#he deserves to be less haggard

[bam-monsterhospital]

on the one hand, eso is allergic to pretty young men npcs and its engine affords absolutely ZERO aesthetic favours towards mans... which is why bastian looks wayyyyy older than 27 and craggy as hell visually.

on the other hand, his character is great and griffin puatu's performance is so goddamn wonderful and endearing that it overlays and makes up for any lacking visuals on the game's part...

all this to say, i treat drawing bastian a little like how all those oblivion fan artists approached interpreting lucien lachance back in the day.

not quite to that extent, but like, same energy.

[deadsetobsessions]

Bruce didn’t come here often. Perhaps that was terrible of him but he couldn’t bear to visit his son’s resting place. It was difficult to equate his high-spirited son, bright as the sun itself and endlessly brilliant despite the more he grew up in, to the cold and lifeless stone engraved with his name and words that did not encompass everything his son was to him.

His hands were full of flowers, Jason’s favorite books, a round rock, and his son’s favorite foods.

Bruce didn’t come here often, because it broke his heart even more when he did, but today was a day that love and grief triumphed over his need to avoid.

He walked down the winding pathway, Alfred a silent sentinel behind him. He hated it, but he understood. Today was the only day Alfred allowed himself to be emotionally closed off. He’d lost a grandson.

Bruce didn’t come here often, but his son’s birthday was a day Bruce would remember how to love and live again, just for Jason.

“I will be over here, Master Bruce.” Alfred stopped at his designated spot, where Bruce had added a bench and a draping tree to shade Alfred as he stood vigil.

The first time they’d- it was April, and the sun- after the funeral, Bruce was lost in the throes of grief and had kneeled over the freshly tilled dirt for hours. Alfred had stood there, in that same spot, in the city’s rare blazing sun until Bruce came back to himself.

Bruce had almost lost his second father that day, and what good was wealth if it could not prevent that? And so, water, shade, a bench, and a space heater was added.

Bruce knows better than anyone how stubborn Alfred can be, when it comes to matters of the heart. After all, he didn’t have to raise Bruce after Martha and Thomas died.

“Alright, Alfred.”

Bruce splits from the haggard butler with pointed looks at the water bottles he’d prepared for today for Alfred (who manages, this time, a faint but amused raise of an eyebrow) and walks towards Jason Todd’s grave.

Here where his son is buried, the grass is kept green. In April, Forget-Me-Nots bloomed and dotted the place where Bruce’s world collapsed with bright colors. In August, it is still green, but the tin engraved with the names of the deceased stood out without the flowers.

Bruce kneeled and quietly arranged the flowers before placing them in the tin. He set the platters of food down and uncovered them. The scent of chili dogs made his heart stutter, flashes of a bright smile and book references blinding Bruce with their nostalgia.

He swallowed, grief building, and placed the stone he’d brought atop the gravestone. He sat back, gripping Jason’s book with white knuckles.

Bruce didn’t turn around when clothing rustled behind him. Alfred would have verbally cut down anyone that dared to approach them today, especially here. That he didn’t do so was telling of who it would be.

“I’m still mad at you, for not telling me as soon as you knew.” Dick Grayson sat down, hand over one of Jason’s school bag pins he had carefully attached to the front of his jacket.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“He deserved better. I should have been there.” Dick whispered, placing another bundle of flowers into the tin. It fit, but barely. “I would have dropped everything to come find him. Even if it wasn’t on time, even if it wasn’t enough, I deserved to be there when he was buried. We were family.”

“I know.” Bruce repeated, no less regretful. In his grief, he had wronged his loved ones. “I’m sorry.”

Dick casted a quiet, assessing eye at him. Bruce stayed quiet.

“It’s too dreary,” Dick said. He took out paints, little statutes of robins, bright birds, and bits and bobs Bruce knew Jason would have loved had he been alive out of his pockets.

“It should be more colorful,” Dick murmured as he placed them artfully against the headstone.

They sat there, for a while. Dick glanced at… at Bruce’s hand, and settled down.

It’d been a while since they’ve spoken, but he knew what the man intentioned to do today. This will be the most Dick will have heard Bruce speak outside of his civilian obligations.

Bruce took the cue and gently opened Jason’s book. He’d bought it for Jason- the first gift- and he’d read it to Jason every night. Dick had a similar book.

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse…”

——

A boy with black hair and blue eyes wandered amongst the graveyard. They’ve been here for a while, and the man’s low rumble was soothing to listen to. The shades that hung about the graveyard settled as he read out loud from the book as his son sat quietly beside him.

As the boy, invisible and intangible, brushed his hand against the gravestone, he wondered why they were reading to an empty grave.

——

Dick had left long before Bruce did.

And when it was time to go, as stars began to climb and as the cold began to nip at his fingers, Bruce heard a quiet voice.

“Do not stand at his grave and weep,” and Bruce turned, recognizing the poem. “He is not there. He does not sleep.”

But there was no-one.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request some domestic Ford x Reader headcanons? Just how they would live together either before portal or after the portal (or both hehe). Ty!

Given how dedicated Ford is to his work, it’s more often then not did you find him sleeping on or in places he probably shouldn’t, you’d try and make his position a little more comfortable by covering him with a blanket or putting a pillow or two under his head in hopes of preventing a crooked neck.

You’d press a kiss to the top of his head and whispered sweet dreams to him, unknown to you that after everything with Bill Ford had became a light sleeper, and so would feel touched whenever you take care of him in small but meaningful ways.

This sweet yet insufferable nerd would find himself captivated by you so much doing mundane things that he ends up drawing them in his note book subconsciously. So much to the point where when he pulls himself out of his own mind, he finds several two page spreads dedicated to you feeding stray cats, talking and or playing with Dipper and Mabel, giving Waddles a bath, or just you standing in the kitchen first thing in the morning looking haggard but beautiful none the less.

Physical touch is his love language followed by acts of service to make up for the fact that he spends most of his time in the lab more so then by your side like he should as your partner. you knew how much his work meant to him but Ford could clearly see the glimmers of his neglect within your eyes when you tell him you understand that his work was high priority.

It hurt him to know that he was the one causing the distance between you two and he felt as though you shouldn’t compromise yourself just to better suit him and his wants and needs. So he’ll always try to make up for his neglect and try to spend his mornings with you by making you breakfast and bring it to bed for you with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. Ford only wanted to repay you for being there for him while condemning himself for not tearing the favour.

‘Normally you’d be in the lab by now.’ You pointed out as you watched as he slipped back into bed with you, something he rarely did since he was more often than not fast asleep on that makeshift bed down in the lab.

Ford feels just how cold his side of your supposedly shared bed was and could only imagine the amount of times where you’ve fell asleep alone, dreaming of the day where he’d come up and join you, only to frequently be greeted with the sight of an empty and cold mattress instead of him.

Why he never comes to your shared room was a mystery to even himself as he felt it went a lot deeper then him just being sleepy, was it because he didn’t feel as though he should share a bed with you after the amount of times he has neglected you for his work? Possibly but he wanted to change that and stop being absent in your relationship.

‘I fear I haven’t been the best of romantic partners as of late and for that I must apologise and make things right by you.’ He replied and you placed a hand over his own, squeezing it reassuringly. ‘I won’t disagree with you there but please take your time Ford, I’m not going anywhere.’ You tell him softy and Ford was once again proven why he didn’t deserve you nor your kindness.

So Ford would slowly start to do things for you that he knew you were less then wanting to do unless it was the last resort whether it be washing the dishes or tying your shoes when the laces come undone and you huff in annoyance. Anything that maybe an inconvenience to you Ford will do for you instead so that you don’t have to bother with it.

He’s got a good memory and knows your likes and dislikes like the back of his hand and he treasures this knowledge greatly, no notebook needed when it comes to you that you feel seen and loved whenever he remembers the little bits about you that would go over someone’s head.

Like how you like your morning drink, how you like your sandwiches cut, your favourite flower, your favourite memory-which was of the time the Mabel drew on him and thrown glitter on his red turtleneck while covering his hands in her sticker collection- and how you loved to steal his turtlenecks because you miss him whenever he’s in the lab.

So he starts to leave his favoured red turtleneck where he knows you frequent as he hides nearby to watch you smile softly and wear the turtleneck for the rest of the day. Whatever made you happy made him happy in return, being in a relationship with him may have not been that easy but he thanked you for staying with him when you could’ve left him.

Listens to you speak and could listen to you talk the day away and it could pertain to anything and everything, Ford just likes hearing you speak passionately about things you loved or have experienced while out in town and come home just to tell him. So much so that he gets this look in his eye whenever you speak about your daily activity that you’d have to stop and ask; ‘what’s with that look in your eye?’

He doesn’t understand what you meant by that and asks himself; ‘what look my dear?’

You: the one that you get whenever you’re really interested in what I’m saying, even if it’s boring.

Ford: because what you’re saying is investing to me, even if it may seem boring to you but to me I’m just being feed more reasons why I adore you.

You burrow your head into the Turtleneck you stole from him because of the feelings he brought out within your chest.

You would return the favour by listening to him speak his mind about the oddities of Gravity Falls in depth and his theories about how many more of them could be out there, waiting to be discovered and documented. He even told you about the time he drop kicked Gnomes once, the mental image of it made you laugh.

Ford is a bit of a homebody when it comes to date nights, not for any reason in particular, other than the fact he wanted to be focused on you and only you. So Mabel helps him plan for these dates in extensive detail, even if it was written in glittery pink gel pen. Most of the time you spend it on the roof of the shack where you can watch the stars come out while enjoying the others company.

It wasn’t much but it was much to you and Ford as you rest your head on his shoulder, take in the fact that he was here with you and inevitably fall asleep on his shoulder after he rests his head atop of your own, whispering sweet dreams to you this time before he manages to carry you back to bed; where this time he joins you and brings you into his arms tightly before falling asleep himself, warning his side of the bed at long last.

Also you probably have to patch him up after he goes out monster hunting, the man maybe smart be he’s often times reckless with himself. Also kiss his scars please he’ll love you for infinity if you did so, and also kiss his hands for he had gotten unnecessarily picked on about and call them his unique gift that he shouldn’t be ashamed of, you thought having six fingers was cool. You’ll have that man melting faster then butter if you do and you get to see his hardened face become soft and tender that you can’t help but smother in kisses.

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: guns

Flashing lights soak the corridor in crimson. Another escape attempt, no doubt—there’s never any shortage of those. The hero stopped a few themself, back in the good old days.

Hurried footsteps echo on the stairs. Ah, here’s the cavalry now. A spray of golden light flickers along the wall, accompanied by a screech. The red lights flick again and the villain appears at the base of the stairs. The hero can barely register they’re there before their hands are rattling the bars of their cell frantically.

“[Hero],” they say like a demand. “[Hero], the keys. Where are they?”

Ah. Of course. The villain sees an out, and they don’t care who gets left in their wake. How villainous of them.

Another flash of the lights. It’s giving the hero a headache. “In the security office,” they say, already resigned. “The back door’s the blue one, second from the left—”

The villain doesn’t seem to have heard the rest of that, already sprinting back up the stairs. The hero is left to listen to the grating wail of the alarms and to look at everything in bloody flashes of light.

At least the villain can be free. They deserve at least that for the kindness they’ve shown the hero. The hero might get off lighter too, with them gone. The superhero will still have some points to make, sure, but at least he’ll have less reason to now that the villain’s gone. Or he’ll be angry they escaped, and he’ll have the perfect punching bag to take it out on.

Footsteps on the stairs again. The hero isn’t sure why anyone’s coming down here, considering the villain is likely long gone by now.

The villain appears in the corridor again, looking a little more haggard than before, and before the hero can question the sight they’re shoving a key heartlessly into their cell door.

“[Villain],” they say a little urgently as the villain throws the door open without a care. “Why’re you still here? What’re you—”

The hero doesn’t get to finish their sentence as the villain hauls them out of the cell and into the corridor. A gun gets shoved into their hands.

“The agency teach you to use these?” the villain asks quickly.

Cold metal, unforgiving bullets. The superhero’s favourite weapon, below the heroes he keeps on expertly short leashes.

“I– Yeah.”

The villain nods. “Good. Use it.” And then, like an afterthought, “Don’t die.”

The villain doesn’t wait for an answer before moving for the stairs again. They glance back when their footsteps are the only ones echoing in the stairwell. “[Hero], come on.”

They’re still in the corridor. What the hell is happening? Why did they come back when escape was in their grasp?

These thoughts can only manifest into a slightly choked “sorry.”

