#rogue translator my beloved

[riverwithoutbanks]

[decncas]

2 years since misha collins’ thanksgiving was destroyed by the CW sniper

[just-some-random-blogger]

The Salt In My Blood

You were the beloved Jewel of the Realm, the youngest Targaryen born to Alyssa and Baelon. Though your nature resembled more a lamb rather than a dragon, you posed a threat at court, for a single word out of your mouth inspired a thousand actions from The King and The Rogue Prince. Thus, your match with the Lord of the Iron Islands.

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader x Dalton Greyjoy | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, targcest (sister!reader), reader has valyrian features (silver hair, violet eyes), power imbalance, graphic depictions of violence/assault/murder/death, canon divergence/inaccurate timelines, ye old misogyny, fuckedupedness of men, smut (dub con, loss of virginity, piv, biting, marking, breeding kink, corruption kink, baby trapping, cockwarming, cunnilingus), internet translated high valyrian, angst, social commentary, typos, etc.

A/N: !!mind the warnings!! This is really yucky because it is. all men do is hurt women. Also I did basic research for Dalton Greyjoy and just used him cuz I needed a character. idk what he's actually like and I'm 99% sure this timeline doesn't add up so, just roll w it ok? Ok. If my internet translated high valyrian sucks, well, it be like that. And surprise surprise i made another song for a fic because i should make use of my music degree while im jobless 💔 my heart goes out to @arabellasleopardcoat because her fic capital really poked my brain and got me fired up enough to write/create again, even if just for this fic. i love you.

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @delicious-xx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @thebullship @sa3losa @sloanexx @azperja @happilyhertale

Father, father, shining star, save my brother from the war. Mother, mother, hold me close. I fear brother won't come home. So, I pray, night and day, I do my duty here. Find me, oh [a] husband, so fierce with not a fear. Father, father hears my prayer. Mother, mother dries my tears. All my strife ends tonight for my husband's here.

"But what if someone sees," you whisper.

Daemon clutches your hand tighter as you hurry down the hall. He looks over to you, your expression matches your shaky voice.

Perhaps, had the conditions been different, he'd be softened by your words. The ferocity of his protectiveness would have made him stop in his footsteps and clutch your cheek. Perhaps he would have promised to safeguard you.

But these conditions did not elicit such urges from him. No. It stoked the fires bacchanal in his gut. The stolen taste of your honeyed lips in the garden was not enough.

Daemon finally brings his darling sister into his bedroom, and there, he answers you, "who would dare spy on the king's heir, the prince of the realm?"

Your breath quickens at the sound of your brother locking the door.

The prince of the realm stalks over to you, a dragon gazing upon a meek lamb.

Again, you whisper, "what if someone finds out?"

Daemon could growl. He almost did as he grabs your waist and sinks his head into the crook of your tender neck. You don't even react when he does this, save for your gasp.

Oh, how like you, how docile and doe-like, never one to raise your voice, or fight back, especially not with him.

"Let them find out, sister," he claws your clothing, "then they will not steal you from me."

You are so pliant as he squeezes you, so soft as he roughs you back to his bed. You let him handle you like he did your dolls growing up. He treated them with less than a quarter of the gentleness you would,; they'd end up tattered and broken because of him by the end of your playing session, much to your heartbreak.

Though you cried about it, you never once held it against him, because each time, Daemon would wipe your tears and apologize. He liked breaking your dolls. He liked being your comfort.

He knew without a sliver of doubt you'd let him do the same to your body. You'd let him break you, then kiss the tears off your cheeks. You'd let him, for he was your star, and you were his doll.

Daemon presses you beneath him. He lays you down where he sleeps. He kisses you, the way he has sometimes imagined he would while touching himself, or while in the arms of another. His long, silver hair falls cascades down his shoulder, joining your long, silver hair that's spilled on his pillows.

For so long, he's denied himself of you, because you were too pure, too darling to be tainted.

You whimper as he pushes your skirts up, bunching them by your ribs.

But now, it's all different.

His mouth suckles his way to your neck.

"Daemon."

Now, it's not about denial. It's about what's right. It's about what you deserve.

"Daemon-" you whimper when he reaches into the waistband of your smallclothes, "-wait."

He breathes hotly against your jaw. His hands grab your knees and parts them for himseld

You push his shoulders back, catching his attention. He is displeased, and not even your glassy eyes could quell it. He warns you with an annoyed sound.

You gulp but mutter anyway, "this is wrong."

"Wrong?!" snaps he.

You tense at his anger, yet even then, you caress his cheek gently, "I am to be married to Lord Dalton Greyjoy."

"And you would have me believe you want him?" Daemon quips, "that you do not want me?"

You push yourself up on your elbows. Tears begin to spill down the corner of your eyes, "Daem-"

"Why do you think I am doing this?" He pushes himself against your core.

You whimper at the contact. He is hard.

He grabs your wrists and pins them to your sides, "I do this for your sake, little girl. To save you from your prison."

You gulp and blink rapidly, your silver lashes lace with tears.

The slightest semblance of remorse flashes on your brother's face.

With your head lifted, you watch as Daemon brings his hands to your ankles instead. He rids you of your shoes and chucks them over his shoulder.

Slowly, he strips you naked until you are left in nothing but the jewelry and the stockings he bought you one before.

You cover your breasts, and he lets you while he kneads at your slightly parted thighs.

His eyes are glued on your womanhood, on the curls that don't see the light of day and the flesh that's never been touched by a man.

Daemon clenches his jaw as his fingers inspect the heat there. The two digits find molten wetness flooding your entrance. You make a breathless sound and squeeze your thighs, trying, with pointless effort, to stop him. His eyes flick to your face, the look of embarrassment, of shock, of pleasure visible to him. He debates forcing your legs.

He licks his you-coated fingers and tuts instead, "open."

You look at him, your Daemon, with the faint line between his brows. You close your mouth and lick your lips. Your hands find their way back to your breasts.

The sight is maddening, especially with how the jewel of your necklace looks between the squished mount of flesh.

"Open," he commands with less patience.

Daemon watches his darling princess part her legs for him. His trousers strain more than it did already.

He watches you closely and motions with a finger, "those too."

You do not immediately comply. In fact, you look at Daemon with pleading eyes. He raises his brows at your bratty demeanor, and shakes his head, "are you disobeying me?"

You see the threat in his eyes.

"Kessa nyke mazverdagon ao rūnagon aōha dīnagon?" Shall I make you remember your place?

You shake your head and pipe softly, "daor." No.

Finally, you reveal your breasts to him.

He smirks, "good girl."

Your brother kneads your delicate flesh and grinds his clothed groin against your weeping cunt. The sound you emit makes the feel of the clothes on his skin unbearable.

His grabs your hands and places them on his waistband. He looks down at you as he rids himself of his top. By the time his burning chest is free, you've gotten half the wits to undo his breeches.

His eyes don't leave you as he takes off his shoes.

You timidly pull his pants down, sitting up slightly as you do. You make a soft sound when his manhood flings free. Daemon shoves you back and does the rest himself.

"Daemon. I don't think-"

Your voice is crushed by the feel of his cock sliding into you. A rush of heat ripples through your body. He leans down and kisses your shoulder as you whine.

"Enough," he pants. He uses all his restraint not to fuck you dumb then and there. He grabs your thighs, pressing them into your chest. He can feel your tension. If he fucks you now, he could leave you unable to walk straight. But as sweet as that sounds, he doesn't actually want to hurt you, not that way.

Daemon sinks down to your jugular and kisses you there before he brings his hungry mouth to your breast. He sucks and nips, imagining it being heavy with milk for his babe, the babe he'd put into your belly.

The thought makes his moan and rut his hips.

You make a strained sound and your hands to push his arms. You call his name again, soft and shaky.

Daemon tries to ignore you, his hand coming to your lonely breast on the other side, but the persistent call of his name makes his sigh.

He lightly grazes your nipple before he releases your flesh. He trails kisses up your skin until he lands on your face, your face, which was now wet with salt.

"You need to relax. Mmm?" he coos, kissing your lips, "skoro syt gaomagon ao limagon? Hm?" Why do you cry?

You adjust beneath him, repositioning your thighs, digging your fingers into his nape. You whimper, "lēkia."

Daemon's belly burns. Look at you, crying for your older brother.

"Kessa, ñuha hāedar?" Yes, my little sister?

"Iksan zūgagon," you mutter, tears streaming down your temples. Your nails scratch up his scalp. I am afraid.

Daemon, selfish as he is, does not like the fact that leaves your lips. His brows furrow. He rubs your thighs in an attempt to comfort you. He kisses the corner of your lips, "hen lēkia?" Of your older brother?

You shake your head quickly, rubbing your thumb on his jaw.

His brows furrow tighter. His hold on your thigh tightens, "hen bona Āegenka Āzma?" Of that Iron Born?

You stay still. You take a moment before mumbling, "Viserys said I should marry him for my own good-"

"Fuck that cunt Viserys," he spits angrily.

Your lips quiver.

The anger in Daemon's chest dissipates as you rub the deep line between his brows. He props himself up, sinking a hand by the side of your head. He looks down at you.

"You cannot protect me forever," you whisper, finally relaxing beneath him.

Daemon watches as you lick your lips.

You gulp, "I am a Targaryen princess. I have duties to the realm, to my family."

"Your duty is with me," he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest.

Your violet eyes sparkle as you examine his features. You tuck the long tresses that block his face behind his ear. Your belly ignites at the fierce beauty of your beloved brother.

"I burn for you," Daemon says, "I know that you burn for me."

"But Daemon-"

The gentle thrust of his hips stifle your words.

"Enough," Daemon repeats this time softer, head sinking back into the crook of your neck, "you have always belonged to me, and you know it."

You whimper and instinctively mold your body against him. Your legs tighten around his torso as his thrusts grow more and more confident.

Daemon kisses you, delighting in the gasp you give when he plays with your pearl. He muffling the sound of your mewls with his mouth.

"They insult us all by daring to mix dragon blood with fucking sea squid," he pants, "you were meant to carry my seed, be my bride."

You moan, feeling a foreign force in your belly.

"I will not let that sewer monster be the one to make you a woman," Daemon licks a stripe up your neck.

You tangle your fingers into the roots of his hair, "Daemon."

His nails scratch up your sides, "twas I that watched you blossom into womanhood, tis I that should be the one to take it."

Neither of you speak after he says this. You both simply whimper, wordlessly agreeing your bodies were made for each other.

The prince had not a single care in the world. He urges you to scream out to him with the flick of his pelvis. He didn't care if anyone could hear, neither did he care that anyone would see the viscious marks he was leaving all over your throat.

You were better than he had ever imagined, and he was determined to make you his. He was intent on emptying his balls in you, over and over again, until you could take no more, until you were too exhausted to leave, until your body had no other choice but to carry him a child.

And when he finally does spill into you, coming with a grunt and a soft, "you're mine," you, the virgin princess finally understand the fuss over sex, and reply to him with an, "I love you."

Daemon fucks you until his bed is soiled with a mix of your come. He fucks you until every minute movement from him makes you shiver and whine. He fucks you until your skin is marked with tender bites. He fucks you until you beg for respite, and then he keeps himself inside you after.

You were a worn little thing, and yet you managed to have the energy to still cling to him as you dozed off.

He kisses your temple and sleeps soundly, knowing he's done it; he's made you his. That was irrefutable. Only a madman would deny him of you now. He basks in the pleasure of your body, and in the knowledge his baby sister so wholeheartedly trusted in him to let him do this.

One can only imagine, then, the mortified horror you felt when you were given to Lord Greyjoy anyway.

This was not part of the plan. You were meant to meet Daemon. He told you you were going to speak to the king together, and yet here your eldest brother was, ushering you towards your captor-husband to be.

"My princess," Dalton says, reaching a hand to you.

You stare at his glimmering eyes, finding nothing but malice and lust behind them. You turn to your brother for help. You do not want to touch this man.

Viserys offers you none and looks away. It hurts when he does so, especially since he does so with such apparently scorn. He smiles at the man, "greet your lord. You will soon be wed to him, sister."

You muster enough artificial interest to smile and take the man's hand. Goosebumps form on your skin when he kisses the back of your hand.

He notices and chuckles, rubbing where he kissed, "such demureness. Do not be frightened of me, my dragon. I would not hurt such a pretty thing."

You clasp your hands together after he releases you.

"Not unless you ask," he adds, bursting into a laugh.

Neither you or Viserys return the amusement. In fact, the latter's face contorts at the distasteful joke. His nostrils flare, "you dare jest such uncouth things in front of your king?"

Dalton Greyjoy is unbothered, but stifles his laughter. He clears his throat and bows, "my apologies, my king. Tis the Ironborn in me. I cannot help my nature, much like you cannot help yours."

You feel light headed the entirety of this interaction. The room feels like it was closing in on you, and you kept glancing at the door, praying that your other brother free you from this torment.

He does not do so. He does not come. In fact, you do not see Daemon anywhere the entire day.

Dalton keeps you by his side, taking your arm in his as he makes you stroll him around the Red Keep. You do so, of course, no matter how strong the urge to run away and hide from him was. The entire time, Dalton recounts his stories of battle, his stories at sea, his stories of life. He's sincere enough, but you are not interested in the slightest.

"I think you'd enjoy the feel of sea salt against your skin, just as much you enjoy the whip of the clouds," he grins with genuine enthusiasm.

Any response you have is put out by his next words.

"I can introduce you to my salt-wives."

"Salt-wives?"

"Aye," he says proudly, "I'd say I have about twenty, but I cannot assure you its accuracy."

You are horrified. Finally, you have the gall to pull away, "what?"

Dalton chuckles, somehow amused, but his brows furrow, as if irritated, "we Ironborn keep salt wives in our ships, to give us comfort and warmth when the sea gets too rough. Is this princess so sheltered to not know this?"

You curdle when he reaches for your neck.

