identity of the courageous shot.

‘Struck right between his shoulder blade and chest,’ she had heard some lost girl utter, ‘It is a miracle he’s still alive.’

… Or the Gods’ cruelest punishment, the Lady compelled within her thoughts.

“Mmhh…” Aemond’s rugged breath deterred the girl to raise her glassy orbs from the confinement of the wilting pages. She schooled her eyes to stay above any level of indiscretion, and gingerly followed the trail of blood mixed with dirt, that seeped into and dirtied the once clear water.

Now that her curiosity was quenched, she could freely look away again.

Half a heartbeat later, she relented and surrendered in the face of his quarrelsome state. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek again, and raised his hand up to allow droplets of liquid to trail past his wounded shoulder… but to no avail.

“You could call in a maid, you know.” Her raspy voice descended upon his struggling body. Sooner than she may have liked, the Bliss of Riverrun closed her eyes, and concentrated on the languid noises that the Prince was making.

Seconds felt like pending minutes, until Aemond One-Eye graced her with a reply.

“I don’t need a maid to help me.”

Then that was that, the young woman soon concluded, returning her attention to the opened book.

'The Philosophies of the Riverlands', however, provided little to no aid to the situation at hand – and her overall station.

For she knew, perhaps far too well, that she had to play a different game than the one they'd engaged in, months prior to her imprisonment in that cursed place.

Insufferable man… she vexed him cruelly inside her head, I hoped by now you would be dead.

She raised one leg from the mattress that embedded her, and shifted it, so as to allow her limbs to hang lowly by the edge of the bed. Her thoughts formed and went as they pleased, but the girl settled on one final reach.

He hadn't even allowed Alys to help him undress. Suggesting her now was a deliberate waste of her time.

Not only that, but she still had to win his trust. Somehow, she promised herself, no matter what it takes, she'd do it.

Forcibly she rose from the bed, and made her way slowly towards his wide basin, fixating her eyes on the stone floor ahead. Her throat closed in on itself, and the girl pursed her lips into a tight line, whilst exhaling through her nose. It took a while for her to calm herself.

"... What about me?" She asked in a leveled tone.

Her gaze met his piercing orb, and the Lady nearly took a small step back. His face long washed the wave of shock from his sharp, Targaryen features – Aemond awaited her next words with a quirked up brow and a slight bite o'r his inner cheek. He seemed more than interested in her meek suggestion.

His wordless approval had left her speechless and, for a while, only her heartbeat emerged in her ears.

The Prince Regent trailed his eye hungrily over her extended arm. He took in a sharp breath as she grasped the rough sponge from his hand, and drained it of the putrid smell. She confidently brought it up to him – and teasingly trailed it over his hard chest, down to his lower abdomen, up again to his slouching shoulder.

"This… will hurt you a little bit." She whispered to him, skillfully averting her face from the man in question.

He gritted his teeth harshly, and almost let out a groan from his parted lips – with his dexterous and long fingers, he gripped the edge of the wooden basin, but dared not to look away from the kneeling Lady – choosing, instead, to focus on singling out her every soft and hard feature.

On her end, (Y/N) dabbed the piece of cloth over his wound gently, chanting inside her head to remain small and taciturn.

He shan't get more of a reaction from me, she promised herself through the span of an agonized huff, as she focused in on the task at hand.

Aemond's white skin revealed itself from the washed patches of dirt, and the Prince sighed a deep breath of contentment, as he felt his body be unintentionally caressed by her. His eye fluttered close, and a slight furrow of his tantalizing brow indicated the uncommon pleasure he took from their sporadic intimacy.

The two remain in awkward silence - the only noise that reached the girl's ears being the rattle of water and the occasional hiss from Aemond.

"... I'm sorry." She strained herself to whisper, whilst her hair fell seemingly out of place. "This looks as if it's painful."

The Prince Protector mirrored her stance, and glanced at her through the thick curtain of long, silver hair – the lilac in his eye complimenting the heatwaves of fire that danced across his marred skin.

"It's not painful." His gruff voice echoed in reply.

"... You –" The Lady began, but stopped on her tracks to level her voice again, by the aid of coughing in the back of her hand.

"You don't have to pretend in my company, you know."

She graced him with a forced smile, one she hoped seemed light enough to fool him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make fun of you."

Her eyes trailed over to the harsh stone floor, wrinkling at their sharpened ends – "When I was three and ten," she began, "My youngest brother betted against one of the stable boys: that he could ride faster than anyone on his horse, Middle." Her eyes spasmed close at the memory, and the girl wistfully smiled to herself, "The fool scraped his knees in that dreadful race. Middle threw him right out of his expensive saddle."

As she spoke, she brought the rough cloth over Aemond's shoulder blade, right above his wound, and began scrubbing the dirt that adorned over his skin.

"He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, so he made me clean it, in the stead of a maester." The Lady let out an airy laugh, as her nose scrunched up with a pang of fondness. "I have never seen a boy get so worked up over a simple scratch before."

Aemond hummed in admission – half relieved by the distraction she was offering, and half worried by the impending pain he would soon feel. He shifted from inside the basin, as if to reach for the sponge in her hand himself, but the girl simply laid her hand away.

Her musings came to an abrupt end. She retreated on her steps lightly, and offered the Crown Prince a quirked-up brow.

"You need to stay put, Prince Aemond. Otherwise, I risk causing you more harm than good." She swallowed thickly, and only shook her head, "Your wound needs thorough cleaning, Your Grace. And it is too far in the back for you to clean it by yourself."

She glanced at his face anew, and let out a tumbling sigh as he nodded his head again, trying his hardest to relax into her touch once more.

Part of him remained put up – the bulk of his chest and shoulders still gloriously hunched over, ready to bolt up at any given moment.

"... I hate to admit it. I thought he was exaggerating then – with the discomfort which he feigned was feeling."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as she glanced quickly at the laying man, "But how can one make fun of another's state of pain?"

A sympathetic look was shared between them.

Her eyes softened in admission to his furrowed brows and descended features. In that exact light, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled her Jace.

"Pain makes us human. And it's a reminder for us: to really cherish our times of incandescent joy."

The break of a cold sweat kissed over Aemond's forehead; droplets of which gathered at the base of his left eye, where his leather eyepatch stayed secured.

The girl pushed down a disdainful puff, as her eyes trailed him over, from the rosy blotch of skin, back to his hawk-like eye.

"Leather retains heat." She murmured before she could catch herself.

The Targaryen Prince expelled a deep breath, and, as her hand came to rest over the buckle that secured his patch into place, he primed his lips into a downturned arch.

"It can't be good for you to always keep it on."

"The sight of it frightens others. I don't want it to frighten you."

"I've seen you without your eyepatch before."

"That was different. This time… is different."

The latter of his words sent a shiver down her bent spine. Nothing is different, she was aching to say. Her lips pressed anxiously together, and the girl offered Aemond a curt nod. Just as she was about to pull her hand away from the nape of his neck, the Prince's wet palm came up to stop her.

His fingers shakily entwined with hers. The deep callouses of his hand scratched the softness of her open palm.

For a while, Time herself froze before them.

(Y/N) came to avert her gaze, but Aemond's eye feverishly searched for the relieving clash of hers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the Lady of Riverrun nearly choked onto the clogged-up air.

His silver locks curled slightly at their ends – the dampness of the room striking its claim over his perfectly straight strands of hair. In his own right, Aemond could be called beautiful. His striking Targaryen features might have ensured the favor of many young maidens, were it not for his rash and impetuous attitude, the bite that rested in his character – which no doubt spread like a disease over his life at Court.

"Look at me." Against his better judgment, and his innermost turmoil, Aemond allowed her small fingers to trail over the buckle of his blinder again. He drew out a comforting sigh, and, with her hand still in his, gently slid the leather off.

He sucked in a quiet breath, as the coldness of the air enveloped his throbbing eyelids.

The poise in his composure was cracking at the seams, with the passing of each second, during which she settled to remain silent.

Eventually, her hand came to rest over his face again. Her dexterous fingers began to leisurely wipe the sweat from his brow, his eye, by submerging them into the lukewarm water, and bringing them over and over to his clenched face.

"I'm sorry." She settled on to say instead, once the breaching of kind words failed to meet her. "No one deserves to be left without an eye. No one deserves such appalling cruelty."

"You appear to be sorry an awful lot this evening, My Lady." Aemond choked under his breath, taken aback by her gentle movements and sainty utter.

"I spend the better part of my days in the company of my own thoughts." She huskily reminded him, "... It's been increasingly easier for me to reflect on my past mistakes."

Wordless from her hoax admission, and desperate to feel her hands explore him further, the Targaryen Prince rose heavily from the dirtied water – his chest coming directly to her field of vision.

The girl let out a cutting gasp, as she turned swiftly on her heel, refusing to glance at his modesty, not any longer than she'd already had.

Her eyelids fluttered close, and she shifted from one foot to the other, but to no avail. For in spite of her desire to run away, the Lady found herself hammered in place.

The proximity between them laid out to be a problem – Aemond let out a frustrated sigh, and turned her head around with the clasping of his untouched arm. Two of his fingers came to rest at the base of her cheek and chin; the Prince let out a satisfied hum, as her body trembled in slight shock at their change of position.

"Gevie…" He muttered to no one but himself.

His cock stood proudly at attention, kissing over his prominent abdomen, trailing long past his belly button. Every now and then, white pearls pooled to the base of his length, weeping from his angry tip, trailing past his stones in the reach of the water below him.

"Look at me." He breathed again, and his sweet Lady obeyed.

She threw him a dejected look: half harsh and cold, half hardened and scorned. The tips of her ears matched the redness of her pale cheeks. Her eyes cast their curious glow throughout every corner of the room, yet stayed away from the scorn of indiscretion that called out to her, only centimeters below her swollen lips.

Aemond's thumb flicked once over her crimson labium, but the man sighed, seemingly discouraged, and settled upon gripping her dainty wrist instead.

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda."

The gentleness that oozed from his voice could have had anyone fooled. But not her. The translations of the words he muttered against the skin of her wrist were lost on her, but the Lady of Riverrun still singled out a most protruding word.

He had never failed to call her 'his tormenting love'.

The girl's breath rose and fell with each agonizing word that befell over her face.

"Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa." Aemond sighed against her wrist.

'I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin.'

Her words rang harsh and true inside her head – and, much like it was back then, her heart harbored no honorable intent towards the Trident's Terror.

He burnt your entire homeland, she chastised herself harshly, He killed thousands. Every day, even more find their end by the breath of his dragon. By the way of his wrath.

The ache in her heartbeat rang loudly inside her ears – her every pore aligned with her wish to run away, and her mind was screaming at her to retreat to a corner.

Comparing him to Jacaerys was a laughable feat.

"Let's… just finish getting you cleaned up, Your Grace" She struggled to finally suggest out loud, through the timid inflection of her outwardly calm voice.

She slithered her face away from his grasp, and began draining the sponge of the dark mud again.

Aemond sighed, and lowered himself back into the cold water – his lone eye never leaving the mould of her smaller frame.

"I heard that conversation… sometimes distracts the ill from the discomfort of the cleaning process, Your Grace."

Now turned to his exposed back, the girl's hand wavered over his punctured shoulder. She waited three, perhaps four seconds, before her arm finally breached contact with the wounded flesh.

Aemond took in a sharp breath, but remained otherwise silent, until she prompted him to speak again.

"How… how did such a thing even come to happen?"

Aemond's chest rose and fell with each labored pant. His eye remained tightly closed, his jaw awfully set. Her question registered into his mind, and a reply formed at the former base of his thoughts.

For a while, however, the One-Eyed Prince remained quiet – weighing the option of telling her the truth rather carefully.

"A Frey company was marching South." He hissed as her light hand came over his flesh, applying soft pressure in its wake. "The fog of the morning masked them from me – but Vhagar's shadow still went right above their heads."

The woman brought her free hand to rest over his lower back, and her fingers rubbed soothing circles into the dampness of his skin. "It was… very lucky that you didn't get more hurt."

She scorned herself inwardly, but kept her curiosity at bay. She wouldn’t ask him whether the company had risen victorious, or if he burnt all those men to the ground.

The latter option, in any case, seemed more than likely.

The Crown Prince tensed visibly, but didn’t scoot away from her soothing touch. A deep sigh parted from his cracked lips, and the man revelled at their sudden closeness.

He ached to talk to her, to plead with her to welcome him inside her heart – and into her bed. He could feel his own beat loudly, and his body trembled in unquenched lust and rage.

Still, he knew it was too soon for that.

Not once during their rash acquaintance, did the girl before he talk with so much interest about his day with him.

His thoughts trailed to Alys, and Aemond wondered if half her new admission was owed to her – if indeed the two women secured a friendship within the last two weeks, if his whore became her confidant, if she breathed in her trust in him.

He would have to talk to her later. Thank her, if he was feeling apt and generous.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in the shell of his ear, and the Targaryen Prince nibbled at his lower lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down; the coldness of the water gave him the strength to concentrate, by the sliding of small ripples down his exposed chest and abdomen. The ache of his wound was a small price to pay, if only to feel her knuckles working against his back.

"There we are. All done, Your Grace."

She rose up from her kneeling stance, wincing at the sudden change of perspective, and at the throb of her tired knees. She gingerly presented the clean set of clothes and bathing robes to him. Her head remained turned to the side, and her hand instantly let go of the heavy clothes, the moment his palm came into contact with them.

In the stead of returning to sit idly by their resting place, the woman graced him with a final look, and let out a faint mutter. "I'll leave you to it."

She wavered but a moment, and turned her stare to the ruined clothes; the ones that Aemond had so carelessly discarded on the floor, as he prepared for his undeserved nightly soak.

The shadow of a long-laid plan gleamed beneath her silent gaze.

"I can wash them for you tomorrow – after my bath. It might be wiser to keep the nature of your wounds hidden. The maids needn't worry over how much blood you lost."

Aemond's brows furrowed in slight shock, and the Prince remained wordless in the face of her sensible suggestion.

And yet her eyes spoke with so much sincerity, that he gleefully allowed the pang of hope to warm his unforgiving features.

"As you wish." He rumbled out, while forcing himself to move his stare to the folded clothes before him.

His eye trailed back to his hands' agile ministrations, and Aemond soon began to roll over his linen breeches, covering his half-hard cock with the help of the rough material.

A throaty groan etched from deep within his throat, however, as he reached for the pristine shirt.

The girl stopped in her tracks, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

The struggle he was undergoing would have been music to her ears – were it not for the solidarity of her position. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself of her plan and her desperation to escape.

Thus, unbeknownst to her own better judgment, the Lady compelled herself to seek him further.

Although her words failed to assist her, the way she gingerly reached, with her hand wide and outstretched, made Aemond aware of her pending intent.

Their bodies were inches apart. The girl sucked in a hurried breath, and neglected to exhale it as the oxygen hit her lungs.

Aemond was burning up – and whether that was from the lack of fresh air within the confining room, or the first telltale sign of fever, or her – he was lost on saying anymore. His weakened arm slithered into the sleeve of his shirt, though the pain was long forgotten.

And instead of focusing on his poised movements, his glassy eye ran hungrily over her face and hypnotic features.

(Y/N)'s fingertips grazed over the light material. Her tired eyes softened at the familiar feeling. The threat of tears beckoned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them all away in a hasty movement. Melancholy ate away at her, far more often than she knew was wise to allow.

Still she remembered, if only for a moment, the raptures of Jacaerys' warm embrace. And how, in the heat of summer, that very same cloth felt against her heated cheek.

They must have had the same seamstress, the same tailor. Of course, she thought to herself in a bitter manner, after all, they are both Princes.

… Were.

But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend – No, she chastised herself fully, such a thing just cannot be. And you'd be a fool to attempt to it.

The magnetic pull between them trebly pried the two souls together. And it would be yet another minute, until (Y/N) finally took a step back, opening her mouth to announce the end of her intimate task.

Her eyes fell on the stone hard floor, and she carefully turned her back around him.

The long waves of her hair shifted over her modest nightgown, covering her mounds of flesh with a slight shift to the left.

"I'm going to sleep." She pathetically uttered, as the warmth that emanated from Aemond's form not moments prior, still fell heavily over her slight frame.

Mechanically she gripped the satin sheets and engulfed herself with them – a slight comfort came over her, as the coldness of the unused bedding fanned gently over her scorched limbs.

Aemond remained stuck in place, and a heaved breath rumbled from within his chest. The red in his cheeks would have put both their Houses' seals to shame – For once, he was glad she wasn't looking his way.

***

The rest of the night was spent in washed quietness.

And his Lady might have made it up: the dip at the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh pine and wildfire that caressed her in her sleepy state, and the slight "Thank you" that dabbled from her captor's lips.

“You plan to ride on dragon-back again? So soon?” The echo of Alys' voice carried her worry throughout the silent clearing.

The first rays of sunlight caught flame into her raven hair, lighting her features in such a way, that it accentuated her every perpetual scar and wrinkle. The fire inside her eyes could rival the one of a trueborn Targaryen, were it not for her strong outer appearance.

Aemond moved his body at a leisurely pace, not even bothering to throw the woman one of his usual vexing looks.

"Do you think dear nuncle will put a stop to the siege of the Twins, should the word spread about my condition?"

His cutting words rendered the woman speechless, and the Rivers witch simply clicked her tongue, whilst glancing at the green grass below her.

"War awaits no one, my dear." He asserted definitively, as he gripped onto Vhagar's long bridles.

The mighty beast let out a shaken roar, as Aemond winced once his wounded shoulder made light contact with her dark-green scales.

"Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar." He instinctively reached for her, and caressed her lower belly with one of his gloved hands.

At their calm exchange, Alys bit over her lower lip, harshly enough to draw her own blood. "You should stay." She managed to draw out, "At least a while – going in search of your uncle today, instead of tomorrow, won't make a difference to your brother's cause."

But her voice of reason reached deafened ears. For Aemond Targaryen was set on paying the debt he owed. The debt he agreed to take on, the moment his dragon clasped onto Lucaerys, swallowing the bastard whole.

"Everything matters at war, Alys." He hummed impatiently, while snapping his head in her general direction. "What do you think will happen to you, should Daemon reach Harrenhal? Your pretty head will rest near mine, impaled on a sharpened spike."

But if she told you to stay put, you would do just that, wouldn’t you? Her bitter thoughts chewed her conscious away.

Alys spat out a lowly curse, as she shifted uncomfortably in place. "Daemon Targaryen was here once, not long before you. He didn’t kill me then."

