#a breath of snow in ashes

[elasticmonk]

This is my go to 7 hour (and growing) Outlander playlist. Everything from soundtrack, to traditional Celtic, to songs I thought fit the vibe of both the Frasers and the playlist.

Tell me if you have a song in mind or come across one that’s off-putting. 😊

[gotham-ruaidh]

“This wife you have,” Bird said at last, deeply contemplative, “did you pay a great deal for her?”

“She cost me almost everything I had,” Jamie said, with a wry tone that made the others laugh. “But worth it.”

– A Breath of Snow and Ashes

[coralsillustrations]

“Can we call Grandda?”

[roses-moons-stars]

If the evils of the past cannot hinder us, neither then shall any fears of the future.

A breath of snow and ashes - Diana Gabaldon

[semper-legens]

2. A Breath of Snow and Ashes, by Diana Gabaldon

Owned: No, library Page count: 1390 My summary: North Carolina, 1776. War is brewing on the horizon. Loyalists and revolutionaries fight in the streets, shoring up their power until the fight is officially declared. But for Jamie Fraser and his wife Claire, they have other troubles. A newspaper clipping from the future, describing their deaths. The evil that the local people see in Claire's skills as a doctor. Bad actors with grudges against Jamie, moving against them in the dead of night. And through it all, the Frasers fight to stay alive, and stay together. For the hope of their future. My rating: 3.5/5

Ah, Outlander. These books are absolute monsters. Fourteen hundred pages in this one and counting - I finished it in early January after having started it before Christmas. I've noted over the course of these reviews a growing ambivalence about some of the issues that Gabaldon raises in these books, and that is both ongoing and slightly improved within this latest installment. I think the thing that draws me about these books is my favourite aspect of historical fiction that isn't about real people - historical plausibility. This angle is complicated somewhat by the time travel aspect, but in essence, while people like Jamie and co didn't exist, they are people who plausibly could have existed within their time period, and the lives they lead are evidently well-researched and could have happened. Obviously Claire and her time travellers are less historical, but even then, the lives that they lead and the things that they do are plausible within the conceit of time travel that the books exist under. I found this latest installment to be just as engaging as the prior books (with some issues that I'll get into under the cut) and I'm still enjoying the series as I go.

There's a lot to cover here, so I'm not gonna talk about absolutely everything there is in the book, just the things that jumped out at me. For starters, let's talk about Claire and Jamie. They're getting on a bit in years now, no longer the young lovers, and are settled into their life on Fraser's Ridge. The main plot threads hanging over this book concern the knowledge that Claire has brought back from the future - the coming Revolutionary War, which Claire is determined to be on the right side of, and a notice printed in a newspaper that Claire and Jamie died when their house burned down. More on the latter a bit later, but for now, I like the balance shown between Jamie's healthy scepticism of future knowledge versus the real situation unfolding around him. While for Claire, the war is a done thing, something you read about in history books, for Jamie it's a far more personal, living conflict, and I think this is an interesting perspective. Another thing I liked was Claire's attempts to invent more modern things like ether as an anaesthetic - Brianna does this too, bringing her knowledge of the future and the resources she has around her together and creating something useful from it. It's a nice aspect of this series' attitude towards gender roles; women are, or can be at any rate, creators and designers. (And not just copiers of already-existing tech; while I, too, know what ether and indoor piping are, I sure as hell wouldn't be able to create them if pushed into the past!) Despite the fact that Claire and Jamie's romance is settled, there's still a lot of forward motion in this story that I found engaging.

Now, I've spoken before about how I think Gabaldon largely drops the ball when it comes to non-white characters in this series; how her non-white characters aren't necessarily bad, but the portrayal of them still falls under some stereotypes and still centres her white characters and the experiences of white people. Well, there's an interesting twist that takes here. In earlier books, Jamie's nephew Ian was adopted by a Mohawk community (it was in exchange for Roger, but Ian went willingly as he had friends among the Mohawk) and in the last book, he returned abruptly without explanation. Well, we get some explanation here, and it's not what I thought! Ian's separation from Claire and Jamie was seen as sad and unfortunate, and that initially had overtones of race in that the perception was almost that Ian was 'stolen' by the Mohawk, despite the fact that he went willingly. I was concerned that his reason for leaving the Mohawk might have been due to abuse or something like that, painting the Mohawk as 'savage' or 'evil'. But…nope. While Ian carries some trauma, it's because the reason he left the Mohawk was that he and his wife lost a child, and his wife had several miscarriages afterwards. He was told to leave and went, though somewhat reluctantly.

The really interesting thing, however, is that while Ian retained his Scottish roots while living with the Mohawk, he too retains his Mohawk culture back at Fraser's Ridge. He prays in a Mohawk way, he enacts Mohawk rituals, he teaches the others Mohawk philosophy. His living with the Mohawk is further portrayed as not something he did reluctantly or something he was forced to do, but something he willingly engaged with, and that's nice! It's a shame that our insight into Mohawk life and spirituality largely comes from a white man, but at the same time, it's good that we get that insight and that Mohawk culture is seen as deeply important to Ian, the same way being Scottish and Catholic is to Jamie, or being Presbytarian becomes to Roger. Indeed, those last examples are explicitly contrasted - while looking for Brianna later on, both Ian and Jamie are praying to Mohawk and Catholic spirits, which Roger views with sadness as he is not as steadfast in his faith as they are.

