#not to mention the romanticization of it all

[gojotojis]

Butterfly pt. 1

This story will contain sexual assault, I beg you not to read if it will trigger you.

summary: you’re spiraling after a traumatic sexual experience and the only person that sees it is your neighbor.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem reader

content MDNI: mentions of sexual assault, sexual assault, alcohol abuse, depression, anxiety, drugs, ptsd, trauma, age gap, mentions of death/murder via movies

Note: this is actually so personal to me so pls be kind. this is a genuine depiction of my assault, this is me coping. I am in no way glorifying or romanticizing sexual assault, again this is my story. Writing is when I feel most safe and we are all strangers so I’m okay sharing this. Any hate, blame or criticism will be immediately blocked. Also virginity is a social construct.

April

You had been so eager to give away your virginity, and he seemed so nice. He knew all the right things to say, how to make you feel like he really liked you.

He said he was a virgin which made you feel safe and comfortable enough to sleep with him. It started out as kissing which led to more.

You couldn’t help how nervous you were, frozen until he was flipping you onto your stomach. You became terrified when you felt him nudging at your back entrance.

“No,” you breathe, your heart hammered in your chest. You swatted at him but he forced your hands down.

“Please stop” you beg as you tried to squirm away, crying as you felt him pushing into you, tearing you open. You screamed, it was painful and he pulled away.

Your fingers swiped where he hurt you and blood coated them. You crawled away from him until you were grabbing your clothes and running away.

You’re traumatized, but it only worsens when you ignore him for days and he blows your phone up calling you a slut, ugly, fat and a whore.

He spams your phone with videos of him having sex with other girls, him telling you how you don’t compare and that he lied about being a virgin.

You feel like shit, and he pushes it further when he spams your Instagram and messages your friends, flirting with them and saying awful things about you.

You finally block him but the damage is done.

You loved reading more than anything but when a sex scene comes, you’re taken back to that night and the book is ruined.

You can still feel him forcing himself inside of you, it’s like it won’t stop. You cry in the shower, scrubbing your skin till it’s red and raw, hating yourself, blaming yourself for letting this happen.

For being so desperate that you gave something so intimate away to someone so awful.

You tell no one, too ashamed and disgusted with yourself .

Beginning of August

You climb up the stairs, AirPods on full volume with a Mitski song playing. Your fingers tap against your thigh as you hum to yourself.

You’re not paying attention, letting out a small ‘hmph’ when you collide with soemthing hard and fall to the floor on your butt. You’re embarrassed as you look up at the tall man looking down at you.

His hands outstretch to you as his mouth moves but you can’t hear anything over your AirPods. You spot his phone beside you, and grab it. You don’t take his hand as you stand up on your own but you do hand him his phone.

He’s peculiar to say the least, he’s always either wearing a black flindfold or sunglasses, today he’s wearing the blindfold. You have the urge to ask him why he wears it but that’s invasive and rude.

He moved in two months ago right across from you. He’s usually gone for days on end but when he is home, he’s always asking to borrow something from you whether it’s sugar, milk or eggs.

It’s slightly annoying but you’re too scared to tell him, you wonder if he’s ever heard of a grocery store.

His lips are still moving so you pull your AirPods out. “Huh?” You ask, furrowing your brows and lips parting

“Are you okay?” He asks and you nod staring up at him. You think he must be blind, literally and feel actually awful.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve been paying attention,” you say and then it dawns on you, what if he doesn’t go to a grocery store because he can’t see. You start overthinking and guilt racks through you.

“It’s my fault really, what are you listening to?” he asks, you’re confused how he knows you’re listening to music but then again it was blasted. You hold your phone up to him and then internally slap yourself. “Mitski, it’s called I bet on losing dogs,” you explain and he nods.

“I love that song,” he says and your eyes widen, he doesn’t look like he listens to her.

“What’s your favorite song?” You ask, genuinely curious. “What’s yours?” He asks and you don’t know why that makes you laugh for the first time in months. “I bet on losing dogs,” you say.

“That’s my favorite too,” he says, and you wonder if he’s flirting with you. Part of you blushes but the other part of you panics. Does he just want to sleep with you and hurt you? You try to shove the thought down, he asked a simple question.

“I should get going” you say staring at your shoelaces.

“See you around y/n” he says before he’s walking off and you wonder how he knows your name, you never once shared it with him and he’s never shared his.

Mid August

Your head tips back, eyes rolling. The sound of music drowns out as you feel yourself nearly seizing from the red and purple strobe lights. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve blacked out, your mouth tastes disgusting and your throat burns. The cause of it, lying in a puddle on the floor.

You lift your head up, to try and comprehend your surroundings. The girl beside you leans down, holding a rolled up dollar and snorts the thin white line off the table.

She sniffs and turns to you, offering you the dollar, you vowed to never touch that shit but part of you wonders if it’ll make you feel good, the way the alcohol does.

Your brains screaming no, begging you to leave but your fingers grasp it and she dumps more onto the table. She lines it up with a credit card and you hesitantly lean down, you choke a little as you snort it and sniff.

You slump against the sofa and slowly feel it take its effect. Your body feels so fucking heavy, it’s like you’re wearing a meat suit. You lift your fingers up and watch as they multiply when you wiggle them around, the girl pulls you up and drags you to the dance floor.

You’re like a rag doll in her arms as she makes you dance. Your head tilts back staring at the ceiling and you laugh, it’s dark and intoxicated. The music suddenly feels amplified and you’re clutching your ears, so fucking overstimulated and you panic, feeling the bodies grinding against you.

Your eyes water when you feel hands grip your waist from behind and they press against you. You’re pulling away from them and stumbling through the crowd, fighting your way to the exit.

Fresh air hits your lungs the moment you step outside and you inhale, closing your eyes.

Home, you have to go home.

You ignore the several people that ask if you’re okay as you stumble down the sidewalk, heels clicking against the pavement.

Relief fills you at the sight of your apartment building, once you reach it, you’re climbing the stairs until you miss a step and fall down. Your head smacks against the floor and little black spots cloud your vision.

“Fuck!” you hear, almost certain it’s your mind playing tricks on you until you feel large and warm hands gripping your face. Their touch is like electricity against your skin.

“Please let me die,” you mutter as a familiar blind folded face comes into view. He’s waving a finger infront of you and you go cross eyed.

“What did you take?” He tries to ask you but your hearing is muffled. His face is blurred but you can make out his lips moving.

You lift your arms up and reach for his face, your fingers graze over his lips and he stills. They’re soft and pink.

His hand gently grabs your wrist and moves your arm back down to your sides. His head tilts like he’s studying you as your vision slowly recovers along with your hearing.

“Can you hear me?” He asks and you nod weakly. He sighs before you feel his arm hook under your knees and the other around your back. He lifts you up and you shake against him.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you beg, his brows furrow but he doesn’t say anything. You’re trembling as he walks you to his apartment. He’s gonna hurt you, he’s gonna trap you and hurt you.

You squirm in his hold until you’re out of his arms and sliding down the wall. You cover your face and pull your knees to your chest. His hand touches your knee and you scoot away. He immediately retracts it.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise” he says as you peek between your fingers. His expression is so genuine, and concerned but he’s a man and you don’t trust them. Your brain feels like it’s working overtime trying to think as he lifts his pinky up.

“Please let me help you,” he says, his voice is soft as he kneels infront of you. Your shaky hand reaches toward his and your pinky wraps around his.

He smiles gently, and helps you up. He unlocks the door and guides you inside. You’re too fucked up to take in his apartment.

He pours a glass of water and hands it to you, before he’s handing you two pills of advil. Your pupils are dilated and you look so out of it, your breath reeks of vomit and vodka.