"Because you didn't matter back then." The Prince Protector of the Realm hissed through painfully gritted teeth, "You were no one to him. You were a wet nurse who merely spread her legs for him."

The man turned his back to her, as he wordlessly bound Vhagar's bridle over his wrist again and again.

"And last I checked, your cunt failed to inspire him."

Her mouth parted in a silent protest, and her green eyes widened in partial distress. "Still I should remain in luck," She choked out through a breathless laugh, "for it has never failed to inspire you."

"You are perfectly right," Aemond's laughter was humorless and brash, "And it is because of this loose cunt that Aegon nearly lost the support of Storm's End."

The Prince spun around on his heel's end, and trapped the woman in between his hard chest and restless dragon. "Sometimes I think you cost me more than you're worth." He whispered calmly into her ear, while trailing his index finger over the sharp edge of her jaw. "For speaking back to me, I could have you executed."

The finality of his words drew her body closer to the ancient beast, and Vhagar let out a displeased grunt. Amusement pulled at the corners of his downturned mouth.

"Still you should remain in luck," He mocked her with an airy laugh, "I find myself in an exceedingly good mood today."

The back of his hand came to play with a loose lock of her messy braid, and the Prince smiled at her stance and her bewildered look. "But you've been a most useful asset, haven't you, my dear?" He obliged her with a teasing smirk, "Lady Tully responded well to you, hasn't she? Tell me," He paused momentarily, as he trailed his hands to the narrow middle of her waist, and back up again. "Have you kept up your training with her?"

Alys' face fell into a frown, as she staggered a frustrated look. Aemond was toying with her.

"That dull book she pretends to read at night has the maps of three secret passages hidden amongst the latter pages. Two of them lead to that cell into the West Wing – but of course, she doesn't know that. The third one leads to the stables of Harrenhal."

Aemond hummed pleasedly, and the man soon took a wide step back, allowing his paramour enough space for proper breathing. "You did well." He smiled wistfully, "I should reward you well tonight. You may think of something you desire. I will see to it once I return."

"I would very much like you to stay and heal today." She urged him not a heartbeat later, surprising even herself with the intensity of her tone.

Aemond's composure broke with the licks of roaring laughter – one that was empty, and fell devoid of any feelings of fondness or grief.

"Think of something else." He urged her coolly, and dismissively pushed past her, to reach for his dragon's saddle.

"'Tis a good thing you shall never be a wife, Alys. The role of the worried wench doesn't suit you one bit."

"Keep feeding her half-truths and lies." He encouraged the woman with a final reach over her hand. He squeezed once over her balled-up fist – acting as both a promise, and a taciturn warning on what should happen, should she let him down again. "Regarding whatever else she may have to say… you'll report it back immediately."

With that, the Kinslayer of the Trident took off, leaving the promise of bone and ash behind his dragon's menacing ascend.

The Eyrie was, on all accounts, smaller even than Maegor's Holdfast. Inside the stronghold nestled the Arryns, hidden deep beneath the illusion of the smallest stronghold of the main seven Kingdoms. Despite its intermediate size, the Keep of the Giant's Lance deemed itself one of the safest places to be – Hardly a lie, especially now, Cain Waters ineptly hummed, once his wobbly feet carried him over the stoney threshold.

Despite its less-than-imposing size, and lack of sheer volume, (Y/N)'s sworn shield felt himself smaller than ever before.

How would he dare account for his whereabouts? Reason his shortcomings?

How could he hope to explain to his Lord that not only did he return empty-handed, without his beloved granddaughter on horseback – he returned without the notion of a hand at all?

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, it was Mira Florent who rested loyally by his side – her strength and stability allowing the Waters bastard to lean into her, if only for a fleeting moment, during the ascend of the narrow stairs.

"Take heart," She whispered, "Your Lord is a kind and understanding one. You won't be facing trial for this."

His mere reply was a solitary grunt, and a quick smile, dejectedly thrown her way.

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, Albar had remained behind. The mute man shrugged his head decidedly when Cain gestured towards the waiting castle, and Mira explained to him that the Vale scarcely left him feeling safe and wanted.

And he understood, perhaps far too well – the feeling of dejection a bastard boy felt, as he stepped foot into the land of his birth.

***

He'd been granted the comfort of a Maester and a hot soak, almost immediately after his appearance at the Arryns' Great Door.

The Lady of the Vale proved to be a kindred spirit, capable of great nurture, despite her lack of heirs to her family's ancestral throne. She gasped loudly at the sight of him. Her eyebrows furrowed in grave distraught, and her lower lip trembled as the healers informed her of the state of his right hand.

Her searching eyes reminded him of the ones of his own mother – neither particularly warm nor cold towards him, but fair and just in their own accord.

She almost decided against calling upon him to the Trouts' Black Council, but the young Oscar Tully had entirely different plans.

His eyes, as they were, were socketed by a deep, but elusive brown. They spoke and reminded him of a whole different tale than the one of his fair, poor Lady.

And it was Oscar's eyes, so similar in shape to hers, who bore ghastly holes into the back of Ser Cain's skull. His arm rose up, as if to cut off the man's retelling – his nostrils flared up in disgust, and his face twisted into a painful scowl.

"So what you're telling me… is that you failed to bring her back."

Cain's eyes hardened at her brother's words, and the knight nibbled on his lower lip, in an attempt to calm himself.

Although a brave and honest man, he dared not look in the eyes of Lord Grover Tully – he dared not see what lay beneath his wilted face. Thus, all his attention focused in on the chirping lass.

"Aye, my Lord." He mustered up to tell him, "I lost her to the One-Eyed Prince. We escaped Harrenhal, and managed to get as far as the Saltpans, but –"

The boy scoffed at his attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze.

"You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably."

His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze.

"Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"

Lady Jane Arryn clicked her tongue in disbelief, and beckoned her guard to guide the boy back into a sitting stance.

"That is quite enough, Oscar." She asserted calmly, "We have no evidence of such a feat."

"Of course we don't!" The young Lordling huffed annoyedly, jolting on the brink of madness, "The deranged cripple wouldn't reply to any of our ravens!"

His face contorted animalistically, the freckles on his face being taken by the deep shade of crimson that coloured in his plumper cheeks. "And with you here, Waters, we don't even have the certainty that (Y/N) is still alive!"

"Oscar." Grover's deep voice echoed a warning through the quietness of the tiny Keep.

As if struck in the face, the youngest of the Tully brothers shifted in his seat again. "My sister's fate is breached unknown," He cried out in a collapsing tune, "She's our family, grandfather, my only sister! Pray tell, why does it look as if I'm the only one who gives a damn?"

The graying Lord and the narrow Lady both leaned towards a perplexing look. But before any of them could reply to his laid-out challenge, (Y/N)'s brother urged them further, as he hissed through his gritted teeth. "It would have been better for you not to return at all, Ser Cain. It would have been better for all parties involved to have sent me in his stead, Grandfather!"

His shoulders slouched forward, and the brazen boy fought with Grover's intense stare. "Had I failed, I wouldn’t have even returned at all." Oscar roared over the silent council, proclaiming his intent with a defying raise. "I would sooner have died, than see her be taken by that monster again."

"What would you have had me do, boy?!" Grover Tully raised his voice in turn, "You fool. Would you have had me send you away for her? Do you think your death would have made you a martyr?!"

Cain's lips pursed into a tight line, as the Riverlords before him bickered further. Even Lady Jane Arryn seemed to be left speechless, unsure of when or how to stop their arguing.

Family feuds were neither one's strongest suit.

"Do you think," His Grandfather uttered, "that if you were to die, anyone would remember you fondly?!" The red in his cheeks matched the one on his grandson's face, and the elder Lord broke out into a coughing fit. "Your sacrifice would mean nothing. And when the dust settled over Westeros, and the war was done, you would just be another casualty. Another body to burn in a communal."

Almost immediately, his eyes softened, and their deep creases faltered on his face.

The Lord of Riverrun grunted in fatigue, but still rose himself securely on his two able feet. He marched towards the huffing boy, and placed a wrinkled hand over his sweaty forehead, urging him to quiet down.

"It's not about glory, Grandfather." He spat out lowly, as his ears began to match his fiery locks of curly hair. "It's about family. Our family. It's about ensuring its survival."

The older man gave the lass a curt nod. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and turned to the knight with a downturned smile.

"There wasn't a knight more fit for the task than Ser Cain." He confirmed his judgment with a tired gesture in his direction. "He was knighted at five and ten. You are over your seven and tenth birthday, boy, and haven’t been even mirthed a squire."

Oscar sucked in a protesting breath, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room fall before him. His brows furrowed in a dangerous quarrel, and his blood ran hot. "Yet even with all the skill in the world, he still failed."

Lord Grover was losing his patience, "Yes, grandson, that he did! He failed, despite all the signs that pointedly told us otherwise – do you think you'd do an equitable job? When you haven't even once crossed swords in a Joust or Tourney?"

Nearby the aching knight, Lady Arryn renowed her position.

She whispered to her waiting guard, and the man took a step ahead, hitting over the chantry with the hilt of his sword.

The noise that erupted grabbed the attention of both grandson and grandfather.

"The turn of events marked by Ser Cain's departure means we need to readjust our plans." She commanded their heed calmly, "It is… unfortunate; that Lady Tully's sworn shield failed to protect her. Yet here we all stand, warming our bottoms on a mine of gold."

Cain should have been grateful for the distraction she was offering. All the displeasure surged upon him evaporated within the click of her tongue, and less conventional language – still, even he had to remain weary on the subject he opened.

"On a mine of gold?" Oscar spat out sharply, feeling his self-control disperse by failing him again. "My Lady, do you think my sister's condition is a situation of great rejoice?"

The Lady's blue eyes cut through the boy deeply, and the young man closed his mouth in embarrassment, before sitting down again.

She reached for the goblet of wine, and wet her lips with it, "Our strategical situation couldn't be better. Not once have we had a spy of Harrenhal successfully return. In truth, we didn’t even think it possible." Her lithe hand pointed towards the bloodied knight, and her eyes glimmered in mischief, "Yet here stands our living proof."

She elegantly rose from her ivory throne, and signaled the man to take a seat at the bent table. As he gingerly followed her lead, the woman spared him with a kind glance, and met his glance with her deep azul gaze.

"From what I gather, you spent the better part of a month undetected in the Strongs' Keep. Is that true?"

Cain nodded stiffly, and rested his bulky hands over his tired knees. "Yes, my lady. That I have."

"And you were knighted at fifteen?" She alluded to what was early spoken.

"Yes, my lady."

"By Lord Hunter Redwyne." She urged him to clarify, through the edge of a quirked-up brow, and the callings of a small smile pulling at her dusted lips.

"Yes, my lady. The very one."

Lady Jane hummed, seemingly satisfied by his short answers. She turned her attention to Lord Grover and his tiresome grandson, and merely asked Ser Cain again.

"And you faced the Kinslayer in combat, cut by a Valyrian blade, and lived to tell the tale?"

"... Aye, my lady."

Oscar's eyes remained unyielding. But Grover Tully glanced at the man before him, and offered him a wordless bow.

"Tell me, Ser, how would you like to command your own battalion?"

"You have to be patient." Alys chastised her deeply, as her luring features turned from flaccid to sharp. "Hardly enough time has passed since your last attempted escape – Aemond is still very much on edge."

The Lady's eyes turned to her. With the bridge of her nose scrunched up, and her fair features molded into a desperate plea, the girl looked more like a lost child, than an able and resourceful Lady.

Alys regarded her as such, and sighed deeply as she grasped onto her shoulders carefully.

"If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. I've already wasted three moon turns in this cursed Keep. I have to return to my family." The Tully spoke decidedly, leaving behind no room for arguing. She took a seat before the tiny mirror, that breached her modest vanity – a recent gift from Aemond, deduced by him to make her feel more like a proper lady.

The image that reflected within it looked at her like a dire stranger. The green silks she was dressed into, the pristine, braided hair that framed her pale cheeks perfectly; She was the vision of a flawless royal, a soft and polite maiden, untouched yet by the spoils of death and war.

'Would this be enough?' She asked herself desperately, whilst gripping the edge of her chair painfully.

Was this what Aemond had always wanted? The proof of her lack of autonomy, finally presented to him on a silver platter, as he returned from war every night?

Was he, perhaps, congratulating himself, every time he glanced at her, thinking himself master of the universe for making her arch and kneel?

Alys shook her head once more, and rested a hand over her bouncing knee.

"Patience is a virtue, Lady Tully. You needn't put yourself through any more unnecessary risks."

The Lady of Riverrun shook her head vigorously, finally snapping herself back to reality; Her actions were defying, and devoid of any capacity. Alys felt herself more confounded by the second. "I'll help you plan this thoroughly." The wood witch adverted. Her head quirked to the side in an encouraging gesture, and the girl nodded feverishly in reply.

Her green eyes widened in fair delight, and Aemond's lover lowered her gaze over the girl's book. "You memorized the passages well enough. Very soon, you shall put your knowledge to practice."

(Y/N) let out a tired sigh, and graced the older woman with a pleasant smile. "I'm lucky to have you, Alys" She played with her rings as she spoke, "Thank you. For everything."

As the elder woman finally left her Quarters in favor of bringing out the order for dinner, (Y/N) let out an aggravated groan.

Her long pretense would surely make her nauseous. But she would be a simpleton indeed, to place all her trust in Alys.

The walls preleened with the doom of silence. A cold breeze dug its way deeply into her spine, and the silent taste of passing and demise left a sour taste in her parted mouth.

***

Aemond began dinner as he wontedly did every day – praying to the Warrior to grant him strength in battle, to the Smith, to mend all that was left broken, to the Father, "to shine his light", and lead their souls out of the brink of darkness.

Each and every time, without fail, the girl would bring the pristine napkin to her mouth, masking the obvious way her lips would quirk into a most unyielding smile. His pious speech, and the way his hands painfully clasped together, begging for the blessing of resolve, made her scoff in blinding wonder.

Was he even aware of the words he mostly muttered? Did he ever stop to assess himself throughout the day, and realize the sin in which he debaucherously bathed in?

As his speech came to an end, the Lady preleened forward, grabbing a hold of the boiled-up stork.

How lovely it was to sit between comfort and chaos.

"You've never been one to speak much during our time spent together." Aemond remarked through the rumble of a solitary hum. "Yet I had hoped this last week softened your resolve, My Lady."

Her eyebrows rose in slight discomfort, as her eyes focused on the leisure movements of his bigger hands.

So he was softening up.

She opened her mouth almost immediately, but her hesitant eyes danced around his blinding stare. Her plump lips pressed into a hard line, and she exhaled loudly through her nose, in an attempt to ground herself.

"Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you." The cluttering of her fork came to a hoisted end, as Lady Tully aligned her head to focus directly on the One-Eyed Prince. "I should love nothing more than to talk to you… Please, do advise me on what you would like most to hear."

She fidgeted nervously with her silver rings – a quirk she developed whilst imprisoned in the Strong's Keep – and gingerly awaited his reply.

Your Grace. Your Grace. Your Grace.

The stillness in her speech and eyes drove the man effectively wild.

"Aemond." He stilled her faction through the reign of a distorted sigh.

She regarded him with a petrified stance. Her hands fell heavy over her legs in the wake of anticipation.

"... I-I beg your pardon?"

"Aemond." He repeated his name again, "We already break bread and sleep in the same bed." His lilac eye rose from his plate, and singled out her reddened cheeks. The man paused a while, as if to weigh his words carefully, and his cold, glassy orb, hungrily ran over her form. "It seems inevitable that we'd call each other by our given names. Yet you never once said mine throughout."

The girl could feel her throat dry up. While still maintaining his awkward stare, she reached for the glass of wine that rested by her left side. She wrapped her hand around its stem, and brought it to her paling lips.

The liquid courage slid down her throat in a quick, though burning manner, and (Y/N) had to swallow down an erratic cough. Her brows furrowed amidst, as she picked her words out slowly.

"I have called your name before, Prince Aemond. Many times throughout the moons, in fact."

He smiled at her perturbed reply, and shook his head in coy distraught.

"Not without the honorifics." The man clarified in a pleading tone, his voice growing hotter now. "... Just say my name." He sighed defeatedly. His hand gripped the edge of the table, silently, as the Targaryen Prince could feel his mind running with a thousand thoughts per passing minute.

The silence ate at him alive. She drowned the wine in a swift swing, and slouched forward to pour herself another glass.

She was too sober for this.

Lucaerys, Jacaerys, Cain.

Part of her wanted to pluck his eye out. Part of her wished nothing more than to make fun of him. Laugh, perhaps, at his desperate indiscretion. Do something – anything – to gauge a reaction out of him.

Any sort of reaction, that would make her pestering feelings for him leave her heavy soul.

Surprising even herself, adamantly going against her own wishes, the woman caught herself breathing out.

"... Aemond."

Unexpectedly he moved, by jumping to his ready feet, fully disregarding the oak chair as it hit the floor in a most perused manner.

The pang of noise alerted her, and seemingly, the guards outside. A while they remained in silence, listening in to the clash of metal that announced their unsure shifting.

But they wouldn’t come inside. The girl was lest aware of that.

As time pressed on, Aemond remained hammered in place, heaving out his weighty breaths and clasping his hands in aching fists.

Her eyes momentarily left his shadow – to turn again towards the poach of wine, and empty another glass in rapid gulps.

The heavy atmosphere inside the room hung lowly over their tired heads. (Y/N) resumed her mellow eating, wincing at the shakiness within her hands. She grabbed another piece of the boiled meat, though Aemond's stare soon made her drop it, and the girl clicked her tongue in disbelief; grabbing it instead with a piece of cloth, and securing it into a tight knot.

This time, it was her actions that had failed her. And perhaps it'd be her ready words that would prevail.

"Aemond." She spoke again, this time more confidently than before. The bitter liquor was burning her throat, her chest, her heart. She felt her limbs heavy – with both anticipation and frustration - borne out of lack of relief. She wanted to slap him, to hit him, to crush him beneath her feet.

She wanted to run away, to stay confined, forever inside this room, forever astute to what was going on in the outside world.

She wanted to feel something.

She wanted…

"Yes." Aemond encouraged her softly, and her attention came back to the raptures of the present tense. "There we go." He worded out, keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

Neither could tell when or how it happened – but Aemond's body was inches away from touching hers. The heat emanating from his beating heart washed over the meek form of the tipsy Lady. His Lady.