Unfortunately, this is paired with the character of Donner, whose first name I won't state but may be familiar - it's the name of the cannibalistic monster from Indigenous legend that showed up in Hannibal. It's an alias, as Donner is a time traveller, coming back from the 60s to alter time so that Indigenous people are dealt a better hand. And he's antagonistic! He's part of the group that kidnaps Claire and, while not in on the mass rape of her, still behaves in an antagonistic way towards the characters, and at the end attempts to rob our heroes and is accidentally killed when their house is set alight. And, like…he just wants to go home. All of the DNA is there for him to be a far more sympathetic character, but Gabaldon paints him as more antagonistic and slippery. Which is noteworthy given that he's one of the few named Native characters in the book! I'm not saying that all of the Native characters need to be saints or anything, but when the narrative approaches Native communities with the expectation that they will be hostile, it's mirroring the real approaches that white people had towards Native people in this time period. The lazy racial stereotypes are lingering at the corners of this narrative's perception, and I am somewhat disappointed by their inclusion here.

Once again, we have the ever-present threat of sexual violence rearing its head; both with Claire getting kidnapped and with Brianna getting kidnapped by Stephen Bonnet. The latter annoyed me more - what happens to Claire is awful, but there's a realism to it, while Stephen Bonnet adds very little to this narrative and really should have been killed off in the last book. Once again, it takes very little for sexual violence to be threatened. Brianna isn't touched by Bonnet in the end, as she's pregnant, but Claire is assaulted by most of her kidnappers and suffers some realistic symptoms of PTSD because of it. I'm not averse to this kind of storyline, but sexual violence is a recurring theme in these books, and I'm not sure that it's always warranted - it seems to sometimes be used for shock value or to give a character instant trauma. Like I said, what happens to Claire is unfortunately realistic for a woman who finds herself to be a hostage, and the realistic portrayal of Claire's feelings after that and the impact it has on her life are interesting to see within a narrative like this. It just skeeves me out sometimes how much sexual trauma is used as a free 'drama is happening' card in this series, that's all.

Another plot aspect that I have to give a sideeye to is the fact that things get wrapped up very quickly sometimes. The resolution to the 'Jamie and Claire's house burns down' thing is that it does, at the end, and they survive it, of course. Brianna and Roger very quickly give birth to a new baby girl with a heart defect, so they take her back to the future to deal with it, happily ever after. It feels abrupt, which is strange in a series this long with so much happening in each book. There's some agonising over whether Jem and the baby can travel, which is rendered somewhat moot when they do and there's no problems and Jamie has a vision of them all set up in the future and doing great. It feels like Gabaldon got bored of writing them, and just decided to quickly get rid of them between drafts. It feels jarring, which is odd for a series which, despite its length, is usually quite well-paced.

I've done a fair amount of criticising here, so I want to stress that the reason I criticise this series is not because I dislike it, it's because I am very much enjoying it but think it could have done a lot better on the aspects I'm criticising it for. It's criticism borne out of love, and borne out of a genuine desire to see the author have a bit more consideration in her narrative. There's plenty of things I really liked that I haven't mentioned, largely because I'd have no other commentary to make than 'I liked this, it was neat'. Outlander is good, and I will be returning to it. I'm just gonna take a bit of a break first.

Next, a strange family invites themselves into the home of a young woman.

[heatherfield]

"I wish I could have seen [Lallybroch] in its heyday."

ROGER PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, PLEASE DON'T SAY THAT.

[daisychainsandbowties]

consider the antarctic au but the thing version

me? put horror into the au? terrible characterisation (lying)

you can already hear the phrase “sorry lilith” coming out of my mouth i mean… it has to be her, right? she does the autopsy she goes into the kennels (she gets taken first)

lilith but not lilith. her in almost every sense except for the fact that it’s not her. easing parasites into cam’s mouth and walking with her hand in hand to end the world.

chasing ava through the station only for bea + a flamethrower to show up and chase her away.

ava knowing that they can’t let the parasite escape. convincing bea to go and signal for help while she wades into a building full of half-burned corpses, flamethrower in hand to set the place alight.

knowing that she won’t escape, seeing lilith there and tears in her eyes as she turns the flamethrower on her and the walls are soaked in fuel and she has to make sure that beatrice lives because she has to live. nothing else matters.

[brian-in-finance]

Outlander Watch S05E06 Better To Marry Than Burn

Connecting The 🟡 Dots

🟡 ⚜️👑 Season Five to One to Seven

The Show

The soldier looks to see that the Dragoon Lieutenant is heading back to his horse. As Morna walks back to the carriage, her SHOE gets stuck in the MUD.

The soldier bends down to help her -- as he does, he spies something STRAPPED UNDERNEATH THE CARRIAGE: a WOODEN BOX….

He’s slid the box out from its fastenings and has opened it to reveal BARS OF GOLD. He holds one up, engraved with a FLEUR DE LIS.

Official Script S05E6 Better To Marry Than Burn

Gifs: @lochiels

The Book

It was a company of English soldiers, Cumberland’s men. Arriving too late to join in the victory at Culloden, they were inflamed by news of it—but frustrated at not sharing in the battle, and only too ready to wreak what vengeance they could on fleeing Highlanders.