The two of them meet heroes at the top of the stairs. The villain shoots them without a thought. People the hero knows. Allies, the villain had said. Friends. They feel on the verge of throwing up at the thought.

The hero guides the way—a bend in the corridor. More stairs. A bullet to someone’s face that the hero refuses to look at long enough to recognise.

Double doors—the back entrance. A key jangles between the villain’s fingers. The right key. How they got their hands on that whilst being chased by the entire agency, wasting time by coming back, the hero will never guess.

The doors batter the brick wall in the villain’s haste to get them outside. It’s less protected around the back, the hero knows that. They have less chance of being shot from here. They remember the way they took out last time, back when they were alone and afraid and three hours from hiding out in the villain’s pantry. 

The villain goes first, toeing the threshold like it’ll eat them if they’re too rash. “None of this is alarmed,” the hero offers after a moment. “They got tired of the catering staff setting it off on their smoke breaks so they disabled it.”

The villain glances at them like they hold the answers to the universe. “I wish you could’ve given me a tour of this shithole in more casual circumstances,” they say, and with that they’re out the doors and into the dusk.

The hero follows. Of course they do; where else will they go? A desperate mistake led them to the villain in the first place, and now there’s nowhere on earth they could be more safe.

The outer fence is almost upon them. High and metal and lined with cruel barbs, but the villain doesn’t even hesitate at the sight of them. The hero avoided this last time—they risked it climbing an overhanging tree branch.

The villain skids to a halt at the fence, turning back to the hero with their hands interlocked, their gun dropped to the ground. They lean down slightly as the hero slows next to them, confused.

“What’re you doing?”

The villain glances up at them with comfortably familiar annoyance. “I’m giving you a leg-up, you moron.”

The fence is high. Only one of them is getting over it. “[Villain], no, that means—”

“Go over the fucking fence, [Hero], before I throw you over it myself.”

The hero can only stare at them for a moment. There’s no way. They can’t do that. They can’t leave the villain here, after everything, no—

The villain’s gaze flits to a point over the hero’s shoulder. “They’re coming,” they say shortly. “Hurry up or we’ll both die.”

The hero steps into the villain’s hands and lets them haul them over the fence. The wire cuts into their hands but they ignore the pain, throwing themself onto the other side and rolling out their fall on the other side. They glance back at the villain.

The villain’s staring back at them, the slightest frown in their brow. The lights out here are orange against the cold evening, haloing them with a warm glow. The hero wants to burn the look on their face into their mind—forced bravery, insincere nonchalance, the fear of dying and choosing to anyway, for someone else. For them.

“Stay safe, [Hero],” they say softly, their voice almost lost to the din of shouting behind them.

The hero’s useless standing here. They give the villain a look they hope conveys their reluctance to leave, turn on their heel, and bolt.

Run, that little voice demands. Don’t stop. Let them die in your stead. The voice is quiet, quieter than it’s ever been, and it almost has no control over them anymore.

The hero slows once they’re safely out of sight, turning back to watch the aftermath of their escape. The villain holds their hands up in defeat, kicking the gun away for good measure. They don’t even back away when a couple of heroes approach. One of them raises a fist to them, and within a second the force of her punch sends the villain tumbling to the floor. A speck of red flicks to the concrete when the villain spits.

The heroes exchange a short word and they grapple for the villain to drag them back into the agency. The villain doesn’t even struggle, accepting defeat with nothing more than a puff of a sigh into the cold night air.

No fight. Not even an attempt to avoid their own recapture. The hero's heart hammers in their chest. The villain never intended to escape, did they?

The doors slam closed. The ones outside go back to their patrols, others already heading out to look for the hero. They know they can’t be here long. They’ll be found in no time staying here.

But they can’t let the villain save them twice. That’s unfair. What kind of hero are they if they can’t save someone? What kind of hero are they if they couldn’t even save themself?

And they’re not saved without the person who saved them first. They turn to continue their escape into the darkness, a plan already forming in their mind.

If they’re going to die a hero, they might as well do it for someone who matters.

(next part)

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns @morning-star-whump @epiclamer @tekanparadiae @yourslimeologist @greengrassandflowers

[2aceofspades]

Trick or treat! It's fanfic anon, here to drop off a treat for you! Rereading Wrong Fabricated Time Branch has me feeling things and I wrote this little magnetic duo thing-

---

Cassandra didn't come back.

Between Casey Junior, the entire rest of the Resistance, and trying and failing to be there for his family, Leo barely had time for himself. Heh, what was a little less time for himself when there was the rest of the world to take care of?

So then, Leo found himself caring for a child that wasn't his; said child sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. That part was fine, not at all stressful. With that child loosely swaddled in his own scarf, he paced around the room as he briefly (and quietly) laid out the plans for the next resource raid. His energy waned, his vision blurring and his words turning into white noise. His steps grew more haggard, but standing or sitting still wouldn't feel right either.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leo noticed a familiarly large silhouette walk past the open door. No, not quite walking past; more like walking towards. He merely nodded to address the other presence, not quite recognising who was standing there until he dismissed the rest a few minutes later.

The moment the last member left the room, Leo identified the closest horizontal surface, set Casey Junior on a chair, and immediately collapsed onto the hard wooden table.

"Leo?"

Leo could only groan in response, recognition finally taking root in his mind. He turned his head away from the source of the sound, groaning. He just wanted his two minutes of table time before the next team went in.

"Leo. It's important, we need'a talk."

Despite the fatigue in his bones, Leo sat up (yes, on the table) to face the snapping turtle. Oof, the big guy was getting blurrier than he remembered, but he assumed he looked focused enough to "make eye contact".

"What is it? News on Cass? Missing resources? Someone lost their kid?"

"Not that."

"Then what?"

There was silence, and Raph's glare (Leo's assuming) was piercing enough. Be it a result of their odd ability to mind meld or something similar, Leo knew Raph wasn't here to talk about the Resistance.

The slider sighed, "Then it isn't important."

Leo couldn't quite see the expression on Raph's face change, but there was a shift in the tension of the room. "Leo. Everyone can see it. You need rest."

"Wha-hat?" Leo sounded way too surprised for it to be funny, but he had to make an attempt at levity, "You think I'm tired? Are you mistaking me for Donnie?"

Raph didn't even pause. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Uh-" He stifled the way his words began to slur.

"Or the last time you had more than five minutes for yourself?"

"Well-" He fought his faltering vision.

"Or the last time we talked about stuff that doesn't concern the Resistance?"

"Come on, that isn't fair!" He knew Raph was mad, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Tell me."

The leader could nearly feel the glare on the other. He could only cross his arms, stopping himself from curling in on himself. Falling back into old habits wouldn't help anyone.

"Hey! I'm saving the world, right?" The slider tried to stop himself from sounding accusatory, but it came out targeted anyway, "Fixing my mistakes, making the right sacrifices, being a hero?"

"Listen to me-"

"We're doing better now than we were before; who cares if it takes a few all-nighters-"

"Leo-"

"I'm getting results!"

"Raph just wants his brother back!"

His vision blurred even more, cold streaks going down his face as the weight of those words sunk in. No, they didn't sink; Raph threw those words like bricks and Leo could only shatter like glass.

"You're the only one we barely see."

Leo let himself curl into a ball, holding his knees up to his plastron. He wanted to feel like a child again, but that wasn't what he deserved.

"Always busy talking to other members, never letting the rest of us help with Casey, always throwing yourself headfirst into danger when someone else was at risk," Raph muttered that last part, and Leo sunk his head into his shell, "You may be the leader, but Raph's still the oldest. I want to know what's going on with you."

It took a moment for Leo to construct a word, let alone the sentence. He made an attempt at speech, only for it to come out a defeated chirp.

Raph must've made a face, even if Leo could barely see it. He first heard the click of a door closing shut, then the softness of fabric against his wet eyes and cheeks. "Raph's sorry for yelling."

"Chhrrr..." (It was deserved.)

Raph didn't understand. Maybe much to Leo's benefit. "But please just listen to Raph for once... I won't leave you alone, none of us will. We're in this together, 'kay?"

"Erp..." (No promises.)

A pause.

"Can Raph hug you?" Leo paused, but nodded. He leaned forward and fell into a familiar embrace. Unconsciously, he found himself sinking into the warmth the other provided, melting like a cat in a container.

Strong, secure, safe, even when the apocalypse outside raged on. For once, he'll allow himself this one comfort.

GAH-

You...you can't do this to me okay???

THIS IS CANON NOW OKAY YEAH THIS HAPPENED-

I couldn't stop myself...

It...it was just too vivid in my mind 🥲

[irenadel]

And if the devil...... 7/10

TW: Blood, domestic violence, talk of SA, miscarriages (this is HotD after all) This chapter is short on Aemond but I promise he'll be back on his bullshit next chapter. Also it turns out I am an absolute idiot and erased this chapter so here I am publishing again. Once more beautiful banner courtsey of @barbieaemond's gorgeous gifs and we have now ten chapters instead of 9

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

The moment he sees you, bag in one hand, jaw clenched so tight your teeth hurt, your uncle orders you close to his chair. He can move, but not well and will not risk it for the likes of you. He demands the truth, and slaps you when you dare withhold it from him. It isn’t a particularly good slap, but nothing ever erases the sting of humiliation. When he rails and grabs for your wrist, twisting it painfully in his slack grip, you still refuse to answer. Your eyes fixed back on the floor, your back having lost its rigid posture. You don’t look stubborn. Just defeated. He does not insist.

Your cousin Angus is white as a sheet, home for a brief holiday, wondering if he’ll be able to go back to his apprenticeship after this is done. The little ones are hushed up by their mother and you sit at the table, eating nothing, feeling nauseous with anger and dread.

Your aunt does not shout, does not ask what happened. She waits for a quiet, private moment. Looks at you with a tired, pinched face and says, “Did you get a recommendation?”

You do not answer this either. You look away, too ashamed and heartbroken to face her.

“I’ll earn the coin somehow,” you promise, cold dread already spreading through your limbs, fear so terrible that your heart seems to have caught in your throat and you are choking on the stupid, wretched thing. “Don’t fret.”

And for a time you keep your word.

It’s grueling work. A miserly merchant’s house that you take on, because a noble house would have required the letter of recommendation you had refused with your fist and your spit on the prince’s face. The sort of merchant who hires only a couple of girls and expects his wife to direct it all, no steward to be had and enough work for a staff of thrice that number. But that is also the kind of merchant who will not care if you worked at the Red Keep or not. It is the butcher’s on rest days, in spite of the neighbors talking about hours sacred to the Seven, and laundry taken in at night because you still can’t manage sewing.

Even then it’s just barely enough.

Your aunt suggests the butcher, over sixty and with bad gout and a house full of children might need a strong, young wife he would pay a good bride price for. It would be enough to pay for Angus’ apprenticeship. You would have a place near them, an allowance of your own and less work. You had done enough, she told you. You deserved some rest from all this toil.

She could not know how you recoiled inwardly at this thought. She could not know that when there had been no laundry to take in, and the miser’s wife had been particularly scathing with you and you were feeling desperate enough to do anything, if only you could ensure there would be enough of everything for your family tomorrow and the day after and all the days after… only then had you considered going to find a man who would buy the only thing of value you possessed.

But you couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again. Thrice had been thrice too many times. And you had known without a shadow of a doubt that if you had to touch a man you did not want, after knowing the taste of flesh, love and blood of the dragon… then you would begin to scream and never stop again, until you had driven the whole world mad with you.

Not even for a butcher and a fat bride price.

You are half thankful you are too miserable and tired to eat much and try not to miss the room and board you got at the Red Keep. All you want to do is sleep and forget. Instead you are awake at dawn, haggard and full of worries. It would be easier to endure misery again if only you could forget happiness. You turn away from talk of the castle. You cannot bear the sight of babes in arms, thinking that the princess’ time will come and go and there is nothing you can do to help her.

At night you go to bed so exhausted you do not dream. When you see his face before you, twisted in a grimace of hatred, you are always wide awake and scrubbing floors, bent down over bread or under buckets of water or heavy gaudy furniture. You wash other people’s filth so hard your hands bleed because all you want to do is work and work and work… work until you are too tired to remember Prince Aemond’s beautiful, wounded expression.

You hadn’t wanted to hurt him further then, but had had no words of comfort for him. No words to explain the ways of the world to a prince, born over gold and silver and dragon eggs, who looked at you as furious as he was heartbroken.

“Aegon is less than a worm,” he had hissed in defeat. “You could’ve broken every bone in his body before you let him touch you.”