He’s not use to this, any of it. He’s never been in this situation and it’s frustrating because he wants to help you, he knows there’s an underlying reason why you shake and flinch from his touch. The way your eyes survey all exits and keep distance between you two.

Everytime he’s seen you in the halls, you’re listening to music in your own little world with your head down. You’re always shy, and timid.

“You can take my bed and I’ll take the floor,” he says not wanting to leave you alone incase you have a concussion.

Your throat tightens at the idea of sleeping in his bed, at falling unconscious where he can so easily hurt you but you’re tired, so fucking tired.

You hug yourself as you attempt to walk into the only bedroom in the apartment. You slowly climb into the bed, curling into a ball. He watches you from the doorframe, trying to make sense of what his eyes can’t tell him.

When morning comes, you’re gone.

September

You sigh, sifting through your purse for your keys. You push through several empty travel bottles of vodka and tampons, coming up empty. You hear two things behind you, keys jingling and a meow.

You turn around, one hand is holding your keys while the other has a black kitten pressed against his chest. You only care about the kitten at this point, you look up at him and he’s smiling at you.

“You dropped your keys,” he says but you’re itching to touch the fur ball in his arms.

“What’s it’s name?” You whisper not wanting to scare it.

“Dunno, just found him outside,”he says and you slowly reach out, petting the baby. It’s little mouth let’s out the most broken meow but it’s fierce and you smile.

“Are you gonna keep it?” You ask and he shakes his head making you frown. He walks toward his door and starts unlocking it.

“I can’t, I work too much” he says, opening his door. He walks inside, leaving the door open. You awkwardly stand there before peeking inside. You feel embarrassed about the events from two weeks ago, you’ve avoided him since. You can’t imagine what he must think of you.

You slowly walk inside, fingers clutching the ends of your oversized sweater anxiously. He sets the little guy on the floor and you immediately shut the door not wanting him to runaway.

“He’s gonna need formula,” you say, carefully dropping to your knees. You pull your hair from its ponytail and fling the tie across the floor. You giggle watching the cat dart after it.

You feel his eyes on you as absurd as it may sound considering the blind fold but you do. His lips twitch as he watches you play with the kitten.

“What’s your name?” you ask, something that’s been on your mind lately.

“Satoru, Satoru Gojo,” he says and you hum. It’s pretty.

“Thank you, for the other night. I’m sorry I kind of lost it on you,” you say, watching the cat run at you as your hand drags across the floor like a spider before it tickles him. His little feet kick at your wrist but it’s like a feather hitting you.

“That happen often?” He asks.

“No” you lie, admittedly you usually stop before you get super fucked up and you hadn’t touched coke till then. He doesn’t push and you’re grateful for it.

“So what’s the song of the day?” He asks and your brows furrow, arms chasing after the cat who starts running sideways.

“You must have another song you like,” he says shrugging.

“K. by Cigarettes After Sex, let me guess. That’s your favorite song of theirs too,” you say and he smiles.

“It’s like you’re stalking me,” he says and you laugh, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever heard, more so than the little creature that’s clawing his way up your thighs. His claws hooking into your jeans, determined to get you.

“Favorite album?”He asks and you indulge him.

“That’s hard, there’s so many,” you say, pulling the cat off before he can claw up your sweater.

“Top five,” he says making it slightly easier for you.

“Brand new eyes by paramore, all lana del rey albums, Trilogy by The Weeknd, anything FKA twigs and Wiped out by the neighborhood. You?” You ask and he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe to his bedroom.

“I don’t listen to music,” he says and your face scrunches, musics your love language and your safety net. It speaks and conveys what you can’t.

“Not one song?” And he shakes his head. His life must be so lonely and boring, you frown.

“I did listen to that Mistki song though, depressing much?” He asks and you roll your eyes.

“Well, yes but that’s what makes it so good,” you say and he doesn’t argue. You wish you could see his eyes, eyes speak a thousand words.

“Favorite movie?” He asks, this is sadly the most anyone’s ever asked about you, you feel guilty that part of you is living for this attention.

“Bones and All, Suspiria, Django Unchained, Dune and Pearl,” you say.

“I’m seeing a pattern here,” he says and you raise a brow. “You don’t listen to music but you watch movies? And what may that be?” You ask. The little voice in the back of your head is begging you to go home, he’s only doing this to get in your pants, why else.

“Nah but one of my students seen some of them, I’ve heard all about Pearl and her axe,” he says, watching the kitten swat your hair tie around.

“She’s just a girl,”you shrug, and his lips tug into a smirk. You don’t like the feeling that takes over, the butterflies that swarm your stomach. Handsome doesn’t do him justice, he’s beautiful even when you can’t see his eyes. From his undercut to his jaw, and his tall lanky stature, he carries himself like he’s the highest predator up the food chain. It’s not threatening, it’s…sexy.

“I forgot American Psycho” you add and his eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline before he’s bursting into laughter.

“What? It’s hilarious satire and Christian Bale is…hot,” you say. He wants to ask you a question but thinks better of it, this is the most you’ve ever spoke and he doesn’t want it to end.

“Are you a teacher?” you ask, lingering on what he said moments ago.

“Yeah, you?” he asks. You dropped out of college, feeling too stupid and incompetent, in all honesty you’ve never seen a future for yourself and it feels embarrassing.

“Bookstore,” you say.

“So you like books?” he asks and you give him a look that screams ‘duh’.

“I do, I’d tell you my favorite book but you probably already know it since it’s yours too,” you say as the kitten comes running at you. You gently slide him across the floor and he runs back, loving it.

“Guilty, but you should probably tell me just incase we aren’t on the same page,” he says, you hate the smiles he keeps making appear on your face.

“Normal People”you say, you wonder why he wants to know all these things and what they matter to him.

“It’s like we’re the same person,” he says, you wonder if this works on the girls. You don’t want it to work on you.

“He looks like a Salem,” you say looking at the black cat that’s just obsessed with you.

“I think he’s found his mom,” Gojo says and you want to argue against it but you don’t because he’s right, you’re keeping him.

End of September

You sit on the couch with Salem curled in your lap and a bowl of popcorn beside you, you’re ready to start the movie until someone’s knocking on your door. You feel your anxiety fester but push it down.

You carry the kitten as you walk to the door and look through the peep hole. Your breathing hitches at the sight of Gojo in sunglasses, you swear he hasn’t been home in two weeks but like he said he’s always working.

Now that you think of it, that’s so odd. He’s a teacher who’s never home and works odd hours. You try not to overthink it as you open the door.

Gojo beams at you and the little guy in your arms. He reaches out and starts scratching underneath Salems little chin which sends him into a purring fit.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer, unsure of what else to say.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I was gonna watch a movie,” you say looking back at the lit tv screen, but you remember he can’t see.

“Pearl?” He asks and you’re slightly eager to put it on for him. Your life is lonely, you’ve stopped talking to everyone. Your bestfriend pushed you away months ago and nobodies really cared to see that you’re okay. Your mom and grandma constantly call but you can only take so much criticism.

You try to contemplate the pros and cons. Gojos been nothing but nice, he’s slightly funny and because of him you have Salem. Cons: he’s flirty and a man. Your stomach stirs, and your body tenses as you open your mouth.

“Would you like to watch it with me?” you ask, trying not to let your mind wander off to that dark place in your head.

“Okay,” he says and you step back, letting him enter your dim apartment. He takes his shoes off and looks around, taking in the hues of greens, browns and white along with the various plants that take up space.

There’s a picture of you as a little girl with two other kids that look just like you, a boy and girl on the wall, some family photos, graduation picture and baby pictures. You were so adorable, still are.

Your place is a contrast to his. His is fairly empty with a few hints of grey, white and navy.