Always a quick thinker, Hector had sunk back in the corner of the coach at sight of them, his head bent and a shawl pulled over it, pretending to be an aged crone, sunk in sleep. Following his hissed instructions, Jocasta had leaned out of the window, prepared to pose as a respectable lady traveling with her daughter and mother.

The soldiers had not waited to hear her speech. One yanked open the door of the coach, and dragged her out. Morna, panicked, had leapt out after her, trying to pull her mother away from the soldier. Another man had grabbed the girl, and dragged her back, so that he stood between Jocasta and the coach.

“Another minute, and they meant to have ‘Grannie’ out on the ground as well—and then they would find the gold, and it would be all up wi’ all of us.”

A pistol shot startled all of them into momentary immobility. Leaning from the coach’s open door, Hector had fired at the soldier holding Morna—but it was dusk and the light was poor; perhaps the horses had moved, jostling the coach. The shot struck Morna in the head.

“I ran to her,” Jocasta said. Her voice was hoarse, her throat gone dry and thick. “I ran to her, but Hector jumped out and seized me. The soldiers were all standing, staring with the shock. He dragged me back, into the coach, and shouted to the groom to drive, drive on!”

She licked her lips and swallowed, once.“‘She is dead,’ he said to me. Over and over, ‘She is dead, you cannot help,’ he said, and held me tight when I would have thrown myself from the coach in my despair.”

The Fiery Cross, Chapter 53

🟡 ⚜️ 👑

The Show

My father was a Fraser. A younger half-brother to the present master... Colum and Dougal... my mother was Ellen, the elder sister of Colum and Dougal. Colum wished my mother to marry Malcolm Grant. — Jamie Fraser

Transcript S01E07 The Wedding

Instagram S01E07 The Wedding

The Book

“Oh, aye. Ellen was the eldest o’ the six MacKenzie bairns—a year or two older than Colum, and the apple of auld Jacob’s eye. That’s why she’d gone so long unwed; wouldna ha’ aught to do wi’ John Cameron or Malcolm Grant, or any of the others she might have gone to, and her father wouldna force her against her will.”

When old Jacob died, though, Colum had less patience with his sister’s foibles. Struggling desperately to consolidate his shaky hold on the clan, he had sought an alliance with Munro to the north, or Grant to the south. Both clans had young chieftains, who would make useful brothers-in-law. Young Jocasta, only fifteen, had obligingly accepted the suit of John Cameron, and gone north. Ellen, on the verge of spinsterhood at twenty-two, had been a good deal less cooperative. — Old Alec

Outlander/Cross Stitch, Chapter 24

🟡 ⚜️ 👑

The Show

There were three of us when the gold came ashore from France. Dougal MacKenzie took one-third and Hector Cameron another. I was the third man, tacksman to Malcolm Grant, who sent me… But it came too late to make a difference to the cause. So Grant used it for the good of the clan. I dinna know what Dougal did with his, but Hector Cameron, he fled. He was a traitor. And his wife wi' him. I only had to set eyes on River Run to see where the gold had been spent. But not all of it. — Arch Bug

Transcript S07E03 Death Be Not Proud

IMDb S07E03 Death Be Not Proud

The Book

“Ye were the third man, were ye not?” Jamie asked, disregarding this. “When the gold was brought ashore from France. Dougal MacKenzie took one-third, and Hector Cameron another. I couldna say what Dougal did with his—gave it to Charles Stuart, most likely, and may God have mercy on his soul for that. You were tacksman to Malcolm Grant; he sent ye, did he not? You took one-third of the gold on his behalf. Did ye give it to him?”

Arch nodded, slowly.

“It was given in trust,” he said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and spat, the mucus tinged with black. “To me, and then to the Grant—who should have given it in turn to the King’s son.”

“Did he?” Jamie asked, interested. “Or did he think, like Hector Cameron, that it was too late?”

It had been; the cause was already lost at that point—no gold could have made a difference. Arch’s lips pressed so tightly together as almost to be invisible.

“He did what he did,” he said shortly. “What he thought right. That money was spent for the welfare of the clan. But Hector Cameron was a traitor, and his wife with him.”

A Breath Of Snow And Ashes, Chapter 124

🟡 ⚜️ 👑

Remember Ellen Fraser’s connection to the third man?

[shawnlbird]

poem- powered

What we know about those who crave power is that they are not the best people to have it. Those who crave standing upon towers and amassing fortunes are not placid. A true leader is a servant to those he leads Doing what is best to lift all to health and comfort That leader provides what the community needs True leaders don’t think they themselves should come first.

[mournfulroses]

Diana Galbadon, from "A Breath of Snow and Ashes," originally published in 2005

[gotham-ruaidh]

redemption

"Any goodness that prevails in me is because of my wife" - Jamie to Lionel Brown, 07x01 "A Life Well Lost"

--

The final scene in 07x01 "A Life Well Lost" shows us who Jamie thinks he is - a vengeful, violent man.

But - but - we know he isn't. Because he has Claire in his life. He did her a service by marrying her, to keep her safe - sacrificing himself in the process (and many times, subsequently). He can be selfish at times, but is selfless when it comes to her.