She gulped painfully, and the Prince could feel how his hands started spasming with the need to feel her. His nails bit the inside of his calloused palm, leaving deep and angry marks inside them.

His prominent veins shifted with his every faction. His face morphed into hopeful disarray.

"There we go." He repeated gently, "I want to hear your laughter. You never once laughed with me."

Her stare was hard to decipher. And yet confliction danced across her face. Aemond turned serious, and the stammering of his hands came to an untimely end. His eye bared holes into her reddened face; and the Lady humorously thought, if only for a moment, that it was a lucky thing he didn’t still have both his eyes. For such a stare would be embedded in her subconscious, bringing forth her swift undoing.

The corners of her mouth felt painful to bend and break. Shakily she smiled at him, and opened her mouth in shocked reclusion.

A shy laughter erupted from her unquenched throat, and the woman shuddered, surrendering the reins of reason to the drunken thoughts that sieged her.

Her laughter wasn't her own. The languid movements of her hands, that trailed over Aemond's chest, were not her own.

His finger came to caress her cheek. Her nose. Her brow. Her lips. Her mouth. The Crown Prince sucked in a dangerous breath, and secured his left arm loosely around her waist.

"Good girl," He spoke tenderly, his voice going from gruff to rough, "Such a good girl for me." His fingers combed through her messy braids, marking their swift undoing – taking a step back, he could feel the heat leave his head, in the favor of traveling lower, to meet the almost flaccid cock confined in the tightness of his pants. "Say my name again. Laugh again." He commanded in a pleading meowl. His lips twitched in anticipation, and his eyes trailed lower, lower still, from up her face, down to her soaring bosom.

"Aemond."

"(Y/N)."

A solitary look of shame was shared between them. Perhaps pushed forward by the only remaining faction of rationale, the two placed a step in between each other, but even that proved to be too fickle of a barrier to keep them whole apart.

Aemond reached to cup her face with his own trembling hand – on her end, the girl's digits trailed over from his high cheekbones, down to his prominent cupid's bow, in an all but gentle caress.

"Avy jorrāelan." He hissed through painfully gritted teeth, allowing his head to rest in the crook made of her shoulder blade and neck. "Avy jorrāelan." He repeated, the vulnerability in his voice making him lose the hold he had over himself.

"Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao." His feathered breath came into contact with her dainty neck. (Y/N) gasped lightly, as she felt the first of his many kisses being tenderly placed over her jaw and neck.

Her head was pounding, and her eyes were screwed shut, as the coldness of the wall hit her in perused waves. The impropriety of the soft moans and sighs that filled her ears to the brim left her confused and wanting.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know whether they came from her or him.

She felt as though her head was being harshly held below the water, and the girl clawed at her dress to loosen her tight bodice, which seemed to constrict even her erratic breathing.

Aemond's attention moved from her earlobe back to her lips. He felt how her hands contorted sporadically, and he placed his own palm over hers, to put an end to her hasty movements, and give her a sense of calmness. His fingers suddenly entwined with hers, as his form hovered above her. His throat etched with a lousy moan, and his mouth finally crashed with hers.

(Y/N)'s eyes opened at the shocking scene, and her lips suddenly parted, either to beg or to protest against him, but Aemond's hot tongue found entrance into her warm cave – deciding instead to deepen the kiss, and press himself further against her smaller form.

The outline of his throbbing cock molded against the shape of the woman's thigh, and the Prince Protector of the Realm let out a pleasured hiss, once her insistent writhing ended up brushing up his weeping tip. "Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa." He mumbled against her swollen lips, "Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī."

She let out a fatigued whimper, and swiftly turned her head around, putting an abrupt end to their meek and vicious pecks.

"What's wrong, hmm? Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir."

Aemond's lips were soft and tender, leaving behind an almost vivacious bite over her exposed parts. His pace had been filled with an animalistic hunger; the longing inside his eye caught her unprepared, and her lips parted with the desire to feel something – anything – that his palpable mouth would keenly offer.

(Y/N) shuddered with her eyes closed, and grabbed a hold of his long, white hair, leading the man closer yet to her swelling heat.

The way in which he held her should have felt so very wrong. But at that moment, the only thing she could do was extend her arm back up to him, and guide him with an insistent pull over his silky locks: encouraging him to bring forth his descent upon her lips.

She disregarded the way a figment of her psyche screamed at her. To stop her ministrations, to slap his calloused hands away from her. For if she kept her eyes closed, and focused solely on the shape of him, then she could almost pretend that the man before her had nothing to do with her beloved Jace.

She could almost pretend that he was Jace.

Aemond's pupil was left blown wide – so much so, that the lilac of his iris could almost be left neglected. He wrapped his hands around the lady's thighs, and hoisted her up to meet him by his narrow hips. Both moaned into the other's mouth, and the Prince soon found his way into the raptures of the silken bed.

His heated cock kissed the outlines of her soaked cunny. Aemond sighed deeply over the arch of her neck, and pawed away at her untouched bodice.

(Y/N)'s hands rested still upon his eyepatch, and, with a swift and hasty movement, she yanked it off his sculpted face.

"We need to stop…" She moaned, defeated, and felt how Aemond's body stiffened up below her, as the harsh realization finally hit them both.

She had uttered the words aloud.

Half expecting him to blow out fuming, the woman tried to pry herself off his fevered body, but his hands reigned like iron shackles over the inside of her spreading thighs.

"Do we?" He whispered lowly, whilst leaning in to steal another kiss from her again.

"We shouldn’t." She strained herself to say once more, and Aemond nodded, still chasing her lips with his.

She melted into his reluctant touch, and hummed against his beating heart. His hands dug deeply into her resting sides; his fingertips scattered over her translucent spine, leaving their possessive mark. "This isn’t right."

"I know, I know," He gasped, "Seven Hells, I know…"

"Yn nyke istan zarvīzis," He pressed a finger over her swollen lips, "Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis."

With the last ounce of her strength, she bit over his lower lip, dragging a wanton moan from out of his rosy lips.

"Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa..." He chanted, while latched onto her burning sear, "Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī."

His High Valyrian had made her dizzy. And at first, she tried to pay his words her mind, she tried to grapple and understand what he was saying.

A starved meowl left her panting lips.

"You can tell me to stop," The words that poured out of his mouth washed upon her like a rippled tide, "You can tell me to stop… and I will..."

Her body quickly arched against him; her shaky hands came to rest over his hips. She laced her mouth again with his, expecting rough, dominant kisses – but Aemond's hands propped themselves loosely against her cheeks, his thumbs pliantly stroking her with untoward devotion. His single eye drank her in with reverence.

"Please…" He whimpered into her mouth, "Avy jorrāelan." He confessed to her, again and again, trying his hardest not to take her against the cold floor – and not fuck her straight into the messy mattress.

Her limbs felt heavy. Lacking their autonomy. The body she was nestled in still wasn't her own.

"... Why?" She asked him disdainfully, sporadically, as his index finger came to pry open her haughty entrance.

His eye widened in perplexed ruin, but the Prince soon stumbled over his words again.

That bastard Jace must have taught her the gist of that.

"... I wish I knew." Came his sole and sincere reply.

Just like that, her eyes welled with the threat of tears.

His hands, his hold, his voice, his mouth. It was all wrong. In truth none could ever hope to feel right.

Flashes of her old lover, of his baby brother – who was so small the last she'd seen him –, of her sworn shield came into view. All of them, gone as if they never were. All of them, with their memories trampled deep beneath her sprawled-out form.

She wasn't a woman of the Faith. Not after what had happened. Not after the spoils of war that she, herself, felt like angry whips upon her skin. But her eyes fluttered close, and she begged the Mother for forgiveness, whilst a tear rolled off her ticking cheek.

She brought a hand to her wobbly lips, and began to violently rub away any remaining trace of Aemond's presence.

She was disgusted. With him, with herself, with the world, with the image of her Jace – that surged in her mind the second she blinked, the moment that she jolted awake in her misery.

On his end, (Y/N)'s display of pure abhorrence failed to falter Aemond's lustful grief. Why, if she did not desire him, did she fall into his arms again and again?

Love was the death of duty. And longing was the doom of all.

"Fucking cock tease…" The Prince growled, grief-stricken, "How much longer are you going to give into me, just to push me away?"

His patience had been running thin. The ache in his breeches was long forgotten. In its stead, the urgent sting in his heart dragged the man into the pits of madness. "What is it this time?" He groveled over her closed legs again.

Her recuperation had been jovial and quick. Adrenaline replaced the pain and shame, and the woman tried to get off the bed, put as much distance as she knew how in between her and the ravished Prince.

For the first time since he came to be, Aemond would not let her escape his clutches. As she moved backwards, he persisted forward – following her wobbly feet throughout the room with the spare of his predatory eye.

"Y-You said –" She tried ceaselessly to accuse him. "You said you wouldn't –"

"And you're right. I meant every. Single. Thing. I told you." He growled into her frightened ear, as his hands came to cage her, trap her under the seclusion of the hard, stone wall.

"You're mine." He hissed desperately, as he clasped her jaw to face him. "You've always been mine, you fucking harlot. From the moment you stepped foot into Harrenhal, your life belonged to me."

Perhaps Aemond was right, and she was nothing but a harlot. A treacherous swine that hung onto whatever he could give her - so starved and devoid of love and warmth, that she'd dare to stoop so lowly with him.

Aemond descended his unquenched rage over her exposed neck, and began leaving tender love bites all over, in spite of her lackluster pleas.

(Y/N)'s head felt like it was about to explode. She felt sick to her stomach – the wine and the distraught both built up inside of her. All she wanted now was to be left alone. For Aemond's touch felt oddly comforting, and her tired eyes began to close. "You drive me insane." She heard him choke.

She wanted to open her mouth. To urge the Prince to stop; but her word hole was sewn shut, taken over by the grip of feared confusion. While his hand hoisted her up by the waist again, her hand went around him, to grab onto whatever she could find. Finally, she stopped at the dragon-glass dagger, that securely latched onto Aemond's waist. Effectively, she wrapped her fingers around its silver hilt, and sheathed it out of its confinements.

"I swear on whatever God you want me to, I'll slit your throat if you don't stop touching me –" She wailed into Aemond's form, as she felt him stiffen up in tumultation.

His nostrils flared up at her attempt to intimidate him, and yet… his face looked most serene, as the cutting edge of the dagger reached close to his ivory skin. She raised her brows at him in utter surprise; for she expected him to surrender. His arms snaked away from her, and Aemond watched her intensely with his piercing gaze.

She could kill him, consequences be damned. And if she faced trial for this, then at least she'd have taken out a Green and Vhagar.

Her hand was shaking. Her breathing became erratic. She'd held a blade on multiple occasions; she'd fantasized about cutting Aemond's throat more times than she could bring herself to count. And yet…

His lack of movement – of worry – rattled her endlessly. She wanted to scream at him, to push him, to cut him. But for some reason couldn't bring herself to do it.

The realization that she just couldn’t do it made her almost drop the knife from the tight hold she'd kept it under.

"Why aren't you the least bit worried?" She spat out lowly, with her body trembling and her jaw set tight.

Aemond remained quiet and taciturn. His eye fixed her face carefully, and his hand gently wrapped around her quivering wrist. "Come on now…" He whispered to her, and watched how her eyes filled with the endless tears of frustration, how the hot droplets rolled down her reddened cheeks.

It would take another moment for her to drop the blade.

A moment she would forever grow to resent.

"I fucking hate you." She hissed through a breathless sob.

Oh, how she wished to hate him. Hate him as she did when they first clashed swords. Hate him as she did when she heard Jace talk about Lucaerys' death.

"Liar." Aemond rasped in acknowledgment.

And, just like that, the damage had been done. The blade rested back into his hand within an instant, and Aemond hit the wall behind her with murderous intent. "Fucking liar." He whispered again, breathing less and less sporadically, trying to wash his nerves away.

"I have been so good to you. But no matter what I do, it'll never be enough for you. Hmm?" He shook his head adamantly, and dug his fingers into the cold tiles of the cursed stronghold. "I am a patient man. But I will not wait a minute longer."

Her face twisted into a painful scowl, and the girl pushed over his chest roughly, but Aemond was quick to deny her exit. "This is not ideal," He muttered lowly to himself, "Yet you need to be taught a lesson."

"What are you d–"

Her words died upon her lips. Aemond hummed in dissatisfaction, and immediately brought the blade into her view.

She let out a scream of pure horror, but his pliant mouth silenced her with a scorching kiss. Her whole body was shaking, and the Prince Regent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Cease your crying, you hateful woman." He chastised her cruelly, "The fucking Gods sent you to ruin me."

At that moment, she wasn't above pleading. Her knees wobbled in place, and her orbs frantically searched for a way out. For something to grip and swing at the man before her.

Aemond's eye softened at the sight of her. Despite the pang of guilt he felt, a teasing and self-assuring smirk formed at the corners of his upturned lips.

So Jacaerys hadn't told her. He never mentioned their Valyrian way to her.

His triumphant feat soon washed away, as her trembling hands came into contact with his. "Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon." He told her adherently, truthfully, despite the obvious language barrier.

He took a moment to regain his composure. Grab a hold of her balled-up fists and remember the ancient words he'd only ever read about in his history books.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sỹndroti vāedroma."

He ripped the sleeve from his linen shirt, and placed it over their entwined fingers.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sĩr. Izuli ampā perzī."

The blade finally pressed down, over the softness of his left palm. Aemond winced at the sudden pain, and made a mental note to only nick the frightened girl with it, when the time came for that.

"Prūmĩ lanti sēteksi. Hen jenỹ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozündesi."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened to a comical amount. Somewhere along the way, it seemed, she grew aware of Aemond's intent. She refused to show her hand to him, placing them both behind her back, and holding on for her dear life.

He let out a disapproving grunt, and reached his bloodied hands to her, yanking her right hand from underneath her strong grasp.

"No! No –!" She kept on screaming, and the guards outside shifted in place, before they fell under their oath of silence once again.

The cold and slick edge of the dragon glass pressed lightly against her writhing palm. Aemond made a smaller cut, and carried on with his rapid mumbling.

"Sỹndroro öñö jēdo. Rỹ kīvia mazvestraksi."

His very fist came to cut over his lower lip. His gory hand then reached for her jaw, hammering her in her place, and a sharp sting reflected on her weary stance. Aemond profited off the moment, to ease the dagger into her waiting mouth.

The metallic taste flooded her senses – the girl saw red before her eyes, and failed to register how his fingers came upon his and her forehead, painting them over with a ghastly symbol.

The Targaryen Prince reached for her hand again, and pressed her wounded palm cohesively with his.

"Following the tradition of my House from before the Doom of Old Valyria, I, Aemond of House Targaryen, bind myself to (Y/N) of House Tully, by blood, by soul, by life –"

"NO!"

" – And I pledge to her: that we are now one flesh, one heart, one body. Now and forever."

As he finally pried his limbs away from her trapped body, Aemond allowed his lips to feathery trace over her twisted mouth. She glanced at him, with wide-set and teary eyes.

"Fuck your fucking pledge."

Some grand venue she received.

A single question hung loosely into the air.

"Are you going to rape me now?"

She scarcely registered her own words as they left her mouth.

Aemond's eye widened at her query, and the Targaryen bit over his lower lip, as a deep grimace morphed the fairness of his features. He looked almost dumbfounded by her made assumption.

As soon as it came, the look of utter betrayal left his face.

"You would slit my throat with the knife." Was his mere reply.

***

Sometime along the night, he left.

The mighty roars of Vhagar registered themselves in the far-away distance.

That night, and only that night, she allowed herself the sacrilege of prayer. And she did so, again and again, pleading to the Seven for a blind arrow to reach his neck.

On the back of Vhagar, Aemond shuddered away from the impossible waves of heat, that licked deliciously at his stiffened cock; whenever her breathing would reach his ears, he felt tortured, trapped beneath the swell of lust and wanton desire.

Despite his abhorrent decision, he knew what their marriage meant. He knew all too well what his cruel bind had done, and yet… he felt no plausible remorse for the situation at hand.

The support of Storm's End, Floris Baratheon, Alys – mere casualties compared to the brink of having her, to knowing that she was finally his, as he was wholly hers.

Eventually, she'd have to love him. Eventually, she'd learn to do so.

A marriage wasn't a marriage until it was consummated. But he would give her, as he had promised, the illusion of choice, if nothing else.

As the cold night's air whipped his face again and again, and as Vhagar's thundering resounded over the burnt trees of the Riverlands, Aemond sighed, and brought a shaky hand to the strings of his breeches.

Scared as she was, his Lady made for a beautiful bride. It was such a shame that he didn’t get to see her wear the traditional Targaryen gown.

The pad of his thumb trailed over the cut he'd made – the same cut that now rested over her extended palm.

The flesh would scar, he thought, well pleased; whenever he looked at her, he'd get to see how she was undeniably his.

A possessive growl etched from his parted lips. Images of her paling skin, of her laugh. Her smile. The way her eyes bore into him, as if she always knew something he didn’t.

Leisurely, he began to pump his cock. Below him, Vhagar let out an anguished roar.

"Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon."

Droplets of precum rolled over his clenching digits, coating his knuckles and the base of his shaft in a translucent, but thick ropes.

He groaned desperately, aching to relieve his frustration deep within her, but alas…

His gruff moans filled the air around him; and Aemond could feel his climax building up, as visions of her flooded his thoughts.

How she would feel underneath him. How she would writhe on the edge of bliss, begging, pleading for him to finally take her.

He could feel her legs wrapping around him, and feel himself sliding inside her with ease, praising her for being so good to him.

He wrapped Vhagar's bridle tight over his arm, and secured himself better in his leather saddle. His grip tightened around his dripping cock, but it was just not good enough.

The pace with which he fucked his hand picked up in a wilding speed. Aemond sighed in pleasure, and felt his hips move to their own accord. His breathing became rugged. His very mind was not his own.

He wondered what other scars her body bore. What the story behind them was, and how many of them came by his swift undoing.

Would she lie down and let him take care of everything? Or would she want to stay on top, jumping up and down on him, each time with a harsher thrust?

His hips rose and fell with his less than gentle pace, and the man pushed his length deeper into his steadfast grip.

He knew that if she let him touch her, he wouldn't be leaving her bed for weeks. He would pull countless orgasms from her, time and time again, until she begged for him to stop. He would have her so full of his seed, so the Gods' help him, that she would swell with his child – his trueborn child – before the rise of the first rays of sun.