He sits on the opposite end of the couch as you put on Pearl, Salem leaves you to cuddle in Gojos lap. Traitor.

“Song of the day?” he asks before you start the movie.

“Good to love by FKA twigs” you say and hit play.

You usually hate when someone talks during a movie but you’re desperately wanting to know his thoughts during every scene. He laughs through most of it,

“Did she really just set her mom on fire and then leave to go have sex?” He asks, you bite your lip. “She’s just a girl,” you say and he shakes his head. You reach into the bowl for popcorn and feel his fingers graze yours, his touch is like static and you get goosebumps. You pull away as subtly as possible, you hope you don’t give off the wrong message by all of this.

“She’s deranged,” he says as she stabs the projectionist with a pitchfork repeatedly.

“Christ, who gave this girl an alligator,”he says when Pearl pushes the man’s car into a pond and an alligator eats at his remains.

By the time the movies over, he’s leaving. He says he has to work in the morning but he types away at his phone before handing it to you, your names written on a contact, waiting for your number.

You try to hide your surprise and hesitantly type your number in.

October

Gojo: song?

you: Haunted by Beyonce

Gojo: starting to think you’re working for the government

you: how so

Gojo: only a fed would know all my favorite songs

you: you sound crazier than pearl

Gojo: utterly insane

You enjoy Gojo’s company, still hesitant but he hasn’t given you a reason not to trust him.

Mid October

You hum to The Party and the After Party by The Weeknd, sending a link to Gojo as you walk.

You: song of the century

Read at 8:08pm

You’ve been crafting a playlist for him, you’re embarrassed by it though, what if he thinks it’s lame. You title it ‘Peals Greatest Hits’ and make the cover a picture of pearl with a pitchfork, you think he’ll laugh at that.

It’s nice having a friend again.

You wait for Gojo to respond but he doesn’t, he’s probably busy. This time he’s been gone for three days and you don’t question it. You’ve managed to learn little things about him, he’s told you about his students Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara.

He even raves about his students from last year, Toge, Yuta, Maki and a student he simply calls P, you tried to ask what the P stands for and he said Pedro which you laughed, kind of an uncommon name here but you don’t push it.

He’s mentioned his family and the pressure they’ve put on him, how he’s like the golden child of his family.

He actually laughed when you asked if he was blind, your cheeks heated up as he told you he has really bad sensitivity with his eyes which still made you feel bad for him.

You reach your building and start your walk upstairs, eager to see your cat but stop when you reach the top. You’re not sure why it bothers you when you see Gojo with a woman going inside his apartment. She’s pretty, sharp features and glossy eyes. A mole under her right eye. You wait for them to go inside before you make your way to your apartment.

Maybe you’re a creep but you stare through the peephole for what feels like hours, waiting for her to leave but she never does. You wonder if Gojo has a girlfriend, wouldn’t he have mentioned it? But then again he’s a man, when do they ever.

End of October: Halloween

You try not to feel insecure in your pink tights and red bodysuit, this is the most revealing you’ve looked since before that night.

You watch as a row of lemon drop shots line up infront of you, the girls you’ve made friends with since you came in, all cheer and clap as you knock back shot after shot. You order six more courtesy of your blonde friends tab, the bar tenders hesitant but you bat your lashes and just like that you’re getting your way.

The liquor helps to take away from the insecurities, you stop worrying if your stomachs too big or your arms too bulky and relax. Several hands pull you to the dance floor and you dance with them, one of the girls hands you a blunt and you smoke it. You spend the night smoking and drinking till you’re absolutely fucking cross faded.

Once you’re at your apartment building, you’re literally crawling up the stairs. You stop when two sets of shoes come into your view, you slowly look up to Gojo and the woman from two weeks ago looking down at you.

“Should we call someone?” The woman asks.

“Nah, she’s mine,” Gojo says pulling you up off the floor. You stumble backwards but he catches you before you fall, pulling you toward him.

“I’ll see you later” the woman says, walking off and he nods. He’s scooping you up into his arms.

“What are you suppose to be?” He asks.

“Scarwit bitch” you slur and he laughs.

“Scarlett Witch?” He asks and you nod.

You’re disappointed when he takes your keys and opens your apartment door. He carries you to your bedroom.

“What did you do, rob Barbie?” he asks looking around your pink room, you’re too tired to comment as he sets you down on your bed.

He brushes your hair out of your face.

“Thanks Toru,” you whisper.

November

Gojo: you hungry?

You: yes…

Gojo: what do you want to eat?

You: pizza, meat lovers and Hawaiian.

Gojo: pineapple on pizza? we have to find a dealbreaker eventually

Gojo: in or out?

You: in

Half an hour passes and there’s a knock on your door. You open it to Gojo with two boxes of pizza, he sets them down while you grab plates.

“song?” He asks, he hasn’t missed a day and you don’t know that he’s made a playlist with each one you give him.

“Kimdracula by deftones,” he subtly adds the song to his playlist as you open up the box. Your belly rumbles as you take a slice of each.

He wastes no time, eating while you take little nibbles. You don’t like eating infront of people, not after being so degraded on your body by the only person that’s seen it naked. Your appetite sours and you set your pizza down.

“Do want to watch X? It’s the technical sequel to Pearl,” you say, he couldn’t give a shit about that deranged girl but you like her so he likes her.

He nods and you wash the pizza grease from your hands, he does the same and you both are moving to the couch. Salem jumps up, of course he picks Gojo as you shuffle through your movie selection before clicking on X.

You feel your face redden forgetting they’re literal fucking pornstars filming porn.

“She looks exactly like Pearl, what the fuck,” he says and you laugh.

You subtly look away, during the sex scenes. They aren’t unbearable but it’s just uncomfortable for you.

“Like sixty years later and she’s still creepy as shit” he says when it gets to the scene of Pearl staring over Maxine while she sleeps.

Gojo actually leans forward pushing his sunglasses up, utterly engrossed in the movie as everyone starts getting killed off one by one. He cringes at Lorraine’s death which you do too. And he cheers when Maxine runs over Pearls head.

“You can have Pearl, Maxine’s mine” he says making you roll your eyes.

“Guess you’ll be happy to know Maxine has her own movie coming out next year” you say.

“Oh we’re so seeing that,” he says and you internally smile but that little voice in the back of your head reminds you, he’s just a man.

You try to ignore it but you feel inclined to ask, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“What?” He asks with his brows raised.

You actually feel silly asking the question, because how are you supposed to casually mention the girl you’ve seen him with without sounding like a stalker.

“Just asking,” you say innocently.

“Nah, I never have the time for that stuff. Ive been on dates but that’s about it,” he says and you can’t help that words that blurt out.

“So you’re a virgin?” you internally slap yourself once the words leave your lips.

“No” he says laughing at how hard you’re blushing.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be invasive” you say and he shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he’s hesitant to ask but he does.

“Are you a virgin?” he asks and tears roll down your cheeks.

note: haven’t decided if this will be two or three parts, there will be smut so again MDNI! It feels like this took ages to write, my goodness.