She brings out the good in him, because she IS the good in him. She is a gift from God in his life. Loving her - always putting her first - is his absolution from God for the dozens and dozens of sins he has committed for her sake, and for the sake of the ones he loves.

Claire is Jamie's redemption.

And he knows it.

-----------------------------------------------

“They are dead because of me, Sassenach. And because of their own wickedness. If there is guilt, let it rest upon them. Or on me.” “Not on you alone,” I said, my eyes still closed…“You’re blood of my blood, bone of my bone. You said so. What you do rests on me, as well.” “Then may your vow redeem me,” he whispered.

– A Breath of Snow and Ashes

----

"I will find you," he whispered in my ear. "I promise. If I must endure two hundred years of purgatory, two hundred years without you—then that is my punishment, which I have earned for my crimes. For I have lied, and killed, and stolen; betrayed and broken trust. But there is the one thing that shall lie in the balance. When I shall stand before God, I shall have one thing to say, to weigh against the rest."

His voice dropped, nearly to a whisper, and his arms tightened around me.

"Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and God! I loved her well."

-- Dragonfly in Amber

[layaispunk]

still here with me | joel miller x reader

my masterlist | taking requests! <3

pairing: jackson!joel x female!reader

summary: you save Joel.

warnings: spoilers for episode 2. canon typical violence, jackson's hoard, angst, lil bit of fluff. Ellie isnt mentioned.

a/n: i love abby but NOT ON MY WATCH. anyway .... how are we feeling ....? 🫂

The sounds of gunfire crackled through the cold. 

The blizzard felt like an entity - roaring, kicking up like ash as the hoard was running toward Jackson’s gates - hundreds of them, more than you'd ever seen. Clickers, stalkers, runners. Screeching. Crawling. Dying in waves, but still coming.

You stood on the wall beside Tommy, breath steaming in the cold as your rifle jerked back with each shot. “There’s too many, Tommy. We need the barrels."

“Fuck!” Tommy yelled, loading another round. “Keep your aim steady!” Tommy barked.

But you weren't hearing him anymore. Your ears were ringing. Joel.

You blinked hard, fired another round. “Tommy,” you muttered, voice tight.

He didn’t turn. “What?”

“I have to go.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I need to find him. I need to find Joel. Amy said he's at the ski lodge."

Tommy finally looked at her, eyes wide. “Are you crazy?"

 “Something’s wrong, Tommy. I can feel it.”

Tommy grabbed your arm. “You run out now, you’ll die. Its a death trap.”

“Then I'll die trying.” you muttered, his hand still on yours.

He hesitated—just a breath—then nodded toward the watchtower behind them. “Back gate. It’s clearer that way. Take a horse and ride fast. You hear me? Be fuckin safe. Go."

You sprinted to the stables, saddled a horse with shaky hands, and rode like hell—snow blurring your vision, heart screaming louder than the wind, outrunning the hoard. Toward the lodge. 

Every fiber of you wanted to scream Joel and Dina's names to look for them. To cry out. But you had enough experience to know that you couldn’t.

If they were in trouble, if they're hurt —you yelling would only paint a target on your back. Or theirs. It wasn't an option. 

So you rode low in the saddle, head ducked beneath the howling wind, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

When you finally reached the edge of the lodge, you dismounted, boots hitting the ground heavy and wet. Snow clung to your coat and lashes. The horse huffed, nervous.

You crept forward, one foot after the other. Fingers clenched around your rifle. No footprints leading away from the door. No sign of anyone leaving in a hurry. Just quiet.

The sky above you was darkening fast, blizzard now in full force. 

You walked in, slowly. . It felt like your body knew something before your mind did, like it was bracing for impact. Weathered wood, furniture covered in plastic. Then, you saw a door. You placed your gloved hand on the knob, the other pressing your body flush to the wall beside it. Then you leaned in, ear to the wood.

Voices.

Muffled.

A woman’s voice.

"where was the last place you saw the fireflies?,” she was saying, her tone sharp but almost distant, like she was trying to keep steady.

Think. Think, think, think.

You didn’t know for certain—It could be anyone. But something in your chest twisted so violently, it was like your body already knew Joel and Dina were in that room, and they were running out of time.

How many voices? Two? Three? More? Your blood roared in your ears. You couldn’t make out words—just tones. Angry. Confident. Like they weren’t worried about being caught. 

You stepped back from the door, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest and move as quietly as possible. You had to distract them. Get them away from him. Make them come to you.

You crept down the hall, eyes sweeping the room. Old furniture, untouched for years. You spotted a rusted kettle on the stove and stealthily, you knocked it off with your rifle. You usually do this tactic with glass bottles, but you needed to think fast. 

It hit the ground hard—clang—echoing through the lodge.

Shouts followed. Heavy footsteps. “What the hell was that?”

You dropped behind furniture just as two came around the corner, both unarmed. 

There was a high-pitched ring in your ears, drowning out everything but your own pulse.

Your hands moved before your mind caught up and you stealthily walked behind them and plunged the knife into the side of their throat, a trail of bodies behind you now. 

You crept back toward that door, heart slamming against your ribs. You kicked it open hard, rifle raised—ready to die if it meant he lived.

Joel. On his knees, arms up, breathing heavily. Dina passed out on the floor. And in front of Joel —a woman. Armed. Blonde. Braid hanging down her back. Gun aimed at his head.

You didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Bang.

She dropped before she even turned fully.

The other two put their hands up, trying to save themselves. You fired again. And again. You needed to move fast. 

You ran to him. You dropped your rifle, crossed the room in seconds, and crashed into him like you were afraid he might disappear if you let another second pass.

Joel caught you with both arms, pulling you in so tight it felt like your ribs would snap. His eyes were red and teary, his body was shaking. You could feel his heart hammering through his chest, loud and frantic, like it was trying to fight its way into yours. 

Neither of you spoke. Just the sound of your breathing—sharp, broken. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand tangled in the back of your jacket like he couldn’t let go.

By the time you made it back to Jackson, the blizzard had quieted, but the damage was done.

The wall was down. Dead clickers littered the snow, half-buried in blood and snow. Smoke curled from where fires had been. Guards moved slowly through the wreckage, dragging corpses, calling out names.

You rode in with Joel just behind you, Dina slumped between your arms on the saddle. She hadn’t woken up yet, still drugged, still breathing.

Tommy met you at the gate - or what was left of it. His face was pale with ash and blood, eyes going wide when he saw the three of you.

Joel slid off the horse first, then reached up to take Dina from your arms.

You followed, boots hitting the red-streaked snow, gaze locked on the chaos around you.

Jackson had survived, but just barely.

You and Joel sat in the quiet of the house, the kind of silence that only comes after something  that violent. Your jacket was still damp from the snow, but your hands were warm now—held out toward the fireplace in your home. 

Joel hadn’t said much since you got back.

You’d stayed behind, helped with the wreckage. But Tommy had grabbed your arm, eyes heavy, voice low. “You’ve done enough. Take him home. Take care of him.”

So now here you were. Home. With the love of your life. 

He sat in the armchair beside you, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was still catching his breath from hours ago. The firelight danced across his face, cutting soft gold into the bruises blooming along his jaw. Gosh, he looks so beautiful. 

You walked over slowly, knees brushing his as you knelt in front of him. He looked up—eyes tired, but still Joel. Still your Joel.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached forward, pulling you into his lap like he’d been waiting all night to feel you close.

You curled into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands threaded into his hair. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to look at him.

Then you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid he might break if you weren’t gentle.

“I’m so happy you’re still here with me,” you whispered, voice thick with everything you didn’t say out loud.

Joel didn’t answer—not with words. But the way he held you tighter, like he’d never let go again… that was enough.

For now, it was enough.

[beasanfi1997]

Three years ago, during the quarantine when there was Covid, i watched Outlander the First five seasons, One year later i watched Bad Batch that was the prequel of Star Wars Rebels and i realize that It will be compared with Outlander season three and because we see Jamie Fraser takes care of his son Willie if Bad Batch show us that Darth Vader takes care of baby Ezra Bridger After Revenge of the Sith. Outlander book three was release in 1993 and Revenge of the Sith released twelve years later. Outlander had almost comparison to Star Wars because the First book of Outlander was almost comparised to Star Wars the Clone Wars until Clone Wars season Seven and Revenge of the Sith that was almost comparison to Outlander book 2 were Claire Beauchamp gets separated by Jamie in the end as Anakin Skywalker gets separated by Ahsoka Tano......... and then Brianna Randall and Willie are almost comparison to Ezra when Jamie take care of Willie for six years while Brianna across the Stones while Ezra meets the Ghost Crew that it's contact with the Rebellion. Do you think that Jem, the grandson of Jamie and Claire, Is comparison to Ben Solo while the Last Two books of Outlander Is almost comparison to the Mandalorian, Star Wars Resistence and Sequel Trilogy?

Outlander= Star Wars The Clone Wars

Dragonfly in Amber= Star Wars the Clone Wars season Seven and Revenge of the Sith

Voyager= Star Wars the Bad Batch

Drums of Autumn= Star Wars Rebels

The Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, An Echo in the Bone and Written In My Own Heart's Blood= Star Wars Rebels season five, A New Hope, Empire Strikes Back and Return of Jedi

Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone and Outlander book ten= The Mandalorian and Sequel Trilogy

Star Wars arrives from 1977 to 1983 while the Clone Wars arrives in 2008 and Rebels arrives in 2014 while Outlander books were started in 1991 until 2026 for the 35th anniversary Just like the Seven Sisters by Lucinda Riley that in the Last book about Pa Salt reveals all the secrets if they will made Star Wars Rebels season five set during the Original Trilogy of Star Wars and It will reveals all when George Lucas will be 80 and Dave Filoni will be 50 in 2024.

[thekinslayed]

A Kitten Among Dragons

summary | In an attempt to close their growing distance, Aemond visits his sweet sister to find her accompanied by a furry friend.

pairing | prince regent!aemond targaryen x younger sister!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! v innocent reader, dry humping, making out, aemond teaches his sister dirty things 🫢, slight manipulation, big bad aemond creams his pants LMAO

wordcount | 3.4k

note | this idea came after my heavy disappointment of not having the cats included in the show mixed with the hc that peepaw def favors his granddaughters :) didn't intend this for be this smutty, but i got carried away oopsie

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider graphic link)

It was hard to deny that Aemond had neglected you as of late. Between organizing battle strategies with Cole, sitting on his brother’s council, and dealing with his own... problems, the second son hadn’t so much spared a brief visit to his younger sister to check on her wellbeing. It was a notion so unlikely of him, you were his favorite after all. This headache of a war was driving them apart, and he would be direly bereft if he would lose you next. Anyone but you. 