Feeling his release beckon, the Prince set on a final rhythm, one that left his loins more in need than ever. With a loud hiss, he pushed himself inside his fist one final time, spilling his seed onto the saddle beneath him.

He panted wildly into the night, and suddenly opened his lustful eye, allowing a tear of ecstasy to roll off his scarred cheek.

"Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra."

He couldn't keep up the charade with her. He would tell her all about it, once things finally settled down.

Word in Harrenhal traveled fast.

First it was her brash arrival. Then her impromptu marriage.

No one dared to talk to her. Yet she was never without the indiscreet eyes that followed her about.

Her situation wasn't without its ups and falls: Aemond felt no need to guard her as stiffly anymore – For where would the former Tully go, now that she bared his Targaryen name?

She was allowed to breach into some castle corners, always in the company of hefty guards, of course, and basked herself in some new acquired perks of freedom.

On the same account, whilst Alys remained loyal to her role as her lady-in-waiting, the tension between them couldn't have been more pain-strikingly high.

"I never asked for this. You must believe me."

She gave the younger woman a domineering stare, and only shook her head, obliged.

"And yet here you stand, inside his bed."

Word in Harrenhal spread fast – like a fire left unattended, like the so-called "Targaryen madness".

But a new, particular rumor gobbled the attention of everyone present.

Daemon Targaryen was to return to the Riverlands. And with him and Caraxes, he'd bring forth the formerly wild dragon, Sheepstealer, mounted by none other than Nettles.

The Lady had been acquainted with the bastard girl before – when the Sowing of the Dragon Seeds reveled in their first borne crops.

Another troubling report came forth. King's Landing had been secured by Rhaenyra.

When (Y/N) heard the news be whispered, she almost collapsed on her knees in glee. This must have marked the end of it. Surely, the usurpers would be put through the sword, leaving all to be well, and right again.

The Greens would die. They would face trial.

The Greens.

Indeed, word in Harrenhal spread fast. And she'd just been made the wife of the cruelest of them all.

Dread filled her insides. Her eyes cast their darkened shadow over the walls of the cursed Keep. A single, fundamental truth raised strongly from her anxious wallowing.

If Daemon Targaryen should find out about her marriage to his nephew, and get to her first… naught of the loyalty of the Riverlords would have a single say in her decided fate. And she would meet her end by the way of his blade, Dark Sister.

Now, more so than ever, it was pivotal for her to escape.

The clock was ticking.

And she was running out of time.

***

Her last day in Harrenhal was spent making plans. She'd rubbed her temples a myriad times, and paced about the room in a dizzying trot.

It wasn’t enough for her to disappear – she had to ensure everyone else thought she was gone.

When Aemond returned, she beckoned his call by jumping to her ready feet. The girl took him in, in his devillished state, and merely raised her brows at him. Whenever she saw him, the nick on her palm and lip itched at her relentlessly.

Neither was willing to recognize aloud what had transpired two moons ago, but both knew the inevitable punishment that would come with Aemond's actions.

He took a seat by the edge of their bed, and took his dagger out to play with it.

In vain he had asked Alys to share with him what she could see. She laid in broken, cradling her forming bump – the one she so desperately tried to hide away from him. The one thing that once meant her protection and raise in rank, now could very well heed out her doom.

Her green eyes raised from the floor below them, and Alys merely shook her head.

"There is fire, my Prince. Fire, and blood, and death."

"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silent chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved."

And there it was. The silent admission of what he had done.

"We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."

Was he sorry for what he did?

"It was about time you got acquainted with the rest of the family."

Aegon's cause was lucky that Storm's End was already too involved. They couldn't turn in their banners to the other front. Not now.

"It's a wonderful idea." She uttered in a glacial tone, barely above a whisper. "When will we depart?"

Sharpened orbs came in contact with the loneness of a purple eye.

The man took in a sparring breath, and hummed at her obedient retreat. The Prince's fist clenched over his cutting wound, and he nodded his head firmly.

"Should we be graced with the Gods' favor, issa jorrāelagon, then on the morrow," He explained, "but no sooner than that."

The girl's brows furrowed in discontent, as Aemond faltered in pressing the matter further. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the aid of two long fingers, and heavily rose from his seat.

"Don't wait for me tonight. I shall return to you in the morning. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Lack of air. And crippling fear.

Her tiny world had been thrown into the arms of chaos. But everything fell so perfectly into place.

As soon as Aemond had mounted Vhagar, as soon as her father of wings died upon the night's first watch, the woman sprung to her feet, and began her soul's ascent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

She started off by breaking in her tiny mirror, placing a goose feather pillow below and over it, to somehow mask the clefty noise.

Her long hair was the first to go. She began cutting it swiftly, using big and brisk movements to chop off as many of her luscious locks as she possibly could.

She ripped the mattress of the bed open with one of the bigger shards, and revealed Aemond's dried-up shirt, that she had tucked well under after washing it, long preparing it for that occasion.

Her stomach churned as her hand went to her chamber pot. Risking her own deniability, she submerged her digits deep within it, letting out a victorious huff as she brushed across a piece of cold felt.

The insides of the sack revealed fermented meat – putrid, more like. She scattered the final remains of it over the stone floor like a mad-woman, and ripped the latter pages of the book Alys had gifted her.

She would take the passage to the stables, and simply hope for the best.

Her eyes searched feverishly about the cluttered room, but the hammering in her heart stilled only as she gaped upon the lower left corner of the wall full of banners.

There it was. Exactly where Alys told her it was going to be.

She tore into the mattress further, spreading the wool around, and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood from the crackling fire.

May she be forgiven for what she was about to do.

Her shaky hands grasped the lumber strongly, and she let it roll in the middle of the room, allowing it to fall with a loud bang.

***

The sound of wailing screams echoed inside her head, scratching at her ears, to the point of making them almost bleed. The heat of the fire she caused fell over her skimpily clothed back, and the disgust she felt with herself was palpable against her tongue.

With every turn she took, she made herself another promise. She would not rest until the war would see its end. She'd never sleep warmly again, and forever remind herself of the sacrifice she had to make – of all the lives that she undoubtedly ended, if only to meet her selfish ends.

For once, this was not just Aemond's doing. This was her fault all alone.

Blinded by rage, and seething with fury, her feet carried her down the crooked set of stairs. The woman brought a hand up to her face, and coughed wildly in the back of it. She'd have to make a bold turn soon. Then the outside world would heed, and she would be free again.

With just a twinge of luck, the guards should think that whatever was left of her room collapsed upon herself inside. Her burnt hair and clothes would create the wanted look – the meat would add the unmistakable smell of rot and death, and the lack of an actual body would take days to figure out.

And she prayed. She prayed, she prayed, she prayed: that no one else knew of the passages that she was threading through below.

Her eyes could barely see in front of her. Smoke rose to unforgiving levels, and the Lady swore it could be cut even by the dullest knife. As she reached the crossroads of the secret tunnel, her hands came to grapple at the breeches' pockets, turning them inside out – trying to find the torn pages of the book she'd just previously carried.

A sigh of relief rumbled from within her throat, as the pads of her shaking digits stroked across the withered, olden pages.

Her relief would be short lived.

Boney hands snaked around her, and the girl nearly screamed – until the familiar scent of mint and wild berries floored her senses.

"Alys?!" Her voice let out in an exasperated high. "Alys, we need to hurry!"

But her able hands still hesitantly clung to the soft material of her shirt, digging so deeply into it, that she could rip it in a downward pull.

"You –" She began to say, but cut herself short as she momentarily closed her eyes.

No matter what, she couldn’t tell the Lady before her that she'd have sent her upon her death.

"You took a wrong turn. This isn't the right way towards the South Gates."

The adrenaline flooded her veins. Her heart was pumping wildly against her ears. Lady Tully only nodded, failing to process that Alys had, in fact, never given her access to such an option on the crudely drawn map.

"This way, (Y/N) – came quickly!"

Two sets of legs descended further into the murky passages of Harrenhal. At one point, the smoke had gotten so very thick, that both women had to feel their way out, by touching the corners of every tunnel that they surpassed.

When all seemed lost, Alys finally spoke, "Over here!" She yelled out to her, and latched onto Aemond's dampened shirt.

They stumble into each other, as the small opening of the stifling cellar reaches the South Gates. The witch stops hastily on her heel, and the young Lady nearly busts their cover.

A raid of soldiers came flocking out, with what then looked like tens of thousands of squealing maids. So frightened by their own demise, they bumped into the oak doors and onto each other – choosing to, instead of unlocking the main Gates, reach and pull at the other's hairs, cursing loud and wildly.

Alys let out a bemused huff at their perused antics, but her reglament was short lived; as one of the smarter lassies reached for the illustrious piece of wood, and opened the doors with the loudest of creak.

"Now's our chance," The Lady of Riverrun whispered to her fellow escapee, grabbing onto her wrist harshly, and dragging her out and into the light. "Mingle in the crowd, Alys –"

"My Lady, do not stray far –"

The older woman let out a staggering breath, as she raised her skirts to follow suit on the trail left by the hot-headed girl.

She is Elmo's daughter alright, she disarmingly told herself, Just as hopeless and reckless as he once was.

Alys almost tackled her to the ground, as Lady Tully succumbed herself deeper into the burnt out forest. She gripped onto her hands with hers, so harshly, that she'd definitely leave her mark. "I thought I had told you not to stray far."

The breathless form of the lost child before her appeared to be enough to soften a tad of her resolve. "When I tell you something, I expect you to do it."

Whilst chastising her deeply for her foolhardy behavior, the woman searched her pockets, and pushed out two quarter silvers into her trembling hands.

"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn."

As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire. Make sure to cover the cut on your hand with this." As she spoke, Alys pushed a black glove into her resting hands.

The Bliss of Riverrun threw the witch a bewildered look. Her eyes searched adamantly for hers, and the woman panted out in pure wonder. "How did you know I intended on migrating North?

"I've already seen you do it." She shook her shoulders promptly, "I've already seen you succeed."

Her green eyes softened, if only for a blazing moment; but the crackling of the trees behind them snapped her out of her inward trance. "Don't waste anymore time. Your diversion was smart, but he will try to find you."

The girl reached down, to squeeze her hands, perhaps, in a wordless display of gratitude and affection. Her soft fingers interlaced over her boney knuckles, and Alys muttered a faint blessing over the twisted arch of her furrowed brow.

The Lady turned around, but not before pausing and shooting the witch one last fiery look. "Come with me." She offered determinedly, and shook her head strongly as Alys took a step back. "He'll try to punish someone for it. You're his next available girl." She begged her to see to reason.

"My place remains here. By his side."

(Y/N)'s eyes hardened at her thorough admission, but she strained herself to shoot the wet nurse back with a curt nod.

"I shan't forget what you did for me." She promised her elder with a minute smile.

"A heads-up when you next decide to set the whole stronghold on fire would be most appreciated…!" She lightheartedly told her, despite the obvious wabbling of her lower lip.

(Y/N) nodded, but remained hammered in place for another while. Alys' hand reached to cup over her face, but a brisk moment of clarity was quick to change her mind.

"Go, you foolish girl…!" She snapped, "Make good use of that promise you made."

Her feet began moving on their own accord. Her mind was blazing with all of the unfinished tasks at hand.

She would run towards the Rushing Halls. Buy a mule. Retreat towards Green Fork. Reach the Twins.

Her road shall lead to Winterfell. If Forrest Fray remained the same kind fool that he once was, she should have no trouble sending Cregan Stark a raven.

And if she could reason with Jacaerys' friend, take in his testimony of protection, perhaps her life wasn't lost just yet.

The gusts of wind ran through her shortened and unkempt hair. Aemond's clothes hung loosely over her, and the stench of fire and ash filled her nostrils with something else other than hopeless dread.

Never before in her life, did the girl run so fast.

Taglist:

Translations:

Gevie… = Beautiful;

Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda. = Do not worry, my sweet love. I promised you I would be patient;

Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa. = One day you will desire me;

Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao. = The Gods have cursed me to love you;

Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar. = Calm down, Vagar. Be still. Good girl;

Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa. = Gods, you were made for me;

Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī. = Just look how perfectly we fit together;

Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir = Sweet girl… don't pull away from me now;

Yn nyke istan zarvīzis. Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis. = But I've been patient. I've been so good and… so, so patient;

Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa... = You act like you don't want this…;

Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī. = But you want me just as much. You ache for me – just as badly.

Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon. = Don't cry, my beautiful Princess. I would sooner die than hurt you;

Valyrian Wedding Vows: Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows, two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass – the stars stand witness, of the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light;

Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon. = I know Vhagar, I know;

Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra. = The Gods don't listen to men like me. But I would go on my knees and beg them to let me keep you. You were once the bane of my existence… and now, you find yourself the center of it.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #the harshest winters #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys strong #house of the dragon #jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys imagine #jacaerys angst #aemond smut #bookcanon aemond targaryen #dark aemond x reader #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #yandere aegon targaryen #unhinged aemond yep yep

[hatt0riart]

I WANTED TO MAKE MORE THAN JUST THIS but it took like. a week to get done and im sick these days

anyways in light of mk1's nonsense i revisited some koncepts i had for a roleswap au. i took hanzo's inspiration from a mix of mkx and mk11 outfits and kuai i kind of just winged it based off my own preferences in past appearances!!

more rambling is under the cut about the actual AU :-]

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY ART ON ANY OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA OR CROP THEM FOR ICONS. THANK YOU!

SO I HAVE NOT ACTUALLY DEVELOPED THIS BEYOND SOME OLD SKETCHES I HAD OF KUAI'S DESIGN but i had some general ideas of how this was supposed to work???

the shirai ryu is still alive and well! he's still a family man and very clan oriented. satoshi is still born and grows into his clan's responsibilities, however harumi dies in child birth.

the lin kuei on the other hand is Not Doing Well. they end up getting wiped out during a raid from the shirai ryu and most of kuai's immediate family (whether by choice or blood) ends up going down with them.

prior to this kuai ends up passing after a failed mission to retrieve the map of elements from the shaolin temple in an attempt to prove himself to his clan. (instead of bi-han being the one set on that path, kuai ends up taking the initiative instead WAY before he's ready without anyone's knowledge and ends up dying when met with scorpion.)

most of it is similar how it is in actual canon for how scorpion's story goes. he gets resurrected he pledges loyalty to quan chi in order to get revenge, blah blah blah. mortal kombat happens. the two meet again at some point.

kuai's still on that "you killed my family" juice but its...more so about familial ties (like bi-han and smoke) rather than it being the love(s) of his life (like hanzo's wife and son) , seeing as he died young from his own overzealous nature.

very much has anger issues. he's impatient and has alot shorter of a temper by comparison to scorpion in the original canon. hardly ever humbled until that point lol

hanzo on the other hand is surprisingly more lax. meditates often, drinks alot of tea and while he *IS* stressed he handles it alot better than kuai does. maybe has a problem of ignoring his problems though for the sake of the task at hand.

kuai ends up harassing hanzo alot in this AU even outside of the tournament. he's kind of a bitchy ghost there to remind hanzo of what happened to him and lowkey hanzo guilts over it.

kuai has alot of grim reaper motifs in his design. he carries a scythe made of ice primarily and fights at a more long distance range.

hanzo on the other hand is alot more of an up close brawler. he keeps alot of design traits from mkx with a bit of mk11 sprinkled in for inspiration of his "classic" design.

STILL A PYROMANCER!! i just havent thought out how. he's just regarded with a bit more respect for having those unnatural abilities lol

but yeah this is just me spitballing in bullet points. i'm hoping to make more stuff later that is a bit more...thought out properly but it follows more of like

mk mythologies --> mk9 -> mkx

type of timeline i guess? except hanzo is in bi-han's position and kuai ends up being put in scorpion's. bi-han doesn't really have a place in the AU outside of being a background character and driving motive for kuai's vengeance later on. (though we're not gonna talk about how bi-han's mentality eventually fed into kuai's at a young age and made him come to the conclusions he did before he died.... maybe.)

smoke exists for the sake of painful flashbacks lol

satoshi's also a bg character but he does end up growing up with the shirai ryu and takes on his own share of clan responsibilities. idk whether or not he takes after hanzo's pyromancy or not in this AU but either way he grows up to be a well respected figure in the clan!

alot of stuff outside of this remains the same though, just the lin kuei and shirai ryu's dynamics get swapped.

ANYWAYS YEAH IF YOU READ THRU ALL THIS THANKS FOR READING BYEEEE (i'll be adding to this au more later on when i finish my other sketches lol)

#mortal kombat #au #mortal kombat au #mk #mk1 #mkx #mk11 #mk9 #sub zero #scorpion #kuai liang #hanzo hasashi #roleswap au #subscorp #subscorp roleswap au

[squintyeyedjoel]

Through Your Eyes | Part 2 - More than Meets the Eye (Joel x Reader)

A/N: IT’S FINALLY FUCKING HERE!!!! I’m so sorry it took so long! I’ve been sitting on this for almost a year and it’s just been evolving and marinating and improving, and I hope it lives up to the hype. It’s time for it to be set free. ✨ This is truly a hybrid of game and show Joel. I see them both, hence both gifs.

I do not own The Last of Us or it’s characters. Sadly. But I carry them in my heart. Does that count for something? My soul says yes.

Warnings: Oooo, this one’s a doozy. So many things. (Let me know if I miss anything.) 😮‍💨 Some original characters, mentions of an elderly family member passing, lots of canon violence and swearing, (this one is a big one. Like a lot. There’s a hefty amount of swearing.) mention of attempted sexual assault (not to reader) without detail, graphic description of injury (not to reader) and blood, attempted abduction? Reader is a badass and sports a black eye and bloody knuckles with pride. Panic attack? But Joel scares it away. 😌 We round it all out with obscene amounts of fluff and humor between it all, sweet moments, and just soft things. It’s me. I can’t not. No use of Y/N.

Word count: 11,928

Thank you to @fordo-kixed-rex for reading over this five bazillion times for me and fangirling over it when I was having my down moments. You’re a real one.

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Xxx

You rocked in the saddle of your horse as she slowly followed behind the first few people in the group.

Left.

Right.

Left. 

Right.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Some quicker footfalls to your left made you turn your head, seeing Joel atop his horse come alongside you before slowing his steed back to the slow crawl the rest had fallen into.

“You okay?” He mumbled. “Look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you groused, turning back to face forward with a yawn.

He huffed out a laugh before shaking his head at you almost imperceptibly, nudging his horse to go a little faster toward the front of the group.

Watching him with narrowed brows, you saw everyone else make sure to steer clear of him, giving him a wide berth and a clear path to the front. Tommy’s words from that first day rang in your head.