[lupinuslepidus]

so that i don't run the risk of entirely romanticizing my summer work, here is a brief list of The Various Incidents we have dealt with our first week, there will almost certainly be More Incidents, that's just how it goes:

the night no one got more than 4 hrs of sleep bc there was an Actual Windstorm from 11pm onwards that ripped up all of our tent stakes and was actively collapsing the tents around us

which happened to be the same night we had been trying to fall asleep to the gentle sounds of. target shooters practicing in the near distance

collecting data to the gentle sounds of target shooters practicing in the near distance (we were on public lands so it's par for the course, we made sure to do our part and wear our hi-vis vests the whole time we were out there, still not my fave vibe)

that time i got engulfed by a literal swarm of bees

(generally working overtime but that's not nearly as exciting)

the night i had to return to camp alone, well after nightfall, after dropping off crew at the airport, and was driving our 4WD up a steep, barely-one-car-wide rock road, which was tilted toward the cliff edge instead of the hillside for some reason, around blind hairpin turns

did i mention the swarm of honey bees?

like, i know now they were probably just chilling and only interested in finding a new place to set up a hive, and that swarms aren't aggressive since they're not defending a colony

but the irony of the fact that i had been the one to remove the section on stinging insects from our safety protocol on the basis of 'unlikely to be an issue' is not lost on me

imagine, for a moment, that you think you hear the wind picking up in the distance -- you can usually hear a gust of wind coming from a good ways off, out in the woods, when it rushes through the trees. now imagine you realize that it sounds just a little off. that you can't feel any wind and that there is an Edge to it. now imagine that you can hear it growing louder and realize it is in fact a Buzz and that the air around and above you is now filled with honeybees. where did they come from? unclear. did someone disturb a hive? what do the Bees Want? unclear. you start walking. the buzzing is still all around you. very ominous. you can't shake the feeling that they're moving with you. you remember that someone on your crew has an allergy to hornets and wasps. are Bees different enough? you should probably stop walking towards the rest of the crew. you crouch down on the ground. eventually the buzzing fades, though it doesn't go away entirely.

there is now a swarm of Bees setting up shop on a tree next to our plot center. my crewmate and i organize a rescue effort for the equipment we've left at plot center. we have sacrificed plot center to the Bees.

[magic-can]

I’m so glad true crime fans are being mocked regularly now. They deserve every ounce of it love and light <3

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

c//a shippers remind me of atla fans who ship azula and ty lee. like azula threatened to drop ty lee into fire and ty lee only agreed to join her posse because she was terrified of azula but sure, they're such hot lesbians.

[whollyjoly]

for some reason i can't explain i know saint peter won't call my name

nothing that lives, lives forever - an immortal soldier!alton more au

(1.1k of snippets from my old guard(ish) au where alton more is old, too old, and has been living and fighting far longer than anyone should. full description/other thoughts at the bottom. tw: blood, violence, mentions of death)

Alton clicked the lighter closed, running a thumb over the silver case. The night was warm, sticky in a way that he never could get used to. He sucked in a breath from the cheap cigarette, letting his head fall back against the rough side of the barracks.

It was quiet. Typically, there would be no end to the commotion coming from the small building, one of many that littered Camp Toccoa. The wall of sound was ever-present, no matter if it was shouting or laughing or snoring. But whatever the cause, there was always noise. 

No matter if it was a blanket of noise he knew well, unchanging except for the language and the scenery. Soldiers are soldiers, and some things are a constant. It could almost be comforting, if it didn’t also mean that the need for soldiers was a constant as well.

However, tonight was a Saturday, and it was one of the few weekends that Sobel had allowed Easy the use of their weekend passes. Almost every man in the company had jumped at the chance to get off base, to travel home if they could and spend time with loved ones. The ones with farther-flung hometowns had spirited off to Atlanta, happy to spend their time drinking and dancing and fucking instead of slogging through another run, three miles up, three miles down.

Normally, Alton would have joined them in their carousing - it was easier to pass the time with the effortless camaraderie built during a training camp than bored and alone. 

But today had been a bad day. The sound of swords and the shift of sand beneath his feet followed him out of his nightmares, the humid summer of Georgia morphing itself into the baking, dry heat of the desert. 

His shouts must have been real, because when a hand came to shake him out of his dream, the first face he saw was not that of a grouchy NCO, but of a blood-caked Saracen, eyes alight with righteous fury. 

Alton didn’t think. He had grabbed the knife from under his pillow, an old thing that had been sharpened more times than he could begin to count, and was on the man in less than a breath, pressing the blade into the side of his neck. The familiar thrum of blood beat against his fingertips, the grit of sand scratched his gums. He knew what he had to do, had done it a thousand times, a thousand thousand times, what was a little more bloodshed spilled across his feet-

Alton had blinked, and came to himself in a rush.

Instead of an unnamed Saracen, the ashen face of Johnny Martin stared up at him, eyes wide behind the knife.

Alton drew back his hand, retreating almost as quick as he had lunged earlier. He mumbled a quick curse and apology as he stepped out of arm’s reach from the man. It wasn’t until Martin’s eyes widened even farther that Alton realized his tongue was slipping out Arabic of all things.

Usually, Alton was better about remembering himself, who he was almost as important as where he was. But for whatever reason, his demons had decided to catch up with him that night.

After a quick smile and some quip about the Krauts in his dreams, he managed to wave an only-slightly-mollified Martin off. The shorter man apparently hadn’t forgotten it though, if his watchful eyes during chow that morning were anything to go by.

Alton was just glad that no one else was awake to see it, at least. That was the last thing he needed.

And so, instead of joining in on a weekend of broads and booze, Alton found himself waving away the invitation by an eager Smokey and bemused Alley. When the horde made their way out of the barracks, fantasizing in bawdy terms about their planned misadventures, he felt like he could breathe easy.

Fucking finally.

~~

Alton took another drag from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl, up and up until it faded into nothing amongst the darkening sky.

The lighter was a welcome weight in his hand, grounding him to this time, this life.

The design was worn by now, details barely visible after a half century of worrying. It still managed to amaze him, sometimes, what people could do with the smallest of canvases. Alton didn’t feel the same wonder however, wasn’t as mesmerized by the beauty man could create as he once was.

But in the quiet moments, he could still appreciate the time some French craftsman took to transform a hunk of metal into a small token carried around by a dead man.

Luz had spied the lighter one weekend, and laughed at him for using something so old-fashioned. Alton just shrugged, not caring to admit that he was still getting used to having a light at his fingertips. It wasn’t all that long ago when he was still lighting a pipe with a flintlock pistol, and not so long before that when he would carry around a flint and steel.

Time was passing all the more quickly these days, technologies changing and advancing, and everyone was obsessed with needing things to be quicker, cheaper, simpler. Alton scoffed. He could hardly find it in him to care.

He glanced down at the lighter in his hand, shifting it back and forth in a practiced motion and watched as the light skittered across the sides. 

It had shown flowers, once. A veritable garden of carnations, daffodils, and lilies of the valley, with leaves spilling across the front panel onto the back. They represent good fortune, he was told. Good fortune, luck, and hope. 

When the merchant described it to him, eyes ablaze with a passion known only to those with wares to sell, Alton didn’t try to hide the snort that escaped his throat. 

Fortune and Luck had abandoned him long ago, and hadn’t returned since waking up in a battlefield abandoned by all but the dead, sword in his chest and blood in his mouth. 

And what the fuck was Alton supposed to do with hope?

It was the quote on the back that had caught his eye, all those years ago in a street market in Reims. The beveled edges had faded with time, the familiar letters Alton traced were more memory by now than any physical mark. Une vie honorable est une vie éternelle.

An honorable life is an eternal life.

Alton couldn’t help but stare at the message, both then and now. He hated that goddamn word. Immortal. Unending. Eternal. 

They were such flowery words, used by people who craved what they couldn’t have, what they shouldn’t. The romanticized idea of the everlasting, the fountain of youth, the gift of life! Alton was sick of it.