But duty was always calling, even more frequent now that he was regent. Hence, as soon as he had dismissed his council, his feet led him quickly to your door. What greeted him was most certainly a surprise, with you on your knees on the floor, bent over while fixating on something underneath your bed.

“Come, kitty! Why do you hide? There is nothing to be afraid of!”

When his initial shock had surpassed, his confusion promptly followed. Aemond cleared his throat, gathering your attention. You turned your head to look at him, greeting him with a quick “Oh hello, Aemy”, before returning your attention to the floor. Your arm was buried underneath the wooden frame in an attempt to reach the little creature, making you huff in exertion.

“What are you up to, my sweet?” your brother asked, approaching your kneeling form. He was tempted to mirror your position to take a peek, but he remained standing. 

“I– Gods, hold on, I can feel her. Come on, little one!”

His brow raised when you finally pulled out the critter from beneath your bed, a triumphant smile spreading on your face. It must have been one of the cats brought by Otto after Aegon had hung all of the ratcatchers. They were littered about the keep, some quite diligent with actually catching vermin while most merely hung about and shat everywhere. Such creatures did not interest Aemond, hence the look of contempt on his face at the one you carried like a babe. 

It was a furry little thing, fur white as snow, but its paws gray as though they were dipped in ash. A green ribbon was tied around its neck, no doubt of your doing. “Why are you keeping one of those things? They are not to be pets,” he scolded, which earned him a frown from you.

“She is my pet. Grandsire gave her to me before he left,” you reasoned, sulkily walking away to plop down on your chaise. Your brother had followed suit, settling beside you to watch you play with the feline on your lap. It looked to be quite young, quivering on its frail legs in an attempt to stand. You watched it with a fond smile, stroking its soft fur. “I have little companion as of late, though she has kept me quite entertained,” you told him.

He couldn’t deny the pang of guilt at your words. Before the war, you had been practically glued to the hip. His days were spent by your side, in the quiet aisles of the library, under the warm sun in the gardens, even in the skies with Vhagar. You would wake early enough to catch him training in the yard, before sharing a meal immediately after. Aemond was your constant companion, your fiercest protector. The war had changed much of that, and he was the only one to blame. 

The prince scooted closer to your side, breathing in your sweet scent. It was one he dearly missed, had thought about on the journey from his victory in battle. “I am sorry, sister. ‘Tis my fault, I have neglected you too much,” he said, covering your hand with his calloused palm. The sparing glance you bestowed him was an arrow straight to his heart, and a stab to his soul when you pulled away, lowering to sit on the floor to play with your kitten instead. It was silent, save for the quiet giggles that bubbled from your lips as it chased the frilly handkerchief you dangled around. 

He figured you were right to keep your space from him, to save yourself from being tainted by his blood-stained hands. You were so good, so pure. You were the best of all of them. It was by some miracle that an innocent being like you was born into their sludgy, miserable lot. You were saved from the madness of a Targaryen, and the greed of a Hightower. No, you were formed from the Mother’s rib, brought into the world with lightness and purity. 

His mother was right to keep you sheltered away, brought devoutly under the faith of the Seven so you may be guided into the righteous path. Perhaps they just might spare you from this brutality, this hell. They may have not saved poor Helaena, but Aemond prayed there was still hope for you. 

A little feline was what you are, in a den full of dragons. Despite the dragonfire in your blood, the egg in your cradle did not hatch. It only hardened into stone after years of hoping, of fruitless waiting. It was what tethered you to Aemond in the first place, forming a formidable bond in your shared isolation. And then he claimed Vhagar, had lost his eye, and then he was not the same. You remained devoted to him regardless, uncaring of cutting yourself on his sharp edges. He was all broken glass, and you were the most pristine porcelain no hand could ever forge. 

“They have brought Aegon back, haven’t they?” you asked quietly, still focused on your cat. Aemond helplessly stared at the back of your head, clenching his fist to prevent the urge to caress your head. You wanted your space, and he would respect that.

“Yes, have you gone to see him?” he replied, to which you responded with a shake of your head. “No?” Your pale tresses swayed with your movement, light and soft like feathers. You had ceased waving the embroidered cloth in your hand, fidgeting with its laces instead. Aemond could only watch as you shifted to hug your knees, head dipping. 

“I am frightened,” you whispered. 

“Of what?” he asked in concern.

“That I won’t be able to recognize him.” Your words made him pause with an odd throb in between his ribs. There was no doubt the state of unrepair the elder was in. All marred flesh, and broken bones. He had lost half a head of hair, and his right ear melted like the Conqueror’s armor that had been plastered to his flesh. It was no sight for you to gaze upon. 

Aemond had a hand in his brother’s agony, there was no denying it. But the fool was in his way. Aegon had been told to do one thing, and yet he had failed to even accomplish such a simple task. He was not needed on the field, nor anywhere else, really. Rook’s Rest was not his battle to fight, but Aemond’s. Although, the younger might have him to thank in the grand scheme of things. His brother’s idiocy made him regent, protector of the realm. Aemond had expected you to be proud of him, to be the first to run into his arms in glee with his new position, but you couldn’t be any farther away from him now.