You had not known who the anger in his face had been for. You or his brother or himself.

You do your best not to think of him. Even when food tastes like ashes in your mouth and you cannot even be bothered with anger and shame of your own when your uncle throws a laden plate at you, reminding you he is tired of dumplings and turnips, and it is all your fault for managing to ruin the one good chance you had ever known in your life. If you had had any tears left in you, you would have wept until your throat bled. But Princess Helaena had been right. A dragon’s love leaves nothing but devastation in its wake.

Your aunt watches you like a hawk. You can feel her worried eyes drilling a hole in the back of your neck. You avoid her as best as you can but even toil relents after months of careful vigilance. She catches you at night when you are boiling white shirts and scrubbing small clothes by the light of the sputtering, old castle lamp. No one else is awake at this time and you know she has sought you out to give you your privacy. She has always been kind like that, for the small things if not for the big ones.

You are prepared to fend her off, claim you are too tired to talk, but her question catches you off guard.

“Whose is it? That lad who didn’t marry you?”

It takes you a moment to understand it fully. You gape at her and immediately prepare to deny it but the words die on your lips. The truth is you don’t know. Hadn’t even thought of the possibility. Had been too miserable and heartsick to realize it had been over two months since…

Your aunt takes the lamp off its perch and gives you a handful of seed wheat and tells you to go plant it in the yard and piss on it. Better to be sure, she had said. You could not know that Dothraki women had done the same thing for centuries. You had not known any Dothraki women. Just her. Just the woman who had never been a mother to you but always there at least. Even now.

Even when you know, a week after, from the first little seedlings sprouting. Even when you throw up what little food you have managed to eat and sit with her, at night again, too stunned to think, too scared to move.

All you can hear is Aemond’s recriminations. That he should have known from the start the snake he had allowed in his bed. Fool. Thrice damned fool. Blinder than a man with both his eyes gouged out. Telling you, you were to be banished from his and the princess’ presence lest your lechery infect her and everything around her too. You would have begged in that moment. You would have fallen on your knees and tried to explain the world you inhabited, the one where you do not dare say no to princes, even when you know full well you could break their noses.

But you hadn’t been able to look at Aemond Targaryen and lie to him. You had no words to tell him the truth you lived. You couldn’t tell him you had not wanted his brother, or how hard you had tried to keep wanting him even after he spoke to you, if only for a second, before you realized the futility of it. Before you had realized how drunk he was and that only jesting boldness could have ever brought about his interest in you. Because he was beautiful too. A king’s son too. No lice. All his teeth. Hands soft as silk. And he wanted you when no one did. Wanted you before Aemond or Helaena had deigned to notice you existed at all. When all you knew was the small, meanness of the world and endless work without thanks.

But then he had spoken and you had felt your heart die. Because they all had to speak in the end. Prince Aegon and the rancid sea captain and that one drunk, old lecher who had backhanded you and almost refused to pay, when you had been only fifteen and desperate to get your family the things they needed from you. It was as if they could not help but ruin your simple, pitiful illusion that this was anything but animal filth. The knowledge that you had carried every day of your life after you had left the Dothraki Sea: that a man would sooner piss on you than fuck you.

And then you had wanted to rip that silver hair off his head, his eyes from their sockets, knock in each one of his perfect teeth. Because he hadn’t even dignified you with desire. None of them ever did. And you had shredded your nails to pieces against the stone floor, willing it to be over soon, willing yourself not to enjoy it, because it had been so long since someone, anyone, had touched you.

And then Aemond had come into your life and changed it all. With his daggers and his insane, impossible demands. Blood and desire mixed inextricably together for the both of you, so much that love would forever more taste of copper to your tongue. Because that had been his gift to you. Leave to lay hands on him as easily as men had ever laid hands on you. You had used it then, one last time, when he had said, venom overflowing his lips, that he should have known your falseness when you had been kind to Helaena.

And that had been the end of it. You swinging at Prince Aemond one last time. Spitting on his face after splitting his lip open, because there was no more love for you on his sharp, cruel mouth. And because you had had nothing to lose, no further thing to be taken from you, you had said to him you would rather walk the rest of your days, like the old and infirm of a khalasar, before you ever laid eyes on him again.

And Aemond, fierce Valyrian purple eye fixed on both your red ones, looking more regal and perfect than any man with a bleeding mouth had the right to, had cursed you in a single breath, “That is exactly what you’ll do.”

You had left with nothing because you had wanted nothing of him, or his blood. You had refused to look for the steward or Princess Helaena or the queen. And now here you were, staring at your aunt, feeling sick again, with your heart torn from your breast and a belly full of prince.

Your aunt holds you, even when you still cannot find your tears. All you can think of is that the gods had known. From Stranger to Mother of Mountains, to the gods of Old Valyria you had once known the names of because Aemond had taught them to you. The gods had known who you were, stupid, eager girl. Because when you had laid with Prince Aegon you had washed his seed out of you as quick as you could and used honey and prayed. There had been no money for moontea and the terror that you might lose your position had been too great to ask anyone for help. So you had prayed to any god who would listen to you until your blood had come but now… You hadn’t prayed hard or often enough for Aemond. The gods could tell what you had truly wanted.

So when your aunt, face as pale and frightened as yours, had suggested you could go to the Street of Silk to find a way to flush this problem out, or you could marry the butcher, quickly enough that he would not suspect the babe to not be his, you had pushed her away so fast she had nearly fallen and you had stood straight as a spear to tell her you would not.

“He is Blood of the Dragon.”

And your aunt had looked as broken and defeated as you knew you should’ve felt. Had been too horrified by the certainty and conviction in your face to notice your cousin Angus, lumbering as he was, trying to wedge his ungainly big-boned frame closer to the staircase so he could hear you both and remain unseen. Home and awake at this hour because you had finally been unable to continue paying his master.

“The… king?” Your aunt had guessed breathlessly, not knowing the blow she had dealt you when doubting, quite naturally, that you could have caught the eye of a prince. Let alone two. You do not think about it. Refuse to linger on Prince Aegon when you know you carry a babe in your belly.

Your babe. 

You do not know what you are thinking, merely shake your head in denial and murmur furtively,

“The prince. Aemond One-Eye.”

And you do not blame your aunt that her knees buckle under her and she sits down, her hand on her mouth holding in her fear. She knows next to nothing of the royal family, except what little she has pried from you. But this she knows.

She looks at you in something close to awe. Her savage girl. The one born of horses and spite.

“Gods save us all.”

And that was exactly what she had screamed, when your uncle had hauled you out of bed in the morning, after she had let you sleep in while she made breakfast alone, having begged you already to reconsider dignity and heartbreak, to go back to the Red Keep and inform someone, anyone, of the danger you carried in your belly. Because a royal bastard, no matter the mud on its mother’s feet, was an entirely different beast.

But there had been no time. No accounting for her husband’s newfound strength, aided by Angus on his bad side, as shocked and horrified as any of them, but still unable to let his old father falter, as he dragged you out of bed and house.

“I’ll not have you in my home,” he had panted, hard at work dragging you behind him, tripping on his own weak leg, his useless arm all but forgotten in his scorn. “I’ll not have a harlot carrying on like this! With my daughters here!”

You can hear Bree and Delma comforting the younger ones. You can hear your aunt crying and begging and doing nothing. You catch a glimpse of Angus’ stricken face, sick with shock, but still holding up his father’s mangled body.

Always there, never a part of them, you had told Prince Aemond. And he had known exactly what you meant. Had devoured your lips with hunger and urgency and kissed your hands, angry thoughts full of Luke and Jace, Baela and Rhaena.

The worst part. The hardest to swallow. The most painful thought. That you loved them, all of them, sleepless nights and resentment and enduring silence… but still you had loved them.

And there might have been some love left for you in your uncle’s rage. It was the hidden truth behind every man who had ever called a woman he loved a whore. There might have been tears still left in him for the little orphan child he had taken in, his sister’s wild girl, a little ghost of a thing he had sent to work for strangers and been unable to protect.

But it was not enough. It had not been enough for Aemond to hear whatever words you had been unable to speak to him. And it was not enough to stop your uncle, exhausted from the effort of dragging his strong, young niece out the house, and unable to haul you further. It wasn’t enough to stop him from feeling the shame of his aching and weakened body, and of taking that shame out on you, one gnarled hand with a handful of your hair, finding no strength to keep moving, but finding enough anger to slam your face against the door frame again and again and again.

And you would have let him. If you had been nought but the resigned, lonely girl Prince Aegon had shoved against the stone floor, then you would have closed your eyes and prayed it would be over soon.

But you weren’t that anymore and it had been foolish to think you ever would be again. You had tasted fire from Aemond One-Eye’s lips. You had tasted steel and sulfur and hatred. And you had tasted love. You were growing a dragon inside you and you would broker no disrespect for him or yourself.

It’s one swift motion, one even a prince could be proud of. Your right hand grabbing a hold of your uncle’s left and your left using your momentum to swing. You hear a sickening crunch and feel something breaking under your knuckles. Good. You almost don’t feel sorry.

Your aunt and cousins are sobbing and you can barely see through the film of blood seeping from your forehead and the ringing of your abused ear. You want to spit on the floor of this place you had thought a home. You want to say something proud like your father would have, something fierce and scornful like Aemond.

You don’t get the chance.

Angus is a big lad now, a big hurt lad, who had never understood you but had always looked up to you. You don’t want to blame him for knocking you into the floor with the awkward, hulking launch of his body for your midsection.

He’s only a boy. Your boy. Whose hurts you have patched. Whose food you have paid for, in tears and sweat and hate. He’s only a boy defending his father… but you can’t afford pity today. Today your coin’s all spent.

You knee him in the groin, and he does not laugh like Aemond. There are tears of pain and humiliation at the corners of his eyes. A penniless boy’s dignity much dearer to him than to a prince. And you don’t flee him as you had fled Aemond, a lifetime ago, because you know, instinctively, the danger of pursuit. You climb on top of him and grab a hold of his head, hitting it once, twice for good measure, so he will know to stay down.

He does not. For a second you are proud.

Then you feel his fist knock the air out of you, but you do not falter. You do not back down. You find his nose with your left hand because you do not trust your exhausted sight, and ram the heel of your right between his eyes, breaking one more thing in this house before you leave it forever.

Angus does not try to hit you again, just lays on the floor, clutching his face, moaning in pain. You grab a handful of his hair so you can haul him up to you, so he can hear you. Shout it so the rest can hear it too.

“I am fucking done with all of you!”

You don’t want to look at your aunt. You don’t want to try to discern her expression behind the veil of sweat and tears and hate. But your eyes are as treacherous as they are dead and you seek her out anyway. You do not know if it is rage or hurt or grief on her, but you know something is wrong.

She is crying, unmoving but crying, her older girls in her arms are looking at you with something close to horror. And through your pain and nausea and heartbreak you can hear her say it again.

“Gods save us all.”

When you look down at where she’s looking, you see your skirts blooming red with blood.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Snippet? Snippet. The beginning of the Tadpole Broadcast System ( @ongreenergrasses told you I’d tag you ☺️)

The ravages of the Shadow Curse had grown worse than any of his nightmares could have prepared him for. Tendrils of fossilised malice formed great trunk-like expanses that rended the streets and uprooted the carcasses of long-abandoned homes. The field of battle was still strewn with the dead— his comrades in arms and dark justiciars both. Time bleached them all down to the same bones. Yet, Halsin couldn’t bring himself to look too long at the symbol of the Emerald Enclave— in one hundred years, the symbol rusting on the grove’s armour had not changed. It was the same as that emblazoned on his own chest.

He had never felt less deserving to wear it. With every step, he felt the penetrating stares of hollow eye sockets. His steps lagged at the back of the group, trying to pay his respects to each body they passed.

There were simply too many.

Back then, they had no time to bury the dead. Not as the curse rippled out from Moonrise Towers— not when Engmar fell before his eyes, and responsibility to lead was thrust onto his shoulders. Unwanted from the start. He carried the curse in his bones.

It has poisoned you, and through you, that poison reached all the way home. To the grove, Kagha, the goblins— your failures reek of it.

All that was left to be done was to right it— he owed that much to those he couldn’t save. After all this time, he would balance nature. In the Oakfather’s name.

And, of course, for the sake of his newfound companions, and the tadpoles they carried.

They were a brave bunch. Staring down the prospect of ceremorphosis, surrounded on all sides by the threat of the Absolute, far from their homes. It was too much for most. Halsin couldn’t truly say what he would do in their position. But still, he bound himself to them, doing his best to offer counsel while these unlikely companions tugged their shared string of fate.