This wasn’t life. He was a fucking dead man walking. And he sure as hell didn’t do anything honorable to deserve it.

months ago, while thinking about the absolute insanity of the almost...cavalier? attitude we see alton more have over the course of the series, an idea hit my brain: what if there was a reason nothing seemed to phase him - not panzers, not being a breath away from a car wreck, not bastogne, not speirs? what if this wasn't his first war? that thought spiraled me into a minor insanity that is this: my immortal soldier!alton more au, loosely inspired by the movie the old guard (2020). the idea is that, once upon a time, there was a soldier in a land many centuries ago. one day, he died in battle. and then, he woke up. and then he died. and then he woke up. over, and over. drawn to countless battles, conflicts, and wars, each one etching itself into the core of his soul. a never-ending cycle...until one sweltering summer, where he found himself at a training camp at the foot of a mountain. anyways. at some point, i plan on writing this as a full story, but that is admittedly a long ways away. however, in celebration of alton more's birthday today, i wanted to post my favorite scene that i've written for this au! it's set sometime at the beginning of the story, in the early days of camp toccoa. mostly, it's just a character study of this version of alton more. hope you enjoyed! and of course - happy birthday alton more!

(song insp.)

taglist: @sweetxvanixlla @coco-bean-1218 @bucky32557038ww2 @georgieluz @samwinchesterslostshoe @xxluckystrike @next-autopsy @ronald-speirs @land-sh @ronsparky @panzershrike-pretz @theredrenard @kyellin

[commsroom]

there are no visuals in wolf 359, technically, but the sound design is so efficient at evoking such vivid and specific science fiction environments that it's hard not to feel like that, too, serves as some sort of commentary on the humans-without-humanity technological aspirations of cutter & pryce, in contrast with the average people that goddard employs.

the hephaestus is blinking lights and dials and crt monitors and clutter; it has the background noise, the static and jank and creaking metal of old, clunky, cobbled-together retrofuturism. it's a spacecraft that exists in a world where space travel is old enough for all its technology to be out of date. it's the bridge of the nostromo, it's the millennium falcon with its faulty hyperdrive, it's the bebop. it's the paper print-outs; it's their on-board entertainment of one single vhs copy of home alone 2. the hephaestus is falling apart, it's hostile to human life, it's rotting from the inside, but it's both alive and lived in.

the sol is white and sleek and sterile. everything meticulously in place, and all conveniences the hephaestus is too old and too unimportant to qualify for - artificial gravity, cutter's designated smoking section, etc. the sol is also hostile architecture, but not through years of neglect; it's designed that way. it's progress without people. eiffel calling pryce 'lady imacbeth' is funny, but also, like - yes! the sol, and goddard futuristics laboratories, all of that, should look like the inside of an apple store, and pryce is the same thing, personified.

this isn't to romanticize an idealized past, but - aside from the class differential, the corners goddard cuts, the way both the hephaestus and its crew are treated as disposable assets - i think as a form of visual (or auditory) shorthand, there is something to eiffel's attachment to physical, antiquated things, technology he can fix by hand, and what that reflects as resistance to streamlined advancements, the "greater good" with the least concern for the individual. that he's unbearably nostalgia-brained about his pop culture, and that he's an analog man who is concerned with real, genuine, tangible connection and communication in the face of increasingly arcane, "big picture" capitalist-driven digitization and alienation.

[burningvelvet]

Some of Mary Shelley’s journal entries from late July 1816 when she, Percy, and Claire toured the Valley of Chamounix and visited the Mer de Glace (Montanvert). The scenery inspired Frankenstein and Percy Shelley’s poem Mont Blanc:

“Tuesday, July 23 (Chamounix). — In the morning, after breakfast, we mount our mules to see the source of the Arveiron. When we had gone about three parts of the way, we descended and continued our route on foot, over loose stones, many of which were an enormous size. We came to the source, which lies (like a stage) surrounded on the three sides by mountains and glaciers. We sat on a rock, which formed the fourth, gazing on the scene before us. An immense glacier was on our left, which continually rolled stones to its[Pg 145] foot. It is very dangerous to be directly under this. Our guide told us a story of two Hollanders who went, without any guide, into a cavern of the glacier, and fired a pistol there, which drew down a large piece on them. We see several avalanches, some very small, others of great magnitude, which roared and smoked, overwhelming everything as it passed along, and precipitating great pieces of ice into the valley below. This glacier is increasing every day a foot, closing up the valley. We drink some water of the Arveiron and return. After dinner think it will rain, and Shelley goes alone to the glacier of Boison. I stay at home. Read several tales of Voltaire. In the evening I copy Shelley’s letter to Peacock.”

“Wednesday, July 24. — To-day is rainy; therefore we cannot go to Col de Balme. About 10 the weather appears clearing up. Shelley and I begin our journey to Montanvert. Nothing can be more desolate than the ascent of this mountain; the trees in many places having been torn away by avalanches, and some half leaning over others, intermingled with stones, present the appearance of vast and dreadful desolation. It began to rain almost as soon as we left our inn. When we had mounted considerably we turned to look on the scene. A dense white mist covered the vale, and tops of scattered pines peeping above were the only objects that presented themselves. The rain continued in torrents. We were wetted to the skin; so that, when we had ascended halfway, we resolved to turn back. As we descended, Shelley went before, and, tripping up, fell upon his knee. This added to the weakness occasioned by a blow on his ascent; he fainted, and was for some minutes incapacitated from continuing his route.

We arrived wet to the skin. I read Nouvelles Nouvelles, and write my story. Shelley writes part of letter.”

Excerpts from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein:

“At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.”

“These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.”

“Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.”

Mary used some of Percy’s poetry in Frankenstein. Here’s an excerpt from one of Percy Shelley’s most famous poems, Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni:

“Some say that gleams of a remoter world

Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,

And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber

Of those who wake and live.—I look on high;

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd

The veil of life and death? or do I lie

In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep

Spread far around and inaccessibly

Its circles? For the very spirit fails,

Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep

That vanishes among the viewless gales!

Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,

Mont Blanc appears—still, snowy, and serene;

Its subject mountains their unearthly forms

Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between

Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,

Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread

And wind among the accumulated steeps;

A desert peopled by the storms alone,

Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone,

And the wolf tracks her there—how hideously

Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high,

Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven.—Is this the scene

Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young

Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea

Of fire envelop once this silent snow?

None can reply—all seems eternal now.

The wilderness has a mysterious tongue

Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,

So solemn, so serene, that man may be,

But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd;

Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal

Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood

By all, but which the wise, and great, and good

Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.”

Excerpt of a letter from Percy Shelley to his friend Thomas Love Peacock, July 25th:

“We have returned from visiting the glacier of Montanvert, or as it is called the Sea of Ice, a scene in truth of dizzying wonder. The path that winds to it along the side of a mountain, now clothed with pines, now intersected with snowy hollows, is wide and steep. The cabin of Montanvert is three leagues from Chamouni, half of which distance is performed on mules, not so sure-footed but that on the first day the one which I rode fell in what the guides call a mauvais pas, so that I narrowly escaped being precipitated down the mountain. We passed over a hollow covered with snow, down which vast stones are accustomed to roll. One had fallen the preceding day, a little time after we had returned: our guides desired us to pass quickly, for it is said that sometimes the least sound will accelerate their descent. We arrived at Montanvert, however, safe.

On all sides precipitous mountains, the abodes of unrelenting frost, surround this vale: their sides are banked up with ice and snow, broken, heaped high, and exhibiting terrific chasms. The summits are sharp and naked pin-nacles, whose overhanging steepness will not even permit snow to rest upon them. Lines of dazzling ice occupy here and there their perpendicular rifts, and shine through the driving vapours with inexpressible brilliance: they pierce the clouds like things not belonging to this earth.

The vale itself is filled with a mass of undulating ice, and has an ascent sufficiently gradual even to the remotest abysses of these horrible deserts. It is only half a league (about two miles) in breadth, and seems much less. It exhibits an appearance as if frost had suddenly bound up the waves and whirlpools of a mighty torrent. We walked some distance upon its surface. The waves are elevated about twelve or fifteen feet from the surface of the mass, which is intersected by long gaps of unfathomable depth, the ice of whose sides is more beautifully azure than the sky. In these regions everything changes, and is in motion.