“You saw a side of Joel right out the gate some wait a lifetime to miss.”

Joel whistled loudly, gathering everyone’s attention, as the whole party came to a stop. “Alright! Listen up!” Some grumbles began to go around, but stopped with one crook of his brow. “That’s an awful lot of yappin’ for people suppose t’be listenin’.” 

If a pin had dropped in the grass underfoot, it would have echoed in the vast forest around you. Even nature seemed to heed his warning, only a few stray birds chirping somewhere in the distance brave enough to break the silence. A lone frog echoed in a nearby creek bed. A few bugs buzzed by, trying to ease the tension, and it seemed to work, because finally Joel went on after staring at everybody.

“We need to pick up the pace. This isn’t a leisurely walk to the park and back. We have a goal we need to get to, and back, and we got one week to do it.”

“Who made you the boss?” Some poor brave soul asked from behind you. A young man, maybe in his mid twenties from how he sounded. You didn’t dare turn to look at him, not wanting to move your eyes from Joel, because if looks could kill…. Joel would currently be facing a serious charge for the way he was glowering at the faceless voice behind you.

“Common sense.” A few small laughs went around the group, the corner of Joel’s mouth twitching up just slightly when he saw you shake your head with a smirk. “This was my run- our run,” he pointed to you then back to himself before retaking the reins to his horse, “and the council thought it best you all tag along to bring the most back we could. Now I don’t mind-”

“Yes, you do,” another voice behind you said, female, almost teasingly, making another round of soft laughter go around.

“Fine. I mind. A lot. But we’re here now. So, since you’re tagging along on our run, what we say goes. Agreed?” When no one protested, he gestured you up to the front with a tilt of his head, going on while you nudged your horse forward. 

“Now, we need to move faster. Any bandits or infected we pass by would pick us off like flies at this pace. The cart will be the slowest, I want the four of you to stay with the cart at all times and watch all four sides.” He pointed to four individuals who nodded, moving toward the cart pulled by a single horse and rider. 

“The three of you pull up the rear.” More pointing and nodding. “The rest of you, in the middle. Keep your eyes open. Everyone keep at a steady pace, we camp at sundown wherever that is. Don’t push your horses too far.” He began to turn his own mount to move forward. “Not their fault we’re a bunch of dumbasses.”

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard him say at once,” you heard someone mutter behind you, making you smile.

“At once? Try ever,” another retorted.

Joel looked over at you. “What? Why you grinnin’?”

“They respect you.”

He scoffed. “That so hard to believe?”

“It’s a side of you I’ve not seen before. I’m used to bad puns and screwdrivers, not….” You made a swooping gesture to the group behind you, “that.”

He shook his head once, tisking at you. “Shows what you know. I’m actually partly in charge of security around Jackson.”

Your eyes widened as you turned as much as your saddle would allow to look at him, the leather creaking against the movement. “Really?”

He nodded once in confirmation, a proud smile starting up his face. “Only a part time type’f thing, and it’s purely on a trial basis right now, but…. Yeah.” He grinned brightly at you. “The jokin’ and woodworkin’ are just for fun.” The smile turned somewhat dopey and lopsided.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, Joel Miller.” He rolled his eyes at you, the grin melting into a scoff and his signature sour expression with impressive speed. Though his eyes still shone brightly, giving away his true amusement. “And I’m gonna try to see it all.”

Shaking his head at you again, Joel looked back forward, nudging his horse to go a bit faster and pull ahead of you. “Nah. Not that deep, darlin’.”

Urging your mount forward, you maneuvered to your right, and fell in beside him with a grin. “That’s what you think.”

Joel tilted his head down and to the side toward you as he spoke for emphasis, keeping his eyes forward. “That’s what I know.” He cut his gaze to you briefly after a moment to try and drive his point home before straightening back up in his saddle, his eyes going studiously back to the wide expanse of land ahead. 

Your grin melted into a smirk, seemingly a new permanent fixture since moving to Jackson. Or more specifically, since moving in with Joel and Ellie. That thought made the side of your mouth tick even higher. “We’ll see.”

Xxx

In the chaos of starting up a new life in Jackson, you’d overlooked one little detail. While you could repair and paint just about anything on your own, you were shit at stitching any stuffed toys back together Joel happened on during runs. It was possible, but it was slow going, and to be honest, looked a bit like field dressings for a battle wound instead of repairs. 

You’d thrown the last attempt of an old wrinkled teddy bear at Joel when he’d called it Sargent Cuddles, Ellie only adding to the confirmation when she asked if you could make an eyepatch for the bear instead to cover the deep scar you’d given it by way of cross stitches.

Halfway through that first week, you’d walked into the town’s seamstress with the best smelling cinnamon loaf the bakery had to offer, fresh and steaming, under your arm. When the girl behind the counter stopped what she was doing, setting down the socks she was darning while her nose went high in the air like a bloodhound as she took a deep sniff with her eyes glassed over, you grinned. 

Target acquired.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was soft and kind, and her smile as she rose to her feet from the chair helped settle any trepidation you felt about reaching out.

People hadn’t always been kind about your hobby, for one reason or another, hence why you came with bribes at the ready. But you had a feeling this time would be different. You smirked as she nonchalantly eyed the loaf under your arm.

“Hi! Yeah! I’m the one who restores the toys? I opened up in the old bookstore down the street?” You introduced yourself, and recognition went off behind her eyes at the sound of your name.

“Oh! Joel’s girl!”

Your breath caught in your chest as your head gave a little shake of confusion at the declaration. “What?”

She chuckled somewhat nervously. “No! No, not like that, I mean…. His neighbor. His new lodger. The one in the attic.” She was talking a mile a minute. “Not his ‘his’ girl….” She slapped a palm to her forehead, cradling her head in her hand as she rocked it back and forth before pulling back just enough to look at you conspiratorially. “But can you imagine?”

After a moment of silence where you both simply stared at each other, soft laughter took over, melting the tension between you.

“Let me start over,” she huffed, lowering her hand from her face to extend it to you in greeting. “I’m Jane. Nice to meet you.”

As you shook her hand, you couldn’t help but smile at her antics. “Likewise.”

Jane turned her attention back down to the socks she had abandoned when you came in, fiddling with them absently before she looked back up at you, a soft tint of embarrassment staining her cheeks. “So, what brings you here?”

“Oh! Right.” Setting the loaf on the counter, you shrugged the backpack off your shoulder and set it down beside the bread, fishing out the few stuffed animals Joel had brought back that needed the most help. “I was hoping we could work out a deal. I can do some basic stitching, but even then, Joel and Ellie have compared my work to that of a field medic more than anything.” 

Jane snickered at the comment as she took one of the worn stuffed animals, turning it over in her hands and analyzing it as you continued.

“People trade me all sorts of goods for these, like this loaf.” You gestured to it with a bob of your head, then placed your hand on the still steaming bread. “The baker’s son has a birthday coming up, and she wanted something special. Joel and Tommy don’t always bring back stuffed animals so it wouldn’t be constant work, but I was hoping when they do, I could bring them here, and we could work out some sort of trade system for the repairs-”

“No need,” Jane said, smiling down at the stuffed tiger in her hands. You arched a brow at her, waiting for her to go on, and she finally tore her gaze away from the toy and up to you. “I had one just like this as a kid. Loved it to bits. It looked like it had been through the wars before I lost it, patches everywhere and stuffing missing so it was lumpy…. I learned to sew on that thing.” Jane looked back at the toy again fondly. “I’ll help you. All I ask is that I get to keep this one, and maybe one every few runs if they happen to stumble on any others like I used to have. I…. I had a collection.” 

When she brought her gaze back up to meet yours, her eyes were misty. “It was small, but it was everything to me. Got a new one every year when I was little from my grandparents. Stopped when I hit that certain age where adults deem you too old for those things. Which was fine.” She sniffed, a tear falling silently down her cheek. “Then my grandpa he…. He started having memory issues.” She took a deep, shaky breath, smiling sadly at the toy. “Regressed a certain amount of years…. Just so happened to be when I was a certain age, still, in his mind, and he got me a stuffed toy every year for my birthday, until….”

You reached out, placing your hand over hers. “Keep whatever you want. You don’t even have to do repairs to keep them.” She began to protest, swiping at her tears with the back of the hand still holding the tiger when you squeezed her other hand gently. “The whole reason I’m doing this in the first place is to help bring some joy back into the world. And I want you to be happy, you deserve to be happy, without me lording something over you like demanding a trade in exchange-”

Jane flipped her hand in your grip, squeezing you like you had her. “And doing this will make me happy.” You studied her for a long moment. “Do you know how boring it is to darn a sock?” You snorted a laugh, and she smiled. “Everybody in this damn town needs to take better care of their socks, I swear…. I’m up to my eyeballs in them. Nothing would make me happier than to work on something that would be giving back more to the community than dumb stinky, holey, wool.”

With a nod, you gave her hand still in your grip one firm shake, a grin crawling up your face. “It’s a deal. I’ll try to tackle the easy ones and send the few in need of more love your way. But!” You let go of her hand and held up a finger, wagging it like you were lecturing a petulant child.  “I’m also dropping some of these goods by, too.” Patting the bread on the counter before softly pushing it closer toward her, you laughed at her show stopping grin and good-natured roll of her eyes in response.

“Fine,” she mumbled around the smile, the sound anything but angry. “If you insist.”

A few days later, you’d dropped a few stuffed animals off to her that Joel had stumbled on during patrol, Ellie tagging along with you. She had opted to stay outside the shop while you went in though, leaning against the doorframe by the front window, taking in the sights and sounds of the city street.

“Not a fan of needles,” she mumbled, glancing into the shop as you opened the door to go in.

“This isn’t that kind of needle.”

“I said what I said.”

You didn’t press her on it, just nodded and mumbled an ‘okay’ before disappearing into the shop.

“Hey!” Jane greeted you, pushing aside her current project immediately to make room for the box you were carrying. “Oh, these are cute!” She picked one up in each hand, lifting them up to look at them better before trading them out for another and repeating the process until each patient had been analyzed. “They’ll be easy.” She turned to you with a smile. “I’ll be done by this weekend.”

“No rush!” You assured her as she set the box behind the counter. “If you’re not done until then, you’ll have to leave them with Tommy, though. I’m going out of town with Joel on a run, it’ll take a few days, maybe a week max. We leave tomorrow. Though, no, actually, you can just leave them with Ellie, what am I saying-”

“You’re doing what?” She interrupted you.

Focusing back on her face, you tried to get back on topic. “What? Oh, yeah! We’re going back to where I lived right before Jackson to get the stores of paints and stuff I had. Bucket loads of it, no pun intended.” You turned to look at Ellie over your shoulder. “She’s rubbing off on me in more ways than one, I guess….”

“Is it just you and Joel?”

Her question caught you off guard, pulling your gaze back to her with knit brows. “It was going to be, but the council decided it was a ‘waste of resources’, so we have to take a little group with us. Why?”

“I’m coming with you.” No hesitation, just straight to the point.

Your eyes went wide. “What? Why?”

“You said you lived about a week north, right? Near the university?”

“Yeah. Because of the university, there were storage units nearby, used to be climate controlled before everything, now they’re just enclosed spaces with extra security to keep clickers n’ shit out. I lived in one, worked in another, and stored in a third. Got pretty good at picking locks, too.” You smirked.

Her eyes were wide and serious. “The ones by the north end of campus?”

Your expression went flat. “Don’t tell me….”

“I lived in an abandoned place on the south end of campus.” She had started to grin like a Cheshire Cat. “We probably were within spittin’ distance of each other and didn’t even know it.”

A laugh barked out of your chest, several more tumbling out after it until you were bent over her counter on your elbows, wheezing. Pushing up to rest on your forearms you met her gaze again, amusement on both your faces. “No fucking way.”

“I left a sewing machine behind. It was there when I moved in, and I hope it’s still there and still works, heaven knows, but…. The buildings by the school had power when the Fireflies were there. I’d use it when I could, and I was able to do so much more work. Now that I’m here I could actually make use of it with all that I have on my plate, and the dam giving us electricity….” She sighed dreamily. “I’m going. That’s final.”

Before you could respond, the bell over the door jingled, making you stand up straight and turn to look at the newcomer.

“Everything okay?” Ellie’s voice was soft as she poked her head in, causing you to do a double take. “I heard raised voices.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re all good. Just excited. Turns out we lived right by each other before moving here.”

“Oh shit! No way!” She stood up straight with a wide grin, stepping fully into the shop and letting the door close behind her.

“Language,” you scowled.

“Sorry, Miss Fanny,” she looked sheepish, spinning on her heel dramatically before exiting the shop.

You turned back to Jane who looked on amused. “She thinks she’s funny because I use a fanny pack.” Plopping onto a tall stool that sat in front of the counter, you stared at your friend.

Jane let out a low ‘ah’ as if she now understood everything.

Knitting your brows before arching one, you leaned on one elbow on the counter. “What?”

“Why is she outside?” She asked as she fiddled with some projects behind the counter.

“Said she ‘wasn’t a fan of needles’,” you mumbled, air quoting her words as you turned to look back at Ellie through the window. “Whatever that means.”

Jane hummed in understanding, drawing your eyes back to her. “Tommy got really drunk at the bar one night after I first got here. Saying all kinds of shit. People kept walking off because he wouldn’t shut up, so I opted to walk him home to Maria. It wasn’t far, and he’s a good guy. Anyway, on the way to his house, he starts mutterin’ about his brother and his new kid, how they just got back from some failed medical something or other with the Fireflies, most of it was unintelligible.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at Ellie. You followed her gaze, finding the teen walking back and forth in the shade in front of the building, scuffing her heels as she went, and kicking rocks.

“Then, he got real sad, and said somethin’ about how he’d sent them to the university right after seein’ him for the first time in months. It was to get info on where to go for the medical procedure, I guess. Anyway.” She took a deep breath. “Apparently they got ambushed there, and Joel got stabbed real bad, almost didn’t make it. That girl out there had to care for him for weeks, drag him somewhere safe, stitch him up….”

Your breath caught in your chest as she paused for emphasis, unable to tear your eyes from Ellie as emotion swelled in your gut for your fellow housemates, but especially the tiny redhead on the other side of the glass.

“Tommy was real broken up about it. Said Joel almost died, and he felt like it was his fault. Ellie had to hunt, and somehow got Joel medicine.”

You turned to face Jane again. “How?”

“Those details weren’t real clear.” She shrugged. “Like I said, he was plastered. Maybe this whole story is some drunken imagining, but the way he sounded compared to all the shit he said in the bar?” Her face melted into something between sadness and understanding. “I’m inclined to believe him.” 

She took a hesitant breath, but stopped before letting it out slowly, then closed her eyes for a moment. After another shallow breath, she opened them to focus on you, and tried again, her voice even softer still. 

“We’d made it to his house by this point. Maria had come out and was helping me to get him inside, up the porch steps…. And he just broke down halfway up. Sat down, broke down, and started sobbing. Made it even harder to understand.” She rolled her eyes and you chuckled softly. “He said something about the medicine came at too high a cost. That Ellie paid…. Would be paying….” Jane swallowed roughly, looking to the girl through the window with something akin to admiration, then back at you. “He said it changed her.”

“Changed?” You could only whisper.

“Broke her. He said whatever happened was enough to take a spitfire, and make her an ember.” You both looked back at the teen one last time. “She’s improved a lot. I’ve seen her grow, come out of her shell just since I’ve been here, but…. It’s her eyes. They’re haunted. Whatever happened out there…. It didn’t stay out there. And it ain’t leavin’ anytime soon.”

“That explains a lot. About both of them,” you mused quietly.

“Joel I don’t know much about. He’s just the town grump.”

Despite the dark turn the conversation had taken, you burst out laughing, seeing Ellie turn toward the window at the sound with a grin.

“Everyone keeps telling me that, even him, but I just don’t see it!”

Jane’s face turned up in amusement softly. “Well, maybe you’re just one of the lucky ones like Ellie, and he likes you.”

“I think he tolerates me.” You looked across your shoulder at her, getting back to your feet from the stool you’d been perched on and faced her fully. “I live in his house. It’d be awkward if we hated each other.”

“True,” she grinned smugly.

“What?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Xxx

Jane came riding up beside you, smiling wider than the canyon you’d passed a few miles back.

“I’m gonna regret askin’ but what in the hell has you happier than a butterfly on a daisy?”

“That’s not a real saying,” Jane mumbled, looking at you through skeptical, knit brows.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not applicable,” you countered, your own brows arched high in challenge. 

With a roll of her eyes and a sigh, Jane circled back to the topic at hand. “We’re out in the open!” She whispered, excitement lacing her tone. “I love Jackson, don’t get me wrong, but it’s so nice to be able to breathe.”

A smirk made its way up your face. “I know what you mean. Problem is you trade security for a great wide unknown. The possibilities of things that can go wrong out here are much scarier than anything in Jackson.”

She pulled a face. “Nothin’s gonna go wrong when we have a man like Joel leading us. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Most of the time,” you mumbled. “The rest he’s just wingin’ it.”

“Heard that,” Joel grumbled as he passed by your other side, pulling in front of you from the back of the group where he was making rounds. “You’re one to talk.” He looked over his shoulder at you, face stoic as ever, but his eyes showed his amusement.

“I know things,” you shot back, head tilted back to look down your nose at him. “Lots of stuff.”

“Oh, I see,” his tone was condescending, but playful. “Stuff.”

“And things.”

“Oh, we mustn't forget the things….”

“Yeah, okay.” You looked to the side with an unamused grin. “Fuck you, Joel.”

“I mean, if you’re offerin’….”

Your jaw dropped as your head turned slowly to face him, eyes wide as you simply stared at him in shock.

He smirked. “What? You can dish it, but you can’t take it?” Joel’s tone was nothing but teasing, his eyes dancing with unspoken amusement.

Narrowing your eyes at him, his smile faltered slightly. “You have no idea what I can take.” Nudging your horse forward to fall into step beside him, you held his gaze with your head high, brow arched. “And I don’t think you want to find out.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“When I push back. You wouldn’t be able to handle it, Joel.”

He cleared his throat. “Look, I was just messing around. This wasn’t supposed to take such a serious turn. I’m sor-”

You couldn’t take it anymore. The laugh tumbled out of your mouth before you could catch it, more and more coming out to join it.

Joel lowered his brows, glaring at you. “That ain’t funny.”

Wheezing, you pointed at him. “You should have seen your face!”