Not for the first time, he looked around at the ragtag band of intrepid adventurers, and wondered if his presence could possibly be more help than hindrance. Their armour was near permanently bloodied, faces etched into haggard masks by the shadows as they delved deeper into their mission. Already, the toll of the curse was settling in them— Gale’s magic was all but spent by the end of each day’s journey; Shadowheart and Lae’zel hardly had the energy to bicker; even Wyll Ravengard, the noblest son of Baldur’s Gate, was grasping for hope in the darkness.

These young adventurers had already fought so hard, and given so much— they saved his life, saved his grove and all those who needed its shelter while Halsin could not. They had faced certain death at the goblin camp. He owed them all as much as he could give them.

And already, they had lost one of their number for his sake.

“Not lost.” Karlach reiterated that last night around the fire before delving into shadow. She said it as if she was getting sick of reminding them. “If Astarion was truly gone, Mr. Withers would’ve told us so. I asked him if he could revive him, but he can’t revive someone who’s still alive!”

Their cleric sighed. “It’s not like I want him to be dead. It’s simply a possibility we need to keep in mind before we mount some rescue mission that’s actually a body retrieval.”

“Chk. Yes, you never miss an opportunity to remind us of his likely fate.”

“That doesn’t mean I wish him torment, gith. He’s one of us. And whatever happened to the waste of resources? That your people would never stoop to aid a captured—?”

Halsin couldn’t help the tingle of surprise— the offense in Shadowheart’s tone was genuine. Perhaps there was hope that little sharran could forsake her darkness, even here. Perhaps they all could find a bit of light once more.

“Shadowheart, that’s enough.” Wyll cut them off, more exhausted than anything else. “We’re getting Astarion back, we’re finding my father, we’re figuring out how to get these tadpoles out of our brains, and we’re ending this bloody cult before it destroys our city.”

It was quite the to do list.

If the gods willed it, they would find their lost vampire. And Halsin had to try. It was the least he could do.

Before he even knew what was happening, when he was still getting pelted with stones through the bars of his dank cell, he saw a flash of a silver dagger. Smelled the sharp and sudden flood of fresh blood. In a flurry of motion, with the gurgle of a blood-choked scream, battle commenced. But, all Halsin could see was an elf emerging from the shadows, lockpick in hand.

He was slight, pale as a moonbeam and dressed like a bastion of civilisation— a city boy. It was the blood splattered across his fine clothes and the line of red in the corner of his mouth that gave him away as a part of nature. As a predator, not unlike the bear. Eyes glinted like garnet drops as he focused on the rusted old lock.

Oh, he was lovely. Surrounded by the bodies of the fallen, taking advantage of the distraction of battle to free him. Astarion freed a bear, not knowing if it would savage his handsome face.

It was Halsin’s fault he’d been in the goblin camp at all. His fault that he’d been whisked away to Moonrise. He owed Astarion that much.

They would find him.

[silverspleen]

Should work on my fic but fuck it break time have Call of Duty wingfic!AU headcanons! core 141 + faralex, beloveds. No Vaqueros I have no thoughts yet, still working through MW2.

---

Price - great crested grebe

silly hair

Gaz - harris's hawk

The most popular falconry hawk in the UK. They hunt in groups, are "quick learners" that are very social and intelligent and "very enjoyable to watch in action." (x) Also a really lovely two toned brown that really works for him.

It should be obvious why. I wanted a falconry bird that was just really good and lucked out with this one after a quick google search and finding blogs like "this is the most popular and best bird and it's so social and cool" and Gaz deserves this. He works hard, people like him. It works.

Ghost - barn owl

Big, quiet, and scary plus heavily associated with bad luck and being creepy.

Works with the whole blonde thing too! His wings skew more towards the blonde side and less towards the brown. Often artificially colors his wings to be darker, he doesn't like how they stand out. Is also completely quiet when he moves his wings due to him having nocturnal predator wings. Even flapping them fully doesn't make noise, and it's startling to people who don't know him.

Soap - eurasian magpie

They have big personalities and are known for things like tool use and being noisy and getting into fights and messing with bigger, badder animals. It works! The birds you see in the "bird is drunk!" or "bird messes with cat!" videos. Emotes more with his wings than the others. This is mostly an unconscious thing.

According to wikipedia "a magpie near the window of the house is said to foretell death" in Scotland. Can't back that up but... Take that as you will. 'One for Sorrow' also works though >:p

The 141 is very close so you know they're all pretty well maintained, wing wise, and all (mostly) comfortable allopreening with each other as a social bonding experience and often use it to decompress after long missions. Soap and Gaz tend to have the dirtiest wings after ops, Soap because he's getting into trouble and fighting and Gaz because he's working hard (and falling out of helicopters). Ghost is significantly more cagey about being preened, he'll participate in the sense that he's there while everything is going on but more prone to just preening himself on the side and making dry humor comments. He will let people allopreen him in more private settings as a one-on-one bonding moment.

------

the OTP

Alex - black vulture

Black vultures have been recorded allopreening birds outside of their species. Specifically the crested caracara. Huh funny that. Ah yes, the importance of strengthening social bonds with people who you are not supposed to form really intense social bonds with. Weird. Weird that I would chose this for him. Anyway. They're also associated with death and have a bad reputation, as does any American hanging out in a country they aren't supposed to be in.

Used to color his wings under his different aliases during CIA things, but stopped after meeting Farah. Always has meticulously shiny, clean, and well put together wings. No one knows how he does it he should not be able to preen to this degree of pretty in what is technically an active warzone. Broke his wing when he lost his leg, it healed properly enough that it doesn't cause him any significant mobility issues but does cause him chronic pain. Uses his wings to counterbalance the missing leg when he doesn't wear the prosthetic.

Farah - crested caracara

A desert bird of prey with a pretty crest and lovely stripes and, per wikipedia, "bold and opportunistic." While they do steal food from other birds, including vultures, they've also been recorded allopreening with them.

Not the greatest at keeping herself preened properly, always looks a little haggard, a combination of not really caring about her appearance outside of practicality (she basically just preens enough that she's not sick or dirty), not having the time, and severe trust issues. Got markedly worse when Hadir betrayed her, as previously they used to preen each other as a sibling bonding thing. Has suspiciously better maintained wings after Alex joins up. He is allopreening her you know he is social bonding with the Commander on the DL.

---

So many thanks to @quillusquillus for enabling me and throwing out the faralex one. It's important to have a friend who's really into birds and fish and dolphins and things so he can enable you when you go "hey wouldn't be funny if I did CoD wingfic stuff and Alex had bald eagle wings? American, am I right?" with "oh there's actually a species of american vulture known heavily for forming bonds outside of it's species, specifically with birds of prey. Just, you know. Food for thought." OH IS THERE??? AND THE BIRD IT COMMONLY ALLOPREENS HAS LOVELY STRIPES ON IT'S FEATHERS YOU SAY????

Sources for my headcanons shut up I googled things ok.

wikipedia (for each bird I read the wiki... ok)

https://www.birdorable.com/blog/bird-term-allopreening

https://www.birdful.org/what-is-the-difference-between-preening-and-allopreening/

https://www.thescottishcountryman.co.uk/blog-posts/harris-hawk-uk

https://www.audubon.org/news/the-silent-flight-owls-explained

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_for_Sorrow_(nursery_rhyme)

[redemn]

arthur's  killed  someone  again  today  .      someone  who  didn't  deserve  it  ,      and  he  doesn't  quite  know  why  he'd  done  it  .      oh  he'd  understood  in  the  moment  ,      when  the  barrel  of  that  pistol  had  been  pointed  straight  between  his  eyes  ,      that  he  needed  to  draw    …    and  returning  to  camp  with  heavier  pockets  and  a  new  watch  dangling  from  between  his  fingers  had  felt  better  ,      even  ,      than  the  bath  he'd  taken  just  yesterday  .      but  it's  been  one  year  now  since  his  split  with  mary  ,      and  months  since  he'd  recovered  from  his  hopeless  black  funk  .      he's  learned  how  to  handle  it  in  the  only  way  he  knows  how  :      taking  out  on  his  own  often  ,      taking  up  tasks  required  of  him  .      getting  his  knuckles  bloodied  and  his  hands  full  whenever  he's  able  to  .      this  path  always  remains  open  to  him  ,      and  there's  little  resistance  in  that  .

with  the  high  of  the  encounter  long  over  and  the  valuables  stored  away  for  later  pawn  ,      he's  taken  to  sitting  and  resting  himself  ,      whittling  away  at  his  dull  pencil  .      there's  some  part  of  him  that  regrets  the  killing  .      there's  another  part  of  him  that  reminds  all  his  faculties  not  to  become  overwhelmed  by  despondency  . there was reason for it somewhere . this is what he's always done .      his  time  for  wallowing  was  over  months  ago  ,      and  he's  done  well  for  the  gang  .      that's  all  that  matters  .

@coyotlindo  .      "  hey  ,      you  ,      uh  .      .      .      you  need  anything?  "  he  offers  with  a  soft  smile  and  a  somewhat  unsure  look  .      it  feels  like  a  lot  of  them  tend  to  forget  what  the  man  does  for  them  .      while  hardly  taking  any  breaks  .      unlike  a  lot  of  the  drunken  fools  wandering  about  camp  .      javier  himself  isn't  fully  innocent  of  that  either  .      but  it's  just  so  normalized  ever  since  he  can  remember:      arthur  does  what  he  is  told  ,      takes  one  for  the  team  ,      and  even  after  that  still  has  his  shit  together  enough  to  offer  them  comforting  words  .      at  least  so  it  would  seem  .    "  been  really  workin'  hard  these  days  .    "

he's  in  a  fog  of  thought  when  javier  arrives  in  his  somewhat  timid  ,      tentative  sort  of  way  ,      as  if  he's  not  sure  whether  or  not  arthur  wants  company  at  the  moment  .      arthur  becomes  suddenly  too  aware  of  his  expression  and  how  grave  it  must  look  to  anyone  who  happens  to  see  it  ,      and  he  takes  a  brief  moment  to  adjust  it  into  something  less  haggard  ,      more  inviting  .      less  troubled  ,      at  the  very  least  .      but  his  thoughts  still  plague  him  ,      and  the  most  he  can  let  out  to  break  the  silence  is  a  quiet  :        ❝        hey  ,      javier  .        ❞

he  whittles  another  small  shard  from  his  pencil  and  decides  it's  sharp  enough  ,      and  replaces  his  knife  in  his  belt  .      for  a  long  moment  ,      he  sits  in  contemplative  silence  .      he  is  not  a  man  to  dispel  his  worries  easily  ,      and  his  thoughts  aren't  worth  pennies  on  the  dollar  .        ❝        i  ,      uh    …        ❞        he  tugs  a  loose  bit  of  skin  from  the  inside  of  his  lip  .        ❝        don't  have  nothin'  needs  doin'  right  now  .      i'm  just  takin'  a  break  .        ❞        a  pause  ,      as  a  frown  flickers  at  his  brow  ,      only  to  be  hidden  by  the  way  he  lowers  his  head  again  and  readjusts  his  position  .      a  distraction  from  the  barbs  that  pierce  the  insides  of  his  throat  and  break  his  voice  into  gravel  .        ❝        i'd  like  company  ,      f'you'd    …    like  to  join  .        ❞

╰ ゜UNPROMPTED .  /  𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 .

[inquisimer]

Hello Mer! From the 'Hit 'Em Where it Hurts' prompt list for Isseya and Garahel, "I don't want to go." Happy writing!!

thank you for the prompt! It's not often that my own writing makes me cry, but this piece did it 😭😭 Some introspection for Isseya at Garahel's memorial, before she leaves on her Calling.

for @dadrunkwriting | Isseya & Garahel | wc: 760

-

Isseya’s steps were a muffled echo off the arching walls of the Heroes’ mausoleum. Enough time had passed since the Battle of Ayesleigh that she was alone with the memorial they’d built for her brother. She lifted her eyes to the ornate urn that held his ashes and bit back a sob.

And Isseya, be kind to yourself.

His final words, his final wish. Not for himself, as he dove toward certain, necessary death, but for her. Perhaps he’d known that choosing to die was the easier fate.

Isseya leaned her Blighted body against the marble, forehead pressing into the angular representation of Crookytail that stood guard at Garahel’s feet. He, at least, had been spared the cruel rage and death that she’d inflicted on the others. For it was her fault—her magic, her hubris—no matter what Amadis believed.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered. It wasn’t quite a lie—though as the sickly sweet voice of the Blight sang in the back of her mind, it wasn’t quite the truth either. It would be a relief to lay it all down. But this was not how she’d wanted to go. And she did not want to go without him, even though he was already lost to her.