This vast mass of ice has one general progress, which ceases neither day nor night; it breaks and bursts for ever: some undulations sink while others rise; it is never the same. The echo of rocks, or of the ice and snow which fall from their overhanging precipices, or roll from their aerial summits, scarcely ceases for one moment. One would think that Mont Blanc, like the god of the Stoics, was a vast animal, and that the frozen blood for ever circulated through his stony veins.

We dined (M[ary], C[lare], and I) on the grass, in the open air, surrounded by this scene. The air is piercing and clear. We returned down the mountain sometimes encompassed by the driving vapours, sometimes cheered by the sunbeams, and arrived at our inn by seven o'clock.”

[cleradinthealps]

people on tiktok/tumblr will post a picture of a rural appalachian town and caption it “ethel cain core southern appalachian gothic catholicism americana lana del rey vinyl” like my god you were raised in a protestant suburban home in washington.

[mazojo]

I want to thank dark academia based media for changing my life for the worse

[corfisers]

i really need to finish this one day

[autistic-autumn]

I am so goddamn autistic for the Mozart requiem. The guy wrote it knowing he was basically writing his own funeral music at that point. He literally wrote one of his most famous works for it on his death bed and had to have his students finish it.

It's got some of the best Mozart as well because it's so late into his composing career. The Contutatis and Lacrimosa are some of the best honestly choral pieces every written. The Lacrimosa is so wildly famous that an overwhelming number of people recognize the piece. Truly a master piece of writing.

[transhawks]

Relevant to the newest chapter and my earlier thoughts about the League not being close. Not that I hate the trope because I genuinely love it done properly, but I... Idk, I've kind of been privately ranting about the "laziness" I perceive in a lot fic to a fic writer friend when they write the League as a Found Family. I get there's limited space in fics but it's treated so unquestionably.

It's always established Lov as found family, it's rarely getting there and taking into account the massive obstacles each person brings into that dynamic. So it never feels earned, and then I see that dynamic make it into fanon without being questioned - they're already best buddies, Touya braids Toga's her hair, and Tomura and Spinner cuddle or something, but again, it doesn't feel earned. And then we have canon where it's shown it was just... friendship centered on a common goal and mutual understanding in some cases but ended up being fairly shallow as we can see. I know they couldn't have done anything, but I just can't get over them watching Tomura have seizures and Spinner being the only one to really try and reach out.

Even with Toga and Twice - there's a line in the Friends chapter with Keigo and Jin where he says he's not going to Toga for help, because she's so "cute" and he's too flustered to speak with her. That coincides with her telling him she was getting annoyed with him worshipping her clone, so it makes me think Jin was self-aware enough and kind of that thing where you start trying to distance yourself from a friend you really like because you don't want to cling too much. Sucks because it opened him up to manipulation. I just wish someone other than Dabi, who was playing a longer game and just didn't expect the Great Chicken Murder to happen, noticed and stepped in between Twice and Hawks, knowing that Jin had been used to hurt the League before. Like before the raid. Can't help but think Tomura would have if he was around but clearly Horikoshi has just been writing the League to fail.

I think that's one of the ways to really look at the League - Horikoshi is clearly portraying their comradery as something that has ended up hurting more than helping. And subverting something narratively set up to fail take work, so I just wish people were willing to just push more. Or explore what it takes to actually have very broken people who don't really want to challenge themselves to get better try and do so anyway.

[zero-a]

people will go all "just be yourself and love yourself! :)" and then go "if you don't act the way i want, you gotta reprogram your entire way of thinking then reach into the very core of who you are and what makes you you, discard it, and replace it with this better, friendlier, more empathetic version that's coincidentally far more convenient for me to deal with than any other possible compromise we can make that you can do for me but doesn't stretch your mind to nothing but thin bands of what you'd consider 'You' :))))))"

[ride-thedragon]

(Tw: Mentions of blood, dead bodies, burned bodies, periods, naked bodies, and drunkness.)

Chapter 3: 5 days later

It took the door slamming three hours before dawn to awaken him. It was a shrill noise with no cause had been the only indication. She was doing well enough for such a change. The Maester had at least implied it had no big effect on her.

On her best days, however, he’d be half dressed by the time she’d finally get up. She’d grown into the little things they’d done together throughout their time at Maidenpool, treating them now almost like a routine, he’d get up then she would, they’d break fast, fly, eat, aid who they could, come back to silence and bathe and eat, going to bed before they would do it all over again.

 He started thinking he should stifle his concern over her all together. It would do him no good as he left to have someone calling back to him, asking him to stay. It wasn’t a true or full plan, more an incomplete, mindless strategy for if they stayed here another month with no success.

What could wake her so early, he could hear the curious voice whispering aimlessly in his head. He had gotten up to appease it to settle its insistence that something could be wrong.

He called out at first, not knowing if she had returned while his thoughts fester. He knocked when she didn’t respond, only opening the door when he got a lit candle to see what had happened.

He called out again to no reply. Certain things had changed in a short time. She sought out his company now, making it seem like she wanted to be there rather than instruction. She’d talk to him at least twice a day and responded when he called.

He walked into the unlit room to the sight of no one. He called out again as he made his way to her bed, she’d been quite enough not to wake him before slamming the door, he noted, with nothing to cause it.

He pulled the covering off the rest of her bed to make it up for her return. At least it wouldn’t seem as though he’d waited idly for her return. 

A dark spot laid at the center of her bed, shown to be blood red with the candle light.

Had she hurt herself?

 He looked around for a knife, or letter opener, anything sharp enough to cut for his half awake mind to put itself at ease.

Maybe a nosebleed. He hadn’t gotten then since he was young but he remembered them well enough.

The door started to creak as his mind wandered as the girl walked in, fresh sheets in hand without a maid to help her. She was scared at first, bashful as her eyes drifted from him to the sheets in his hand.

“Did I wake you?” She asked, looking barely awake herself.

“The door did. Do not worry. Are you well?”

She looked even more shy in the ill lit room, surely they could pull the curtain to gain whatever little light they had.

“I’m fine, what’s a little blood ever so often.” Her cadence was that of a jest, he couldn’t see why she would, she had no visible bandages on her, nothing in her nose to stop the bleeding. Perhaps she’d gotten over it. The same shyness lingered still.

“Do you want help?”

She looked up at him almost thankfully before her regular composure took over. Her expressions had become more relaxed around him, her ease would be shown rather than just hoped for. It was a better thing that still surprised him .

“Sure.” She responded, starting by answering his thoughts and allowing the moonlight to shine through the window after she’d pulled the curtain back. She came back, her skin almost blue in the light pulling the sheet back.

“No need for any bandages?” He pulled the sheet back, thankful it hadn’t gone further back than that.

“No more than I need for the while, I’ll  get more before we leave.” She hadn’t walked in with them, he thought.

“Where’s the cut?” She had thrown him the other side of the new sheets, a dark blue in contrast to the lighter peach that covered it before.

She stated at him, confused for a moment with a small smile covering her lips.

“The what?” Her words were said through a muffled laugh. He’d never seen her this way before either, surely he didn’t deserve it.

“The cut.” He repeated the words trying to find the humor that made her eyes light up even through the clock of darkness.

“I’m a girl.” She said it as though it had been the least obvious thing in the world.

“That you are.” He stopped to dedicate his will power to their conversation, nothing had connected yet.

“A girl of six and ten with blood on her bed and no seen bandages.” She stated with the matter of fact tone in her voice. Perhaps it was the tiredness or the early hour but still he didn’t think he’d figure out her need to list these things.

“My moon blood is here, Daemon.” She looked at him like she was a Septa having to explain the same thing to him over and over. When what she said finally connected to the situation he must’ve looked like he’d seen a ghost.