"You needn't be jealous. You'd be my one and only rock wife."

You scowl at his condescending tone, "I thought that was just a wives' tale."

He laughs. It is rich, amused, and foreboding. He shakes his head, "it's about as much of a wives' tale as your dragons are, princess."

Later that night, you weep at the king's feet, begging him not to marry you off to such a man.

Viserys does not hear it, and it is only then that Daemon finally appears.

When he does, it's as if the gods themselves breathed life into you. Quickly, you run into him and sob into his chest.

Daemon holds you tightly and glares at the king, "what have you done to her?"

Viserys scoffs. The dark room, illuminated only by the fireplace and a few lit candles, feels to him like it's darkened because of Daemon. He shifts where he sits, "I? I found her a husband."

Daemon's eye twitches, "you gave her to me! You said it just this morning."

You look up at Daemon, hopeful at the sound of his words.

"I said I would think about it once you report your patrol at the City Watch to me."

Daemon releases you to impose on his brother, "I kept your city clean from crimes and safe for the people."

"And where did you go after?" Viserys narrows his eyes.

You rub your arms as you watch your brothers argue.

Daemon does not respond.

Viserys turns to you, "tell your beloved sister where you went after your patrols."

Daemon does not move.

Your chest tightens at the silence, "... Daemon."

The said man opens his mouth, "I went to get a dri-"

"A whorehouse!" Viserys blurts, rising from his seat to glare at Daemon. He turns back to you, pushing past him, "I would know. I paid every whore in Fleabottom to seduce him."

Your heart leaps into your mouth, "w-what?"

Daemon is stunned.

"See now," Viserys is close enough to clutch your cheeks, "your beloved brother is a man like all the rest. No more is the dragon righteous than the kraken."

Your eyes begin to fog with tears. Your hands begin to tremble. Why was he doing this to you?

"Greyjoy is no less a dog than the rest of us. He at least, is honoring a tradition. Daemon honors only his cock."

You turn to Daemon, hoping to find this was not the case, but his expression says it all. Youlet a pained whimper, "you teach me so cruelly, brother."

"I teach you," he swipes your tears with his thumbs, "for your own good."

"You fucking--"

You scream in terror as Daemon lunges at Viserys. You reel back and watch as the two crash down to the floor, the younger of the two finding the upper hand. They roughly struggle against each other.

It only takes another scream from you, begging them to stop, for the kingsguards to burst into the room.

You can no longer stay screaming when Daemon grabs Viserys by the collar and slams him repeatedly against the ground, especially not when Viserys claws at Daemon's face to get him off. You dash forward just as the guards order the prince to stop.

You grab Daemon's arm, and out of instinct, he swats you back, hand hitting your nose with rage powered force.

You shoot back into a kingsguard, feeling your face throb in pain.

It takes Viserys screaming your name for Daemon to stop.

The impact of hitting the armored man makes your back twinge, but it does not hurt nearly as much as the back handed hit you received from your brother.

The kingsguard catches you and stands you upright. He quickly asks if you are alright, but doesn't wait for an answer because he then shoves Daemon back, putting himself between him and you when he tries to come near.

Daemon glares in offence.

"Throw him in the fucking dungeon," Viserys spits out as he is helped up by another guard.

Daemon fights back, but is no match against three guards.

He screams your name as he is dragged off.

You clutch your face as he tells you he didn't mean to hit you. You face throbs as he tells you he loves you, and only you.

For once, you doubt his words.

Viserys comes to your side, placing a gentle hand in your shoulder. You watch as he commands a servant to get something for your hit.

He clutches your cheek that was struck and sighs, "if you wed the Red Kraken, you will strengthen our hold on the Iron Lands. Dalton Greyjoy is a formidable warrior. I couldn't think of a more capable man to safekeep the Jewel of the Realm."

As he stroked your hair, you realized that Viserys was right. It didn't matter who it was, all men were the same. When your septa warned you of men's depravity, you believed your brothers to be the exception. Now, you knew exactly why you were called-

"Little lamb," Viserys coos, "I only want what is best for all of us."

You were too naive to believe in good things.

And so you marry Dalton Greyjoy the next day.

The haste with which the wedding is prepared is to prevent you from changing your mind, you figured. That, and to keep Daemon in prison for the least amount of time.

Part of you wanted to visit him, but part of you wanted him to suffer. In the end, you realized you were too weak to behold your brother as a prisoner.

Daemon screams and bangs at his bars, demanding he be released. But the prison guards have handled worse and throw cold water at him to shut him up.

He knew by the time he was free, he would be too late to stop your marriage, but still, he meticulously planned what he would do the moment he was.

That night, after the wedding festivities were over, Dalton takes you to your room and makes you his wife.

"It's been a while since I've had a virgin," Dalton says, caressing your cheek, "don't worry, I will be gentle."

You want to scream, you want tofight him back, but you remember you're not a virgin, and fear paralyzes you. You mumble, "m-my dragon riding."

Dalton pushes back bour silver hair and kisses your shoulder.

You can't help but think of Daemon in this moment, but it makes you feel sick, and so you will him out of your head. You mumble again, "my dragon riding may taken my womanhood."

Dalton pulls away and stares at you for a moment.

"I- I was told as a child, it happened to many Targaryen princesses."

He pulls his hands, which were on your hips, away then shoves you down on your bed. He smirks as he undoes his clothing, "then I can be rough with you, aye?"

You quiver at his gaze.

He laughs, shaking his head, "didn't I say I would not hurt you? Unless under your request?"

You push inch back as he crawls over. He grabs your ankle, then the other, causing you to panic. You instinctively kick him off, but instead of being deterred, he is excited.

"Sh, sh, sh," he hushes, "it will not be unpleasant, my dragon."

Your skin pricks with gooseflesh when he removes your shoes, your socks, and sneaks his hand up your skirt.

You whimper and turn away, finding you could no longer kick back when he seizes your knees.

"Please-"

"Shhh," he hushes, giving you the first solemn look he has this entire day he's been smug, "I've had much practice from my salt wives. You, my rock wife, will taste the fruits of my practice... as I taste you."

You gasp when he suddenly rips your underwear off.

" I swear to you, your body will enjoy it, even if your mind wants you to believe otherwise."

You muffle your mouth with your palm when you feel Dalton sink in between your thighs.

He was right.

The entire time he touches you, it feels like your skin was being scorched. Your heart was not in it, but your body twisted in pleasure. You hated that you longed for Daemon, even after the fact you were not enough for him; he was still the only one you still, and this moment proved it.

You were brought to tears at how pathetic it was. Tears streamed as you reached your peak, one of the many you receive from your... husband.

He handled you with carnal instinct, just as Daemon did, but unlike him, Dalton did not kiss your tears. In fact, he did not kiss your face once. It is you that initiates such a thing, amidst the throes of your lewd pleasure. He grabs your jaw when your lips connect, and quickly releases his load into you after.

Your peak is cut short because he pulls out just when you reach it.

You watch as he rolls over and goes to sleep without another word.

The next morning, the servants call you Princess Greyjoy and it haunts you.

"No need to look so sullen, wife," you hear over your shoulder.

If the cold from the early morning wasn't enough to make you shiver, the kiss on your shoulder was.

The ship rocks as you tear your gaze away from King's Landing, King's Landing that looked so tiny now from where you stood. A sea of tears laid between you and the home that will never be yours again. You turn to Dalton. He leans his elbows on the edge of the ship and looks up at you, "we can do many things to liven your mood."

You watch him as he rubs your hips. Your stomach curdles but you manage to offer a smile, "I... am flattered, but I do not want to distract the captain of this ship."

Dalton chuckles and straightens up, "trust me. The crew would appreciate it if you did."

You squeak when he yanks you into him.

"Right boys?!" he calls loudly, "shall I make a salt wife out of my rock wife?!"

The crew cheers and it makes your skin burn in mortification.

The next thing you know, you are thrown over his shoulder. He slaps your ass and takes you to his quarters. The crew laughs as he does.

You helplessly grunt when he drops you on his bed-- your shared bed. You silently peer up at him as he stares at you. You are releived he paces across the room, towards his table. He grabs something and chucks it at you. You flinch but manage to catch it.

He sits on the table as you inspect the pouch. You open it, finding herbs inside.

"I heard you've been drinking that," he says.

You look up at him.

"Haven't you?" he asks.

You smell it and wretch. It smells exactly like-

"Moon tea," Dalton says, making your blood run cold, "for the bastard in your belly.*

You are frozen in your spot. Your stomach drops when he stands and walks over. He grabs your chin. It is not harsh, but it strikes fear in you anyway.

"I asked you a question, wife."

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

"HAVE YOU BEEN TAKING THE FUCKING TEA OR NOT?" he screams, grabbing your neck.

Your hands fly to his grip. Your fingers attempt to pry him away.

You wheeze when he squeezes you. Your flail your legs and try to kick him off. You can't. Just as your vision begins to go dark, he releases you. You fall onto the bed and frantically try to catch your breath. You cough and hear him smash things around the room.

As so you behold the man who said he would not hurt you unless you asked him, brutalize the furniture.

You think your chances are better in the sea rather than on this boat. You slowly maneuver towards the door while he is distracted. Just as you are about to sprint, he grabs you and throws you back down on his bed.

"You stupid slut!" he screams, "you think you can run?!

You try to scream for help, but the pain in your throat when you try to stops you. Not a second later, you scream anyway.

He slaps you across the face, promptly silencing you. The sting is ten times worse than what Daemon did.

"I was promised a Targaryen princess, not some whore of a dragon!" he screams, kicking the chair by his desk across the room. He laughs angrily, shaking his head, "dragon riding, my arse."

Your heart drops as he storms over, "who's the father of your bastard child?!"

Indistinguishable sounds leave your lips.

"ANSWER ME!" he demands, grabbing your shoulders, dragging you to your feet. Your head recoils at the sheer force of it. You take a moment to steady your head.

Your eyes search Dalton's enraged features, hoping to chance upon a sliver of compassion... in vain. The sound that leaves your mouth is response to the bruising squeeze of your arms. You cannot help but whimper as tears stream down your cheeks, "you're hurting me."

He is further angered by this. He gives you a powerful shake. Your head lashes back again and you scream.

"Give me a name!" erupts the lord.

You no longer have it in you to hold your tongue, and so you confess, "Daemon!"

Dalton releases you. He is repulsed, "your brother?" He scoffs, "you revolting, little worm," he slaps you across the face, making you lose your balance.

Before you crash into anything, he grabs you again and keeps you upright. You can feel your cheek and lips swell at his assault.

"And here they had me believing you were some meek lamb," he laughs dryly, brushing your hair back, "you're nothing but a whore, grown from perversion and abomination."

Your expression hardens. You glare at him and rebut, though your head was pounding, "and your sea rituals are more righteous than my family traditions?"

Without another word, Dalton shoves you back, propelling you into his desk. Your skull crashes against the edge with a horrendous thud.

You fall limp onto the floor. Dalton cares little if you were dead or unconscious. He walks out of the room right before he can witness the red staining your white hair.

Dalton is no fool. He knows better than to disfigure a Targaryen princess.

He walks towards the wheel of the ship and continues the course to what his crew believed to be a shortcut to home. In truth, he was bringing the ship to its doom, to face you with with a trail of the sea.

He would crash the ship into a chokehold of rocks, and if you survived, if he found your floating body, he would keep you, as you proved your resilience. But if you were swallowed into the depths, if he was unable to find you in the debris, he would praise the Drowned god for your riddance.

The same want with his crew.

Of course, there was a bit of this that felt like suicide, but he knew he was too vengeful to die, so he knew he had nothing to fear.

When the Greyjoy ship finally reached the rocky pass, Dalton was promptly warned of the danger by his lookout, who he obviously ignored.

He ordered to hoist the sails, and, blindly, the crew followed, even through apparent worry.

It didn't take very long after for the ship to crash into the cliffs.

The crew clamors. They scream and panic, turning to their captain that could not care less. He pretends to steer them to safety, but he actually slammed them further into their demise.

The deck begins to crumble. The mast snaps. The sails break off. Dalton calls to abandon ship.

The crew don't need any more convincing.

One by one, each man for their own, they try to escape with their life.

By the time Dalton jumps off the ship, the thing is half submerged in the water, crumbs of it on the side of a rock.

It was pure chaos.

Dalton swims far enough from the destruction, and knows the gods smiled upon him and his decision when he sees a large wooden slab he can climb on.

He does just that and looks out to his crew, helping the ones that manage to swim over, commanding the others calling for help to simply swim or drown.

He looks around, trying to make out a body of a woman, a blob of a dress, a head of silver hair in the aftermath.

"My wife," he screams, "has anyone seen my wife?!"

He wasn't concerned, of course. He just wanted to know his fate as a husband, but this did make for a good alibi.

His surviving men look and swim around for you. They find no trance.

Dalton presses his lips, "little dragon couldn't fly away."

They take refuge in a cliff. Lord Greyjoy tells his crew not to bitch and panic because they will surely be found by a passing ship soon enough.

He had planned this shipwreck after all.

By the time Dalton and his remaining men were saved, a flash of red circled in the setting sky, hovering over the massive rock that held the shipwreck that bore the sigil of Greyjoy.

Caraxes screeches as his rider commands him to get closer to the scene. The dragon hesitates but eventually lands on the cliff. Waves crash upon the area, causing the beast to bleat when he is wet.

Daemon is frantic as he gazes upon the destruction. He is distressed unlike he's ever been. His voice is distinctly desperate and hysterical. He screams out your name, even though it was nothing against the roar of the splashing waves.

He heaves heavily as he erratically decides to dismount and jump into the water.

As he wades, he tries to convince himself that what he was doing was for naught. Perhaps you were not here to begin with. But the gut feeling was overwhelming; it was sickening.

He tries to believe that bottom feeder, Greyjoy, saved you before his ship crumbled. He tries to convince himself that cunt's lust for you was enough reason to keep you alive.