It should have been her blow to take. The corruption in her was much farther along, hurried by her blood magic and whatever other strange, arcane forces decided which Wardens were worthy of sparing and which were destined to crumble away to nothing. While she wrapped her mottled scalp and sunken face in scarves to hide the horror, Garahel’s good looks persisted, no matter how haggard their duty made him.

They’d been right there together. Revas no less capable than Crookytail. It should have been her.

I have to go in alone. I have to. It was too tight for them to go in together. But that was not a reason he had to go in alone.

Isseya thought she’d come to peace with Garahel’s choice. But now the tears came forth, spilling from milky eyes and dripping pathetically down her waxy cheeks. He deserved every honor they’d heaped upon him; even before Andoral lay dead, he had been the hero of this Blight.

But in that moment, he’d stolen a quick peace from her. Not only did she have to keep on with every wretched, ragged breath, but she had to live, for the first time, in a world where he did not.

She had failed those she loved most. More than failed—she had condemned them. And she was alone with that regret.

Perhaps she did want to go, after all. She was ready for it to be over.

Isseya turned her tear-streaked face to her brother’s stone eyes. The only one who’d seen her, all along, as she walked a path darker than she should have dared and it twisted her into something barely recognizable. And he’d never flinched, not once.

“Will it be enough?” she whispered. The eggs were secured behind layers of stone and magic and guarded by a maternal High Dragon. Her journal was likewise hidden in Weisshaupt; in plain sight, but only for those who cared to truly look. Lyrium dust still glittered beneath her fingernails.

Her final atonement. And she would never know if it worked. That was the price she paid, for a chance to save her beloved griffons.

Perhaps something in Garahel had known that she was the only one who could make this choice. The true final sacrifice of the Fourth Blight. While the people of Ages to come honored her brother, none would know of the parts she played, the mistakes she’d made, or what she gave to try and set things right.

As it should be. She never wanted the glory that Garahel chased. If even one of those eggs survived long enough for someone clever and worthy enough to work through Isseya’s clues, it would be worth it.

She stared up at Garahel through glassy eyes. The masons hadn’t quite captured that self-assured smirk he always wore and they’d given him smooth skin where he had moles and evened out the lopsided angle of his ears. But Isseya could see every version of him, from their Joining through shades of Blight to the final moment before Crookytail dove, as clearly as she always had.

Both of them had given everything they had to the Wardens. As the Wardens demanded.

“I hope it was enough,” she whispered. It had to be. She had nothing else left.

[edward-cabrini]

"The Curse of Want" Deep Dive: Chapter 1

Where should stories begin? Personally I believe they should start from the first event that will affect the principal protagonist. In this case that is less than a year after Lorcan's birth. Alone with her hound and babe clasped tightly in her arms Lorcan's mother, Annie, is standing in the rain watching the approach of a fian as her dog barks and growls. Annie's decision to join the fian, in order to provide for her son, ultimately brings about everything else that follows. As you might imagine a vulnerable single mother wandering through battlefields looking for scraps and salvage to barter with is not in much of a position to refuse aid.

The rígfénnid, Eamon, is a vile and detestable rapist and opportunist. However, he does protect Annie and the baby as promised. Even seeming to become something of a real father figure to Lorcan. For most of Lorcan's time in the camp he refers to his mother as Ma and father as Da. Though he's brutal and cruel, Eamon, takes an interest in educating Lorcan. Teaching him to fight, and trying to make a man of him so that he can survive, maybe even thrive by his side. It's this decision to train Lorcan that sparks one of Lorcan's qualities to shine though in it's purest form. Annie, questions Eamon as he drags Lorcan from her to begin his first lesson. In retribution for her question he threatens to throw her to the rest of the fian for use. Lorcan immediately begins dragging his father away saying, "Let's go I want to!" Whether he truly is interested in learning to live as a mercenary or not is secondary to the immediacy of his reaction to a threat against some one he cares about. This moment of selfless self sacrifice is repeated through out Lorcan's life in ever darker hues, but we'll get to those moments as they crop up. It's not long before Lorcan ends up in his first battle. An assault on sieged river castle. It's walls having been bombarded for weeks on end, are weak and crumbling. The defenders are haggard and ready to surrender. A final push and the castle will be recaptured from Waullen hands. Eamon's fian is ready before the weakest wall ready to assault with ladders. By chance the wall give way, the brutal melee see's Lorcan kill a man for the first time. Although child soldiers aren't uncommon, one as young as Lorcan is. Following his training Lorcan thrust his spear at the gap in the knights armour through the knight's groin and into his pelvis. Of course, this isn't a fast way to kill a man and in his dying moments the knight tries to strangle Lorcan, sending them both to the floor. It's at this point, disarmed and trapped under dead weight, that a second knight goes for Lorcan with a mace. Lorcan takes up the slain knight's sword and just barely manages to kill this second knight a in brutal struggle on the floor. The first man was quick, almost a surprise to Lorcan, barely registering. This second knight was slow and horrible as a kill.

The sword Lorcan has just picked up is the same he'll carry with him for the rest of his time as a mercenary. He may have been trained to use a spear by his father, but he's essentially trauma bonded to his weapon now. It saved his life when his spear failed him.

The way into the castle is clear and Lorcan follows after the charging fian. Having been struck by the mace and who knows what else, we don't return to Lorcan until he awakes atop a pile of corpses. Looking for his father he finds him only to be met with callous dismissal of his own survival. Lorcan isn't special. He's just another of Eamon's fenids now. Death is a certainty, maybe not now. Maybe not for a long time, but eventually. Personally, I think it's this dismissal of the staggering feat that is surviving the assault is what eventually leads to Lorcan's stoicism. His lack of self preservation is ultimately fuelled by a need to prove he deserves the next day. He'll shoulder whatever burden he needs to to prove it. Not the healthiest outlook, but a functional one.

Naturally Lorcan will escape this abusive "home" but for now I'll leave you with a quote from Chapter 1, spoken by Lorcan to a wounded Eamon:

Eamon grabbed Lorcan by the scruff of his shirt. "Don't think this changes anything boy, you still belong to me." He reminded his son as he doubled over in a coughing fit. "I'll look after you as well as you looked after my Ma," Lorcan promised, kicking his crutch out from under him before storming out the cathedral.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

[cws: starvation/food insecurity, fantasy racism, psychiatric abuse, ableism, and Upsetting Pictures.]

-

one thing that fucks me up immensely about pericles before and after the asylum is how fucking skinny he is.

like. as much as obviously the two designs are Very Inconsistent in general which annoys me, look at him pre-timeskip. look at how he's shaped.

his head and face are way smoother and rounder, both in front and back, and the space between his cheekbones and his eyebrow ridge is filled in; his body is rounder in general and his belly is noticeably between his thighs when he's standing up; he has kind of a chubby butt; his chin and neck are softer and wider around, which you can really see with the width of the scarf compared to his shoulders and the angle where it meets his head. it comes up in front of his face more because there's not as much of an angle with his chin to hold it down.

now. compare all those things to this.

christ.

and like, you could argue some of these design differences are tiny things to zero in on in a show that's as loose with its models as sdmi is. but present-day pericles' design is pretty obviously supposed to be unsettling because he's physically built to be a Cute Roumb Little Mascot Creature--so much so that the framework has managed to stick around a little in spite of everything--and has become gaunt and haggard anyway. and you could also argue that the body type changes are just thanks to aging twenty years (and i don't doubt that's contributed).

except. he spent those twenty years in an asylum where the other inmates we see look like this.

christ.

(fun little fact that @thecottageinthedark pointed out also: remember how he literally got caught at one point because he couldn't stop eating sunflower seeds, even during a heist? a high-fat, high-calorie snack for birds? you know, exactly the kind of thing a starving person who finally has proper access to food would be wolfing down?)

(yeah.)

did i mention that this happened in a (fantasy) racially segregated prison, which is technically an asylum so the inmates can be kept there indefinitely, because in an actual prison you're required to have a sentence? did i mention that none of the human characters we see in human prison look any less healthy during or afterward, and on top of that are allowed to move around and socialize? did i mention the absolutely horrific treatment of the asylum inmates is implied to be despite the fact that the (physically abusive!) guard is playing up how dangerous and malicious they are? (you know. except for pericles 🙃)

did i mention the man who got pericles imprisoned--who he had not only done nothing to beforehand, but had helped--says he was there to 'live out the rest of his miserable parrot life in a cage, where he belonged,' and not only do none of the characters we're supposed to side with have anything to say about that, but the audience is clearly supposed to agree with him too?

(did i mention said man--who was in on the crime, singular, that pericles went to prison for!--spends those twenty years living a life of luxury in power while abusing the child he kidnapped as a baby and held hostage his entire life, and when we see him in prison he is not only chilling out and helping the authorities but reading a newspaper?)

did i mention the part where by the time we meet pericles he hasn't spoken in years?

like. man the 'ooooo scary evil abused asylum crazies' trope is bad enough, even when they pretend to lampshade it for a minute before playing it straight; i don't know how they added in All That and made him emaciated and expected no one to find it heartbreaking or even sympathetic. i don't care how bad he was before the asylum (and dear god was he ever), that is horrifying and no one deserves it. god damn.

[mothwingwritings]

Taming Of Beasts

Fem!Reader X Zenos Yae Galvus

I wrote this right after I finished StormBlood a few months ago. Zenos is def one of my fav villians in Final Fantasy and I wanted to take a stab at trying to write something for him. :) I hope I did him an ounce of justice.

This is supposed to take place sometime between Heavensward and Stormblood. Ala Mhigo is still very much going through some shit in this little fic (and so is the reader, for that matter).

(Also Stormblood is free right now so if you have any interest and haven’t played, now is the time to act!!!)

Warnings: War, death, blood, spoilers possibly up to the point of stormblood? But not anything huge.

Victory had become too easy.

Over the past several months the thrill of the hunt had significantly waned, each battle presenting itself with less resistance than the one prior. Every adversary faced was now more apt to cower, roll over and submit then to stand up and fight. The empire’s spreading influence was quickly becoming far too overpowering for these backwater colonies to handle, and it was painfully apparent with each visit Zenos made that these hunting fields had long since held any interesting sport. Citizens who were once so eager to fight for their homeland now bared their stomachs like whimpering, scared dogs.

His father and the legion commanders saw it as a good thing, satisfied that the illustrious Garlean Empire was finally achieving what it rightfully deserved. With every passing day more land was claimed by the empire, and with the land came influence, victory, and boredom.

The successes were too easy and each day that dragged by in Ala Mihgo had grown lackluster to the empire’s crown prince. What was once an exciting hunting ground was now a barren isle, the lands that had brought thrilling promises of conquest now plagued by dwindling opposition, souring the once sweet experience he found roaming these fields.

Each step of his heavy sabatons sunk him into the earth, the dirt path softened with the spilled blood of the fallen. Droplets of the viscous red liquid stained the sole and sides of the dark metal, the agonized expressions of the corpses reflecting back off their bloodied surface as he paraded by.  Soon those bodies would be carted away, dumped in some unmarked mass grave to rot deep underground. There was neither honor nor peace in their passing, their miserable existences snuffed out as easily as blowing out a candle.

He smiled.

He was making his way towards a line of soldiers and survivors, and though the latter of the two outnumbered his battalion, they were far too broken to pose a threat. The group consisted of a varied mix of individuals, men and women, young and old, huddled together shoulder to shoulder. Most wept, while others remained silent and quivering. Held firmly in the soldiers grasps, none of the prisoners dared make eye contact with the approaching prince.

None save for you.

Wild was the only way he could describe you, ready to lunge at him the moment he took a step too close. Covered in blood, hair matted and tangled, outfit torn to shreds with gaping wounds peering out through the cracks, you were truly a sight to behold. It was obvious you had fought hard to earn your spot amongst the survivors, and judging by the more kempt look of your compatriots, you deserved it far more than they did.

While most of the prisoners shared a soldier keeping them in check, you had your own personal guard holding you under firm lockdown to prevent you from breaking free and causing issues. The soldier watching you seemed haggard, as if restraining someone as tiny as you had taken a great deal of effort. Zenos internally scoffed at the scene. There was no place for weakness in his battalion, he made note to exact due punishment later.

“Sir,” one of the men spoke as he approached, imperial salute following his words, “We have cleared the area. There was some opposition, but it has been dealt with.”