The silence with the realization held the room as he quickly drew his attention back to the bed. He had two daughters and a wife, he was almost ashamed that the thought had slipped him with her. She wasn’t just a girl, she was a young woman. Obviously that would have happened eventually.

She joined him to finish making up the coverings again. He walked out before the conversation could continue. Her bemused ‘Daemon’ as he left served to further push the feeling of shame into him. All be could do was lay on the bed before a quick sleep would claim him.

He listened for the door to open and close again before doing it one last time. She kept their door open this time, before a quiet thank you escaped her.

She woke him up that morning, already dressed, so awake he’d wondered if she fell back asleep after he left.

“If you don’t get up now , you can’t have breakfast, the letter was urgent.” There was a sound of concern in her voice, she pulled the covering off him and left the room, presumably to eat.

He got up and did his best to organize to eat, leaving his bath behind all together to join her. To her annoyance when he joined her after his haste, he left it alone. He was barely asleep when they met for the first time. He was more asleep now.

“I saddled Caraxes with two of the Maester bundles.” Maester Norren, ever in his right mind organized five crates of supplies to the camp they would go to today. In the letter from House Roote had been left the worst of so far in his nephews tirade. The thought of her reaction to it was consuming his mind until he was too tired to do much else but sleep. It would be fine, she’d be fine he reminded himself, she knew what to expect.

 

Even he still didn’t believe he had processed what they had seen truly as they returned. Neither of them made a sound as they returned. The sights of children clutching their burns in agony. The smell of charred flesh and burned oak filled the smoky air as they descended. Plies of bodies surrounded the ruins of the fulfillment, little children screaming and crying igniting choruses in the air as they saw the dragons return.

They had unloaded everything they could before she flew away far enough to stop the crying, to let them settle in a stream before returning and aiding in whatever way she could. She was quite and stern, giving Milk of the Poppy to those who could bare it, ignoring their pleas to end their lives altogether. He talked to the helpers all around, asking witnesses what direction he’d flown away in, trying his best to understand them through the tears and stench of Milk of The Poppy. It was all so much too soon.

He flew as far as he could without her concern, searching to no avail for a general direction for where his nephew could be.

When they arrived back it was long past midnight, and as she flew quicker jumping from her saddle he didn’t have it in him to call after her. He didn’t know how she’d wanted to react all day but she’d done well enough that he could push it aside for now. Gather his thoughts, wash the blood and smoke off himself and track the directions they had said.

He fell asleep eventually, avoiding her all together, not knowing how he’d begin to speak to her after. It hadn’t been that bad in recent memory, not past the first week. Everything, all together clouded his mind until he could only sleep again, craving some semblance of comfort.

She didn’t make any noise since they had returned. The door hadn’t creaked, she didn’t cry loud enough for him to hear, for all he knew she hadn’t made a sound.

He got up from his bed, meeting the already rising sun for the first time in weeks he walked towards her closed door an knocked waiting for answer. When he called, the silence was numbing from her as the birds sang happily.

He opened the door slowly to find her staring up a the ceiling, covered in soot and the blood and bile that had been painted on her throughout the day. She smelt awful and yet she wouldn’t move from where she was, the bed was made up otherwise.

“Netty?” He called out, waiting at the door for a reaction.

When she turned her head to face him he could tell she hadn’t slept. The same dark circles formed under her eyes, her face looked sunken and tired. The room smelled of old wine, the opened bottle of Dornish red on the floor next to her was a clear indicator of the night she had.

“Do we have to leave now?” She sat up on her bed rubbing her face with her ash covered hand .

“No, not until tomorrow.” It was a reckless decision, one that he completely justified with the way she looked. They could fly for longer if she was well enough to do so.

“I smell.” She stated with a hollow tone. His eyes met hers, tired and void of all life they tend to hold. The rational part of him knew she was just tired, probably overwhelmed by it all, the wine easing her for the night but the part he chose to listen to held her face and kept her eyes on his.

“Go and bathe. We’ll eat and discuss our next steps.” His thumb stroked her hand before pulling away, to hold some sense of comfort, feeling the heat rise from her skin from the touch alone. He didn’t know if she was ever so warm, he had so little to compare it to but her chest raised hurriedly while both her hands rested at her side.

She looked away for a moment before shaking her head, brushing it off entirely without a word between them. She walked away in the silence, walking past him through his door.

All he could do was move on without too much thought on the matter, small reprimands flowed throw his stream of thought. She wouldn’t be so deeply hurt at the distance she was at. A small, flimsy affirmation that didn’t affect his worry or concern for her ,he thought, aimlessly, he admitted.

He busied himself, with the same letters that seemed to build each day. Thanks, fear and rations bled through each one until his hands were covered and his desk was pooled. An hour into it he had exhausted his mind with he task, while his companion was no where to be found.

She was usually quicker and although he was sure he had no need to worry, he yearned for the focus her company brought. He collected himself and made his way down the hall, hearing two loud voices booming through the walls the closer he got.

If he didn’t know how she reacted to him last, his mind would wonder to what caused an out burst from her. He pushed open the door, to the shock of the maid being reprimanded by her. It was something he’d never believe she would do. She was naked in a shallow tub, one hand over her chest at his arrival the other reaching out to the overly flustered maid.

“Is all well?” he asked, leaning against the door frame, watching her process the frustration before speaking to him.

“I’m trying to get her to leave but she’s insisting on staying.” He could see the dismissal of her interpretation by the maid, something that aided in the visualization of her resentment towards the situation.

“ She bathed standing in the tub, throwing the water on herself, I care to prevent the water falling all over the floor again while she washes her hair, Your Grace. She’ll rush and fall before I’m done. She slipped a while before.” The maid was well into her years, her tone was motherly concerning the girl, he assumed , if she had ever known her mother, they’d have a similar circumstance.

“Her voice is booming.” The girl offered in the darkened room, the effects  of the wine taking root in her reactions. Her eyes where squinted as she pointed with the look of regret plastered on her face, he was sympathetic to her plight.

“I’ll dismiss you from her company. If she falls and hurts herself, it will be her own fault.” He looked at the girl, seeing her finally get the comb for her hair and turn around again, ignoring the maid entirely as she walked away, thanking him before she left.

She pulled her legs towards her and knocked her head against them, almost childishly seeking some comfort. The windows where covered with curtains, the only light that shone in was through cracks, gaps and candlelight that always made the room more open.

“Girl?”

He called out to her as quietly as he could manage. He knew how sound would echo in her state,  his understanding spanned more that her lifetime.

He heard a small muttering acknowledging she at least knew he was still there. She looked up at him after a moment, her smile was tight lipped and passive.

Buckets of dirty water decorated the room, most around her with soot stained wash cloths hanging in various states of disarray, small drops of water covered the floor around her.

He made her way towards her, an action he’d grown weary of since their last interaction in here. In here, he was a prince with a naked girl in the bath a locked door behind them. As much a lady as the lords who would wed her after the war thought. His reputation surely didn’t help her and he was certain she had never questioned his company in this state. She had always been, he supposed, she just never expressed herself in a way that made him want to mind the distance he would reasonably keep.

She was as much a lady to him as he was a prince to her. Almost always until neither cared to express it.

“I’m not drunk, if we must go, we can.”

He saw two clean buckets of water as he settled beside her, a strong aroma or oranges bloomed in the room. The bath itself was discolored, a light red covering up to her hip in the water. He could hear the apology in her voice, he could see it written on her face.

“Are you almost done?”

His eyes danced along the edge of the tub, catching glimpses of her body in this state. She had filled out, from the last time he saw her, gaining some weight that formed a maiden’s silhouette. Her thigh and calves had thickened ever so much, her breast and hips had as well. When he finally met her eyes they were squinted still on him, weary and quite aware of his new and idle gaze.