But he remembers the servant he threatened with a knife whilst demanding to know which route your ship would take. He thinks of how he almost shit himself while confesssing to Daemon that Greyjoy planned to pass through a rocky region as a shortcut. But Daemon's flown over that area, and knew it was out of the way to the Iron Islands.

After squeezing out what's left from that servant, Daemon's face falls when he mentions that rusted octopus had an argument with a servant girl that came to serve the princess a cup of tea.

Daemon was no fool. Dalton was a butish barbarian. If he found out you were drinking Moon Tea, he would do his worst on you for blemishing his pride.

And so he swam. Daemon swam, dove down, and searched for your body until he had to stop because Caraxes was getting restless. He commanded him to calm down, but he could only do it so many times until he, himself, was the same.

He eventually gets back on Caraxes. Daemon can't bring himself to leave just yet however, and finds himself praying to whatever god out there to return his love back to him.

Caraxes circles the area one last time before heading off. For some reason, Daemon feels the urge to check underneath a large slab of shattered wood. He commands his mount to lift it, and the dragon screeches as he does what he can with his hind legs.

The sound that leaves the prince's mouth is what could be described as pure anguish.

A head of silver hair floats up and wafts in the water along with a tattered dress. Your body garnered a horrid tone of grey and you were missing your shoes.

Daemon cannot contain the tears that gush out of his eyes.

Caraxes carries your body in his claws all the way to the Keep.

The way in which he commands his ride to set your body down is frantic and incredibly detailed. Part of him realizes Caraxes probably recognized you, considering the way he laid on his belly and sniffed you as Daemon buckled to his knees and lamented over your stiff and frigid body.

He speaks to you in High Valyrian. His salty tears drip on your salt water drowned body. He promises he will never trick you, never argue with you, and never make you cry ever again if only you open your violet eyes.

He rocks back and forth with you in his arms, unsure which of you he was soothing by doing this.

He swears he will turn the sea red with blood and burn the whole Iron Islands to avenge you.

He is incredibly uncomfortable of the chill of your skin. He shakes his head, telling you dragons must not be kept cold. He kisses your face in an attempt to warm it up. He recounts a time where you accidentally spilled candle wax on him, burning his skin, and tells you that you still need to make up for your offence. He tells you he will forgive you if you simply hold him back.

Viserys had to account for three dragons by the time he found out what was happening, one was Daemon, whose grief morphed into murderous spite. He threatened to slay anyone who wanted to take you from him. Not again. Another was Caraxes, who refused to leave his heartbroken rider's side. The last was your dragon, who felt the loss of your connection, and went into a rabid state mourning.

It takes 5 people to secure your dragon in the pit, 5 people to subdue Caraxes, and 3 people to separate Daemon from your corpse.

The king takes a moment to clutch your hand. His face flinches. Where once your hand was so warm, no warmth now remained. He steps back and watches the maesters cover your body and take you away.

[sunglassesmish]

rogue translator my beloved

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Three years on... where the fuck did the time go?? As a European, waking up to the chaos was a fucking trip lmao. We collectively broke tumblr. Literally. Everything that's happened in the aftermath since could be its own version of 'we didn't start the fire'. Spanish dub, my beloved <3. Rogue translator except not really because it was the script. CW snipers lmao. Mark Shepperd telling Misha that we all knew Cas was in love with Dean. J2 fallout/divorce. Et tu brute? Prequel Gate. The Prequel itself. Jensen being as - if not more - insane about Dean than us. Jensen joining us on the Dean's happy ending isn't dying, and he's not really dead train because that was bullshit. His sexy silence era. The clown show that was the final episode. Deancas Valentines Day wedding, which we all celebrated. The Cw going bust and dying on a Thursday. The fact Cas canonically died on a Thursday. The insane details in the confession itself; the handprint, the parallels to the end of season 4 aka where Cas broke free from the narrative and made the story up as he went even though he wasn't supposed to be in this story. Still beautiful, still Dean Winchester. All the script leaks. All the things that still don't make sense a la why was Jensen heard screaming Cas' names while filming 15x19. The deleted scenes of 15x19 ("Where's castiel? I'm sorry. He was a good soldier " and the absolute devastion in Dean's eyes stop -). The gapping plotholes that were never even attempted to be fixed. There's been all that and so much more. Chuck only knows what will come next (and oh yeah, Rob Benedict is on team chuck actually won, for the finale theorists) but there's no peace with this hell show (both affectionately and derogatory) so we all know it's not done yet.

[bonefall]

Gray Wing's got me thinking for the longest time: how are pronouns, specifically neopronouns, translated and spoken in Clanmew? Do Clan cats, when invoking/talking about xem, use xeir pronouns correctly or default to he/him or something more "normal"?

On a more general matter, how common is it for modern Clan cats to use neopronouns? Do you think it's something they picked up from a kittypet in Chelford and they were like "whaaaat lmao that's kinda neat" lol bc I kinda like that idea. Sorry I'm rambling I'm just really really happy abt the neopronoun rep :'3

Oh Clanmew doesn't have gendered pronouns at all! There are eight pronouns, entirely based on threat level. There aren't any neopronouns in Clanmew because the use of these pronouns is constantly reaffirming the relationship between two cats, or signalling some sort of meaningful shift based on context.

Format: THEY/YOU/INCLUSIVE WE/EXCLUSIVE WE

Wi/Wees/Weep/Wik (Babies, prey, things that pose absolutely no threat to you)

Nya/Nyams/Nyap/Nyamsk (Family; Things you do not harm by choice.)

Pyrr/Pyrrs/Pyrrp/Pyrrsk (Honorably less dangerous; a Cleric, an exhausted warrior, helpful objects)

Urr/Urrs/Urrp/Urrsk (Equal footing of a Clanmate, things on your level. Briarlight refers to her mobility device with this pronoun as an extension of herself. ONLY USED FOR THE SAME CLAN.)

Ar/Ars/Arp/Arsk (Cat who is above you in the same Clan; person who outranks you significantly. Your mentor while you're training, the deputy, your own leader. Has a sarcastic air of "your highness" when used on those of similar rank.)

Rarr/Rarrs/Rarrp/Rarrsk (Honorable outsider; Clan cats of other Clans. Used to correct overfriendliness, friends of other Clans will sometimes find excuses to use other pronouns, though it can be frowned upon. Used for mildly dangerous prey like some ducks and gray squirrels. NEVER used on Clanmates without insult.)

Mwrr/Mwrrs/Mwrrp/Mwrrsk (Rogues, very dangerous animals. Actively aggressive and acts without honor; a MASSIVE insult used on any Clan cat.)

Ssar/Ssars/Ssarp/Ssarsk (NATURAL DISASTERS AND STARCLAN. Unpredictable, dangerous, unstoppable. For the leaders of other Clans or used as a very high compliment to another Clan's deputy or high-ranking warrior, but if overused could be seen as cowardly.)

So to use a neopronoun in Clanmew would be seen as very 'evasive' at best and rude at worst. You'd be bypassing a big part of their language and culture by not making your relationship and feelings towards that person clear to your conversation partner. It's very different from English where pronouns are just about gender!

"pi woomoerpbum Hrra'aborrl nyanomna" Heathertail: Breezepelt my beloved is eating a tunnelbun.

"pi woomoerpbum Hrra'aborrl rarrnomna" Heathertail: THAT BASTARD BREEZEPELT IS EATING A TUNNELBUN

There are three accepted genders in Clan Culture, Molly, Tom, and Gib. Gibs I refer to with xe/canon pronouns; canon just when it's less confusing. Blackstar for example is actually a gib in BB, so he's He/They/Xey.

(Queer cats still exist though, Dustpelt is an example of a GNC cat, Twigbranch is agender, Finleap is multigender, but Clan cats have a trinary gender system)

When the character has no canon gender though it's instant Gib and they're They/xe. Billowcloud is an example of that.

Gray Wing gets Xe pretty exclusively in my writing though for a few reasons, 1. Xe is the "archetype" of the roles associated with being a Gib and I want to emphasize this as the Patron of Wisdom, 2. The singular nonbinary pronoun is super super helpful with the fact Gray Wing has a ton of "talking to a group/on behalf of a group" scenes, it helps distinguish Xem from Them.

[mayone]

なんとかしてRogue Protocol : chapter1の ”I really missed ART.”を見たときに私がどんなにびっくりしたかを説明したい…うまくいかないかもしれないが…

Somehow I want to explain how surprised I was when I saw "I really missed ART." in Rogue Protocol : chapter1 ... it may not work ...

原語版のRogue Protocolを読むきっかけになった一節でもあります。

It is also the passage that inspired me to read the original version of the Rogue Protocol.

ある日私はやらなきゃいけないことをサボってfandom wikiを見ていました。

One day I was skipping what I had to do and looking at the fandom wiki.

wikiでは各キャラクターの個別記事の冒頭で作中の文章が引用されているじゃないですか。

In the wiki, the text of the work is quoted at the beginning of each character's individual article, right?

そこで"I really missed ART."を見て椅子ごとひっくり返ったんですよ。そのままkindleでRogue Protocolを買って確かめました。(当然)そのように書かれています。

Then I saw "I really missed ART." and I flipped over with my chair. I went straight to my kindle and bought Rogue Protocol（English） to check it out.(Naturally) it is written that way.

"miss"が合いたいと思う気持ち/懐かしむ気持ち/後ろを振り返って惹かれるような気持ちを表すものだとは知っているんですけど、"I really missed ART."を翻訳機にかけると"ARTが本当に恋しいです"になるんですね。

I know that "miss" expresses a feeling of wanting to be together, a feeling of nostalgia, a feeling of looking back and being attracted to someone, but when I put "I really missed ART." through a translator, it becomes "ARTが本当に恋しいです".

また説明が難しいんですけど……

It's hard to explain again. ......

日本語の｢恋しい｣は、a long for.../miss...の意味と、dear/dearest/sweet/darling/belovedの意味、両方を持ちます。

The Japanese word "恋しい" is a long for... /miss... and also has the meanings of dear/dearest/sweet/darling/beloved.

つまり、めちゃくちゃmurderbotがARTのことだいすきじゃん！？どうした！？？とすごいビックリしたんですね。

「だいすき」にも色々あるのでDeepLの前で唸っているのですが。love,like,favor,intimate,affection,care about...

In other words, murderbot is だいすき ART so much! What's wrong? I was so surprised.

I'm groaning in front of DeepL because there's a lot to be said for "だいすき".

love,like,favor,intimate,affection,care about...

もちろん単語の意味を把握しきれていなくて辞書通り訳したまま実状より甘ったるく読んでしまっているのですが。日本語版でそのような描写を見た覚えがなかったんです。

Of course, I am not fully grasping the meaning of the words, so I am reading them sweeter than they really are, as I translated them according to the dictionary. I didn't recall seeing such a description in the Japanese version.

またも慌てて日本語版を開くと、「いい思い出です。」と書いてあるんですよ。

Again I rush to open the Japanese version and it says, "いい思い出です。".

これまた説明が難しいんですけど単語のままひとつひとつ翻訳するなら”Those are good memories.”になります。だいぶ意味が違いますよね。

This is again difficult to explain, but if we were to translate the words one by one, it would be "Those are good memories". The meaning is quite different, isn't it?

でも私は原語でのニュアンスから甘くなりすぎず、いっときの友情をなつかしむ気持ちをそのまま伝えているたいへんな名訳だと思うんですね。

However, I think it is a very good translation that conveys the nostalgic feeling of a temporary friendship without being too sweet based on the nuances of the original language.

ここをそのまま「弊機はARTが恋しいです」にしたら全員腰を抜かしますからね。そのまま貰った発信器を辿ってARTに会いに行きかねない。Network Effectを経てない彼らにしてはなかよしすぎる。

If this were left as it is, "弊機はARTが恋しいです", we would all collapse with foam coming out of our mouths. It might follow the transmitter it got and go to meet ART again. They are too friendly for those who did not go through the Network Effect.

その後、あれらの関係性について気になり、fandom wikiを見ながらFeelings REDACTED:を読んでPodcastのインタビューを聴き、無事めちゃくちゃになってしまいました。

Then I was curious about the relationship between those things, so I looked at the fandom wiki, read Feelings REDACTED: and listened to the podcast interview, and my organic tissue brain went into chaos.

Loveらしいですね、なんか。LOVEって愛と訳せるあれで合ってますか？

Their relationship seems to be 𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔.

Is that 𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔 correct, that 𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔 which can be translated as 愛?

LOVEにもいろんなのがあるんですけど…(Wキーを押す：Wikipediaを開く)

There are many different 𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔...(Press W: open Wikipedia)

週にn時間、あんまりまじめな生徒ではなかったけど学校で英語を習っていてよかったです。

朝の単語テストはクソです。ありがとうクソ単語テスト。

I wasn't a very serious student, but I was happy to learn English at school.

The morning word test sucks. Thanks for the shitty word test.

[patron-minette]

Montparnasse and Éponine: Unpacking the Némorin quote

Victor Hugo makes reference to Némorin on two separate occasions in Les Misérables. Undoubtedly, the most interesting instance where the name is featured, or at least the most interesting instance to me, is when Montparnasse and Éponine abandon the Gorbeau ambush to sneak off together, and Montparnasse is described as “être Némorin”.

“Montparnasse en effet, ayant rencontré Éponine qui faisait le guet sous les arbres du boulevard l'avait emmenée, aimant mieux être Némorin avec la fille que Schinderhannes avec le père.”

As an individual captivated by the glimpses of dynamic we see between Éponine and Montparnasse in the novel, I find myself referencing this “Némorin” quote quite often (hell, I even use “Némorin” as a catch-all tag for Montparnasse and Éponine content on my blog!). However, I realise that I’ve never taken the time before to explain this quote and the allusions it makes, nor have I ever clarified properly who Némorin exactly is. So, this post aims to unpack all that— full ramble is below the cut!