Zenos’ masked face scoured the surrounding area, finding far too many of their own men’s bodies mixed in with the mongrels. “Dealt with you say, but it seems you had quite the time taking over one small village.”

The soldier addressing him stiffened. “… It’s true, my lord. They did put up more of a fight than was anticipated. There is no excuse for the amount of lives our side lost.”

“If you are aware of that then it should have been avoided,” his cold words made the soldier visibly uneasy, his weight now shifting unsteadily between his feet, “but that may be addressed later. I see we have some cornered animals in our midst.”

The man quickly nodded, relieved to have the heat taken off himself. He turned to the disheveled group, causing them to flinch at the recognition.  “These are the enemy survivors, all of them active members of the resistance. Some, once trained, we believe may make fine soldiers. The others can be used as slaves, in the pleasure quarters, or as bargaining chips. Should my lord will it, we can instead kill them.”

A jolt passed through the crowd, a wave of sheer terror and indignation flashing across their muddied, bruised faces. Even you, staunch as you remained, shuddered at the flippant words that spilled from his soldier’s lips. The lot of you was nothing in the face of the Garlean Empire, and it horrified you that you lived or died at the whim of one man.

He did consider ending you all, leaving your final moments to be filled with dread and the futility of your efforts. How fitting it would be to have the final thought to flit through your fading conscious be your own ineptitude, the frailty you exuded trying to preserve your own existence for a chance at freedom. Your subjugation was inevitable, but he supposed being spared watching the rest of your brethren and kin being torn down until they were all nothing but toiling and obedient pets, cannon fodder, or corpses could be considered a nicety.

Mere inches separated you from the crown prince, and he took a moment to fully take you in. The unrestrained malice and fear dancing in your wide eyes, the tightly clenched fists held in place at your side, the deep grimace that engulfed your entire face. Your body shook in the guard’s hold, each quake relaying how clearly upset you were to be ensnared in this situation. If he ordered them to let you go, what would you do? Attack him the moment you were given leeway, or would you crumble to your knees in despair?

Musing on it piqued his interest. Hunched over before him, you looked so insignificant. Shuddering as you glowered up at him, he could tell you were on the brink of collapse but were doing your very best to hide your feebleness from him.

Your animosity was palpable, the kind that only comes when someone is pushed far past their limit. Your home, your family, your friends, his men must have taken it all from you. And now that you were captured, the torment you faced was sure to be dragged on, only guaranteed to end with your gruesome and painful death.

Zenos wondered if you realized how lucky you were to have survived to this point. Like a phoenix, you had risen from the ash of your past life, born into a new life of combat and strife, forged by the hells of war. The situation that was forced upon you was a truly wonderful breeding ground, an opportunity to mold you into something extraordinary.

But was it enough? You certainly had the look of a mad dog about you, but to show the true colors of a feral beast you would require more time. You needed more experiences to break you, rebuild you into a seething vessel of hatred, an avatar of merciless revenge.

If the process didn’t destroy you, how much more interesting would you become?

A slow smile crept across his lips.

There was a woman next you, older than you by at least two decades. Her manic eyes kept flicking to you, her chapped hands violently wringing the tattered rags that once resembled a dress. She seemed worried for you, and judging by the way your eyes darted to her every so often, softening with each quick gaze, it was fair to say she was someone important to you. Was she your mother, or perhaps an aunt? She was too old to be a sibling, but too young to be a grandparent. Maybe just a kind older woman you took a shine to? It mattered not, her end would happen regardless of her relations.

Zenos lifted his hand languidly, stopping once it had pointed to the woman beside you. She grew pale as he singled her out, her knees knocking so hard he was surprised she still stood. His hand swept over the remaining people, indiscriminately landing on two other elderly captives. An intense wave of unease spread throughout you, accented by the intense quiet that fell over the small crowd.

His lips parted, the words spilling out in a bored admonishment, “These three are past their prime and have no further use in this world.”

You froze, your face twisting into a look of unadultered dread. You knew what was coming next.

“Kill them.”

Without further fanfare, the soldiers nearest each of the chosen drew their weapons and fired. Three bodies fell with a uniformed ‘thud’ to the ground. Fresh blood streaked across your cheek as your companion made her way to the ground. Screams erupted around you, broken and gasping for their stolen loved ones.

Though your mouth had fallen open in shock, no sound spilled out.

The look of anguish the spread across your face was so appealing that he almost considered praising you for it. Cold, agonized distress suited you just as much as bitter rage.

With a flick of his wrist, he continued doling out fates. “The two on the end look sturdy enough to be soldiers, the three in the middle can be tasked with menial labor, and that one over there I am sure can find work in the pleasure quarters.”

“And what of this one, sir?”

The guard holding you gave you a rough jostle, seeming to bring you to your senses. Your eyes traveled slowly from the body at your feet to Zenos himself, the heartbreak you were suffering flickering out as it was once more replaced with thrumming anger. You gritted your teeth, eyebrows cinching as your chest began to rise and fall with erratic breaths. You were doing all you could to keep yourself together, but the final thread holding you was stretching so thin…

Zenos took a step towards you, the motion putting you on alert. You must have been ready for a death order, trying to make peace with the fact that this is how it would all end for you. With another step he was upon you, his regal form hulking before you. Your eyes fixated on his concealed face, a tempest of emotions swirling within them.  

His hand reached out towards you, and though your eyes sparked with a look of apprehension, you remained still. He latched on to your chin, giving a small pleased hum as he felt your flesh quiver in his hold. Upon contact, your face twisted into a look of sheer disgust which he found quite amusing.

You winced as he jerked your head this way and that, assessing the different angles of your face. Even covered in grime you were lovely, surely in more peaceful times you were sought after amongst the rabble to wed. His eyes flicked over your body, taking in each curve and valley viewable to him, the cuts and bruises that littered your skin only made you look that much more appealing.

“This one will serve me directly.”

Your eyes widened, a moment of silence spreading amongst the soldiers as they cast each other sideways glances. “My lord, are you sure,” the man holding you finally broke the silence, “This one is… Well, they are a bit unruly sir.”

He held back a laugh at the blush that passed your cheeks, affronted by the soldier’s choice of words. He guessed unruly was not how you would choose to be described in this situation.

“I can see that,” Zenos spoke plainly, releasing your chin from his grasp, “However a new personal servant is needed since one has recently passed of old age. This woman is lively and can handle the strains of the job. She will be trained in the role, broken down as many times as it takes till she understands her place.” He turned his back towards you and began his departure, his dull tone calling back over his shoulder, “If she can’t adjust to the position I will kill her myself.”

“Then do it.”

He stopped in his tracks, your shaky words the first time he had the pleasure of hearing your voice.  

“I’d rather die than serve you.”

Your voice warbled, but your message was loud and clear. It was a declaration you wanted people to hear. Was it to try and inspire your fellow man that lined up beside you, maybe place an ounce of fight back into the shackled and broken? Perhaps it was an attempt to boost confidence in yourself? Maybe it was simply an act of rage-filled defiance towards the man who personally led the charge which slaughtered your kin, their blood still freshly smeared across your hands and chest.  

It struck him then that you looked beautiful like that, scowling and full of fury, soaked in the blood of your loved ones and enemies alike. It surprised him that a mere pest could hold such radiance, his attraction to you stupefying as he turned towards you, your crazed eyes boring straight through his mask, locking with his own.

“Silence,” the guard holding you gave you a violent shake, “How dare trash like you address Lord Zenos that way, you impudent-“

“Enough.”

Zenos lifted his hand, the sharp command causing both you and the guard to instantly still, your eyes quickly casting to the ground in dismay. He could practically hear your thoughts as he made his way back towards you. Surely this was your now end, there was no way the crown Prince of the empire would let such insolence stand. You would be made an example of, another death to add to the killing field.

The thought annoyed him. Why were you so eager to die when you showed such promise?

He towered before you, his armored hand once more latching to your chin, forcibly tilting your head until he held your watery, conflicted gaze. He could feel you vibrate with anxiety in his hold, your jaw clenched so tight your face had turned red.

“What is it about the battlefield that makes people like you want to throw them self into deaths embrace so carelessly, I wonder? Is it lack of faith, or the overwhelming fear of the odds being stacked against you? Is it the heartbreak over having your loved one cut down before you? Maybe you are just tired of the inadequacy, of being so powerless before true might?”

Your face morphed into a look of disdain, a fresh tear sliding down your cheek carved a clear path through the filth that had accumulated on you.

“Don’t you find it a waste? All that potential building up inside of you, mounting with each hopeless assault against your people… I can see it in your eyes. The hunger to strike me down right where I stand,” he tightened his grip, causing you to cringe, “It’s an admirable quality to have, even for a cur such as yourself.”

Abruptly he pulled away, your head lulling forward from the lack of support. Zenos turned on his heel, stepping away to carry on with the next order of business.

“You have your orders,” He called briskly over his shoulder, “Make sure they are carried out with haste.”

The soldiers nodded, immediately falling into action as Zenos began his departure. He glanced once more over his shoulder as you were dragged away. With the wind no longer in your sails you were much more malleable, putting up little to no fuss as the soldiers ushered you to your fate.

The boredom he had long been suffering from started to diminish as he considered the future. A smirk ghosted his lips as he turned forward, a low hum accentuating his hurried footsteps.

“Who knew such an intriguing find would be buried within this rubbish,” he spoke in barely above a whisper, the words intended for no one but himself, “I am quite interested in what you will become, my little whelp.”

[neopuff]

ALWAYS ON MY MIND

chapter four: lose my mind ships: sasha/milla characters: milla, truman, hollis, sasha, otto, 33 word count: 5404 ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53435410/chapters/135830683

[chap 1] [2] [3]

-

Nightmares.

Nightmares, nightmares, nightmares.

Every other day since the situation started, Milla was faced with discussions about nightmares and her expertise in dealing with nightmares and how those poor people didn’t deserve their nightmares and they needed to do whatever they could to find the person responsible for the nightmares. It was exhausting. But it was also an important lesson for her and Milla was glad to get it early in her new career - being a Psychonaut proper was going to be exhausting at times. It was going to be stressful and it was going to force her to confront her trauma over and over and over again. That was what she’d signed up for when she told Truman she wanted to help other people the way he’d helped her.

But still. She hadn’t expected nightmares to be so relevant so quickly.

It’d been almost two weeks since her initial mission with Agents Forsythe and 33. Milla hadn’t gotten to know their history or interests, but she was getting to know them well through their mannerisms and how they handled themselves in times of frustration.

Frustration was probably an understatement. The citizens of Ferndale had grown increasingly restless - they weren't able to sleep, they were barely able to eat, and there was a growing distrust amongst them since the man in their shared nightmares had yet to be identified. Whoever he was, he was either disguising himself or he was not someone who had ever been to the town before.

33 had done her best to infiltrate the town and get to know the people on a personal level. But the distrust that had festered between friends and family members was even stronger when it came to new people in the area, so her efforts had become mostly futile. Agent Forsythe was still happy to have her on the mission and on the ground floor, but they didn’t have the advantage they were hoping for.

As the so-called “nightmare expert” of the group, Milla had been attempting to keep a close eye on any activity that was reminiscent of the nightmares she was so familiar with. The strange shared dreams of the town had turned dark and terrifying within a few days of their initial assignment, so Milla honestly wondered if she was even helpful anymore. Agent Forsythe promised her that her insights were still very, very important, and she wanted her to stay on the team until they’d solved the problem.

After that first mission, Milla was determined to make sure she was always well-prepared and up-to-date with any relevant information about the assignment she was given. She paid close attention to everything Truman or Agent Forsythe or Agent 33 said and she kept diligent notes on her findings.

Her most recent mission involved the three of them entering the mind of a local who’d been one of the afflicted - he had such terrible nightmares. They’d taken down a few of the nightmare creatures in his head, and Milla managed to catch a glimpse of an unfamiliar man that seemed to be commanding them before he disappeared. It was the biggest breakthrough they’d made so far, and Milla was sure the case would finally start winding down once they caught him. One slip up was all they needed to get on his trail.

On the third Wednesday after the situation began, Milla was called to Truman's office for an early morning meeting with him and Agent Forsythe. When she arrived, she found Truman looking haggard and anxious, packing things into a small suitcase and barely paying attention to his surroundings. Forsythe was standing in front of his desk, hand cradling her forehead, looking less stressed than him but not by much.

“...is this a bad time?” Milla asked, despite the fact that she was asked to be there.

Agent Forsythe turned around. “Milla! Perfect. I have good news and bad news - well, mostly bad news.”