“I have to wash my hair.” She knitted her eyebrows , twisting her scarred nose along with her mouth. He moved his hand and looked towards a covered window, feeling her unflinching gaze towards him.

“Do you need help?” Seeing as you scared away the maid, he felt the need to add. She seemed to hear the humor in his tone, rebottling in her own right.

“Of course, Your Grace.” He almost laughed at the implication. His Grace would wash her hair, not just Daemon. He wondered if she thought of the humor behind it, if she had meant it.

He wasn’t sure if he had meant it past the joke either, so when he stood up and started removing his doublet, to not get it wet and her look hadn’t changed, the implication did.

She was genuine in her response he supposed or hoped more likely.

Her hair was large and long, with tighter coils than his daughters,  a pretty look in their own right, almost Naathi in appearance. He had wondered if she knew where her family had come from, but based in what little anyone knew it was the easiest way not to speak to her again past formalities.

He folded the hem of his trouser sleeves on itself twice and made his way back to her.

She didn’t seem anxious or to be anticipating him, she was simply there with him, not caring past the task they now both had in hand.

He sat just behind her, near the bucket and dipper alike, the perfumed lye was just near her shoulder and yet the hesitated.

“I can do it on my own, Daemon, you need not worry about it.” She said in a half joking tone, the other half belonged to a sorry tune. She was almost apologetic for convincing him, something she hadn’t done.

“The quicker we eat, the quicker we can discuss our next actions.” It was a reasonable justification, for him as much as it was for her. He had found himself in a strange place with her, through seemed better than out. He couldn’t find it himself to leave, something kept him where she allowed.

He poured the warm water without warning and thankfully without reaction from her. It practically slid off her hair. With the second round he interlocked his fingers in her hair which seemed to help, she eased into his touch to keep from pulling, bending her head back, fully. She kept her hands on her calves, legs pulled to her frame, offering what little protection it could.

He continued with what worked best until the water ran clear from her hair, the just washed soot coving her back instead. Another problem for another time he reasoned.

“Are you done?” She turned around, staring at him softly, trying not to get him more drenched than he had allowed. His undershirt was blackened and dirtier now, his pants had just darkened as a result.

She hadn’t moved her legs or arms, still covering herself. Perhaps it was enough help, he thought. He shook his head to say yes, starting to stand and move along.

He changed the buckets as she moved in the water to give her water to rise her hair and back with. When he turned to say he was going she was already half way through her hair , lathering the soap between her now moving hands. Her legs had gone down and she was truly naked in front of him now.

He stared in an unanticipated disbelief. She was no more naked than she was as he poured water on her hair, now she was relaxed and something else entirely.  He told himself not to gaze as she worked her way with ease throughout her hair, with each motion revealing herself to him in some new way. He felt almost stuck in the position. She hadn’t looked up or around to find him, see if he had gone, choosing to close her eyes to prevent the lye from going in them.

Would she mind him? Did she care at all? He wondered when did it start to matter at all, why in her various states of undress did it now bother him to the point of racing his breath, causing a stir with him.

“Daemon?”

She still hadn’t seen him ogling her, yet she’d expected him to stay. She kept more trust in him than he had in himself currently. The beams of light started to dance on her skin now, falling precariously on her brown skin, highlighting parts as he made his way to her.

He mustered up some indication that he was there, causing her to look relieved at the sound of him.

“I don’t want it in my eyes.” The seriousness in her voice caused him to laugh. He felt the wave of emotion her openness caused with him, he was almost hesitant to let them.

“Bend you head back.” He could feel the restraint in his throat, the last thing he wanted was her discomfort, it had been a while since he had been with someone, that was all it would be.

She bent her neck, unknowingly exposing herself to him again. This time she made no efforts to hide behind her forearm or calves. All he could do was focus on her hair, his bucket had dried blood oranges, the type the Maester had encouraged her to get. They fell into the now black water beneath her, with suds looking like a potion, the water smelled like charred orange and blood.

When he was done he grabbed one  of the discarded cloths and passed them on her back. She flinched at first with his touch, slowly easing in as he continued to wiped and rinse the rest of soot from her. He felt her skin like it was the first time he’d ever touched a naked girl. Shy and tender, he passed the cloth until the brown was revealed underneath, until it as an idle, absent-minded excuse to be there, although her.

“Are you done?”

She called as his hand had stopped right above her ass. He stopped whatever trance he had found himself in, ashamed by the reaction she pulled from him carelessly and unaware.

“Yes.”

 He quickly pulled away from her all together, taking a deep breath pulling himself out of the spell. He stood up, throwing the cloth aside, he turned towards the door, away from her until he could get his head on right.

“Thank you, then.”

It was so matter of fact towards everything that had happened in such a small amount of time, half an hour couldn’t have passed as his view of her changed. He heard her stand out the water, her gentle breath outing the candle and cautious steps coming towards him.

He walked out first , wet and bothered, the door opening broke the atmosphere they cultivated, she walked back to her room as though nothing had happened at all. In her place she’d be correct, he supposed. She was oblivious to it all while he strained against his pants at the thought of their prior state.

 As she closed her room door, he walked to his, cautious about their door being opened, that he would find her compromised and completely dissolve into his need. To greet a closed door was a place blessing he knew he would be grateful for. He discarded his clothes as quickly as he could , drying his skin, conscious about his limited time and fueling desire.

He was too far gone. It had been too long since he had released himself to turn away now.

[quantumshade]

So. The Girl in the Fireplace. It's a very interesting episode in how Moffat-y its ideas are, both on the things it follows up on — see Continuity Errors for 'how the Doctor affects a random bystander' and the same nicking of the 'I am what monsters have nightmares about' line, and on the things that follow /from it/ — for example, the theme of failing to return (see Amy, /two times/, and that bit in Lost Christmas). But, looking at it less abstractly and analysisly, it ends up being near unwatchable — Rose's half of the episode does… basically nothing emotionally or plot-wise, Reinette is characterised as a very generic 'upper class woman who endures™' and mainly treated as a historical symbol rather than as an interesting person in her own right (also, misogyny, because objectificatiok!), and Mickey and the Doctor's relationship just… doesn't follow at all from any development in mutual respect in series 1. But 'the Doctor affects a bystander's whole life even though it's one (1) short adventure for them' and 'their world (represented by the spaceship set piece) is terrifying when it intrudes on yours' is /really interesting/. Therefore, I would propose /telling this story entirely from Reinette's perspective/. Give more space to her characterisation! Let Rose and Mickey quietly fall out of the plot (except for where the two women talk and set up how they relate to and parallel each other) instead of noticeably doing nothing! Make the spaceship world more inexplicable, and the part where Reinette enters it more climactic! You'd need to shunt all the ideas for the mechanics of the setting into the background, though, and I /would/ expect that Moffat, being Moffat, wouldn't do that

i mean i agree with you on some of these points, but my solution wouldn't be to "tell the story from Reinette's perspective" [while keeping the same ripoff time traveler's wife plot with the little girl meeting a man and growing up obsessed/in love with him and then becoming a woman waiting eternally for her godlike time-travelling perfect baby angel man AND doubling down on the classist juxtaposition with Rose being entirely absent except to talk with/be talked down to by the girlboss aristocrat about why the Doctor is a perfect baby angel man so far above us mere mortal women] as much as it would be to scrap the obnoxious premise entirely

[nyxdimandis]

with the full disclaimer that i might be missing some context or significant piece of information & am fully welcoming anyone to inform me, i feel like. it really just doesn't seem like a huge deal that one of the "poison" storyboard artists is into "dark" kink. like this really feels like a non-issue to me