['Estelle et Némorin'. Jules David, 1841-1843. Source]

Literary Contexts: Estelle and Némorin

Let’s first delve into this character of Némorin who Montparnasse is compared to…!

To summarise, Némorin is one of the main characters in a wonderful and extremely popular French pastorale titled Estelle et Némorin, published in 1788 by Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian.

I’ve tried to read this full text before but unfortunately it’s rather difficult to find an easily available translated version in English, so I will only provide an overview of the story’s plot rather than include any direct quotes. Let me employ this helpful summary of the tale between these two lovers below:

“Inspired by Daphnis and Chloe and set at the end of the fifteenth century, the novel tells of the love of the shepherd Némorin for the beautiful Estelle. She returns his love but out of duty and gratitude is obliged to marry another shepherd, Méril, after he rescues her father. Némorin despairs but is saved by Méril's heroic sacrifice of his own life in battle, a sacrifice made so that the lovers might be united.” [Source]

The story’s popularity can be evidenced in many art pieces of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century. Look at these sweet paintings and prints of the couple below!

There even exists a lovely romantic fountain statue of Estelle and Némorin which was erected in 1896– evidencing that Florian's narrative certainly had a continued popularity far beyond its original publication in the eighteenth-century!

Like so many of the fleeting references sprinkled throughout Les Misérables, readership of the time would have likely been far more familiar with the character of Némorin than readers today are. There was even an opéra-comique made of this pastoral tale in 1876! And— combining that knowledge with the story’s general popularity at the beginning of the 1800s— I think it can be safely assumed that Estelle et Némorin would have been a very recognisable tale to the first readers of Hugo's novel back in 1862.

Némorin ultimately is an ardent romantic— a humble shepherd who adores his beloved Estelle, remaining loyal in his affections to her. With a starry-eyed devotion he pursues her, and filled with love he even etches her name into a tree… a detail that I find particularly fascinating since Montparnasse’s “Némorin” encounter with Éponine initially occurs under some trees lining the boulevard.

...But, if Némorin is a besotted lover, why would Hugo want to compare Montparnasse to him?

•

“Être Némorin”: Applying the context to Montparnasse

On the night of the Gorbeau ambush, instead of readying himself for the planned attack on Valjean from inside the tenement with the other rogues of the Patron-Minette, Montparnasse is mysteriously missing. When Thénardier asks Babet where this juvenile lead is, Babet explains that he has stopped for a “chin-wag” (Rose trans.) with Éponine.

We then find out in a later chapter that Montparnasse and Éponine were seemingly doing much more than just chatting that night, and it is at this point where Montparnasse and Némorin are compared:

“Montparnasse had, in fact, encountered Éponine as she stood on the watch under the trees of the boulevard, and had led her off, preferring to play Némorin** with the daughter rather than Schinderhannes with the father.” (Rose trans.)

**I think it is important to note that in the original French text, it is not worded as preferring ‘to play Némorin’, but instead ‘to be Némorin’. I personally find that there are distinct differences between this translated phrase and the phrase in original French, as ‘being’ Némorin seems to hold far more significance than ‘playing’ Némorin.

Basically, the TL;DR of the quote is thus— Montparnasse would prefer to be Éponine’s lover / he prefers to seduce Éponine than participate in criminal activities with her father. (Brief note; Schinderhannes was a real-life, internationally famous criminal from the eighteenth-century. I could go more into this comparison also but I don't want to get too side-tracked on this post. Although, I find it interesting that Montparnasse is compared to two starkly contrasted figures here, and it is typical of Hugo to use classical, literary, and real-life figures as symbolic vessels for certain concepts).

Incidentally, I suppose that in the context of this quote, Éponine would be the “Estelle” to Montparnasse’s “Némorin”. And yet, Montparnasse’s actions here do not sound like the behaviour of Némorin at all.

... Despite the comparison to this romantic figure, I don’t think Hugo is actually expecting Montparnasse to act like a loyal, devoted lover with the girl. Rather, I’m almost entirely certain that he is being purposefully sarcastic here!

I mean, c’mon, do we really think that Montparnasse and Éponine left the boulevard together to spend the evening sharing a love as innocent and chaste as Némorin and Estelle? Absolutely not! I think that their encounter was certainly a lot of lustful than that— especially reading between the lines when we find out that Javert arrested Éponine later that night but Montparnasse had disappeared and seemingly left her behind— which indicates to me that their night-time rendezvous was only temporary, and likely more similar to a hook-up.

Hugo’s comment on Montparnasse preferring to be Némorin does tell us something about his character traits (aka that he indulges in all distractions and vices, sometimes at the expense of participating in criminal heists), but ultimately I think that this line is just Hugo making a little tongue-and-cheek comment about Montparnasse being a flirt and alluding to him having a casual relationship with Éponine. Just like Montparnasse is a false dandy, we should read him as a false Némorin! He and Éponine are not true lovers by any means, but the quote does signify that they almost certainly have slept together and thus share a deeper connection than they do with other characters.

•

Additional Analyses

Okay— hear me out— but I think that the Estelle et Némorin concept can be further drawn out concerning Montparnasse and Éponine in later parts of the novel… not involving Némorin’s character specifically, but rather in relation to the wider narrative of Florian's pastorale and Hugo's Les Misérables…

We are told that Montparnasse is Némorin (albeit he is likely a satirical parody of the character) as he leads Éponine away from the Gorbeau tenement on the night of the ambush. But, to me, Montparnasse also partially seems to morph into another character of Florian’s story when the Patron-Minette escape from La Force at a later point in the narrative. This character’s name is Méril!

Who is Méril, I hear you ask? Well, he is the man that Estelle is originally expected to marry. He works with Estelle’s father and saved his life, which is why she is to be wed to him.

And, who do we see working with Thénardier through the Patron-Minette? Who “saves” Thénardier’s life when he tries to escape La Force? Who demands that the rest of the Patron-Minette hang around and search for his signal instead of abandoning him, waiting outside the prison in the rain until 4 o’clock in the morning? Who do we know is explicitly called Thénardier's “almost son-in-law” at one point in the novel?…

You guessed it: Montparnasse!

I find it important and extremely interesting to analyse these partial similarities between Montparnasse and Méril in terms of their actions, as it might be used to further explain Éponine and Montparnasse’s dynamic. It also emphasises my above suggestion that Montparnasse is not a genuine Némorin.

Additionally, I would like to briefly mention that the only other reference to Némorin that we get in Les Misérables is spoken by Gillenormand in a speech at Marius and Cosette’s wedding:

“Can there be too many perfumes, too many open rose-buds, too many nightingales singing, too many green leaves, too much aurora in life? Can people love each other too much? Can people please each other too much? Take care, Estelle, thou art too pretty! Have a care, Nemorin, thou art too handsome! Fine stupidity, in sooth! Can people enchant each other too much, cajole each other too much, charm each other too much? Can one be too much alive, too happy?” (Hapgood trans.)

Thus with Némorin being mentioned as an explicitly loving figure here at Marius’ wedding, I think we have finally found the real Némorin character of Hugo’s novel…!

Montparnasse is merely a pretender, a Méril in Némorin’s guise— but Marius’ personality is far more suited to be Némorin than Montparnasse is. And, of course, if we interpret Éponine as a sort-of Estelle (although, we should be mindful that Cosette is the “real” Estelle of this novel) we actually see her choose the “real” Némorin [Marius] over Méril / the “false” Némorin [Montparnasse] at rue Plumet, when she refuses to let Montparnasse and the rest of the Patron-Minette pass the gate and enter the house.

Of course, not all of the elements of Florian’s Estelle et Némorin match up to these characters and their actions— most notably the detail that Méril sacrifices his life for Némorin because he can see how much genuine love he has for Estelle, and how much genuine love she has for him— but I think there are some general similarities potentially at play between these two texts.

Although the “Némorin” quote is only fleeting, there is so much context hidden behind it which can help us to further understand Montparnasse’s character and his relationship with Éponine. Namely, Hugo’s tongue-and-cheek comparison between Montparnasse and Némorin when he sneaks off with Éponine undoubtedly suggests that there was more going on between the pair than we might first assume, even though they evidently do not harbour the same romantic, loving affections that Florian’s Némorin and Estelle do.

[riverwithoutbanks]

I don’t know what’s funnier: heller rogue translator or homophobia changing the script and Misha ‘what are they gonna do? Fire me?’ Collins lying about it.

[doxypsychlean]

hello! I absolutely LOVED "The Rogue Prince" fic and your works are so fascinating in general like i'm in love. If you accept reqs, what do you think about Deamon seeing his wife crying for the first time? Like yes it's an arranged marriage but they're developing the feelings and the reader is insecure about not being a sweet little wife. She's opposite to that ideal (mb she's tall/on the bigger side/not weak and absolutely can speak for herself not being in need to be always protected (mentally at least) and maybe she's the opposite of- hm, someone) and is so sure Deamon needs someone perfect, someone who's just not her. I don't really know if I want an honest reaction or just to be comforted so you can choose. (but happy ending is highly appreciated) It's ok if you don't feel like it! Stay hydrated! Thank u in advance!

Sapphire Tears

Daemon Targaryen x Tarth!Reader

Warnings: blood

Thou shan't repost/copy/ translate any of my work or I'll sneak into your home late at night and bite your nose off!

English isn't my first language. I don't proofread. I slap commas wherever I feel they're needed.

A/N: The way Anon described the reader reminded me sm of my beloved Brienne, I just had to write the readers as a Tarth.

"If only the Prince would show the same devotion to his lady wife as he does his work, Your Grace." Otto Hightower said, eyes trained on the ring on his right hand.

Then the Hand of the King looked up, directly at the Rogue Prince.

"You've not been seen in the Sapphire Isle or at Evenfall Hall for quite some time." The man said, brows knitted together.

"I think my blue bitch is happier for my absence." Daemon responded with a slight smile.

His brother, King Viserys, turned to look from Lord Hightower to Daemon, one eyebrow raiser and his forehead wrinkled.

"Lady Tarth is your wife, a good and honorable warrior and the Evenstar of Tarth"

"In Tarth, men are said to fuck sea lions instead of women." The Rogue Prince spat out, looking away from Otto. Viserys dropped his head in defeat, letting a sigh escape him at his brother's words. Daemon looked back at Otto, a disgusted expression on his face. "I can assure you, the sea lions are prettier."

"Dear me" The Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, whispered in shock. Daemon didn't hear it. He had gone too far, he knew it.

His blue bitch, as he'd come to call her, was anything but. She was by no means an ugly creature. If he had to be honest, his lady wife was easy on the eyes. But she was strong, stronger than any woman Daemon had ever seen. The woman was a walking mountain, towering over almost everyone around her. She had no care for appearance or anything ladylike. No one, absolutely no one, had seen the Evenstar of Tarth in a dress before. She'd never shown interest in embroidery, dancing or singing, or learning how to play an instrument. Her calloused hands weren't used to the fine,delicate needles or the thin strings of a harp.

What she knew was the feeling of a sword in her hand. The first time they'd met, the lady was in the training grounds of Evenfall Hall. Mercilessly swinging at her squire as she was trying to teach the boy how to fight.

That's what angered Daemon. He was sent off to marry a knight. A woman knight. One that was far better than him. She was fast, she was strong and fought like a true warrior. He hated her for it. He hated how much he envied her.

A savage. A brute with long, luscious hair and eyes as blue as sapphires and as deep as the Narrow Sea. Freckled porcelain skin, a small scar here and there. Slender fingers, but strong grip. Sharp tongue and even sharper mind. Strength that rivaled the one of the storms that rocked Shipbreaker Bay.

She was loud, she was stubborn, she never bowed down to anyone, she wasn't scared to get in someone's face and then knock them to the dirt. She had her own way of going through life. One that didn't include him.

She liked being alone. And even if she didn't, she'd got used to it. While her late father was still alive and carried the title of Evenstar of Tarth himself, the old lord had tried to find a good match for her. But to no avail. All the noble men were either scared, jealous of her or didn't see it fit for their wife to be so...unladylike. The blonde also made sure to give them every reason to decline the offer.

She didn't need a husband. She didn't want one.

Then that letter from the King arrived. He had to get Daemon as far away from the capital. Tarth was one of his best options. Lord Tarth put his foot down, agreeing to the match despite his daughter's protests.

"You made a vow to the Seven to honor your wife in marriage." Otto's harsh voice pulled Daemon back to reality.

"Well, I'd gladly give Lady Tarth to you, Lord Hightower, if you're in want of a woman to warm your bed." Daemon said, head shaking lightly. "Your own lady wife passed recently."

Lord Hightower rose to his feet, the chair he'd been sitting on dragging on the floor as it got pushed back. He stared down at Daemon, daring him to continue.

"Did she not?" The Prince asked, taunting the Lord Hand some more. His fingers ran over the marble egg that was in front of him.

"Otto." Viserys cut through the growing tension.

Lord Hightower didn't respond. He swayed a bit, putting the weight of his body from one leg to the other. His eyes never leaving Daemon.

"Perhaps you aren't ready to move on just yet." Daemon mimicked Otto's movement, head tilting to the side slightly.

"You know how my brother makes sport of provoking you." Viserys said, trying to bring his Hand back to his senses. "Must you indulge him?"

"My apologies, Your Grace." Otto sat back down, eyes staring at Daemon and through him. His voice barely above a whisper.

It hurt. Daemon knew it. For all that sleazy old man was, Otto truly and undoubtedly loved his late wife. The Prince offered an innocent smile, teeth digging into his lower lip so he wouldn't laugh out.

"This council has, at great expense, bettered the City Watch to your exacting standards." Daemon turned to look at his King, fingers drumming against the polished wood of the table. "Enforce my laws, but understand, any further performances like last night's will be answered."

The two brothers smiled at eachother. Daemon looked down at the table and back up, nodding his head.