“My own family has felt like strangers as of late. Mother won’t let me come to the Sept with her anymore, Helaena hasn’t been herself since….” you mentioned, finally turning to face him. Though it had only been as quick as a blink, for you have reclused yourself once more, returning your gaze to your pet. It was amusing itself now, rolling around on the embroidered carpet while wiggling its legs. “I scarcely recognize you.”

His frown deepened at your words, even more so at your indifference. It was true. He had not been himself as of late. He had let his weakness get to him, had allowed his temper to go unmanaged. In a pathetic attempt at reprieve, he let his feet lead him to a place that had scarred him, to a person whom he sought a false sense of comfort. She would never give him that, nor the touch that would effectively soothe him. He had only ever found it in one person, in you. Yet he would not begrudge you, despite all his greed.

But Aemond was weak for all that you would give him, if any at all. He could never go long without the sweet home he found in your arms, in every kiss you would bestow on his scars. In a bold attempt, he reached forward to place his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly. “I am still me, hāedar,” he said, gentle and warm. Such manner of speech was unlike the cold, one-eyed Kinslayer, but here, in the quiet of your chambers, he was neither of those things. Not in your presence. A budding hope only ever sparked brighter when you met his good eye, wide-eyed like a doe. You had mother’s eyes, beautifully round, yet none of the sorrow that dampened her brown orbs. Aemond could only hope it stayed that way. 

You leaned into his touch when he cupped your jaw, pressing a soft kiss into the inside of his wrist. It was then your brother finally sank to the floor, sitting flush beside you. With a gentle urge, he opened his arms, beckoning you closer. You were all too eager to bury yourself into his warmth, arms finding their home around his neck. Your melancholic sigh wisped the ends of his hair while he planted a kiss on yours, aquiline nose breathing in the familiar scent of rosemary in your hair. “I prayed for you, lēkia,” you mumbled, lips pressed into the pale expanse of his neck. Your warmth was immediately missed as soon as you pulled away to look at him. “I prayed the gods would protect you in battle, and they did,” you told him, to which he smiled at fondly. Though it was shortlived, for you had frowned at the thought of your other brother who laid in your father’s bed, barely holding onto his life. “Though I hadn’t prayed enough for Aegon, and look what happened to him now.”

Tears had started to dampen the corner of your eyes in a flash, lips quivering downwards. One had been traitorous enough to roll down your cheek, leaving its trail on your flesh. Aemond was quick to wipe it away with his thumb. Large, calloused hands cupped your face, urging you to look at him. “No, sweetling,” he soothed, planting a kiss on your cheek. Thin lips caught every salty droplet that escaped your eyes, shushing the sob that had you hiccuping. Your brother pulled you in close, flush to his chest, to his heart. The heart that only ever beat for you. “Be easy on yourself, sister. The gods have decided our brother’s fate, there is naught else you could’ve done.” His tone was firm as he spoke, though never harsh. With a sniffle, you nodded, before planting a kiss on Aemond’s cheek, a sign of your silent gratitude. The small touch alone had warmed his entire being, had his blood running hotter than it already did. It was agonizing that you remained unaware of what you do to him, of how easily you could make him weak. He could only sigh as you planted your forehead against his. “C-can you do that again?” he whispered. “Please?”

You obliged, planting a kiss on his cheek, then one on the other side. His arm kept you close, silently urging you to swing your leg over his hips to straddle his lap. His loins were starting to stir underneath your warmth, only taking a mere second the moment he felt your weight. Such was your power. You continued to pepper kisses across his face, unaware of how your brother could feel the pulsating from your pearl. With a tilt of your head, you pressed your lips against his in a peck, taking him by surprise. “Aemy,” you had said against his lips. A dreamy hum was his only response, his good eye closed from the dizzy haze you left him. “Do you suppose we could try what you taught me last time?” 

The devil between your thighs resisted the urge to smirk at your request, oozing with desire. He raised a brow at you in question, tilting his head to the side. “Last time?” he asked, feigning curiosity. You bit your lip timidly, absentmindedly trailing your fingertip in circles on his collar. 

“Yes, when you showed me how to…” you trailed off, looking at him with hope. 

“How to what, darling? Tell me,” he urged. You shifted about in his lap, timidly looking away. A squeeze on your hips encouraged you to use your words. “To do that thing with… with my tongue.”

Aemond’s grin widened at your words, utterly triumphant. With a nod, he urged you closer, reconnecting his lips to yours. He started with a simple kiss, then with a thumb on your chin, he propped your mouth open and his tongue slithered into your warm cavern. It had prompted you to do the same, following his lead by licking into his mouth. The hot muscle was quite rough with the little dots that functioned to make you taste, and he had such a distinct flavor that felt quite different from your own.

You tried to keep up with his pace, adorably enough, visibly out of breath once you both pulled away. Your cheeks held a slight tinge of a flush, running straight across the bridge of your nose. Aemond pinched your cheek between his fingers, nudging his nose against yours. “You are quite good, sister,” he teased, chuckling amusedly when you blushed. Your lips stayed connected for longer, exchanging tongues and spit in an easy, unrushed manner that made Aemond feel woozy as though his body was lightened by poppy milk. Through the blissful fog he found himself in, the silver-haired prince started to feel your hips squirm, subconsciously rubbing against his cock.