Milla stood still, hands clasped in front of her like a school child waiting for punishment.

“We identified the man that you saw in Ferndale the other day,” Agent Forsythe continued, glancing over at Truman. “And today is the perfect day to make our move. Before he can find out and get away, obviously.”

“That’s great! But…what’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that I won’t be able to go with you and 33.” Agent Forsythe sighed and took a seat in Truman’s chair while he started zipping up his suitcase. “Truman has to go home and be with his wife, who’s nauseous and in pain all the time - which I told him would happen. You’d think he’d listen to the woman with a medical degree, but no.”

“You don’t need to rub salt in the wound, you know!”

“Anyway. I don’t want you and 33 going out there without a senior agent on board,” Agent Forsythe continued, ignoring Truman’s comment. “I’m going to let you choose from the available operatives since I have to catch up on all of Truman’s work, plus attend the seventeen meetings he has scheduled for today.”

Truman appeared at her side, suitcase under his arm. Milla noticed that it seemed to be filled with papers more than anything else. “It’s eighteen meetings, actually. Oleander just scheduled a lunch meeting to discuss more camp details.”

“Lunch. With Oleander.” Forsythe sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. It’s not like I needed the break or anything.”

Truman smiled at Milla. “Gotta take care of Anna. Hopefully not for too long, she’s still got four months to go!”

Agent Forsythe rolled her eyes and Milla, who knew a lot about childcare but not so much about childbirth, smiled awkwardly back at him. “I’m sure Agent Forsythe can handle things here without you for a little while. You really should spend as much time with your wife as possible.”

“Ahh. I suppose.” Truman looked unconvinced and levitated himself out of the room, grumbling the whole time. “I’ll call when things settle down!”

Milla watched him leave, then turned around to find Agent Forsythe flipping through some papers on Truman’s desk. She looked very unhappy about the situation, but also seemed excited. Like she was planning to reorganize his work and make it more efficient. She looked up at Milla and nodded. 

“As I was saying - choose from our available senior operatives. If you go with Oleander, you’ll save me from a terrible lunch. But I don’t think he’s the best choice here. Aaronson, Bubai, Ghoshal, Nein or Yeomans would all be good options. They’re quick to get up to speed and none are currently on an assignment.”

“Oh, so…I should just go find one of them and ask?”

Agent Forsythe smirked. “Don’t ask. Tell them it’s an order from me and they don’t have a choice.”

Milla smiled at that. She’d grown to really enjoy working with Agent Forsythe, even if the woman was just as intimidating as she’d been the first time they’d spoken. “Understood. Should I, ah…ask Agent 33 her preference?”

“She doesn’t care. It’s up to you.”

“Ah.” Her thoughts drifted very specifically to one of the names that was mentioned. “I guess I’ll go let one of them know, then!” As Milla turned around to leave, she was struck by an embarrassing final comment from her superior.

“I believe you’ll find Agent Nein in Agent Mentallis’ lab.”

She pouted, feeling embarrassed that it was so obvious which agent she was going to request. But she’d barely worked with the others and Agent Nein was very nice - it would be fun to work with him on something official. Milla pretended she didn’t feel like she was caught and simply turned around, waving a quick thank you before heading back down to the Nerve Center.

It wasn’t the first time someone had suggested she had a preference for spending time with Sasha over some other agents. To be fair - they weren’t wrong, she did like him. But there was an implication behind their words that she didn’t really know what to do with.

Agent Nein was very professional and serious and she definitely didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. If he thought she had some kind of crush on him, he’d probably turn bright red and run away from her. The thought of which was funny and kind of cute, but entirely beside the point. Milla thought they worked well together and wanted to explore the professional relationship further. And she also liked being his friend. Nothing else to it.

Impatiently, Milla decided she needed some fresh air and wouldn’t mind going to find Sasha in Agent Mentallis’ lab. She’d been meaning to head over there for the past few days anyway, since Agent Mentallis had apparently finished building her door to the mental world.

It would also be nice to see Sasha again, and maybe apologize (once more) for canceling their little lunch date. Not-date. He probably wouldn’t like it if she called it a date.

She made her way into Agent Mentallis’ lab carefully, not wanting to set off his room full of alarms. It was very annoying to visit him with that always blaring. Luckily for her, since he already had a visitor, the alarm room was turned off at the moment. Milla levitated through and found herself floating in at the tail end of a conversation between the two men she’d expected to see.

Before they noticed her, Milla took a moment to watch them. Sasha was such an intriguing, reserved man - she always found it interesting to see how interacted with other people. Her interest may have also been influenced by what Truman told her about him, but there was no need to analyze herself over it. Something about him just caught her eye. The way he spoke to Agent Mentallis was different from many others. There was a friendly familiarity between them, but also the same strict, professional respectability that any member of the Psychic 6 deserved.

“Now there’s a face that brightens my day!” Agent Mentallis suddenly said, motioning towards her.

Sasha looked confused for a moment, turned around, noticed her with a surprised expression, then turned back to Agent Mentallis and started grumbling. As Milla floated closer, she could distinctly hear him complaining about the way the older man addressed her. She smirked at that - it was cute that he wanted to defend her honor (or whatever), though completely unnecessary. Especially not with Otto Mentallis - he was harmless.

“Hi!” she finally responded, plopping her feet down next to Sasha’s.

“Hello, Mi-um…Agent Vodello,” he responded, awkwardly adjusting his sunglasses and glancing back and forth between herself and Agent Mentallis. “What brings you here?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Agent Mentallis cut in.

There was a smirk on his face that made Milla think he and Sasha had some sort of inside joke going on. Hopefully it wasn’t related to her. 

“I assume you’re here for your new door, right?”

She smiled and clasped her hands together in front of her. “That’s exactly right!”

Agent Mentallis nodded and walked off towards another room. “Give me a minute, it’s over here somewhere.”

Milla watched him go for a moment before the man next to her caught her attention. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” he said.

“You, too!” She smiled brightly. “I actually need to talk to you, too, so it’s nice that you’re here!”

Sasha looked bewildered. “About what?”

“Well…first of all, I want to apologize about Monday,” she responded quickly. “I know it’s not that big of a deal, but I still feel bad. You should know that I’m not usually so flakey! It’s just how busy things are with this nightmare assignment…”

“It’s really no problem. I’m very familiar with how much time you can lose to a case.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood with his back straight. “How is that going, if I may ask?”

She gave him a little, sneaky smile, happy that he said that. “You may ask! And actually…that’s what I really wanted to say…”

Sasha raised one curious eyebrow.

“You’ve been ordered, by Agent Forsythe herself, to join me on a mission of utmost importance today!” she said excitedly. “Today’s mission is going to be the culmination of what we’ve been working on for the past two weeks! It could prove to be very difficult.”

He looked positively flabbergasted and stared at her as if she’d said something wildly impossible. “Agent Forsythe suddenly decided she wants me involved? Why?”

“Well, normally she’d be going with, but she’s handling Truman’s work today and can’t get away.” Milla played with her hair while she answered, feeling a little embarrassed. “She said I could choose any senior agent to order to come with so…I thought of you!”

A moment passed without any sound (other than Agent Mentallis stumbling over something in the other room). Milla wondered if she’d done something wrong, if he didn’t actually want to spend time with her (he did call her Agent Vodello again, after she’d thought they’d progressed to a first name basis), or if she’d made him uncomfortable somehow. That thought was strengthened when he suddenly took a cigarette out of his pocket and took a long drag.

She was about to speak up and apologize when he finally responded. “Thank you, Milla. I’d be happy to come along. I…I appreciate you thinking of me for this.”

Milla breathed a sigh of relief and then added on a cheeky, “I heard you were asking around about this case, so now you’ll finally be a part of it!”

His cheeks turned slightly pink. “I-I was just curious why Agent Forsythe wasn’t including me, is all.”

Before she could respond with another comment that might make him blush further, Agent Mentallis finally returned with the door. “Phew. I was looking high and low for this thing, turns out I’d accidentally dropped a folder on top of it. I’ve been getting so forgetful in my old age!” He reached out his hand with a sparkly, purple door between his fingers.

Milla squealed excitedly and grabbed it from him, doing a levitated spin so she could see it in the light. “It’s perfect! Thank you, Agent Mentallis!” In a bout of exuberant gratitude, she levitated over and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek, then floated back down to the floor. “I'm very excited to use this, but first - Sasha, we need to leave within the hour. Meet me at the jet and I'll go over the details! Tchau!”

She floated out of the room with a wave to the both of them and quickly made her way back to the Motherlobe - it was time to get ready and let 33 know they'd be on their way soon.

x

“Now see, that could be you if you put in any effort to charm her.”

“You know what, Agent Mentallis? Maybe I will report you after all.”

“HA! I’d love to be a part of that meeting.”

“Gott in Himmel.”

x

In exactly one hour, the two of them were on the jet and in the air, headed straight for the woods next to Ferndale. Thanks to 33 staying in town to gather intel, they were now aware of their target’s identity, where he was located, what he looked like, and how he was projecting himself into people's dreams. What they still didn't know was why he was doing it.

“Lucius Rehm, age 44. Occupation: golfer. Born in Arlington, no record of psychic abilities prior to this. Either a recent discovery or he's hidden it well for a long time.”

“No criminal record of any kind, as far as we’ve been able to see,” Milla added. “Agent 33 has been asking around and no one in Ferndale seems to know him, let alone know why he’s showing up in their nightmares.”

Sasha flipped through the rest of the pages on his clipboard. “How were you able to find him?”

Milla tugged some of her hair behind one ear, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Agent Forsythe had given her a lot of compliments after their last mission, but she wasn’t as good at accepting compliments about her work as she was about her looks. She was still so new at being a Psychonaut, and her lack of experience made her feel less confident than she wanted to be. “We went into the mind of someone in town, defeated some of the nightmares in his head and I saw Rehm commanding them. Agents Forsythe and 33 took over from there.”

He put the clipboard down on his lap and stared at Milla for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Agent Forsythe mentioned to me that you have a lot of experience with nightmares. I, um…though it’s a very helpful skill, I’m sorry you were forced to learn it.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then stared down at her hands in her lap. It was still so strange to talk about. “I appreciate that. It’s just nice to have some use for this now.”

Sasha smiled at her. “All part of being a Psychonaut,” he said confidently before turning his chair around and looking out the window. “We’re just about at the coordinates. You told Agent 33 our ETA?”

Milla nodded. “She said there’s a town hall meeting starting soon and she has a feeling Rehm will be there. If not, Agent Forsythe sent us the address of his hotel, so we can always wait for him there.”

x

As the Psychonauts expected, he was at the town hall meeting. Sitting in the back row, wearing a trench coat and sunglasses like someone who learned how to sneak around from an old movie. Agent 33 stalled, filibustering at the center podium until Sasha and Milla arrived, and when they made their way into the room, all hell broke loose.

Rehm probably wouldn’t have noticed them if it weren’t for one of the townspeople loudly commenting on the strangely-dressed people that’d snuck in. As soon as they were pointed out, Rehm levitated into the air and sent out a wave of psychic energy that immediately put every non-psychic in the room to sleep. It was a significant amount of power for such a dangerous man to have, and the three Psychonauts quickly realized they’d underestimated him.

He started shouting about their limitations and how he’d grown more powerful every day since discovering his abilities. As he floated and shouted, Milla took note of the pink glow from the inside of his coat and she realized his clothes were lined with psitanium. No wonder he was so strong.

After pointing that out to the other two agents, they all moved towards him to strike. The faster they took him down, the better. But the psitanium just amplified his powers - he was shielded well enough to withstand three simultaneous PSI-blasts and still managed to telekinetically throw sleeping townspeople at them to keep them distracted.

Grumbling, Sasha started to pull his mental door out of his pocket. It was pretty clear that they weren't going to be able to incapacitate Rehm in a fight, so going into his head was the best solution at their disposal.

Rehm immediately sent a psychic blast that knocked the door out of Sasha’s hand and sent it flying across the room. If he'd caught even the slightest wind of what they were planning, it was clear why he'd do anything to keep them out.

“Get away from me!” Rehm shouted, emitting another blast of psychic power that knocked Milla on her ass. Sasha and 33 faltered a bit but stayed steady, though Sasha did look to Milla to confirm she was alright.

Milla frowned while 33 and Nein continued to try and keep his attention away from the sleeping citizens, but they also needed to take him down. 

Nothing was working!