"Understood, Your Grace."

The Rogue Prince averted his eyes, then got up. He picked his sword up and made his way towards the exit, the gold cloak on his shoulder trailing behind him as he walked.

────────────

"Prince Daemon!" The man that had been said to welcome him said. "We did not expect to see you. The Lady..."

The silver haired prince walked past him, hands rubbing together. He could hear Caraxes let out a roar as the dragon pushed off the ground and started flying in circles over Evenfall Hall.

"Where is my wife?" Daemon stopped suddenly, the man almost slamming in his back.

"I'm afraid Lady Tarth isn't here, my Prince..." The man whispered as he took a step back. "She's..."

Daemon turned around slowly, a smirk on his face. He closed the distance between him and the man, hands wrapping around his collar and lifting him up.

"And you couldn't be bothered to tell me before I got off?"

"I...I tried." The man stuttered. "She's..."

Daemon put him back down, one hand reached to dust off the man's shoulder.

"I know exactly where she is." The Prince let out a low laugh, the sound coming from deep inside his chest.

Daemon shoved the man away, walking back to where Caraxes had landed. The beast saw him immediately, then dropped back down. The ground underneath Daemon's feet shook at the impact.

"Ready for a little hunt?"

A growl, accompanied by a whistling, clicking sound came from the dragon, as if it was laughing at its rider's words. Daemon climbed on the dragon's back and once seated, pat the side of its wide neck.

Caraxes pushed its large body off the ground once more, wings spreading out.

────────────

"Keep moving, Edwyn." The woman huffed as she climbed up the steep hill. "We're almost there."

The boy let out a huff, feet slipping on the wet ground.

"My lady, I still think we should have taken the Blue Road." He let out a yelp as her hand wrapped around his collar before the boy could tumble all the way down to the bottom. He let out a relieved laugh. "Maybe on horseback?"

"The Blue would've let us away from our destination, Ed." She pulled him forward so he could walk in front of her. "And watch where you're going. I have no use of a squire with snapped neck."

The two chuckled as they kept pushing up.

"I still don't understand why we had to go all the way here..." Edwyn trailed off.

"The farther away from my hall, the better." She admitted as her hand reached out for him again. "Gods be good, Edwyn, watch it!"

"Apologies, my lady." The boy laughed again. "But I don't understand... 'Tis your halls we are talking about."

"And?"

"I'm just saying, my lady, you shouldn't be hiding away." He turned to look at her. "It does no good."

She pulled him back before he could fall again. Then turned the boy around. Edwyn let out a gasp as he saw what laid before him.

The sound of water pounding down on stone drained any thought from his head. He looked up at the top off the waterfall, then his eyes went back down with the water. Despite it beating down on the giant rocks, the pool it was pouring in, was as calm as a lamb. The crown of green leaves that surrounded this peaceful haven, had left just enough space for the sunlight to pass through and bounce off of the light blue water.

She walked past him, coming to a stop right before the pool. The woman sat down, back resting against one of the larger rocks next to the waters. Edwyn shook himself out of the trance as he walked towards her. He winked, then with a big jump, got on top of the same rock. He sat down, eyes going back to stare at where the waterfall met with the pool.

"I hate the way they look at me..." Her voice tore through the silence. "As if there's something wrong with me."

"My lady..." The squire tried to stop her.

"No, Ed." She raised one hand, finger pointing up at the sky. "Don't. You can see it just as well as I can."

The trees around them shook slightly, leaves rustling as a large red dragon landed on top of the waterfall. Neither of them heard the load thud, the sound of the water completely draining out any other. Nor did they sense its rider's presence behind them, head of silver-white hair coming to stand between the trees, hiding in the shadows.

"You know, I've tried to be like them. Back when I was but a girl." The woman said as she reached down and took one of small, flat rocks in her hand. She tossed it at the water, the stone jumping once, twice, three times before sinking to the bottom of the pool. "I tried to put down the sword. Shove myself in a dress. Spend time with those insufferable cows."

Both her and her squire laughed. Daemon let out a snort, quiet enough for them to not hear.

"But I can't. That's not me." The blonde looked up the boy. "So I accepted it. I'll always be a fighter, and one day- the Lady of Tarth. Take over once my father was gone from the world. Rule."

She took another stone and tossed it into the water.

"I knew I had to take the hand I've been dealt. I quite enjoy it, actually. Ruling. I kept getting better. At it, at fighting. Even became a knight."

"Twas not enough?" Her squire asked.

"No, Ed. It wasn't." She shook her head with a bitter laugh. "Oh, how I wish it was..."

It went awfully quiet. The woman didn't know if she should say it. Of course, it'd be only her loyal squire and friend, Edwyn Tudbury, that would hear the words.

"I tried to ignore them." Her voice had become unsteady. "It's always behind my back, those cowards wouldn't dare say any of it to my face. But I'm not deaf, Ed. Nor am I blind."

Daemon watched as the boy jumped off the rock, then sat down next to his wife.

"The Beast of Tarth, the Sapphire Beauty..." Tears rolled down her face. "Blue bitch."

"My lady, I'm sure the Prince..." The squire said as he wrapped a hand around her shoulder.

"Oh please, you know it just as well as I do." Her head dropped down, pools of gold hair hiding her face from him. And from Daemon. "He didn't want me. I didn't want him either."

"Then why?"

"My father. He came to me one day, said he'd found a good match. The best match I could ever hope for." The woman straightened up. Edwyn's hand dropped from her shoulders as she did. "He also said if I don't accept, he would strip me off my titles, make me renounce my claim and exile me."

The boy let out a shocked gasp. He wrapped his hand around the woman once more.

"Oh, friend...I'm so,so sorry."

"It's fine, Ed." She whispered. "I'm fine."

She wasn't. Daemon could see it. On her face. In the way her hand rose to her chest and clutched at the pastel blue tunic, right over her heart.

"You don't deserve this. I'm really sorry."

"If you were to ask them..." She pointed towards right where Daemon was standing. Unfortunately for him, Edwyn followed her hand. His eyes widened at the sight of the Rogue Prince, hiding behind a tree. Daemon quickly put the pointer finger of his right hand against his lips, silent plead for the boy to keep quiet. "That's exactly what I deserve. It's even too much."

She got up, hands stretching out. The woman looked up at waterfall. There- two big yellow eyes. Red scales. Sharp teeth. She let out a chuckle.

"Just think about it, Ed. The poor, handsome Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, doomed to spend to rest of his life with..." She pointed towards herself. "...a fucking monster. This giant, savage brute."

The blonde winked at the boy in front of her, knowing look in her puffy,red eyes. Edwyn had spent enough time around her to know what that meant. He decided to play along.

"At least he's got the wits to stay away and not be tortured by your monstrosity." The squire said as he got on his feet and then back on top of the rock.

Daemon felt his whole body twitch at the boy's words. He almost lunged forward, but the hand he'd wrapped around the tree stopped him. The Rogue Prince was ready to tear his throat open.

"If only he had the wits to not spy on me, Ed..." They both turned to stare at the silver haired man. "Have you anything to say for yourself, husband?"

Daemon felt the tips of his ears starting to burn, his face reddening.

"Come now. Don't just stand there."

The flap of giant wings interrupted them. Daemon rolled his eyes as he walked out of the shadows. His only escape plan had just flown off to wherever its heart wanted. The Prince had no other choice, but to face her.

"I was looking for you." He said as he leaned against the rock. "You weren't at Evenfall Hall."

"Why are you here?" The woman hissed out as she walked towards him. Daemon pushed off the rock, their noses almost touching as he did. "It's not enough that you make a fool out of me, desert me and call me names in front of anyone, hm? You've come to rattle the beast's cage yourself?"

"My lady!" Edwyn tried to pull her away, but she shoved him away.

"No." The blonde turned to look at the squire, her long hair smacking Daemon in the face. The Prince smiled. "He's on my land without making his intentions clear."

"Wouldn't it be my land too?" Daemon's voice reached her ears. "I am your husband, like it or not."

She smiled down at Edwyn, foot tapping on the ground.

"My lady, please..." Edwyn tried once more.

But it was too late. She swung at Daemon, fist colliding with his nose. The Prince stumbled back, almost losing his footing.

"This is the last time I ask." She shook her hand up and down as the other one reached for Daemon's chestplate. She wrapped her fingers around the neckline, then pulled Daemon up and towards her. "Why are you here?"

As Daemon wiped at the blood coming from his nose, his eyes trailed to her red,blotchy cheeks. A tear was rolling down each one of them.

"Care to join me for a ride?" Daemon nodded up at the sky. "After we escort your squire back home, that is."

The woman huffed before letting go of Daemon. A smile crept up her face. The Rogue Prince returned it with one of his.

"Fine. Go get your winged lizard back."

[cilil]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @verecunda. Many thanks! ^^

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 91.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

257,032.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

At the moment Tolkien only.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Bedtime, Little Flame (Angbang)

Through a Thousand Dreams (Angbang)

5 Times They Gave Gifts & 1 Time They Gave Themselves (Angbang - hey look @verecunda a familiar one XD)

My Beautiful Servant (Angbang)

Through Ice and Fire (Angbang)

Hmm. Interesting. I think people like the Angbang :D

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I respond to all comments... sooner or later. Or at least try to. Sometimes I lack either time or social battery, but I always see the comments as they come in and appreciate them (regardless of how long it takes me to express that)🤍

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I think that would be ... and in the darkness bind them. It's not too angsty for Olórin/Gandalf who is the POV character in this, but for Melkor and Mairon it's very tragic (we all know what happened).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hard to say. I think most of my fics either have a happy ending or are just PWP... I'm going to go with The Rogue Royal Wedding which ends on a high note with wedding and all (who would've guessed :P).

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not really. I don't think anything I do is relevant enough for that... all I had so far was some random homophobia in my Tumblr inbox.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Oh yes. Oh yes I do. A lot. Soft sex, dead dove, anything in-between, you name it.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I had an idea a while ago, but ended up not writing it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've had offers, but I had to decline because I wasn't comfortable with the way I was approached.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I'm doing it as we speak! Stay tuned for that ;)

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

You're going to be shocked, but it's Angbang.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The one WIP I know is dead for sure is the long fic for a different fandom that I no longer want to write for. A shame really. I have some 5+ years old Silmarillion WIPs too, but I do plan on rewriting those.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm good at coming up with and exploring all sorts of different dynamics.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I lack some practice with long/longer fics. I think I could pull it off, at least once I work on that, but the other issue is that I need something new and fresh regularly so it's also hard for me to stay motivated.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

It could be neat for atmosphere or flavor, but shouldn't come at the reader's expense, as in the author needs to make sure a translation is provided or some sort of other way to understand what's going on - unless, of course, the entire purpose was that something is being said that the POV character doesn't understand.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Hmmm... my first writings were technically fandom stuff, but also not because it quickly evolved into my own work so...

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Genuinely no idea. There are always new projects I end up loving. Tags: @maironite @i-did-not-mean-to @curufiin @fraeuleinfriedhof @demonscantgothere @a-world-of-whimsy-5 and everyone else who wants to! Tell me something about yourself, beloved friends and mutuals!

[nekoannie-chan]

Old pets

Title: “Old pets”

Ship: Anna Marie D’Ancanto & James Howlett (Friendship).

Word count: 549 words.

Rating: Teen.

Square: N2 “Pets”.

Summary: Rogue and Logan talked about their pets.

Warnings/Tags: Pets, little sad maybe.

A/N: This is my entry to @marvelrarepairbingo  @marvelrarepairs MarvelRarePair Bingo Round 2 2023. Annie MRP-066.

You can read it on Wattpad and Ao3 too.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them.

I don’t give any kind of permission that my fics to be posted on other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other's people. The only exception is the ones I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish:  Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter. 

If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

Tags: @sinceimetyou​  @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad​ @navybrat817​ @angrythingstarlight​ @shield-agent78​ @charmed-asylum​ @caplanbuckybarnes​  @sapphire-rogers @nana1000night @talia-rumlow​ @writingshae​ @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @daemonslittlebitch @chaoticcollectivenightmare​ @endlesstwanted​  @chemtrails-club​ @whiskeytangofoxtrot555​ @here4thefanfics​ @theestorm​ @patzammit @kmc1989

Logan and Rogue got together to reminisce about the good times they had spent with their pets on the day off they had had after a long time. Logan began by telling about his first dog, a black-haired Labrador named Brutus who was a faithful companion for many years in his childhood, whenever he was sick, the dog would lie at his feet. There were other pets at home as well, such as cats, rabbits and even some exotic birds.

Logan had had a long list of pets throughout his life. He also couldn't forget the cat named Patches, nor the white angora rabbit named Ollie. As a child, Logan used to spend hours with them in the backyard throwing them food and playing with them while waiting for his father to return.

“My first dog, Brutus, was just amazing. He was always by my side when I was sick or sad. His loyalty was unwavering," Logan said.

When Logan finished his story, Rogue took her turn to share her memories.

Then Rogue began to talk about her little canary named Max that she had and her turtle that she sometimes took for walks in the park, she didn't have many pets as a child, and after her powers came along, she was afraid to harm them even if she didn't do it on purpose.

Amid nostalgia, Logan and Rogue smiled as they reminisced about the good times they had spent with their beloved pets. Although they felt a certain sadness in remembering them, they knew that their memories would always be with them. knowing that even though their pets were not physically present, the love they felt for them would never disappear. Together, they continued to recall more anecdotes and laugh as the afternoon wore on.

Logan and Rogue continued to reminisce about their pets, laughing and sharing stories. It was a much-needed break from their busy lives and they both felt grateful for the time they had spent together. As the day came to an end, Logan and Rogue said their goodbyes and promised to do it again soon. They both knew that their pets had brought them together and that the memories they shared would always hold a special place in their hearts.