With a whine, you pulled yourself away. “It hurts,” you frowned, brows furrowing in confusion.

“What hurts, my love?” he asked, ignoring the thumping in his ears in anticipation. He had to be patient in his efforts, calm, lest he scare you away.

Your fingertips found the hem of your skirts, lifting the green fabric to your hips to expose your smallclothes. A damp spot had created a mark in between your thighs, glistening with your arousal. Aemond gulped, resisting the urge to palm the growing stiffness in his breeches at that moment.

Gods, you were going to be the death of him.

“Does it always hurt?” he asked, mouth growing dry at the sight of you. 

“No, but it did the last time we did this. Though it has grown quite uncomfortable this time around,” you pouted. 

What a sweet, innocent little thing you were. There was no doubt you held no knowledge about these things. Your sheltered upbringing and strict lessons from the Septa have left you thinking that the ways of the flesh are of sin, only to be done between man and wife. But gods, there was a world out there Aemond wished to show you. Mother would have to forgive him for many things he has done, including teaching his sister such debauchery. Better him than anyone else, he supposed.

“I can help take that pain away if you want,” he offered. 

“Won’t that be wrong, brother? Septa Luelle said—”

“I know, sweetheart, but it won’t be anything like that, I promise.” Your eyes flickered to look into his good eye as you contemplated, resolve crumbling with the comforting smile he offered you. It only widened as you nodded, his slim cheeks dimpling in satisfaction. His hand on the small of your back urged you to press your weight back onto his lap, guiding hands shifting your hips back and forth. You had gasped upon contact, amazed at the stiffness that had grown in between his thighs. 

“Were you hurting too, Aemy?” you asked, worry painting your features. Aemond bit back a groan, nodding his head meekly.

“A bit, but I am starting to feel better, sister. All thanks to you,” he responded. His words made you smile, encouraging you to move your hips at your own pace. You mewled, throwing your head back in delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

With a furious nod, your hips quickened as the funny feeling in your tummy grew. You held onto Aemond’s shoulders to steady yourself, while your brother rested his head on the chaise’s cushioned edge. It was soon evident you were growing tired of using your thighs, and so he planted his feet firm onto the floor, and Aemond’s hips lifted to meet yours. Your arousal had started to stain the front of his breeches, dampening the dark fabric with your cunny’s tears. The thought of tasting it on his tongue was enough to make his cock jump in his trousers, his tip no doubt weeping tears of its own. How wonderful it would be to get a taste of your sweet ambrosia. 

“A-aemond…” you moaned, burying your head into his neck. You held onto him as though you were about to drown, clutching onto the smooth leathers of his doublet like a lifeline. Your release must be steadily approaching, apparent in the steady whines that fell freely from your lips. It began to grow in volume, and Aemond had planted his lips back onto yours to swallow down your moans.

You lapped at him with desperation, spit smearing past your lips, though neither of you cared. Your release broke through you with little forewarning, coming with a cry of his name. Aemond had always thought you beautiful, but as your eyes screwed shut and your jaw fell slack, he was sure there was no other mortal being who could ever come close to your beauty. You looked like a goddess reborn, with your flushed cheeks and glistening lips. The sight of you alone drove him to his end, creaming his trousers like a pubescent boy. It left a clear stain on his trousers, yet he cared little.

“That felt quite nice, won’t you say?” he asked, equally dazed from the high of his release. You bit your lip, nodding, before burying your head into his chest with a giggle. Satisfied, Aemond caressed your back comfortingly, planting small kisses into your hairline.

There was no way for him to ever let go of you, not when he had you moaning his name so sweetly like this. You were his and his alone, his little kitten. He would find a way to make your union happen, to have you both married under the eyes of the Seven before his enemies’ corpses go cold. Hells, he would marry you now, if you wanted. He would find a Septon the moment you asked for it, or have the robes readied if you wished for a ceremony done by your Valyrian ancestors. He would do it all, and he can, now that he was regent. Mother would surely be displeased, with the growing animosity between her and Aemond, and the fierce protectiveness she held for her youngest daughter. But she would have to accept it either way. Who else was more suited to be your husband but he? Aemond would rather see the realm burn twice than have you married off to some insignificant lord. No, none else would hold a truer love for you than him alone. It’s been proven by the gods deeming it fit to intertwine his soul with yours. 

A scratching by his side had pulled him from his reverie, turning to find your little feline. You took her into your arms with a coo, practically shoving the furry thing into Aemond’s face with a grin.

“Pet her,” you urged gleefully. You stayed settled on his lap, much to his delight. Aemond shook his head to refuse, but he could never really deny you, could he? Sighing, he caressed the cat, scratching the spot in between its ears per your instruction. It purred with his touch, reminding the dragonrider of his mount whenever he would do the same with her maw.

“Hm, she’s quite like Vhagar,” he mused. It didn’t take long for him to enjoy playing with the furry thing, spending the rest of the remaining daylight by your side.

Perhaps cats weren’t so bad.

[heatherfield]

I LOVE YOUNG IAN MURRAY.

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!