A horse trotting up beside you made you turn, expecting to see Jane once again at your side, but all you were met with was her horse, sans rider. You thought quickly enough to grab the reins and guide it along with you, before you looked back at Joel, finding his eyes already searching the group. Turning, you tried to sit higher in your saddle for a better vantage point, when movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention.

Near the tree line, Jane struggled in the arms of a man as he yanked her back towards the cover of the woods, none too delicately, one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

“Jane!” You yelled at the top of your lungs, and you could see when she heard you, her body going rigid in her captor's hold.

The man yelped, pulling his hand back from her mouth and shaking it. 

She must have bit him. 

Before you could fully process much of anything else, Jane was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Run!” 

The hand was back over her mouth before she could say anything else, the raider pulling them both back until they disappeared into the trees, Jane putting up a violent struggle as they went. 

Not willing to look away from where she disappeared, you called out for Joel, and he was beside you in an instant. His horse picked up on the sudden unease spreading over the group, shifting its weight from foot to foot restlessly.

“We’ll get her, darlin’,” Joel reassured in a low voice. “Don’t you worry. We ain’t-”

Suddenly the entire group was surrounded by raiders, guns and knives of various sizes pointed towards every member of your party, violent threats being traded back and forth from both sides. 

While you had thought your group was large, this bandit raid made your numbers pale in comparison. At least double your head count at first glance, easily. And you had a feeling more were lurking in the shadows somewhere, if what had happened to Jane was any indication. 

You noticed that while several of the men aimed menacing looking rifles at your party, they lacked the magazines full of ammunition to back them up. Leaning toward Joel as subtly as you could when they ordered everyone to dismount their horses, you mumbled under your breath, “They have no bullets.”

He looked at you in confusion for just a moment, brows knit until one of the raiders yelled loudly and pulled his attention away. 

Falling in behind him, you whispered again, “Their rifles. They have no ammunition. No magazines. It’s all for show.” You saw the moment the information registered for him, his shoulders setting a bit broader, and his head held just that much higher.

A raider a few feet to your right was eyeing you skeptically, looking like he might dismount his horse any second and make a move toward you, so you pretended to trip into the back of Joel, smirking into his chest when he caught you.

Without missing a beat, his arm firmly around your shoulders to steady you, Joel went straight for negotiations, trying to talk the men down, offering supplies, whatever they wanted. You weren’t far from Jackson, it was a smart move. You could get back and recoup your losses in no time. But people? You can’t replace them.

“Nah,” the head honcho said with a sarcastic sneer. “We’ve got somethin’ else’n mind.”

You didn’t like the sound of that.

The raider in charge gestured Joel over to a smaller group of his men, which he obeyed reluctantly. After looking down at you for a moment, offering the most subtle nod you’d ever seen a person give, he began to move toward the small group of raiders. 

The boss stopped him just short of the rest and asked him a question in a low voice, which Joel answered softly, shooting you a look which you couldn’t quite read. You couldn’t quite make out what he said, either, but then the head raider decided to make a scene, show who was in charge, and it all made sense. 

In a loud voice, full of bravado and misplaced charisma, the raider turned back to your group with arms spread wide, rifle held lazily in one hand, and called for Joel’s second in command - Will - to hop down and join his ‘fearless leader’. 

Surrounded by the smaller group of thugs, you could tell what the goal was…. They meant to make a spectacle for the rest of you. Take the leaders down, the rest will follow. But Joel didn’t let them get that far. He mumbled something to Will so subtly, you almost missed it, but you saw the younger man’s eyes dart to one of the raider’s guns, and you immediately knew where this was headed.

It all went by in a blur, and yet it was like you could see every detail in painful accuracy. And you couldn’t look away.

In an instant Joel had dropped three of the men in the smaller group surrounding them.

Will another two.

They both had commandeered their own rifles back off of those men, and they were now aimed at the remaining two raiders around their small group. 

The one in front of Joel began to move forward, only making Joel smirk as he jerked the bolt action on the rifle. “Try it.” The raider stopped, making Joel’s smirk only rise higher up his cheek. “Good choice.”

That’s when all hell broke loose. 

It was almost like someone kicked a pile of ants. The stillness of the valley you were in was broken and everyone swarmed at once. A cacophony of sounds clashing all around you. 

You went on autopilot for most of it, simply fighting for your life and that of those in your group. It could have been hours or only minutes later, but the next time you really started to pay attention, or frankly, were able to focus on any one thing in particular, you saw a raider sneaking up on Will a few paces in front of you, and you lifted the rifle you’d snagged off of one of the men you’d taken down.

“Hey, bucko!” The raider froze and turned to you with a sneer, the expression falling off his face when he came nose to nose with the muzzle of your rifle. You cocked the bolt action just for added effect, chambering a bullet as you somehow had found the one locked and loaded gun the raiders had. Hands lifted in surrender, he slowly took a resigned step backwards, grip tightening around the knife still clutched in his right hand. “Drop it,” you ordered, narrowing your eyes at his slight smirk. “Nice and easy, now.”

Will turned to see what the fuss was, his eyes going wide when he realized what had happened. He looked between you and the raider from over the bandit’s shoulder, raising a brow at you in question, but you motioned him on with a jerk of your head to the left, keeping the rifle braced on your right shoulder and aimed at the raider. “I got it. Go help the others.”

Nodding, Will took off toward the remaining chaos, leaving you with the scumbag at the end of your barrel. He started to move after Will but you tisked, taking a step closer. “Not a good idea.” The lowlife hissed through his teeth in aggravation, but you cut him off before he could even start in on an actual sentence. “Knife. Ground. Now.” With a half step forward for emphasis, you gestured toward the field underfoot with your rifle before centering your sights back on their target. 

The man arched his back away from you as you took the small step closer, his hands shooting up higher beside his head. He then began to slowly lower to his haunches to lay the blade on the grass, his other hand still held up in surrender. His eyes flitted from the weapon to something behind you, and before he could set it all the way down, or you could turn to look, an arm wrapped around your neck, cutting off your air supply.

Both the man behind you and the man in front of you laughed, cheering at your misfortune as you dropped your rifle, the weight of the weapon jerking its strap across your shoulders as it fell to your side. 

You clawed at the arm wrapped around your neck, gasping for air, and grunting as you tried to get a shot in with your elbow, but he pinned down your arms with his other arm wrapping around your torso.

A voice close to your ear leered, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’ll all be over soon.”

The raider in front of you suddenly started screaming, dropping the blade in his hand in order to clutch his knee, blood pouring violently from a wound made by a large pocket knife you’d know anywhere protruding from its side. 

“Don’t move!”

All three sets of eyes pulled over to find Joel standing just a few feet away, rifle raised and aimed at the raider now in a heap on the ground. His gun swung over to the man still holding you hostage, a dark chuckle rippling out through the chest pressed closely to your spine at the movement, and it made your skin crawl.

“Let ‘er go,” Joel said in a low voice, something dark and menacing thrown right back at the thief trying to steal your life away.

“Nah,” the man said after a minute, amusement heavy in his tone. “We’re just havin’ too much fun, aren’t we, sweetheart?” He tightened his grip around your neck as he pulled you closer, squishing his cheek to yours in mock affection.

You mumbled something as best you could, but it came out all garbled from the pressure on your windpipe.

“Aw, I’m sorry, I’m bein’ mean, aren’t I?” His tone was mocking. He loosened his grip slightly, the arm around your midsection disappearing altogether as he twisted slightly to get a better view of your face. “Now, try that again?”

“I said,” your voice was hoarse from the struggle, so you cleared your throat, shifting your weight slightly as you looked to Joel with wide eyes in mock fear. “I said-” In one smooth motion, you swung the butt of your rifle up and back, and slammed the man in the face, squinting when blood sprayed out of his mouth and onto your cheek.

Taking the opportunity, you elbowed him in the ribs, before stomping on his foot, spinning around once his arm around your neck released you and kneeing him in the crotch. 

Stepping closer to him once he fell to his knees cradling his damaged manhood, you looked down at him as you wiped his blood from your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “I said fuck you.”

With a quick jerk of your knee to his face, the raider fell backwards, out cold. You turned to face his friend who laid in a ball on the ground, hands gripped tightly around the knife still protruding from his knee.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He began to try and scramble back, looking to Joel for some sort of help as you approached.

Joel only shrugged, looking at you with wide eyes for just a moment before turning back to the poor man. “Hell hath no fury ‘n all that….”

Kneeling in front of the man, you smiled disarmingly sweet. Reaching out to grip the knife, you looked up at Joel. “This yours?” Lifting a brow at your rhetorical question, you knew very well it was his, he nodded. With a yank, you pulled it out of the man’s leg, his screams cut short when you elbowed him in the face, knocking him out like his companion.

Lifting your rifle slightly, Joel began to make a fuss, “Darlin’, they’re down-” but he stopped when you over exaggeratedly clicked on the safety, lifting a sarcastic brow at him. Rising to your feet, you wiped the blade off on your jeans before closing it and handing it back to Joel.

He took it cautiously, watching as you rubbed at your throat with a wince. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you. If you hadn’t shown up and distracted them, I wouldn’t have been able to get the jump on ‘em.”

He looked at the two men before looking back at you, his eyes flitting down to the rifle for the briefest of moments. “Looks like you would’ve been just fine.”

You leaned in closer to him, adjusting the weapon’s strap across your chest. “Take the compliment, Joel.”

He grinned softly. “Yes ma’am, Miss Fanny.”

You groaned at the nickname. “You know what? I don’t even really mind.”

It looked like Joel wanted to say more, but other members of your group came running up, looking around frantically only to find all the enemies already taken care of.

“We didn’t hear any shots,” Will said absently, staring at the two motionless forms on the ground after a wary glance. “Thought you might need some help.” After a long moment of silence, he looked from you, to Joel, then the raiders. “They still alive?” He pointed toward the men, one of them stirring with a pained moan.

“Only just,” Joel mumbled, watching the one man begin to roll to his side, the one who had held on to you, before his gaze flicked to the other, noticing his breaths becoming shallower and shallower. Gesturing to the latter with his rifle still held in his hands, he looked back up at Will. “That one’s not longed for this world if you don’t get something to stop the bleedin’. Need information from both, preferably.”

Will nodded, motioning to the others with a nod of his head, quickly moving toward the raiders.

You had turned toward Joel, your back to the men when a twisted voice rose up behind you, slurring around laughter as if it knew the funniest joke in all the world. 

“Well, sweetheart, I’m just so goddamn sorry things didn’t work out ‘tween us.” 

Joel glared at the raider over your shoulder. “Stop talking, asshole,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he took a step closer to the man, slightly in front of you. Turning to face the man yourself, you thought you’d steeled yourself for whatever you’d see, but the twisted smirk you were met with made your stomach drop. 

Laughter turned to wheezing, wet coughs before the man spit off to the side in front of him, blood painting the ground an ugly, violent color. He lifted his head just enough to look at you again, snickering as he peered through his lashes. “I had such plans for you….”

“I said be quiet,” Joel’s voice had grown more firm, and he opted to step to the side, obscuring your view of the creep instead of taking any steps closer.

“Oh, but they were nothin’ compared to what we were gonna do to that little friend of yours…. That blonde? Whoo! She was feisty!”

“Can somebody shut him the fuck up!” Joel bellowed, turning to the group simply standing by and watching the exchange.

Will shrugged off his outer layer flannel, balling it up as he stomped toward the man and began to shove it in his mouth.

The man weaseled back away from the cloth, shouting with wild eyes, “You’ll never find her!” His following laughter was muffled around the material, manic and unhinged.

“Will, I need you to….” Joel trailed off when you put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him to the side gently. He tried to stop you walking towards the lunatic, but you met his gaze with your own, unwavering, and he let you go, following close behind, one hand adjusting his grip on his rifle as he held it loosely just in case.

Kneeling down in front of the man, you got close to his face. “What did you do with Jane?” Your voice was so low and quiet, you barely recognized it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The man mumbled around the shirt, eyes wild and sure of himself. 

Looking down toward the ground, you huffed out an unamused laugh. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” you lifted your gaze to look at him straight on again, “and you’re going to tell me, or else my friends are going to be not so nice to you.” The man scoffed. “What did you do…. with Jane?”

The man leaned forward, his nose almost touching yours. “Go fuck yourself, bitch.”

Without hesitation, you slammed Joel’s pocket knife you’d swiped from his jacket a moment ago into the man’s hand where it rested on the ground with your left hand, yanking the shirt out of his mouth as he screamed with your right, and tackled him backwards onto the ground, pinning your right forearm against his throat. As he struggled against your hold, you twisted the knife still gripped tightly in your hand, making him settle into the dirt.

“Okay! Okay! Okay! Fuck! Just stop!” He looked at Joel with wide, wild eyes. “Get the bitch off me!” 

You noticed some of your party moving toward you, but they stopped with a hand motion from Joel.

He studied you with an unreadable expression before looking back at the man and jutting his chin toward you. “Tell her what she wants t’know.”

“Get her off me first!”

“Talk!” You growled, digging your arm in further, making him gasp. When he turned a defiant look up your way, your knee ‘slipped’ where you straddled him and landed dangerously close to his ego once again.

“Okay, okay, goddamn!” He wheezed, collapsing fully into the ground below him, eyes fluttering shut as his face twisted in pain. 

It was all you could do to repress the triumphant smirk wanting to crawl up your face, your brows arching in amusement instead.

“She’s back at our camp. ‘Least that’s where we left her. Don’t know how she’d move much after what boss did, though.” He looked back up at you again, everything about his expression amused, and nothing seemed to dull it, even as you pressed your arm harder into his throat, only causing his words to take on a sinister hiss. “He stuck her good. You think this little knife is somethin’, you should see the one he used on-” his words trailed off on a gurgled chuckle as you continued to lean into him.

“Hey,” Joel’s calm voice near your ear made you pause, staring down at the creep. “We need him alive, darlin’. Stop.” A warm strong hand gripping your upper arm firmly made you lift off the man just slightly, glaring down at him as he sucked in a breath and started coughing, grinning up at you triumphantly. He hissed with a wince when you yanked out the knife, bringing the hand close to his chest to hold it tight with his other, and wrapped it haphazardly with the flannel Will had shoved in his mouth to stop the bleeding. 

“You Jacksoner’s are all the same,” he shook his head in amusement. “Bleeding hearts, all of ya!” He grinned up at the group in the most sinister way you’d ever seen. “And that is why you’re all gonna burn.”

At that, Joel was yanking you off the raider and pulling him up to a seated position with both hands twisted into his jacket, getting right into his face with the most menacing voice you’d heard yet. “What did you just say?”

The man just smiled a tight lipped smile, eyebrows shooting up before he used his good hand to pantomime locking his mouth and tossing away the key.

“They had a bunch of dead guns. No ammunition. How in the hell were they planning to do something to Jackson?” You mused offhandedly, mostly talking to yourself.

“Guns ain’t the only way to make somebody bleed,” the freak singsonged, looking at you gleefully.

You glared at him. “I liked you better out cold.”

He guffawed. “I liked you better up close….”

Joel gave the man a forceful shake by the front of his shirt still in his grip. “What’d I say?” The man rolled his head back to Joel with a bored look, his lips twitching up just slightly. “Y’either start talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ important I want t’hear about, or I’ll reach my hand so far down your Goddamn-”

“This one’s not doing well, Joel,” one of the party mentioned, checking the pulse of the other raider. “We need to get them back to camp.”

The man in Joel’s grip slowly melted into a wide grin. “Looks like you need me now more than ever.”

Joel began to smirk, and it made the raider’s sure grin falter. “Yeah, but that can change real quick.” He shoved the man back, rising to his full height before turning back toward you and walking quickly. A hand closing around your arm once again, you followed where it led. 

“Get them to camp. Will, get a party of four together and come with us to go get Jane. The rest of these assholes are dead, there’s no one to keep her there anymore. She probably tried to run, and if she’s injured, we need to spread out and cover as much ground as possible.” 

He stopped, looking over his shoulder when no one was moving. “Let’s go!”

When he turned to look down at you, you saw something in his eyes close to fear. “We’ll find her, Joel.”

He held your gaze as he kept moving you further away from the scene. “I know, darlin’.” He looked forward again, walking a bit faster. “I know. Now let’s get goin’. Sun’s gonna be settin’ real soon.”

Xxx

As the two of you made your way in the direction the thug had sent you in, your mind began to wander.

“What if it’s the wrong direction, Joel?”

“He said go east-”

“No, I know.” You closed your eyes briefly as you took in a sharp breath through your nose before looking forward once again. “But what if he lied?”

Joel sighed, looking down at his feet as he continued to walk. “Darlin’,” he looked deep in thought but also at a loss for words at the same time. It was such an inextricably Joel thing to do, it almost pulled a smile up one side of your face.

Almost.

Glancing over his shoulder toward the small group that was following along to help, the rest staying behind with the two assholes, he then took a step closer to you, speaking in a low voice.

“He very well may’ve.” When your eyes went wide, Joel was quick to continue on. “But,” he smiled at your now narrowed glare. “I’ve been patrolling these hills for a few years, now. Never out this far, mind you, but I know the general area. There’s a stream that runs not far from here. Anyone with any brains would camp near it. I know the worlds gone t’shit, but I refuse to believe we as a species have fallen that far that fast.”

His smile spread a little further at your soft chuckle.

“Touché, Miller. Touché.”

Grinning like a child, Joel turned back to the rest of the group, his expression turning stony in an instant. “The rest of you, fan out!” His voice was a low hiss. “Keep quiet and keep aware. These trees are dense from here on out to the creek. Keep a lookout. I’m not responsible for your own stupidity.”

Good-natured eye rolls went around as the few people spread into the trees starting to populate the clearing you’d been passing through.

Joel grabbed your arm when you went to take a step forward. “Not you.” He shook his head gently when you looked up at him. “You’re coming with me.”

“I’ll stay within sight,” you argued, pulling your arm from his grip. “I’m not a child, Joel.”

“No, you don’t-”

“I can take care of myself.” Taking a few steps forward into the tree line, you looked for any signs of life, but before you could get far, Joel’s voice was at your ear again. 

“Don’t-”

He yanked you back into him, making you stumble into his chest. Lifting your head up to glare at him, you came nearly nose to nose as he looked down at you and you looked up at him. Your breath stopped, catching in your chest as your eyes scanned his face.

“Tripwire,” he mumbled, his eyes firmly watching your lips as they moved soundlessly in shock.