She decided to try something a little out of her comfort zone. Invisibility wasn't one of her specialties, but she'd been working on it while observing Agent 33 and knew this was an opportunity to try. Milla turned invisible and quickly slid underneath Rehm, giving herself a full view of his back.

He noticed her disappearance and started circling in midair, searching for her. She needed to time this exactly right.

Mila waited for the perfect opportunity, then tossed her shiny, purple door right at his head. It landed against his temple and Milla had only a moment to become visible again before she was sucked into his mind.

x

It was dark. And cold. 

She wasn't a fan of either.

Milla was sitting down in what felt like a thin layer of odorless pudding - she tried to stand up and felt her heels digging into the ooze uncomfortably. If only she'd opted for more practical footwear that day.

Her experiences in other people's minds were varied, but this was certainly new. She could barely see three feet in front of herself, and there didn't seem to be any light anywhere around her. She spun around a few times, trying to get a feeling of the space, when she was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Milla.”

“Eep!” she squeaked, turning around to find Agent Nein standing right in front of her. She calmed down and instinctively reached out to hug him, then stopped herself at the realization that he might not appreciate it. She settled for laying her hands on his upper arms and squeezing lightly. “Sasha! Thank goodness you're here. I think I'm terribly lost.”

He shook his head. “Not lost. His mind seems quite…unrefined. The exposure to all that psitanium combined with his lack of psychic experience makes this a not unexpected circumstance.”

She nodded, wishing she could take notes. “What's going on outside?”

“Agent 33 and I tied Rehm up, and she's staying behind to wake the townspeople and get them home. Hopefully this won't take too long and we can join her.”

Milla smiled slightly, then took a step closer to Sasha without really thinking about it. “I can't see anything in here.”

He paused for a brief moment, awkwardly running his hand through his hair, then held that same hand up in front of his face. “I’d…like to apologize in advance for this,” he said quietly before a bright flame lit from his palm.

Milla stared at the fire in his hand, feeling a traumatic and masochistic draw to it. It felt like it could consume her in less time than it took to appear. It felt like she could lose everything she'd built for herself in just a flicker of the light. It felt like she couldn’t look away from it, but she also couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. 

It felt like a lot of things.

They didn't feel great. But with Sasha’s light, she was able to make out a small figure in the distance. “There.”

Sasha nodded and started walking in that direction. The small figure got bigger and bigger as they got closer, and eventually the two Psychonauts realized it was a long, thin seam in the darkness. It was barely visible; there seemed to be a bright light behind it that was the only reason they were able to make it out at all.

Milla reached forward and grabbed the edge, tugging one side away from the other. It had a strange texture, smooth and plastic, but it was light and easy to maneuver. The seam opened up like the flap of a tent, and they quickly stepped through to see what was on the other side.

It was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

The two of them found themselves at the beginning of a long, dreary hallway. It was dark, almost as dark as the previous space, but there was a single, ratty lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and gently rocking back and forth. Milla reached up to hold it steady, but when she moved her hand away again it just continued to rock. It seemed endless.

“I hate to say it, but this isn’t much better,” she commented dryly.

Sasha frowned and lifted his still-lit hand up in front of them. “We’ll just have to keep moving forward.”

The hallway went on for longer than they could see - the walls were tall and dark, the floor seemed to be some kind of cheap astroturf, and there were unlit torches lining the walls every five feet or so. It was a confusing mixture of textures that made Milla wonder what kind of man Lucius Rehm really was.

They stepped forward and Sasha pyrokinetically lit the two nearest torches. In doing so, the walls on either side of them became visible - they looked like jail cells. Cold, rusty, metal bars lined the sides of the hallway and it wouldn’t be surprising if that continued the whole way down.

Not wanting to get too much closer to the fiery torches, Milla followed Sasha as he got even closer to one of the walls and they peered inside the cell together.

At first there was nothing but an eerie silence. Then Sasha held the fire in his hand just a smidge further into the cell, and suddenly there was a pair of bright yellow eyes staring back at them.

Milla recognized those eyes immediately and took a few nervous steps away, trying to keep herself calm. As her back hit the cell on the other side of the hallway, she was struck with an obvious realization and turned around to find another pair of yellow eyes that were even closer to her than the previous ones.

She looked back and forth between them and took deep breaths, trying to prevent herself from hyperventilating.

“These nightmares seem strange,” Sasha commented, taking a step closer to Milla. He extinguished his fire and reached down to grab her hands. “Are you alright?”

“I’m…fine,” Milla answered, staring down at their joined hands. It was comforting. And it was nice that he was trying to comfort her. She tried to focus on the niceness. “Just caught me off-guard.”

He took another moment to squeeze her hands and wait for her breathing to settle, then started talking again. “They seem weak. Almost drained. The only light coming from them is the dull glow of their eyes, which is unlike any nightmare I’ve seen before.” He squeezed one of her hands again and frowned. “Have…you ever seen nightmares like this?” he asked quietly, referencing her apparent expertise.

After another deep breath, Milla turned around and looked directly at the nightmare closest to her. Sasha was right - it didn’t look normal. Its eyes were dim, its body shrunken, its horns deflated. The way it stood there in front of her was expressionless and unmoving, though its eyes bore into her own, unblinking. If Milla didn’t know better, she’d think it was begging her to let it die.

She reached out and touched the side of its head, feeling a dull warmth under the hard, rocky surface.

“We love you, Lucie…be good for us, okay? Take care of Kip.”

Milla opened her eyes, unaware she’d even closed them in the first place. That wasn’t her nightmare. It must’ve been Rehm’s. It sounded soft and sweet, but there was an undercurrent of fear and longing. She closed her eyes and reached out again, seeing a faint image of a man and woman saying goodbye to their young son, bags packed and under their arms. Then it moved to an even fainter image of the young boy and a much older woman watching the news and learning about a terrible plane crash.

It wasn’t hard to piece everything together.

She pulled away from the nightmare and looked at Sasha. “I-I’m not sure why they’re so weak. It’s an old nightmare, based on a memory from his childhood. He lost his parents when he was very young.”

Sasha frowned and nodded. He stepped closer to the other nightmare and placed his hand against it - Milla assumed he was going through a similar experience to her own. He pulled back after a few seconds and looked at her. “This one is similar. He lost a younger brother when they were both still young.”

Milla frowned. Rehm had lost so many people - it wasn’t a big surprise that he’d turned out the way he did. She wondered if they’d be able to help him. “Let’s keep moving.”

Sasha lit the next few torches and they walked down the hall, unsurprised to see that each section of wall between every two torches was another cell containing another nightmare. The further they went, the weaker the nightmares seemed, and finally when they reached what was hopefully the end - the hallway took its first turn.

Before they continued, Milla glanced at the fragile, barely existent nightmare laying against the bars of its cell. She didn’t feel sympathy for it, not really, but she’d never seen nightmares looking so weak. She wondered if the memories attached were weakened as well.

As they turned down the next part of the hallway, they noted the astroturf flooring became more curved. There were no longer jailed walls, in fact there were no walls at all, and there were giant piles of sand in random spots along the floor. Sand dripped from somewhere above them down into those piles, and from those piles down into the ether. And still, everything was silent, just as before. But there was light, at least. The sand glowed as it fell, illuminating the room and allowing the two Psychonauts to make their way across the course without fear of falling.

“I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any censors,” Sasha said, glancing around as if he was prepared to be corrected. “Everything here seems perfectly planned out.”

Milla levitated into the air and started moving across the course, wondering how long they’d be trapped in such a creepy, interdimensional golf course. She knew Sasha would follow and continued along without looking back, reaching out at one point to catch a few grains of glowing sand in her gloved hand. The sand settled in the center of her palm and slowly the glow faded. “We haven’t encountered anything, really,” she added. “I imagine Lucius was prepared for this possibility.”

“All the more reason to keep our guards up.” Sasha floated in front of her, taking a hesitant step towards the end of the course. It was a long, deep hole that led to who-could-know-where, but it was also the only way to go. “I’ll go first.”

She shook her head and grabbed his hand, smiling confidently. “We should go together.”

Sasha hesitated for just a moment, nodded, and then jumped in. The hole was surrounded by a white plastic outer shell, and they could see fragments of goo that looked very similar to doubts - someone had been destroying their own doubts inside their head. For most people, that wasn’t a bad thing. For a madman who’d spent the past few weeks terrorizing innocent people, it was concerning.

But it did tell Milla that there was some part of Lucius Rehm that wasn’t sure about what he was doing. There was a part of him that wanted to be better, despite his attempts to destroy it.

They landed gracefully together, levitating to the ground and finding themselves in darkness once again.

“Scheiss, this is getting tiring,” Sasha grumbled, lighting a fire in his palm again. “Milla, can you-”

Before he could finish or she could respond, Sasha grabbed Milla by the shoulder and pushed her out of the way of an oncoming attack. A group of tendrils and arms lifted themselves out of a fiery open hole in the ground and sliced at him instead, knocking Sasha to the floor right by where he’d pushed Milla.

“Sasha!” she shouted, leaning over him. “Are you-?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he sat up straight and coughed. “I think we’re in trouble.”

He charged up a blast of pyrokinesis bigger than Milla had ever seen, and they could see everything in the room as each and every torch surrounding them lit up with an evenly-sized flame. And what they saw wasn’t great.

They were surrounded by nightmares.

[winters-mistress]

Of seas green and brown

Geralt is staring at her, she knows. She can feel it like a weight in between the trees, those bright yellow eyes gleaming in the distance, between a sea of brown and green. Even after all those months, he has not figured out that he is not as subtle as he thinks. Or maybe he has and he's simply humouring her, but it seems unlikely he has not came around and fretted over his darling mare just yet.

Roach snorts at her, pushing her snout into the girl's forehead. Ciri laughs at the mare, but the prick of her ears tells her that's its not malicious, in the way the mare treats the bard. It's playful, like the times that Roach nibbles at Cirilla's fingers when she feeds her a carrot or an apple or a handful of oats. The mare enjoys the attention as the girl runs the comb through her dark locks. It's a very domestic scene, one almost from a fairytale as the pretty girl in white looks after her doting horse, dewy and petrichor in the damp summer forest.

Ciri smiles at the horse as she runs her snout through her wavy hair, combed and unbound after a long day of training and hunting. Her hands run through the horses mane as it becomes unknotted and soft as the girl works her comb through the hair. The horse likes her, it's a good job too, because it would have been a haggard journey up the Morhen valley if the horse treated her as she does the bard. Or the sorceress, who skulks in the forest almost as much as the witcher does. She's been victim to many bites or headbutts from the prickly mare.

"You've done well." Geralt makes himself known, his boots squelching in the late summer, post rainfall dew of the muddy ground. His boots squelch and cling to the mud as he goes, and she can hear the creak of leather as he walks. "She looks like a prize horse." He finishes, coming over to look over his prized mare.

Ciri smiles at him, the horse stands over him, as so little people or things do. Geralt is her symbol if untenable strength, a pillar of knowledge and wisdom and protection. She loves him like the father she never had, and for all of his prickling and grochiness, he's so gentle and protective that it makes her heart ache to see him treated as Yennefer treats him. But she cannot stand in the way of his decisions, he is the adult in their stead.

"Vesemir will take one look at her and you'll usurp me upon horse duties." He looks down at her. "You and I will have to duel for them." He gives her a croocked smirk. Ciri chuckles at him.

"Onoy a fool would get between you and a foal, father dear." she grins, walking over towards him. "So long as Lambert is assigned the pigs and the cows whenever he and Eskel return, it's nothing less than he deserves."

[khazadspoon]

Thanks... I find Mr Favor's tummy, idk, kind of comforting in a way? As I get older and deal with body changes, I appreciate older media more, where bodies looked more ordinary, almost. The women in Rawhide still are very 60's shaped, but the men come in more sizes and shapes. Idk I guess I'm saying the fact that the (very tall and very cool) male lead has a human body that shows natural fluctuations like when he's eaten, that's a nice thing.

YES anon you are so so right.

It’s great and comforting and refreshing to have leads in a show that have less than “perfect” bodies. Tummies that stuck out, chests that aren’t pert and solid, wrinkles and lines and marks and greys in their hair. The two main examples I can think of (at the moment at least) with male leads that do this are Rawhide and Black Sails.

Mr Favor has his tummy and he definitely doesn’t have a chest like Clint Eastwood (it’s rounder, softer, not muscled). Captain Flint in the last couple of series is either gaunt and haggard or rounder and most definitely aging.

And y’know what? They’re hotter that way to me but also YES more comforting! Because our bodies do this too!!!! We deserve the comfort of a body that is relaxing into itself as it gets older.