“It was a good time, weren't they, Rogue? "

“Yes, Logan, it was... it was. "

“And that's not the best part. You see, all those pets, extraordinary as they were, were just the beginning of my lifelong journey with animals. There's so much more to tell, but, that's a story for another time," Logan said with a mysterious smile.

Rogue's eyes widened. She wanted to know more, to dive into Logan's fascinating world of pets and wonder. The day may have come to an end, but the story had left her wanting more.

“I can't wait to hear more, Logan. Let's plan another day to meet and continue sharing our pet stories," Rogue smiled after speaking.

“Of course, Rogue. I have many more stories to tell. Until then, take care and treasure your pet memories," Logan replied as he nodded.

And they said goodbye, knowing that their love for animals would always bind them together. Rogue left feeling inspired and excited for the next time they would meet to share more stories.

[scoundrels-in-love]

20 Question Fic Writer Game

Thank you for @needle-noggins for tagging me! Using my limited energy right now to respond, because otherwise I never will, oops.

How many works do you have on AO3? 65. One of them is a collection of prompts with 14 different chapters so, technically, 78 fics total.

What is your AO3 word count? 169,932. Nice. (Almost half of them are written in last 7 months for Trigun.)

What fandoms do you write for? Currently, only Trigun, but there are chances I might drop a fic or two in JJK fandom for Chosoyuki and then disappear. I would also like to finish some WIPs for Braime from GOT, but I don't know if my brain will let me. Never say never, though.

What are your top five fics by kudos? What can I give that is all for you? These arms are all I have (But I hold you like I do love you) (396, Trigun, Mashwood) Everything about you is on the tip of my tongue (312, Trigun, Mashwood, my first finished proper multichapter and explicit monsterfucking) You hold me for a little (Curtains closed to the end of the world) (260, Trigun, Mashwood) If I'm gonna (lose) love someone, (don't) let it be you (258, GOT, Braime) this fucking fic that took me a week instead of day or two to write, ENJOY FUCKERS (or don't, I'm not a cop) (234, Trigun, Mashwood, Explicit monsterfucking) Really fascinating to see how much kudos my Trigun fics used to get when I now often only get 30-50 at best. But, alas. Such is the ups and downs of fandom and I hope it's not reflection of my writing quality vaning as well.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Yes, I do. When I first started using to AO3, a writer I admired had the stance that it inflates the comment number and is 'cheating' when it comes to the statistics, but I realized that, at least for me, comments aren't any parameters I search fics by and also I really wanted to feel community and connect with my readers and writers, so I wholly threw myself in responding later on.

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Oh, that's a good question. Several WIPs come to mind, but as for actual published ones... I suppose Before you leave, Remember I was with you (You must know you are beloved) could count because it follows canon ending of the Rogue One which means all of the characters die. But it is more of a bittersweet one. In similar vein, If this is communication, I disconnect (I need you, you want me, but I don't know how to connect) I think You taught me the courage of stars before you left (How light carries on endlessly even after death) overall might win, because it ends on open wound of grief, though it is also canonical death.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I don't think there is a singular one that is more happy than others. There are so many shades and nuances of happiness, who am I to judge which one is the most valid, the biggest?

Do you get hate on fics? I once joked in author notes that maybe the fic did contain traces of early polyam if you squint and someone was very upset about it, though in text it was just close mutual friendship and some teasing and only the tagged main couple was openly romantically involved. I've gotten some weird comments overall through the years, but thankfully nothing more hateful than that.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Much to my own horror, yes, I do now. And apparently mostly the monsterfucking kind. I don't know what else might be meant by 'kind'.

Do you write crossovers? No, that's not something that really comes to my mind. I am too engrossed in exploring every nook and cranny of the canon and characters that are my focus at the time.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not fic, as far as I know, but I have had my poetry and RP stories and plots stolen by people I trusted, such as my teacher and close friends at the time.

Have you ever had a fic translated? No, but I've had one podficced!

Have you ever cowritten a fic before? No, but I'd really like to give it a try, I and @bienchanter have a lovely Rancher/Western Mashwood AU we'd like to cowrite, we just can't quite figure how to go about it. I've also had the pleasure of having them write a companion piece to my fic (theirs and mine) and had the joy of writing companion pieces to @needle-noggins and @frappeflamingo stories.

What's your all-time favourite ship? I am a person who cannot pick just one. I'd say some of the most Rainy defining ones have been Han x Leia, Braime and Mashwood.

What's a WIP you'd like to finish but doubt you ever will? So, so many Braime ones. Especially the ones that are multichapter for fic exchanges. Their recipients deserve better.

What are your writing strengths? Emotions, evocative descriptions.

What are your writing weaknesses? Everything else. Okay, okay, before I get bonked from every direction - I struggle with dialogues and action descriptions and easily get overwhelmed when tackling larger, tightly packed plot.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? I think it is perfectly valid and even good for characters that would actually mix the languages naturally. I've definitely thrown in some Brazilian words for my Wolfwood, for this reason.

First fandom you wrote for? The Labyrinth on ff.net in 2008 or about there.

Favourite fic you've ever written? I don't have a singular favorite, there is something that I love, something unique that makes me appreciate it in almost all of my bigger stories, even if it's just a joke that was made in conversations with my friends.

Whew, this was long, but fun. Tagging @bienchanter @it-may-be-dull-but-im-determined @firesign23 @sdwolfpup @chickiefoo and @tardisready as well as anyone else who might just want to. But no pressure to, on anyone.

[frankcastlescumslut]

Chapter Eight - The Observer and the Protector

I promise. He almost regrets those last words, knowing it was a difficult one to keep. How many people had suffered from mere association with the Punisher? The brunette bartender, the beloved Navy corpsman, the forgiving federal agent, the persistent journalist, his own flesh and blood- how many of his promises upheld their meaning?

Was he truly able to fulfill his vows, let alone worthy of making them?

summary: If you were truthful, you would have told him that everything was uncomfortable; the cold porcelain, the rushing water that rumbled against the bathtub, the scent of laundry detergent from the scratchy cotton towel, the blinding fluorescents- it was all uncomfortable. Unbearable. Too much.

warnings: depictions of depersonalization (out-of-body experiences), depictions of PTSD (anxiety attacks, hallucinations), depictions of drowning, descriptions of labor/birth, brief mentions of violence/blood/minor character death HURT/COMFORT

A/N: hiiii everyone! so sorry this chapter took forever to upload, it was incredibly difficult to write. this is a heavy chapter!!!! it could possibly be triggering, so please be mindful of the warnings before reading.

as always, comments/feedback/reblogs/likes are always welcome!!! please tell me what you like! please tell me what you hate! talk to me abt how dumb Frank is but such a good partner at the same time! I love interacting w everyone, and thank you for taking the time to interact w me <3

you do NOT have permission to steal, copy, repost, or translate my work!!!!! do not do it!!!

The inner spiral of a seashell engulfed your body while wet sand stuffed the orifices of your ears, muffling the sounds of rhythmic waves conforming around the shape of your frame. You were barely conscious, only noting the muted sound of your breath swirling against the soft palate on the roof of your mouth and opened throat, mimicking the sounds of a steady tide. 

Every internal working of your body felt charged by some foreign electrical current, like you were surging through a riptide, desperately grabbing at something- anything, to pull yourself out of the inescapable force of mother nature, only to leave you with brittle fingernails stuffed with sand. 

You knew he was calling for you; you could tell by the way his swollen lips moved to shape the vowels and consonants of your name, somewhere between a shout and a plea, to bring you back to him. A shout and a plea- were they not the same? Was his tone of voice not indicative of his desperation and willingness to reach inside of your chest and pump your disfigured heart with his bare hand? Were the tears that dropped selfishly onto the apples of your cheek not enough to convince you he would chip away pieces of your skull, just so his fingers could swirl in thoughtful patterns, creating new gorges and valleys in the squishy flesh of your brain? Were you too far gone, hidden away in a microscopic box filled with fog, an observer to your body, to notice the way he cupped your face while begging for any sign of life?

You’d like to believe it was your own will and determination, but it could’ve been anything that forced your muscles and tendons to stretch an inch. Whether it was the gentle rocking of Frank’s torso, the strength of a rogue wave or personified shame, the answer would remain a mystery. 

“Hey sweetheart, can you hear me?” Yes. Yes, you could hear him- you could hear everything. “Can you hear me?” His palms cupped the back of your head like you were water in his hands.

Nothing fell on deaf ears; whether it was the slight tremble that caught in the itchy spot of his throat, the quick sniff as his defined nose twitched to the side, the distant rumbling that clogged your ear canals, or the faint hum that hid behind electrical conduits- it was as if your hearing was trained and primed to detect any sign of a threat. Waiting. Your senses burned with overcompensation.

“If you can hear me, I need you to tell me.” Your body flowed in rhythmic succession as his fear controlled his movements, rocking you with unrelenting waves. “Please, honey.” 

Time didn’t exist, yet it felt like an eternity passed before your eyes moved mere millimeters, barely registering the man that held you.

Frank noticed, of course. The shells of his eyelids instantly dropped with relief as you studied the deeply etched line between his brows, completely missing the way he sighed in consolation. The once brooding, now broken man held your limp carcass. He held you, caressed you, cupped the entirety of you as if he was some bottomless chalice that could contain you, never allowing you to spill over, yet he overlooked the way the entirety of you emerged from your vessel and drifted towards the heavens. 

The spikes of your spines kissed the charred ceiling as you observed the travesty below.

It was almost unbearable to watch; Frank mimicked a heartbroken boy who had discovered the missing piece of his soul, presumed dead, sprawled across the remnants of buried secrets, a significantly smaller skeleton laid next to your decaying body. How would he have known you were just frozen? Your heart betrayed you, only fluttering after you downed some mystical potion, hoping and praying to wake up in a world that would have mercy on your womb and deformed pumping organ. 

Perhaps you were seeing ghosts or were being tormented by a higher power, you weren’t sure- the corpse of a woman who resembled you laid in his arms and burned deeper holes into the empty sockets above your cheeks. 

The searing, white hot pain shot through your vacant cavities, traveling through ropes of connected nerve endings. It felt like the cool metal of a glistening blade, dripping with your lover’s crimson proclamation of loyalty, had lodged itself between the second intercostal space of your chest, and you deflated with a gasp. 

You weren’t exactly awake per se, only responding to the uncomfortable dagger embedded in your side and the dull ache of Frank’s touch. He was gentle; his muscular arms wrapped around your corpse, holding you close to his own warmth, unaware of the burns he left on your skin. An invisible wave worked its way between your bodies, and you couldn’t help but wince as the salty water attempted to soothe your wounds, inadvertently pulling you away from the heat source. 

“Hey, hey sweetheart,” he cooed, welcoming your presumed awareness while shoving his own hurt down his throat. “You’re okay.” He doesn’t know if he’s reassuring a corpse or himself. 

Pin pricks and static flooded your limbs as you stretched the connective tissue that hugged your bones, the soles of your feet burning with miniscule jolts as they greeted the hardwood floor. Frank followed your lead, and the floorboards creaked as he shuffled his weight in anticipation. 

You knew you were supposed to move, supposed to do something, but the cord that connected your consciousness to your vessel had been severed by a rusty pair of shears. Were you the corpse, the haunted woman, or were you a prisoner facing ramifications- sentenced to the same fate of a man you once loved, and the innocent lamb that frolicked around a fenced facade of freedom? 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, that okay?” Frank announced his presence by clearing his throat, hoping to dislodge the wet sand that obstructed his airway. 

The apartment was destroyed; black char coated the ceiling, the floorboards were splintered and warped, holes adorned the walls and glass sprinkled the ground, yet you didn’t perceive the damage. You floated towards the bathroom like a ghost patrolling its eternal residence.

Your reflection shocked you, though it shouldn’t; you’d observed the decaying woman many times before. She usually made herself known after the first weekend of every month, typically accompanied by the green dragon- though this time she is alone. She looks like you, with tired, lifeless eyes, looking but not quite seeing. Her cheeks are sunken and practically attached to the molars, and her chest rattles with each inhale. It was daunting to watch as she mimicked your motions, peeling back layers of rotting flesh as you shed your clothes, and you couldn’t help but bring a fleshy finger to the mirror, observing how a bony digit met the pad of your fingertip. 

Frank watched from the doorframe, hesitant to interrupt your inspection. Your behavior- the depersonalization of your essence- wasn’t abnormal for him. Hell, he’s had the displeasure of acknowledging many versions of himself against his will, but it didn’t ease that familiar ache in his chest. The ache that grew when you returned from your trips with chunks of your body missing each time. How did he miss it? It was in his face the entire time- how did he miss it? How did he miss the slow decay of his lover? 

The sound of running water pulled him from his guilt, and he watched as you bent in half over the bathtub. 

“Hold on, hold on,” he cursed himself as he rushed in too quickly, startling you. “Let me get it. Sit down, sweetheart.” 

You don’t process the chill of the porcelain as Frank gently presses you to sit on the toilet, but the bumps that litter your skin in response to the temperature betray you. He noticed, of course, and draped a soft towel over your hunched frame, attempting to soothe your discomfort. 

If you were truthful, you would have told him that everything was uncomfortable; the cold porcelain, the rushing water that rumbled against the bathtub, the scent of laundry detergent from the scratchy cotton towel, the blinding fluorescents- it was all uncomfortable. Unbearable. Too much. 

The ridged indentation of your sternum pressed against delicate skin, forcing itself through layers of toughened muscles and puffy scars that covered your chest. He watched the breath get stuck in your constricted lungs, looking to escape any way possible, even if it were a dagger-sized stab wound. 

Crinkles adorned the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them to a pulp, desperately trying to block out the blinding spotlight that bounced off of the tile and illuminated your vessel. It burned. It ached. If you squeezed any tighter, you would eventually resemble the corpse in the mirror- lifeless and cold. 

Lifeless. 

Cold.

Dark. 