“Thanks,” you finally managed, closing your mouth and clearing your throat.

Joel nodded.

You went to take a step back, looking over your shoulder towards the trap, but his grip on your upper arm wouldn’t let you move. 

Turning back to look at him in question, your curious expression melted when you found him even closer than before, his eyes cast down as his nose lightly bumped the side of yours.

The distance continued to close, only a breath left between you when a faint scuffle then a thud was heard, making you both pull apart like lightning.

Turning, the two of you saw Will suspended upside down by his ankle from a nearby tree.

“Careful. Tripwire,” you grinned.

Will smirked sardonically, arms coming to cross over his chest after batting away his flannel outer layer that hung in his face since he was inverted - he’d dug out a spare from his bag after using his original to shove into the mouth of the crazy raider. “We found a blood trail.”

The smile fell off your face as your gut sank. “That’s-”

“A good thing,” Will cut you off. “Means she was moving. She was alive.” After a loaded moment of shared looks, he cleared his throat. “Can someone cut me down, please? I’m getting woozy.”

Xxx

You only encountered a few stragglers at the camp, Joel earning some bloody knuckles and you a black eye, but the remaining members of the bandit group lay in lifeless heaps at the feet of your group when it was all said and done. There was no chance for prisoners, they weren’t going to be taken alive. 

Which meant that one idiot back at the camp who’d tried to kill you had to stay alive if you wanted any answers.

The thought of that made you start to hyperventilate. 

Which wasn’t like you.

You took everything in stride, this new world required it, but suddenly you felt his arm around your neck again, and you began to claw at the phantom limb, gasping for air as tears began to stream silently down your face.

You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing a body, violence, bloodshed….

Can’t breathe….

Everything blurred by as you faintly registered your feet moving you forward, a warm hand around your forearm pulling you gently along before the firm press of tree bark met your back with a gentle thump.

The soft trace of rough, callused fingers making their way past your cheeks to rest behind your ears drew a shiver from your bones. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re good. It’s over. I’m here.” Joel’s mumbled words vibrated somewhere in front of you, desperately grasping at you to give you something to hold onto. Cradling your face in his hands, Joel stood toe to toe with you. He took a small step closer and leaned down, pressing his forehead to your own as you fought for air. “Nothing’s gonna get you. I won’t let it.”

The phantom touch of that asshole’s arm around your throat still constricted your airway, threatening to make the world cave in.

Joel reached up to gently grab your hands still frantically clawing at your throat, placing them on either side of his ribcage, and you clutched onto his flannel under his jacket for dear life. The warmth from his body heat radiated into your palms and sent a wave of something down to your toes. Worrying the threadbare fabric between your fingers mindlessly, Joel seemed to notice and step even closer still, enough that a deep enough breath would close the distance. 

Though, as you thought about it, how he still had room to maneuver any further into you was a mystery, you didn’t even know it was possible. It seemed like every part of you was wrapped up in every part of him.

His voice drew your thoughts back to the present. “Hey, hey. Shhhh…. No more. He’s gone.” Did his voice just crack? “It’s over.” His voice grew a little firmer, if not quieter. “It’s over.”

If only he knew, you weren’t struggling to breathe because of the remnants of a panic attack anymore. No, now it was his proximity. His warm breath fanning across your face as he mumbled words of peace. The press of his skin against yours as he cradled your face so gingerly.

Time stopped, the world ceased its spinning, and suddenly all that was left was this right here between the two of you. This quiet moment, in the middle of a forest, painted in violence and hope, in fear and tenacity, in…. Vibrant shades of both of you.

Will walked up around the tree quietly, clearing his throat softly. “Some of these men were dead long before we got here.”

“Jane,” you smiled. 

“That girl sure is a spit fire,” Joel remarked with his own grin, pulling away from you just slightly, but still keeping you in his hold.

Turning to Will, you steeled your shoulders. “Take me to the blood trail.”

Xxx

It took all of ten minutes of tracking to find Jane leaning against a tree with her back to you, heaving breaths as the right side of her shirt was stained crimson. The violent splotch was spreading, whatever wound obviously still angry and weeping under her white shirt, her outer layer long gone and forgotten in the chaos by now. 

“Jane?” You called out softly from several yards back. A twig snapped under foot, causing a flock of birds in the trees above to startle and take flight in a whir of wings and wind.

She whirled around, knife held out in front of her at the ready, eyes wide and wild from the adrenaline. When she realized who it was, relief washed over her features so strongly it brought tears to your eyes. She dropped the blade to the ground with a clatter and slumped the side of her shoulder against the tree with a huff.

“Took you long enough,” she breathed in amusement, turning so her back was to the tree with her head thrown back, her face toward the sky, wincing in pain.

Before you could even make a move towards her, Will was there helping her back to her feet, scooping her up bridal style and carrying her back towards camp, her head on his shoulder as she went limp, finally able to rest.

Will glanced back when no one else moved. “Come on!” He whisper shouted. “She needs help as soon as possible, or I’m going to-” He caught himself. “We’re going to lose her.”

As the group moved in unison behind a speedwalking Will, you glanced up at Joel in amusement. “Do you think he knows?”

Joel shook his head with a grin. “Everyone else does, so no, probably not.”

You chuckled, despite the situation. It was probably the relief that she was alive finally catching up with you. “That girl’s got his number.”

Huffing a laugh, Joel looked at the back of Will’s head as he rapidly disappeared at the front of the group. “Wrapped around her little finger like those little things she uses to protect herself when she sews back at her shop. Oh, what’re they called?”

You stared at him for a long moment before quietly suggesting in hesitation, “Thimbles?”

Joel slapped his thigh before pointing at you with a renewed grin. “That’s the one!”

With a shake of your head, you turned back to face forward and head up toward the front with your friends. “Ellie was right. You’re losing it, old man.”

“Ain’t old,” he grumbled, his face instantly turning sour. “Jus‘ ‘xperienced.”

“Then you should know all the words, Joel.” You smirked. “No excuses.”

“I do know all the words,” he groused. “That’s the problem. I know too much, my brain can’t keep up.”

You turned to face him, walking backwards. “Sure. That’s the problem.”

“I know things,” he shot back, echoing your words from earlier, his head tilted back to look down his nose at you in a mirror image as he continued to mock your earlier statement. “Lots of stuff.”

“Oh, I see,” your tone was condescending, but playful as you mimicked him right back. “Stuff.”

“And things.” He was trying so hard not to smile.

You were not, letting the grin spread broadly across your face. “Oh, we mustn't forget the things….”

“Yeah, okay.” Joel looked to the side to try and hide his amused grin. “Fuck you, darlin’.”

“I mean, if you’re offerin’….”

His head snapped back to look at you in surprise as you threw his words right back at him yet again. Joel opened his mouth to refute, but you cut him off with a grin. 

“I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t promise her his house or something. Boy would give her half of Jackson if he could.”

“He can have your half, you jackass,” Joel grumbled playfully as you turned back to face the front of the group. “Mine ain’t for sale. Don’t care how pretty you are.”

You glanced over your shoulder, fluttering your lashes ridiculously. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I meant her,” Joel gestured to your friends with his rifle still loosely gripped in his hands, strap slung over his shoulders, at the ready just in case, like always. “Ain’t nothin’ pretty ‘bout what you just said.”

“I only spoke the truth.”

“You’re only makin’ it worse.”

Xxx

The sun was setting by the time Joel was able to pry you away from Jane. You hadn’t wanted to leave her side as Will took it upon himself to treat and dress her wound. 

You held her hand as she grunted in pain while he disinfected the area with a bottle of alcohol someone had brought, then stitched it up. Luckily the blade had missed anything vital, and hadn’t been rusty, thank goodness.

So far this whole trip had been getting by by the skin of your teeth, and that didn’t bode well with you. 

Once she fell asleep, Joel coaxed you over to a clearing not too far away for a breath. A bucket full of water from the nearby stream had been brought to wash the blood off your hands.

Staring down at the water as it turned pink under your touch, tinged with the blood of your friend, you looked up when a shadow crossed over the little bit of sunlight left in the day.

Joel stood just in front of the dying light, backlit and a silhouette as he extended a…. rock? to you.

“That creek is fed from the mountains. Snow melt. Coldest thing around. Best alternative to ice we’ve got right now.” You narrowed your brows at him, making him sigh in frustration. “For your eye,” he said as if it were obvious. 

“Oh,” you said dumbly and took it, lightly resting it against your left eyebrow where you felt the worst of the black eye forming. The cool, smooth stone instantly offered some relief for an ache you hadn’t even realized you had, making you groan softly, and shut your eyes with a grateful sigh. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Mmm-hmm.” The side of his mouth twitched up as he lowered himself to the ground beside you with a quiet groan. “T’ain’t nothin’.”

Pulling the stone away to examine it for a moment, you arched a brow when Joel slowly pressed it back to your head. “Don’t work if you don’t keep it there, darlin’.”

“Really?” You said as sarcastically as you could muster.

“Huh-uh,” he confirmed with a gentle shake of his head, keeping the stone pressed firmly to your skin. “It’s not a comfort by osmosis thing.”

“No healing by proxy?” You groused, despite the smile working its way up your face, your one good eye squinting from the held back laughter you were just managing to reign in as you looked up at him.

The corner of his mouth lifted so high a dimple creased his cheek. “Now wouldn’t that be somethin’,” he mused softly. 

The two of you sat in comfortable quiet for a long moment, his hand still holding the rock to your head gently until you finally decided it was time to break the silence.

“So what’s the plan from here, Mr. partially-in-charge-of-security?”

Joel’s hand fell from you with a sigh as he shook his head slightly in disbelief, his gaze turned forward as if he couldn’t even bear to look at you after an attempt at a joke that bad. “I’ve been goin’ over it in my head since we left their camp-”

“That must’ve been painful,” you muttered, grinning innocently when he cut his eyes over to you.

They shut briefly with another loaded sigh before they fluttered open and he turned to look at the forest on his right while he continued. “Best I can come up with-” he held a finger up in front of your face without a glance back your way. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

You stared at his finger inches from your nose. “I wasn’t-” You totally were. 

The finger began to wag as his head rolled back to level you with a look. “Now, we both know that’s a lie, darlin’.” You shrank under his continued stare and he went on. “Best I can think of is to send the majority back home since we’re still so close to Jackson. Have them protect Jane and those two raiders we got to interrogate.” His arms were propped up on his bent knees, and his fist clenched at the mention of the thugs.

After he stared off vacantly for a moment, he brought his gaze back onto you. “That means the cart is going to have to go back with them, though. Jane’s in no condition to walk, and you did a number on asshole number one.” He chuckled. 

“Don’t even worry about the cart,” you waved him off. “Jane is more important. What about asshole number two?” Rubbing your throat absently with the hand not holding the rock to your head, you stared into the trees straight ahead before you realized what you were doing and lowered your hand, turning your gaze back to Joel. “He can still walk just fine.” You tilted your head in thought for a moment. “May be a little bit more of a waddle, but….”

Joel chuckled darkly, hanging his head as his shoulders shook with the laughter. Finally he looked up at you through his lashes, a conniving expression twinkling in his eyes. “Let the little ugly duckling waddle back, then.”

“How will we be sure he doesn’t waddle off?”

“I’ve been known to tie a knot or two in my day.”

As the novelty of the whole situation wore off, you turned to face Joel a bit more fully, letting the hand that held the rock fall from its spot against your face to rest in your lap, ignoring Joel’s scowl in protest. 

“You said most of the group. Joel, we should all go back. Safety in numbers. Making sure everyone is safe is more important than my paint-” 

“Safety in numbers. Exactly. That’s why most’f’em are goin’ back. We only need a few t’do this run. It also made us a target bein’ such a big group. The council made a shit decision ‘bout that. There’s a reason patrols’re only two people.” He looked out at the woods again. “It was temptin’ to leave it just the two’f us as originally planned, but, after yesterday, even you could see the perks’f havin’ a few extra people should somethin’ happen.”

“Quality not quantity.”

Joel bobbed his head, his eyes shining proudly as you understood. “‘xactly.”

Something wasn’t sitting right. “But what about the threats, Joel? They said somethin’ about Jackson was gonna burn….”

“People say all kinds o’shit when you’ve got a pocket knife in one hand n’your knee pinnin’ their crotch to the dirt.”

You let out a snort, unable to contain your laughter at his blunt explanation. “Can’t say you’re wrong there.”

Joel leaned back with a contented sigh, propping his arm up on his bent leg. “I’m never wrong.”

You let out another snort of laughter, more bubbling up and out when he shot you a glare. 

Xxx

That night, just as the sun began to set, Joel slammed the back tailgate of the cart shut after helping Jane up into it.

“You good?” He asked quietly, his voice soft and kind.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, Joel.” Jane reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“Not worried ‘bout you, sweetheart,” he mumbled, his eyes darting over to the wounded raider sitting as far from him as he could get in the front corner of the cart. The bandit cowered under his stare but stayed silent. “Was more worried ‘bout him.” Joel looked at Jane pointedly as he explained, his head tilted forward while he looked at her through his lashes and arched brows.

“Like I said,” Jane spoke firmly, her voice low and even as she turned to look at the asshole, making him cower even further. “I’ll be fine.”

“Whaddabout me?” The second bandit who had tried to choke you said loudly and amusedly from where he stood behind the cart a few feet away from Joel, his hands bound by one end of rope and the other end tied to the back of the cart. “Do I get a send off from tall, dark and brooding?”

Joel turned to him without even fully looking at the man, cocking his rifle as he spoke on a tired sigh. “That can be arranged.”

The raider guffawed as he stumbled back a few steps, Joel striding forward the ground he lost, while you stepped in between, hands extended.

“Stop. There’s no time for this.” Turning to face Joel, you lowered your arms. “Joel, let the little shit leave.”

The raider’s voice rose behind you like a forgotten tendril of smoke, thin and pungent, just enough to remind you it was there. “Ain’t nothin’ little ‘bout me, darlin’.”

Without a second thought, you whirled around and clocked the thug in the eye, making him stumble back further, the rope stretching to its limit and yanking him forward to his knees.

“Except your brain, apparently.” You shook out your hand to your side, the impact from the punch leaving a searing sting across your knuckles. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“What do I get to call you then?” The man sneered, bringing his bound hands up to swipe at his face.

You took a step closer, smirking, and enjoyed how the amused sparkle in his eyes faltered slightly at the sight. “Whatever you say when you’re begging for your life, tough guy.”

The man swallowed nervously, despite his narrowed eyes of contempt. “I don’t beg for anything. From anyone. ‘specially not you.”

You let your eyes travel up and down the length of him slowly in an unnerving appraisal. “We’ll just see about that. Won’t we, Joel?”

“Lookin’ forward t’hearin’ just how loudly he won’t beg….” Joel mused behind you.

“Fuck. You,” the man hissed.

“No. Thanks,” you sneered back.

Will pulled your attention away as he stepped up on the wheel of the cart to lean in beside Jane, his weight making the whole thing squeak under the pressure. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you to keep this asshole in line?” He jerked his head toward the guy tethered at the back.

Jane smiled and patted Will’s cheek lightly. “I think I’ll be just fine. Like I told Joel.” Her eyes flicked between the two of them. Her voice sickly sweet. “Now if you two don’t stop coddling me, one of you is going to be injured and sitting beside me on this trip back to Jackson. So shut,” she looked at Will, “your,” Joel, “piehole.” She looked at you.

You raised your hands in surrender. “Me? “ They turned out in question. “What did I do?!”

She shrugged, her head tilting just slightly. “It was preemptive.” Leaning towards Will again, she kissed him on the cheek, smiling when he began to sputter and turn six shades of red. “Stay with Joel. He needs you here more than he’ll admit.”

“I heard that,” Joel grumbled, walking past the end of the cart as he began to check in with the rest of the group.

“Good. You were meant to,” Jane grinned, lurching slightly as the cart began to move forward, Will jumping from the wheel before it could turn fully.

As the bandit walked past Will, he turned to him with a sadistic grin. “Don’t I get a goodbye kiss, handsome?”

“Sure,” Will said with a disarming smile, making the other man stumble for a moment. The next he was stumbling further after Will sucker punched him in the mouth. “How was that? Was it good for you, too?”

The raider in the cart was looking on wide eyed, but you caught him grinning slightly at the exchange, looking away quickly to try and hide it when Will glanced his way.

Jane was laughing as the cart began to disappear into the sunset. Her head thrown back, eyes closed, hand over her stomach type laughter. “Don’t make me laugh! It hurts!”

Will gave a dopey grin as he watched them disappear into the dying light, Jane and the bandit tied to the back of the cart bickering back and forth about nonsense that you couldn’t quite make out at this distance, but you could tell she wasn’t taking any shit.

“She’ll be okay.” You walked up to Will, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I know.” He was distant, his mind a million miles off. “I know.”

Xxx

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#the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller reader insert #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fluff #tlou imagine #tlou reader insert #joel miller comfort #joel miller angst #the last of us reader insert #the last of us imagine #the last of us x reader #the last of us x you #the last of us x y/n #tommy miller #ellie williams #dina the last of us

[sophiamarieispinkbunny-chan]

SXF Chapter 93 Analysis-Loid on Anya's Past

Okay, I wanted to talk about this scene in this post first.

I love how Twilight doesn't ask Anya this question in his Twilight mode. It didn't feel like he was interrogating her. He was just genuinely curious about the origins of his adoptive daughter and this just shows that this curiosity about her past was always within his thoughts.

And judging Anya's reaction upon his sudden question, she didn't look like scared and panicky to me. She's just like genuinely surprised, like oh, is it weird that I'm good at it? Her expression kinda reminds me of her reaction at Loid correcting her name on Chapter 90.5

The same deadpan stare.

My guess is that her name and classical language were both things that were part of her identity before she can even remember it. And it being questioned makes her a little curious and confuse about herself as well.

I think classical language was a natural for thing for Anya, it could be from the place she grew up in and I don't think it was a product of the experiments on her (if it was, she would be conscious about being too good about it for she always tries to hide anything that might reveal her being a telepath). So I think her knowledge of classical language would not connect her relation to the experiments but rather to her origins which she may not have a memory of.

I think that Anya might be telling the truth on this part. She was so little back then (1-3 years old, I suppose), I'm sure all she can remember was being experimented on and not anything about her early stages in her life where she was not in the custody of the scientists but rather with her real family. (But at least she has some memories of her biological mother, based on her reaction on the Eden interview, she might have been with Anya for a quite some time)

I believe that this could serve as a turning point for Twilight to delve deeper into Anya's background. But as I already discussed from this post, he has this hesitance when it comes to digging deep about his fake daughter, for he could stumble upon a truth that he might not be capable of accepting. A truth that might take her away from him.