It was dark, suddenly, even noticeable through your pressed lids; the faint click of the light switch flipping towards the bathroom floor signaled your brief reprieve. 

Frank internally cursed himself for his mistake. He remembered, knew, how overwhelming the artificial light felt on your skin- how it strained and burned your retinas- spotlighting your shortcomings as a mother with each return, and quickly inserted a lightly dusted night light into a familiar socket.  

He watched as the crinkles disappeared from your eyes, noticeable even as his vision adjusted to the quiet darkness. 

Your body responds to the warm light automatically, like some invisible force pressed a random button in your control center, forcing your vessel to react while you observed from afar. 

Water splashed against the bathtub as you disrupted the flow, stepping into what felt like an invocation for a holy source to wash away your sins- rinsing and purifying a barren womb that held remnants of your failures in the uterine lining. 

“This okay?” You became entranced as your ankles disappeared under the running water before turning your head towards his voice, not exactly understanding Frank’s question. “The water,” he knelt beside you, his kneecaps protesting as they took the brunt of his weight against the tile. “Too hot? Too cold?”

It must have been hot; the pigmentation of your skin had changed as the growing water wrapped around your shins. You couldn’t feel it, though; not even when the back of your thighs melted against the bottom of the tub, invisible pinpricks kissing the supple flesh. Nor when the busted joints of your knuckles met the water, staining it a rusty shade of red.

Warm, muted light that escaped the small plug in cast lazy shadows across the room, illuminating Frank’s kneeling figure. He watched patiently, looking for any sign that your muscles would unravel in relaxation, begging an invisible deity to carry your burdens, only to swallow his own disappointment as you sat completely erect. 

He didn’t know that you were being watched. 

The haunted lady stares back at you from the metal faucet. Her face was distorted, pulled in awkward angles, and you thought you saw her jaw stretch as she laughed in mockery, but it could have been the poorly lit room playing tricks on your eyes. You wanted to believe it was the latter, but you knew better- you knew her. 

“Sweetheart,” Frank cleared his throat, causing you to lose the staring contest. “‘M gonna wash you now, okay?” He waits for an answer, knowing he wouldn’t receive one. 

This was the routine, your routine, he had perfected after the first incident. He was smart enough, experienced enough, to recognize signs of PTSD, survivor’s guilt, grief- whatever you wanted to call it- to know it was easier to follow orders when someone becomes a corpse- when you became a vessel. So, he learned you; your needs, thoughts, and triggers became a branded seal on his brain, committing the entirety of you to memory. 

Even though you knew what was coming, you didn't expect the steady pour of water to feel so heavy, shoving your body forward as Frank poured a steady stream down your back. Although he was gentle, opting to use his palm instead of a washcloth, soap suds littered your body like infected pustules. 

Frank could feel the knots under your skin- hardened personifications of guilt and shame that tucked neatly under a calloused shell. His own shame crept up the length of his esophagus and tried to escape through tear ducts as he searched your body, pressing his fingertips along the length of your arms and shoulders, near the crook of your neck and down your spine, wondering if he would find raised knots that spelled his name.

The tenderness burned. He unknowingly seared patterned swirls into your skin as his calloused fingers read your body, rubbing circles into your strained muscles, hoping to bring relief. It did the opposite, of course, but you couldn’t tell him that. 

You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone string together words that would adequately describe what it felt like to be the Observer, so you plugged the orifices of your body with wet sand and choked on your discomfort. 

Bubbles crept through ripples of water as Frank washed away your impurities, sticking to the borders of your body. You flinched as they popped against you with the intensity and loudness that resembled a gunshot. 

It had been almost three years since your wrist bore the weight of a gun and your ears rang as bodies exploded in front of you, spraying your face with crimson justice. You wondered if your deceased fiancé heard the familiar ring, or if the air that left his lungs sounded like a leak in an aerosol spray can when he greeted the reaper with a bloody kiss. 

Would your daughter recognize the wail of death? Would she mimic you and jump if a bubble landed on her finger, coating her squishy hand with a sticky sheen of soap? Would she hate the color red? Or would it produce feelings of familiarity for her, having hidden in the crimson confines of a padded womb after you bathed in the aftermath of punishment? 

It must have been the decaying woman that submerged you; you don’t remember sinking yourself. The humps of your spine rested against the bottom of the tub, and your vision blurred as you watched tiny bubbles leak from your nostrils and float to the water’s surface. You counted them, watching them pop with relief, hardly noticing the slight burn that spread throughout your bronchial trees. 

To your astonishment, ringlets of dark curls emerged from the lip of your acrylic casket. You watched expectantly, having already familiarized yourself with the intricate pattern of swirls, to know who would eventually peek over the side; so you waited as the pressure of the water blanketed your frame, relaxing you into a state of calmness. 

The ringing in your ears faded as a piercing giggle erupted from the side of the tub. It was like music to you, even if the noise was muffled by wet sand stuffed in your ears. Her laugh was warm and inviting, and you felt it in the depths of your chest- the fuzziness spread throughout your body, swirling in your skull. 

Long lashes brushed against the rounded edge of the bath, revealing a soft pair of brown eyes. They crinkled underneath the tiny waterline, puffy with unadulterated innocence, joy, and remembrance. Your eyes mirrored hers, the only difference being two-year-old crinkles etched along the corners. 

Warm water filtered through your parted lips and drenched your scratchy throat as you smiled back at the toddler, incognizant of your swelling lungs. The heaviness in your chest was reminiscent of the 8 pound newborn that had been placed against your bare breast years ago, and you cherished the familiarity.

She emerged from her hiding, fully radiant, as if she had the ability to bend fragments of light, completely defying laws of reflection. Your heart fluttered in your chest as she stood on the tips of her toes, you assumed, to grab the water with chubby fingers. 

“Mommy!” Your songbird sang. 

She was so close; you practically felt the featherlight touch of tiny fingertips against your cheeks, beckoning you to close your eyes in relief. You gave in to the temptation, watching the wispy curls and round cheeks that were highlighted by warm light blur as darkness surrounded you. 

“Mommy, wake up! Wake up, mommy! Wake up!”

“Goddamnit, wake up!” 

It felt like an arctic wind slammed against your chest as Frank pulled you from the water, baptizing you and exorcizing the Observer. 

Your body screams at you as you choke, coughing up dirty water that washed you of your inequities from the inside out. You felt- feel, everything. Every bruise, knotted muscle, strained tendon, pulse of blood flow- everything was intensified, and your barren womb contracted in remembrance. 

“It’s okay, you’re alright,” he coos. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m here.” His hand encompasses your face, fingers gripping into the ridge behind your ear. 

You didn’t realize you had grabbed onto him, pulling him into your naked body like he would disappear, just as she had, if you loosened your grip. He understood, of course- the urgency and desperation indicative of a loss that neither of you cared to recount. 

“Where is she?” The words burn as they leave your throat, risking infection as you cough up traces of polluted holy water. 

“Where’s who, sweetheart?” Frank’s furrowed brow casts elongated shadows that cover his cheeks as he watches the way your eyes scan the bathroom for the two foot tall ghost. 

He waits patiently, pulling away slightly to give you the space to confirm your dreaded reality. 

It was real. It had to have been- she was right there. If you tried hard enough, squeezed your eyes tight enough, touched your cheek in just the right spot, you would feel the place where your delicate skin bubbled due to her warmth. So you try, practically scratching and digging at your cheek, only to find a trail of dried salt. 

“I-” How do you explain what you saw? What you heard? What you felt? How do you tell him your daughter visited you, nudging you gently into reunion with her father? 

“It’s okay, okay?” Frank spares you the embarrassment, knowing full well he had shared a dance with his wife while she remained nestled in fertile soil.  “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures you with a firm kiss to the crown of your head before pulling you into him, your bulging eyes frantically scanning his face like it would transform into someone else’s if you blinked. “I love you,” his breath fans across your cheeks as your foreheads pressed together, skin melting into skin, morphing into an indistinguishable life form. 

Goosebumps litter your skin as heavy water droplets roll down the length of your limbs, exploding when they land in the contaminated tub, muffling Frank’s concern. 

You were nothing- you feel like nothing, his biceps hardly contracting under your weight as his calloused palms fit under your arms, pulling you to your feet. Your joints groan, riddled with decay, as you find your footing outside of the acrylic grave, wondering if your daughter slept peacefully under the therapeutic pressure just behind you.

His heart pumps in a steady rhythm as the haunted lady stands in front of him, frantic eyes scanning the dim room for her offspring. The smell of rotting flesh drifts through the humid air, yet his crooked nose remains still as the stench infiltrates his olfactory center. He hardly reacts, completely accustomed, almost inviting, to the hordes of ghosts and monsters he has collected over the past several years. You were no different, practically translucent and decomposing under his touch, yet he handles you with tenderness. 

“‘M sorry, sweetheart.” He apologizes as you grimace; the microfiber towel felt like sandpaper grinding against open wounds as he gently dried your body, creating microscopic tears in your flesh that burned and mimicked the one between your legs, now scarred over. 

He winces, knowing it was too much, everything was too much for you, and there was nothing he could do except watch as his softness left purple and blue splotches along your body. 

Your eyes trail over the residue of affection, landing on the place where the bones of your fingers intertwine and melt into the soft flesh of Frank’s. He’s gentle, squeezing lightly to encourage you to shuffle towards the confines of your bedroom, and you follow your orders seamlessly, robotically. 

It was like falling into nothingness; a deep, vast, empty void engulfs you as your thighs meet the mattress. You struggle between wishing it would fold in half, swallowing you completely, or turning into a slab of sheet metal, splaying you open to carve your cavity in atonement. Neither of the two happen, to your dismay, and you watch as bath water drips onto the cotton sheets.

You try to ignore the uncomfortable tension growing in your abdomen and watch as Frank hunches over the dresser, rummaging through messy, unorganized drawers. He was tantalizing, even in his haste and worry, and your gaze lingers over his frame, studying the smooth muscles rippling underneath scarred skin, visible through the thin cotton shirt. 

The solace was brief. A hint of raking fire burns within the depths of your belly, just behind your mons, and you instinctively grab at the damp sheets, your knuckles turning white in return. Your muscles stretch as ribs and organs rearrange in no particular order, and you constrict and contract around absolutely nothing. A shallow gasp leaves your throat dry and irritated as the pressure builds in your pelvis, causing you to steady yourself on swollen ankles. 

Frank turns towards you immediately, watching as your face contorts and leaves permanent etch marks along your forehead. He watches the way your chest heaves as you grab onto your stomach, prodding and clawing as if you were stuck in some flesh suit. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he’s in front of you in two strides, holding your shoulders to keep you upright. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Just breathe.”

A gush of liquid fire escapes as you contract once more, consequently drawing the muscles of your neck to angle away from Frank and towards the source, hidden between the crevice of your thighs. There was a certain familiarity in the sensation, one you remember well, although it was more of a steady trickle when your daughter signaled her arrival. This time was abrupt, like some gloved hand reached inside your womb with a fishhook, poking and prodding until the floodgates burst with a pop, draining you from the inside.

“You’re okay.” Frank studies your face as you pant, wondering what sparked your panic. His gaze eventually trails to your apex after following the bend of your neck, finding nothing but slightly bowed legs. 

You expect to watch a stream of amniotic fluid drench you in mockery, like a sticky reminder of childlessness coating your thighs, but you find nothing- only residual bath water dripped from your limbs and thunderously landed on the floor. It was overwhelming, arguably suffocating, even though your mouth hangs open as you inhale… exhale. Inhale… Exhale.

“In… and out,” Frank’s voice startles you, and you find him kneeling between your legs, watching your face with wide eyes. How long had he been there? “There you go, in and out, just like that.” 

He wraps his large hands around your ankles, squeezing firmly, meticulously traveling up your shins and thighs. His fingertips act like suction cups, the deep pressure anchoring you to him, and you relax audibly, sighing as he pulls the burdens from your muscles with each squeeze.

“Attagirl,” he encourages, watching as you disperse your weight on each foot, continuously applying steady pressure. 

The insides of your knees warm as his lips meet the soft skin, his hot breath fanning over the wet marks of his kiss, and you force your neck to bend, watching curiously through your lashes. 

“Left foot,” he softly instructs you to lift your leg by gently tapping on the outside of your ankle, and he fits your underwear over you with ease. “Right foot.” 

Goosebumps litter your skin as the fabric of your underwear trails up your legs, and Frank’s breath follows close behind as he adjusts them against your body with care. 

“Arms up,” he calls gently, and you follow.

One of his shirts falls over your body, cascading like piles of ribbon, allowing you room to breathe. He wishes to touch you, to soothe you- but a part of him fears you. He fears the idea of prolonging your pain, so he watches as you smooth the shirt over your torso, noting how your hands cup an invisible belly. 

There’s nothing there, you know that; no engorged belly, swollen from holding a floating life form. No trace of a somersaulting alien, rearranging and pressing against your ribs. You could press into your skin and it would be squishy and soft, adorned with translucent stripes that once reminded you of fire. You know that your flesh and blood is no longer homed in the safety of your womb, and yet you still reach for traces of her, trying to make sense of the phantom contractions and visions of tufted curls that peeked from the tub- the memory still burning behind closed eyelids. 

You nearly drowned tonight, you tell yourself in the safety of your mind. 

That was real, that was the truth. Your brain lacked oxygen, and you conjured the most humane scenario to welcome you into the afterlife- by your daughter’s hand. Your nervous system was triggered, and you survived by any means possible, even if that meant becoming the Observer. These are the facts, and that’s what you tell yourself to ease the gnawing sorrow that builds in your throat. 

The reality of your night hits your body, and you grimace as your brain expands and contracts within the confines of your skull, the heaviness lolling you towards the comfort of your bed.

The pain eases as you sink into the mattress silently, curling into yourself and becoming as small as possible. Frank follows your lead, causing you to dip towards his warmth. 

You look at him, failing to really see him, and miss the way his brown eyes trails over you. He studies your face, committing each line, ridge, curve, freckle, and mole to memory, like you were some world renowned exhibit, nestled safely behind a glass box. 

“I love you, you know that?” The tip of his finger traces the shell or your ear at his confession. You know you should respond. It’s the absolute least you could do, but your tongue is heavy as it rests in your mouth. 

You nod.

“I’m not leavin’.” He says matter-of-factly. “I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. Especially when it comes to your daughter, alright?” Your stomach churns at the mention of her. “Never apologize for that, you hear me?” Brown eyes bore into yours.

“You did what you had to do.” It goes dark as you clamp your eyes shut, shuddering as his compassion blankets you. “Hey, listen to me- what I would have done. What I should have done,” he corrects himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You protected your baby girl. That makes you a good mom- that makes you a damn good mom.” 

A single tear escapes, falling down the edge of your nose. Frank quickly thumbs away the saltiness and offers a smile, knowing his words only held so much weight in the grand scheme of things. 

Tell me you hate me for making a choice you didn’t have! 

He holds onto your previous sentence, feeling it grow in his chest and collecting on his waterline, wondering how long you believed that lie; what choice? Choosing to deny yourself the desires of your heart and the ability to mother your child, or choosing which headstone would look best with your daughter’s name engraved, and whether she would lie beside you or her father? Did you truly believe that? Did you truly believe that there was any other option? 

Your heart stutters as you notice the way his eyes well with tears in the silence, and your throat constricts unrelentingly, hoarding your ability to ask what plagues his mind. 

“You said you made a choice,” he clears his throat, dislodging the sadness, “and that I didn’t have one, with Lisa and Junior… but you didn’t have a choice either, sweetheart.” Your ribs expand as you breathe in the shared agony. “You were smart. Smarter than me,” He huffs, and a stray tear escapes from its holding and rolls down his uneven nose, disappearing underneath the pad of your thumb. 

“You made the right choice, okay? And I’m gonna keep you safe- both of you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

I promise. He almost regrets those last words, knowing it was a difficult one to keep. How many people had suffered from mere association with the Punisher? The brunette bartender, the beloved Navy corpsman, the forgiving federal agent, the persistent journalist, his own flesh and blood- how many of his promises upheld their meaning? 

Was he truly able to fulfill his vows, let alone worthy of making them? 

The ligaments of your elbow strain from their holding, possessed by an overwhelming need to touch him- to make sure he was real. 

His weathered skin feels rough beneath your touch as you rub gentle lines into his cheeks. You watch as he deflates against you, his lashes tickling your fingertips as he relaxes, and his warmth burns the palm of your hand as you cup his face. 

One, two, three taps of your thumb to his dampened cheek stir the embers of his heart, nearly burning a hole in his chest. It wasn’t much, hardly even a sentence, but it was sincere- meant with every fiber of your being. 

One, two, three taps of his thumb to your dampened cheek sew a thread through your splitting heart, meticulously and microscopically pulling you together. 

“I love you, too.” Your wandering thumb muffles his affections as you press gently into the soft curvature of his lips. 

His promise was as real as he was, and you relax into him as he kisses your fingertip, an invitation for your heavy eyelids to find relief as they close with ease. 

Frank waits patiently, internally counting how many seconds you inhale, hold, and exhale- watching the outline of your ribs flare and decompress in the dark. His own lungs burn from unconsciously restricting airflow, unwilling to become a disturbance and interrupt your much needed rest, and he studies the way your forehead slackens and jaw unclenches. 

To say you looked peaceful would be an exaggeration; the exhaustion, grief, and humiliation practically wore you, even in your slumber, and his own guilt scraped a new line into his forehead. 

How could he have done this to you? Every strained muscle of yours screamed his name, the tears that splattered against the sheets soaked his side of the bed, and every bullet shaped scar that littered your body could have been by his own hand. 

It was wrong of him to have infiltrated your sacred world, forcing you to your knees in a bloody confession, piercing your palms and ankles in order to nail you to a tree, just so you could lick his wounds. It was wrong for him to have tied your hands behind your back, forcing the truth to seep from your mouth in gargles while he held a blade to your neck, giving you a false sense of choice. He knew these things- and yet it was the relief he felt that nearly crushed him. 

Knowing you had remained faithful to him, loving him with everything you had, even if it was only breadcrumbs… it was all that you had to give, and you gave it to him with such a fervor that it forces him further into his shame. 

Frank’s mortification weighs him down, causing the mattress to concave. You whimper in return, tensing as you adjust to the sudden movements, routinely extending an arm and outstretched fingers in search of him. 

The simple gesture reignites some sense of personal obligation he secretly holds to shield you from the horrors of the world, and he collects you in his arms, relaxing as your breath fans across his exposed neck. 

Perhaps it was an unspoken, humiliating need to be in control that forced his hand to become the Protector- your Protector, though he wasn’t entirely sure anymore. He would tell himself that he was crucial to your survival, an integral extension of safety that only he could provide, but he fears he has monumentally undermined you entirely.

He had discredited you, and the admission nearly strangles a sob out of him as the pad of his thumb rubs over a raised scar, just below your shoulder blade. It was one he had noticed before, but never gave much thought to; he knew you had worked with Homeland and figured the injuries were part of the job, an initiation of some sort, but you seldom swapped survival stories, leaving him to wonder if you collected gunshot wounds as a duty to your career or your daughter. 

Frank feels the dreaded remorse swirl and transmute into that familiar burn that clouded his senses with rage. It wasn’t fair that you were dealt cards of death. It wasn’t fair that your autonomy, the ability to mother your child, was ripped from you, leaving you to mourn a dead man and a little girl that still had air in her lungs. It wasn’t fair that one of his decisions, one of his failures, haunted you, allowing a ghost to wreak havoc on your world. 

If he really wanted to, he could conjure a string long enough that would connect his shortcomings to your current position- blaming every miscalculation and act of unadulterated retribution for the invisible target that hovered over you and your baby girl’s forehead. It was practically his own finger that lingered over the trigger. 

You must’ve known or sensed the way his guilt manifested into waves of panic, even in your sleep; you stirred slightly, breathing deeply against him as his chest rose and collapsed in frantic pants. His body reacts first, tensing at your movements, afraid you would wake to find him drowning under his burdens, before he consciously deflates, cupping your head in order to bring you closer to him. 

A gentle hum escapes your lips and pools below your cheek, collecting in between the large mounds of muscles that adorned his chest, and you burrow into him with ease. He decides, right then and there, that it was his responsibility to protect you from his shortcomings, no matter the implications. A means to an end.

His life was comparable to some great Shakespearean tragedy; the looming promise of calamity and death plagued him, yet he triumphed forward, only to be taunted by your pregnant-bellied corpse. If he could fulfill his duty, ridding the world of every insignificant threat… if he could pierce the clouds with calloused and bloody fingers, peeling them back to reveal the heavens and familiar faces… if he could reunite the childless mother with her orphan, he would undoubtedly. 

And so, as much as it pained him to pull away from you, carefully disconnecting from your hold and allowing your body to melt into the soft mattress and disappear under billows of blankets, he had to leave, for your sake- for her. 

Rough fabric rips under the serrated edge of a blade, causing a dried, yellow foam to spill from the gash. The material feels scratchy against Frank’s knuckles as he fishes around the opening, and he simultaneously cranes his neck, observing his surroundings and making note of any potential threat. 

“C’mon, goddamnit,” he grumbles, feeling the cool plastic slip through his reach, his grunts reverberating throughout the empty van and dead street. 

He latches onto the buried item and pulls it from its hiding with an exhausted sigh of relief before hoisting himself into the driver’s seat, relaxing into the abused cushion. 

The cheap plastic phone feels like lead in the palm of his hand, threatening to pin him to the floor of the van. If he were lucky, it would have broken through the metal and cracked the earth’s crust, not stopping until he reached the burning core, punishing him for his involvement in your demise. 

Realistically, he knows he isn’t to blame- not directly, at least. It wasn’t his fault that you were being hunted by a ghost, his ghost, but it was his fault for creating it. 

Darkness encompasses him as he closes his eyes in defeat, his large fingers wrapping around the flip phone with disgust for what he is about to do. 

An annoying, muffled dial tone rang for what felt like forever. He should have felt relief when the woman’s warm, accentuated voice infiltrated his ear, yet he was met with the familiar, suffocating feeling of a kevlar vest being tightened around his torso and decorated with bullets. 

“Where is he?” He opted to bypass greetings.

“Good to hear from you too, Castle.” Her sarcasm leaked through the phone.

“Where is he?” 

“It’s two in the morning-” 

“If I wanted to know the time, I would look at a fuckin’ clock.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly, but he was past formalities and pleasantries. 

“What is this about?” Her tone becomes grave as she processes Frank’s bluntness. 

His spine practically melts into the seat of his car as he confronts the grim reality, brown eyes traveling to the window of your shared bedroom. You were asleep, he hopes, finding some relief from the torment he unintentionally unleashed, and his guilt swarms the confines of the van. 

“Frank,” she calls out. “What is this about?”

Your name stumbles from his lips, barely above a whisper, and the air stills. It was an admission of defeat, even the woman behind the phone could tell. 

The monotonous, annoying ring of a dial tone echoes throughout the van, and the fluorescent light of the flip phone’s screen illuminates Frank’s sullen face, emphasizing the sunken contours and weathered lines as his gaze transfixed on the lonely window.

[nessrealta]

thanks for the tag, @faceofpoe

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

5. One of those being a collection of *checks* 9 drabbles and very short stories.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

17,386

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I started out with LOTR, nowadays it's all Star Wars - the Sequel Trilogy (I know, I know. I do declare that I hate Reylo with a passion and if you count that out, the Sequel fandom is pretty much dead) - and recently my beloved Andor/Rogue One.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Worst Day since Yesterday - Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Shards of Memories - Star Wars Andor/Rogue One

Drabbles and Ficlets (yeah, that must be the worst title in the history of AO3 ever. I was in a hurry to post and absolutely uninspired at the time, I really ought to change it. Some day. But today is not the day.) - LOTR

Against the Darkness - LOTR

Never Give Up - Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! I don't get many of those so I get very excited whenever someone does leave a comment. I love to get to talk about my stories.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

For Star Wars, that'd be Shards of Memories.

For LOTR, Dark Watch of the Night and Realization of the drabble collection definitely.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hm, I don't really do happy endings. I do hopeful endings though. There's a difference.

I'd say Home, again of the drabble collection. It's more like a momentary respite than a happy ending but that's about as fluffy as it'll get with me.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope, that's the perk of flying under the radar.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Wouldn't you like to know. (No.)

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Not really my thing, while I enjoy having different fictional settings in my head I do need to keep them separated otherwise I might totally lose it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Don't think so.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No, might be fun though.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

I don't really do shipping, I usually prefer reading and writing gen. I do like Velcinta and Mon and Tay could have a thing going, you know?

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I just have finished my WIP and haven't really started a new one yet. I think I'll probably stick to one shots for the foreseeable future.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Playing with the language, weaving in themes, my drabbles can be quite intense (making every word count).

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Anything that requires plot and planning...

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I've never been dedicated enough to learn Sindarin, Quenya or any of the like.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

LOTR

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Shards of Memories for Andor/Rogue One. I really like that one - I think I managed to make my writing style work for Star Wars here which I don't always find easy.

For LOTR: Morannon and Sea Longing

tagging! @tellallthetruth-but-tellitslant and @foresthart

[lilyoffandoms]

Amidst the bustling marketplace, the pair strolled hand in hand, their shoulders bumping together, letting nothing come between them. Whispers of shared jokes and a symphony of laughter passed between them. Their eyes met, brimming with stories and thoughts only they understood, despite their partners' best attempts to translate their secret language. 

Maiele shot Tyril a playful wink, his eyes tracing the lips of his beloved, while, Daenarya pulled Mal in for a fleeting kiss before pushing him back away. Maiele guided Daenarya closer to his side as their giggles and secrets resumed—the two completely inseparable.

"Why should they have all the fun?" Mal grumbled, reaching for Tyril's hand, hoping to make his own memories.

"What do you think you're doing?" The elf pulled back, slapping the rogue's hand away.

"If they can hold hands and whisper secretly together, so can we." Mal's hand sought Tyril's, but he found his advances once more denied.

Tyril's gaze shifted to the rogue's hands, still stained purple from the delicacies they had enjoyed earlier. "I think I'll pass. You're worse than the children."

"You love me anyway." A devilish smirk pulled on his lips as he held up his dirtied hands. 

Tyril pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing the space between his brows. "Your definition of the term love must hold a different meaning than mine."

Mal's arm snaked around Tyril's waist, holding him close. "We both know that isn't true." 

Despite the purple hue flushed across the elf's cheeks, his body relaxed beneath Mal's touch. 

"Told you," Mal gloated, rocking up on his tiptoes to place a kiss on Tyril's violet cheek. "I love you, too."

Okay okay I’m gonna finally share this gem!! I’ve kept it to myself for too long but I cannot tell you what this little drabble meant and means to me.

You sent this the day after a particularly trying day. Big decisions had to be made and big feelings were discussed and it was hella stressful. I cried myself to sleep that night and then I woke up to this. And it reminded me that everything would be okay.

I know that may be silly but it’s what happened. I was so crazy overwhelmed and my emotions were so overtaxed that I desperately needed something fluffy and lighthearted and beautiful. I almost didn’t log in that day.

But I did and I read this line and it made me smile.

“​Your definition of the term love must hold a different meaning than mine.”

I don’t know if I ever told ya but my partner has this habit of making up definitions for well defined and established words (like love lol) and I not infrequently will tell him that we must define our terms before continuing the silly conversation because his definition is not mine lol

I adore this drabble so so so much! More than I can truly put into words! Thank you for gifting me this and your friendship 😘