Following their conversation that night, Anya appeared unconcerned about Loid's inquiries regarding her knowledge of the classical language. He likely dismissed that curiosity from his mind. If he was planning to research about Anya, Anya would definitely know and of course she would panic and worry about him finding about her abilities.

But it revealed to us one thing, Loid is indeed concerned about Anya's history, he didn’t completely pushed the thought in his mind, meaning it was indeed something that he considered to be crucial, but he is choosing to not make it his priority to know, I guess he still in the mindset that there’s no use in prying too much or rather it wouldn’t be good for him, his mission and their family if he did.

Okay, enough of the serious stuff, now let me appreciate the father-daughter moments they have in this chapter

Aww he looks so proud of his little girl, they both come a long way!

Just look at her precious smile!❤️❤️😭 The father-daughter interaction I crave! I hope there's more of this, please, Endo-sensei

And this exchange between them, Twilight/Loid is becoming more of a real father to Anya, I just love to see him so concerned about his baby. I wonder if he was putting the blanket back on her every time he saw she had kicked it off so she won't cold when she wakes up. That was canon for me.

So I'll be talking about the other half of Chapter 93 on another post which focuses on my thoughts about Demetrius and the Desmonds.

#spy x family #spy x family manga #loid forger #spy x family anime #twilight #sxf anime #sxf manga #anya forger #sxf manga spoilers #spy x family spoilers #sxf analysis #sxf theory #spy x family commentary #spy x family analysis #spy x family theory

[the-sweet-hibiscus]

On the Topic of Christina Strain & SaB

So while browsing the hellscape that is Twitter today, the first thing you see in the Shadow & Bone Fandom, is this exchange between Christina Strain (a producer/writer on the show) and a fan.

And I didn't think this would be necessary to say, but this is EXTREMELY unprofessional on the part of Christina.

But I do want to take the time to look and explain WHY from the perspective of someone who is a professional creative by job description. Christina, openly, speaks about her time as a writer on Shadow and Bone. Which is well within her right, as a creative, many times the appeal of following is for behind the scenes takes, more insight into writing decisions, and generally furthering the interest in a show / property after it has concluded. Especially if the conclusion was incomplete and/or canceled before the full story was told.

So here we have a situation.

The Question:

So the question Merel (the fan) asked was about the obvious sidelining of Alina Starkov, our main character. It's not an opinion that Alina was sidelined, it's been observed numerous times, most recently in this collider article talking about / reviewing the blatant reduction of character for Alina.

Merel's question, originally was about S3. Specifically, where was Alina, was there ever a plan for her? Originally, Christina just said, there was nothing written for Alina, and she had a vague idea of a separate storyline.

To which, Merel responded with the wide-spread rumor that Six of Crows, had been rejected by Netflix three times. For reasons not relevant — that rumor isn't true. But she also expressed frustration, as since the announcement of the show's cancelation, Christina specifically has given an overwhelming amount of attention and care to Six of Crows, while not seeming to have any real passion for the Shadow and Bone property or it's characters. Christina's response starts out professional. She clarifies, Six of Crows was not rejected (aka the rumor wasn't true) and that she didn't have control over that decision, which is true.

Where Christina stops being professional, is the other half of her response.

The Response

Here is where so many people take offense, and find issue. Christina, openly shames the Darklina ship. Which isn't inherently bad, no one is forced to like a ship, however. It had NOTHING to do with the question at hand. Just because a fan likes a certain dynamic, of a ship that at one point was canon, and likes to explore that, doesn't mean that they don't know what they're talking about when they're just asking about the future of a character. Merel didn't ask "Oh, how are you going to make this darklina?" She didn't even mention the ship. The only reason Christina even knew about Merel's shipping preference is because she either went on Merel's page or looked at the "Relevant People" column on Twitter for Desktop.

And now we venture into a much worse territory.

Bullying

Let's take a look at the power dynamic in this exchange.

Christina has 9.58K Followers on Twitter. Merel has 114.

Christina is a producer/writer on the show. Merel is a fan.

Christina has a self-appointed responsibility to promote the petition to bring her show back. Merel is a part of the larger community who supported the show. Christina is 42 years old. Merel is 19.

Instead of, ignoring the second response. Or even just clarifying the rumor and moving on, Christina decides that it'd be best to expose this account to harassment from her much larger base. Who responded in kind.

What was the reason? Truly?

Fans are supposed to only engage with a show if it matches how you specifically view it? They can't have questions, or criticisms, or thoughts? Because what was so mean about Merel's statement? What was insulting that Christina had to bring in shit that had nothing to do with the conversation? The rumor accusation? Is that worth getting attacked over? Is that worth attacking over?

The Correct Response

Move on.

No one would have an issue if the conversation ended a tweet earlier. Christina has over 9K followers, anyone could reasonably assume she was simply inundated with responses and couldn't/wouldn't respond further. Her first statement, was fine. To book fans, it may be frustrating, especially if they believed the rumor, but it was still a calm-ish response.

Merel could've been frustrated and that would've been the end of it. Instead, Christina decided her best course of action was to attack a fan, just because she enjoyed the same ship dynamic as people who were rude to her before. Decided to belittle that fan's interest in her show, bc she didn't like the way that fan interacted with them.

It's childish. It's gross. It's lashing out at someone b/c they want to know why the main character wasn't paid attention to in their show.

Anyway, it's clear Christina has a definitive disdain for the darklina fans of Shadow and Bone. It's clear she doesn't respect the people who support her show — unless they just unconditionally praise it. So that's it then. A disappointing end to Shadow and Bone, and an even more disappointing showing of character from the producers/writers.

#shadow and bone #darklina #writers #fandom culture #fandom things #just disappointed #imagine bullying someone 20 years younger than you bc they like the characters on the show you write

[piningpebbles]

the dream smp journey: attempting to make the lore of the dream smp more accessible.

so back when i first wanted to get into the dream smp i had absolutely no idea where to start. i asked some people and they told me pretty much “look up dream smp + [insert youtuber name] and start there” and so i did, but i quickly came to realize how much i was missing from the story by not seeing all the different points of view.

so i decided to make my own playlist.

it was just for myself at first, but as i got more obsessed with the story, i also gave the link to some friends of mine so they could have the full experience, and they loved it. so i kept updating it.

my goal was to try and make a capsule of the entirety of the lore on the dream smp across almost every single POV, because while i do appreciate those who make recap videos, they always miss something and it’s usually with peoples’ POV who aren’t considered to be “main characters” which sucks because one of my favorite things about the dream smp was how everyone was their own main character with their own individual storyline you could get invested in.

i’ve seen every single video in the playlist, and did my absolute best to discern what should be included and what didn’t need to be. 

for instance, while i personally enjoyed streams where they’d just goof off, this is a lore-centric playist so i didn’t include all of them unless one of the jokes or such gets mentioned/becomes important later on. or if there is a lore event happening but two people have almost identical streams to one another then i decided between the two of them which one to keep. or if the cc themself made an edited version of their experience, i would decide whether to go with that or keep the original vod

it’s far from perfect. i tried to keep up with it as long as i could I STILL HAVE VIDEOS IN MY WATCH LATER THAT I PLANNED TO ADD but simply put while the dream smp storyline got longer and longer it became harder to keep up with. i watched pretty much all the streams when they happened but failed to update the playlist accordingly so right now it has almost everything up until ”Hitting on 16.”

i always wanted to finish it before i posted it, but i’ve been seeing people talk about how they miss the experience of watching the dream smp and while i obviously can’t provide the full interactive experience that the dream smp offered as it came out, i knew i couldn’t just keep this in my back pocket and thought i could at least offer a good chunk of the experience for you guys to still be able to keep!

here’s the playlist, spanning over 300 videos.

there’s also a semi-canon playlist (not nearly as thorough) for events that get mentioned by the cc’s a lot or are just cool to have and i wanted to include them somewhere so here it is also!!

to go along with it i also made a masterpost (can you tell i love making lists) which is what every single video on the playlist is supposed to be (and was last i checked, but videos get taken down every so often so there might be a couple missing here and there).

i hope to update this one day and have it fully finished, but with my schedule (full-time college student babyyyy) and simply the hundreds of hours of content i’d need to sift through it just seems impossible (and frankly just really intimidating) to challenge alone right now. so i also wanted to give this to the community to maybe be able to do what i couldn’t!

my hope with this is that if someone in a year or two (or whenever really) is interested in the dream smp they won’t have to sit through recap videos and instead can watch the real thing in a single playlist connected to the doc. my dream is for the masterpost and the playlist to go hand-in-hand, being like a guide people can follow that would also link to other moments and lore that is saved but just not avaliable on youtube, so we don’t have all these moments just lost to time.

i want to make this collaborative, i’m hoping this will maybe spark others to share what videos/moments they have saved and stored with each other for the dream smp and maybe together we could complete this thing somehow!! make the playlist and masterpost i dreamed of (the one right now is scuffed, but at least it’s something). the dream smp is one of my absolute favorite pieces of media out there and i want to share this with people but (as you can probably tell) i have no idea what i’m doing!! any step to help make the story more readily accessible is a good one, though!

i know i’ve missed things but i’ve done my best. and while not the perfectly polished thing i hoped it would be when i sent it out to the world maybe it could be a good building block for the community to use. so please share this!! reblog it!! all that jazz!! i want this to be for everyone!!

anyways, this is a long post. but the whole reason i got into the dream smp in the first place was because of the awesome fan content i saw and this crazy and creative community and i want to be able to give back, if i can.

#dream smp #the dream smp journey #dream smp lore #mcyt #tommyinnit #jack manifold #c!tommy #c!jack #(sorry jack and tommy gotta use you to cross-tag) #(is it even crosstagging if they're IN the playlist?.... lot to think about) #i really wanted to add more to this #my goal was to catch up on all the videos and then go back and transcribe each one (or link pre-existing transcriptions) #and then add content warnings if need be #i had this idea too where say you just finished up the nov.16th lore after that it would be cool to link you to sad-ist's animation!! #just things like that! i had a lot of things i was thinking about #anyways thanks for reading my c!jack analysis posts throughout all this time now you may have my massive lore bank i've been holding onto #cheers!!! #rambling rocks #like.. holy shit #will this even turn into anything? i don't know. i hope so #i want to come back to this and give it the TLC it deserves #but until i find the time + motivation for that i didn't want to keep it just to myself #i just hope this is a good step towards making the dream smp story more accessible to people #pebble post

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

trips and falls flat on my face BABY HOWL SIBLINGS MY BELOVEDDDDSFDD TEEHEHE))

''Hi guys! Do you think I can come with you? I heard from your big bro that you two are very skilled in snow sports. Where I come from there's no snow at all so I'm very unfamiliar with these kinds of winter activities. I would love to see and participate a bit in them if you don't mind!'' (but bear with me, I'll be a disaster.)

(Turns to the little sister.) ''As much as you're adorable now, I'm sure you will grow up to be a beautiful, powerful wolf beastwoman. Maybe even stronger and taller than your big bro, who knows? Teehe.''

NRC Family Day was originally conceived as a blog event to celebrate Mother/Father's Day, which usually takes place in late spring to early summer! But just for this interaction, let's pretend Family Day's in winter ;p

I made Jack's brother kind of a jerk because Jack describes him as someone who always mouths off to him 😅 whereas I wrote his sister as more of a sympathetic girl that's frustrated with her brothers leaving her out because of her youth. Again, tried to work with what little canon we have to write them!

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

WHUMP!!

In your mad dash to nonchalantly approach the two young Howl siblings, you slipped on the ice that coated the street and fell forward, faceplanting in snow. Concern shouts and frantic footsteps followed, the children approaching.

"Are you okay?" Jack’s sister asked. Her voice was close—she was likely crouched down to check on you.

“Of course they aren’t,” his brother grumbled. He was more distant—standing. “Humans don’t have fur like we do. They’re probably freezing their butt off.”

“No, I’m better than okay! I’m great,” you insisted, lifting your snow-encrusted face from the ground. In spite of the unceremonious fall, your eyes were sparkling, your entire face warm with enthusiasm. "Actually, you think I can come with you guys? I heard from your big bro that you two are very skilled in snow sports. Where I come from there's no snow at all so I'm very unfamiliar with these kinds of winter activities. I would love to see and participate a bit in them if you don't mind--but bear with me, I'll be a disaster."

The Howls exchanged confused looks with one another.

"There's really such a thing as places that never have snow...?" the sister wondered, her nose crinkling. You saw bits of Jack in that expression--the fluff to her brows when they pushed together, resulting in appearing unintentionally fierce. "You're built different."

"Well, they handled a face full of snow just fine, so what the heck--let's let'm join us," the brother sighed. "We could do with the extra manpower."

"Yay!" You cheered, springing to your feet. "What's the game, captain?"

"Snowball fight. You ever heard of it?" Jack’s brother pointed to the imprint you had left on the ground. "Make balls with snow, then chuck it at your enemies. It's as simple as that."

"Enemies? You make it sound like a blood sport," you joked.

"It's serious business!! Only the manliest of men rise victorious,” the wolf boy insisted. “Today’s the day we’re finally gonna beat Jack aniki!!”

"He's being competitive again," Jack's sister said with a roll of her eyes. "He always is!"

"Maybe I wouldn't have to be if you did your part," he grumbled back, bending to pack together some snow.

Her fur bristled with annoyance. She stomped her foot and pouted, crossing her arms. "I've been helping!! But if you run off, how am I supposed to know where you went? You don't even wait for me."

Your ears piqued. “Hey now, it's not cool for your brother to do that to you.”

You knelt to meet the girl at her level, resting a hand upon her head. Her hair was softer than freshly fallen snow, and stuck up from between your fingers. Through damp eyes, she stared up at you curiously.

''As much as you're adorable now, I'm sure you will grow up to be a beautiful, powerful wolf beastwoman! Maybe even stronger and taller than your big bro, who knows?” You grinned impishly, tone warm and reassuring. "Then you can show both of your brothers what for!"

“E-Eh, you think so?” The girl’s face heated, her wolf ears flattening shyly.

“Yeah, for real!” You nudged her on the arm, then offered your hand. “Come on, let’s show your big bros what you’re made of.”

Jack’s sister perked a bit at your offer, slipping her hand into your own. Her tail, too, stood up, wagging happily in spite of her stoicism.

“Th-Thanks,” she started to mutter—then stopped, her muscles stiffening. Her brother, too, had gone quiet and still, a half-formed snowball in his palms.

Every strand of fur and hair on them stood on end, as if frozen in place by the frigid weather. Their ears twitched, sensing something shuffling closer and closer.

Suddenly, the Howl siblings violently tore away. Jack’s sister broke her hold on you as she barreled into a nearby bush, the brother abandoning his snowballs join her.

“G-Guys?! Where are you go…”

SPLAT!!

Something cold and wet collided with your face. Ice. White. They exploded across your vision, caking your lashes in a healthy layer of snow.

The force of the hit sent you stumbling back, your bottom meeting the frosted road. Pieces of the blue-grey sky above peered through the snow nestled upon your skin.

Your arms blindly extended before you, wildly grasping for the world, for something tangible. You found solace in the snow pooling around you, letting your fingers sink deeply into it.

Footsteps came, heavy like a blizzard but as brisk as a winter chill. Definitely not the same footsteps of the far smaller Howl siblings.

There was a huff, and a puff, and a voice low and gruff hit you. Not breathy from exhaustion, but with concern. You automatically recognized who it was.

"Oi, you good? Didn't mean for that snowball to hit you like that, sorry," Jack apologized--a little blunt, perhaps, but entirely earnest. "I was aiming for my kid sister, and... uh, looks like you got caught in the crossfire."

You spat out a chunk of ice in response.

Through a crack in your mask of snow, you could make out Jack flinching, guilt in his golden eyes. He was usually so tough and standoffish--now he resembled little more than a puppy whimpering after being chided for having an accident on the rug. A rare moment of vulnerability for him.

"Do you need to see Professor Crewel?" Jack asked, kneeling before you. With one hand, he wiped snow off of you, and, little by little, your vision was restored.

“Oh, thanks.” You smiled sweetly at him. “I’ve got a good look at you now.”

"Wha..."

SPLAT, SPLAT!

Fisting as much snow as you could in both hands, you threw your clumsily crafted snowballs at Jack. He fell back in an effort to avoid them—but he was too close, and caught off guard. His face caught the projectiles, turning the same fuzzy, silvery white as his hair.

Blink, blink.

His golden gaze shone through the snow, staring into the depths of your soul. Wide, and vaguely amused.

"Did you just...?!"

SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT!!

Jack yelped and buckled forward, pelted by a barrage of snowballs from behind. In the confusion, you sprung up, scrambling off the main street and ducking behind a tree trunk. Protected from the incoming fire, you dared to peer back at the chaotic scene.

Jack had gone from wolf to abominable snowman, covered head-to-toe in snow like a new coat of fur. He directed a glare and a growl over his shoulder. The Howl siblings had emerged from their hiding place, excitedly squealing as they high-fived each other.

"Hah! Did you see that? We totally got you!" his brother jeered smugly. "Good going, decoy!"

"Grrrr..."

Jack expertly shook off the cold like a dog drying itself of rainwater. He was left with clumps of wet hair and fur sticking up and out. His grumpy frown was indignant, like that of a pet forcibly bathed--and one that had struggled every step of the way.

You giggled at the thought. When Jack whipped his head in your direction, you were quick to conceal your mouth behind a hand, hoping he hadn't seen.

"That's how it's gonna be, huh... Alright,. I'll take you all on, 3 on 1!" Jack declared with a rebellious grin. "It's time to get serious."

Crouching, he scooped up massive mounds of snow in both arms, roughly shaping them into one massive sphere. Jack easily lifted the giant snowball over his head, casting a foreboding shadow over him--and you and the Howl siblings alike.

"H-Hold on a second," you clumsily stammered, "isn't that going kinda overboard...?!"

"Eeek, run awayyy!" Jack sister squeaked, hurriedly tugging on your arm. (His brother was already making a break for it.)

A visibly sinister glint dancing now danced in Jack's eyes. Something there that wasn't there before. His laughter rumbled softly, warning of a coming storm.

"Ready or not, here comes the big, bad wolf!"

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Jack Howl x Reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #NRC Family Day #Jack Howl #Reader #self insert #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines