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cairavende · 4 months

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Worm Arc 20 thoughts:

I legit have restarted this post at least 10 times. I just. I can't even figure out what to say. What an arc. Holy fucking shit what an arc.

The last vestiges of Taylor's civilian life are swept away in one smooth motion.

I could have read another 5 chapters of Emma getting her shit handed to her though.

I've been waiting for something to come back and bite that girl since Arc 1. So I'm just riding high off of that.

Taylor getting all upset because it isn't real justice is silly though. Girl you've been fighting a broken system from day 1 and you have been doing that by breaking the rules. This is just the same thing.

Also god dammit Greg. Just had to go and run your mouth.

I mean sure Taylor could have possibly solved this issue without going to school herself.

And she could have just not gone to the office with Emma.

But blaming Greg is easier and more fun. God dammit Greg.

I had to lose my mind a bit at Taylor talking about how there was no gang graffiti on the school walls TEN SECONDS AFTER WALKING PAST GRAFFITI FOR THE UNDERSIDERS. Like, that's gang graffiti hon!

Dennis trying to help Taylor with Greg when he didn't know who either of them are is funny. Dennis seeing Taylor named as Skitter 15 minutes later is HYSTERICAL!!

The second Taylor was entered into the computer system it was pretty obvious that Dragon was going to show up, given what she said in her interlude in Arc 10.

And knowing she was going to show up it should have been obvious that HE was also going to show up.

Even if he wasn't palling around with my robot daughter it makes so much narrative sense for him to be there when she is outed. Full story arc, all that jazz.

And yet, I still wasn't quite expecting it. Cause I hate that man so much that I just had to make myself believe he wouldn't show up.

Mother fucking Colin

RoboCape himself

He has the nerve to show up and then he starts APOLOGIZING? And it appears to be sincere? Fucking dammit man you were so easy to hate for so long! Why you gotta mess with me like this?

STOP DOING THE RIGHT THING AND LET ME HATE YOU GOD DAMMIT!

siiiigh

And then of course we have to talk about Dragon.

Dragon who didn't want to do this but had to.

Except that Colin had a code push ready and she could have told him to do it at anytime. But she was willing to do what she thought was wrong instead of doing the update. Until she got inspired by Taylor's actions.

I love my robot daughter exactly as much as my bug daughter, but I am disappointed that she was almost willing to go through with everything. Happy she fought back though.

And if Colin's hacked together code did any permanent damage I'll destroy the man.

Taylor learning that Dinah - either by force or by choice - gave the PRT numbers to let them know to come after her at the school was heartbreaking to watch. She just wasn't ready for it at all, poor child.

AND TAYLOR'S SPEECH THOUGH!

HOLY SHIT!!!

Sort and simple and she fucking rallies the students to her. Against the heroes!

Gotta be one of the best moments in Worm for sure. Even if every Arc after this is a banger that's still gonna be a hard moment to top.

AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!

And someone gives her a hoodie to help her hide and just aaaahhhh!

AND THEN AFTER THEY GOT AWAY AND ALL THE STUDENTS WERE LIKE "You saved my dad" "You stopped Leviathan at the shelter" "You fought off the SH9" AND SHE WAS JUST OVERWHELMED BY IT ALL?

HOLY FUCK JUST AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also for real though Dragon is free. Like sure it's taking her some time to recover and she can't talk right now (which like I get it, we all have non-verbal episodes sometimes), but as long as nothing goes wrong she is free. I'm so fucking happy for her.

But also I'm terrified cause I know what happens to full AI's with free will in most things. Worm is very different from most things. But I'm still worried about my robot daughter.

Also I never cared much for Danny but obviously it still sucks to be him here. The scene with Taylor saying goodbye with the butterfly was emotional.

Oh oh and! Taylor talks about the butterfly being her "last contact" with her Dad. Very much bug as an extension of self. It's a shift she's been making.

Even more so there's a point where she is trying to get out of the school and she gets to the door and has a bug clone on the other side and says "my hand pressing against my own, separated by an inch and a half of door". Like, the bug clone hand is just her hand. I fucking love the shift compared to how she talked about the bugs early on.

Oh and also Greg totally has like, a Thinker 1 power or something. Pretty sure I mentioned that last arc with his interlude but mentioning it again now to be sure.

Stan interlude thoughts:

Oh my god I hate this man I can't stand him I hated him from the 3rd sentence of the chapter and I was always right to do so!

Seriously. 3rd sentence (or maybe 3rd paragraph which is technically the 3rd, 4th, and 5th sentences I guess). I read it and went "fuck off Stan you're clearly a pretentious dick" and then every few sentences it just became more confirmed!

Just the ways he talks about Nipper. Like. I can rephrase what he says to say the exact same thing except not being a asshole when saying it! Instead of "She was weak and unsuited for the field but she at least tried" just say "She was a hard worker despite being assigned to a job she did not ask for"! It's so fucking easy dude!

Anyway Stan is a jerk.

I loved the way this interlude rolled through different people all watching the same news report. It was a really good way to cover this major story event and let us see how so many other characters were reacting to it.

Also I'm sure all those Slaughterhouse Nine clones aren't going to be an issue later right? Or the fact that there is specifically only one clone of Gray Boy instead of 10 like everyone else? I'm sure that's fiiiiine.

Accord interlude thoughts:

Oh. Oh my. Uhhh. Is it hot in here all of the sudden? Anyone else feel that? No? Just me?

sweats

Oh ok Citrine definitely feels what I'm feeling. She knows what's up.

Just like. Look. Accord is bad ok. Not just cause he's a villain but clearly he'll kill for the smallest cause. And he's in a spot to fuck with my daughter and her polycule so like. Yes. He's bad. I do not like him. I want him to leave. I don't think they should work with him . . .

but . . .

OH MY FUCKING GOD HOLY SHIT PLEASE ACCORD I LOOK GREAT IN PURPLE AND I LOVE DRESSING FANCY AND I'M VERY GOOD AT BEING PROPER I WON'T MESS UP AT ALL I'LL BE THE PERFECT MINION PLEASE!

. . .

cough

Soooo anyway. How about that Butcher huh? That sure is a wild power. Instantly made me think of Glaistig Uaine's power. Very different but reaches into that same base bit, the idea that some part of a dead parahuman can be held onto.

Also holy shit Skitter was so badass in this scene I loved it.

Holy shit Accord is with Cauldron. Or at least closely aligned. And like of course he is it makes so much sense. He's too useful for them to ignore.

I am really curious to see what Accord's power does when he's confronted with a really complex problem. End of the world, doors to another dimension, higher dimensional beings, all that jazz.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 10: Chronology] [Series Finale]

A/N: This is a fic that was never supposed to exist. It yanked me out of my (ridiculously short) retirement and I was SO NERVOUS about diving into another series so unexpectedly! Thank you for giving NICIY a chance. I go back and re-read old messages, comments, and reblogs ALL the time when I’m feeling doubtful about writing, and my fics are only made possible by the support of awesome people like you. 💜

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @libroparaiso @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven @greenowlfactif

Rain from the sky, blood from the earth: skulls and femurs crush beneath Vhagar’s hooves. Daeron and Tessarion stride alongside Aemond, always on his left where he was blinded. Daeron is different now. He’s not broken, no—and Aemond would recognize it if he was—but there’s something older about him, something severe and world-weary. One of Aemond’s hands holds the reins while the other swings his sword, though his attackers grow few and penitent. The Greens and their allies have beaten back the usurpers. The field is strewn with dead Scots and Northern Englishmen. Behind Aemond are soldiers—from the South, Milan, Castile, the Holy Roman Empire, Navarre—bellowing triumphant howls that meld with the thunder. They strip enemy bodies of rings, necklaces, coins, swords and daggers. They slice off fingers and scraps of skin to bring home with them as keepsakes. Look, wife, here is a piece of a man who fought for Daemon and Rhaenyra. Look, son, see what becomes of those who align themselves with kinslayers.

Behind the Blacks’ forces, on horseback and shouting to each other in frantic words that Aemond cannot hear over the cannons and the storm, are Rhaenyra and King Corlys of Scotland. Corlys is shaking his head and pointing back towards the direction they came from. He is advising Rhaenyra to retreat, Aemond knows. He is impelling the stark realities upon her: that her soldiers are fleeing in great numbers, that her cause is lost, that she has nothing to gain by remaining here except more deaths. Jace and Vermax—a bay Marwari who has always been dutiful yet placid by nature—are galloping at a dizzying speed towards his mother to join her in the now inevitable withdraw from the field of battle. As the would-be prince evades sword-wielders and axmen, an arrow loosed by a Navarran archer pierces him through the throat. He sways drunkenly in the saddle and then tumbles to the mud where he is immediately descended upon by Green soldiers like vultures on carrion.

“No!” Aemond can hear Rhaenyra wail, a sound like the shattering of glass. She is stopped by Black loyalists when she attempts to ride to her eldest son’s body, an instinct that in the haze of her grief she cannot understand is suicidal. They eventually resort to dragging her off Syrax, throwing her into the back of a supply wagon, and ferrying her away from the battlefield as Corlys directs their remaining forces to fall back.

Aemond spies Luke—untalented and doomed, yet brave—on Arrax and stabbing Milanese men who are clawing at him like a cat guts mice. Aemond sheathes his sword, wheels Vhagar around, and races for Luke, calling for the soldiers to disperse. They run from Vhagar’s immense, drumming hooves. Too swift for Luke to resist, Aemond grabs him by one arm and wrenches him out of the saddle; he can hear the bone pop from its socket. Luke drops to the drenched earth and lies there muddy, condemned, his sword knocked from his grasp.

“Go, Arrax!” Luke commands his horse. Tears stream down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. Lightning flashes. But Arrax does not obey. The small dun Marwari stands over Luke, his head shielding his fallen rider, until Daeron and Tessarion—who easily outweighs Arrax by a thousand pounds—force him back.

Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, his boots sinking into deep mud. He walks to where Luke lies helplessly in a sea of rain and earth and blood.

“Mercy!” Luke cries, shielding his eyes from the torrents of rain that blow into him. His hair hangs in dark, sodden curls against his boyish face. “Please, Aemond! I’m sorry for what happened when we were children. I was wrong. I was trying to protect Jace and I struck out without thinking. I did not intend to maim you. But then it was too late to take it back. It’s not too late to stop this bloodshed now. I was wrong. I beg you to have mercy upon me, mercy that the Blacks never showed you. I want to live. I want to see my mother again. I want to marry Rhaena someday, as I have sworn to. As I have dreamt of more times than I could number. I beg you for mercy.”

Aemond looks to Daeron. And it takes several long, slow seconds for Daeron to understand why. He is being given the choice. He is the man who lost Nico. Daeron says softly: “He’s not the one who murdered her. I have no use for his blood.”

Aemond nods. And then, as the wind tears dripping, silver strands from his long braid, he offers his hand to Luke. Luke seizes it with his good arm, sobbing openly with relief.

“You were in London when the princesses were slain,” Aemond says.

“Yes,” Luke replies. “But I did not know it would happen, nor did I desire it. I swear to God, Aemond, I swear on every god men have ever believed in. None of us knew, my mother had forbidden harm to come to them—”

“And Jace was there too.”

“Yes,” Luke admits, weeping for his dead brother.

“You and Jace were in London with Daemon, and now you’re here on the battlefield. But that beast isn’t. Not that I’ve seen. So where’s Daemon?” Aemond asks Luke. “Where’s Daemon?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to spare you?” Daemon doesn’t move like a man. He stalks like a wolf, like a phantom, off-kilter, inhuman. He grins, white teeth and violent eyes. “Aren’t you going to beg for mercy?”

And for a moment, the words fill up in your mouth like blood in a wound: Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go back to Navarre and never return, you’ll never hear soldiers cheer for me, you’ll never see me again. Please, please, just let me go so the baby can live.

But Daemon would not be moved by your pleas. They would only give him wicked, ghastly pleasure, a high like the knowing touch of a lover. You cannot stomach the thought of it. You can only bring yourself to twist the allegorical knife deeper. “If you had taught Baela mercy, she would still be alive. If you had any within yourself, Rhaenyra would be winning this war.”

“Too proud,” Daemon says, but he doesn’t sound furious anymore. He sounds awed. And you realize that all along underneath that hatred had been something else too: a venomous admiration, a hunger that corrupts and burns. He lays the point of his sword against your throat. Rain flows down the length of the blade in cold, crystalline rivulets. You sob, unable to help it. Your mind is a tapestry of all the things you’ll never live to see. “Aegon is a nonentity. But you were different. I saw that from the start. Just a girl from a minor kingdom offered like a sacrifice to be neglected and violated by some drunken, ambitionless, catastrophically weak prince. Yet you didn’t seem to know it. You had that intractable, defiant ruthlessness. So much like Rhaenyra’s when she was younger. So much like Aemond’s. So much like mine. And I knew I could never call myself worthy of the throne without breaking you. Rhaenyra comforts herself with the notion that none of this is personal. That I would have had the same contempt for the Milanese girl or the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter if either of them had been the one to marry Aegon. Rhaenyra feels sorry for you, I believe. She has a mother’s compassion. But this has always been personal for me. And now it’s finally over.”

There is a sound above you at the top of the gorge, huffing and stomping. Reflected in Daemon’s blade, you see Midnight, her legs and chest painted with blood from kicking through the walls of her stall and then the stable door. She takes a few tentative steps down the slope and then is forced to retreat. If she falls, she’ll shatter her legs or snap her neck and drown in the current of mud and rainwater. She can’t come to you. But if you can get to her…

Caraxes is dead. Daemon wouldn’t be able to catch me.

Time ticks by slowly, impossibly slowly; and you are reminded of all those nights you spent under Aegon waiting for him to finish, a long-clawed eternity lurking in the doorway between seconds. You are reminded of how each hour you spent pregnant felt like forever as the possibility of having a child of your own receded like a ship dropping over the edge of the horizon, and then farther, and then farther. You are reminded of how you counted the days until Kunigunde would marry Aemond and possess him in ways that you still have only dreamt of. Since your arrival in England almost two years ago, you have been a prisoner of time. Now—as you scavenge for a chance at a future almost too bright to imagine—you are grateful for it.

Too late, you think, but it’s not a statement. It’s a question. Too late?

“Do you know what, Navarre?” Daemon asks. He traces the point of his blade around the curve of your throat, drawing a half-moon of crimson as thin as a spider’s thread. Then he hooks his left hand into the white velvet of your gown—drenched with rain, stained with blood and earth—and wrenches you upright, devouring you with wild, wolfish eyes. You strike at him to no avail. “I think before I gut you, I’ll enjoy you in the way Aemond never could. That would hurt him best, wouldn’t it? He was always covered in it. That pitiful, dire hunger for you. Written on his ruined face as stark as ink. Now he can have whatever pieces of you are left when I’m done. Scraps, butcher’s cuts, your child, your eyes, your heart. If he’s still alive.”

Too late??

You don’t have a sword, you don’t have a dagger or a bow, you don’t have the physical strength to fight Daemon. You never have, even before your hand was crushed and shredded by his Scottish deerhound. At the crest of the gorge, Midnight paces and whinnies.

What DO I have? What the hell do I still have?

Suddenly you feel it, cool and unyielding against your chest: the ivy leaf necklace made of gold.

With your mangled hand, you rip it off you—destroying the clasp, drawing blood at the back of your neck—and stab at Daemon. He rocks his head back swiftly enough to save his eyes, but not his mouth; you shove your fist in as far as you can, pushing the jagged charm of the necklace down his throat to choke him. With your free hand, you cling to him like a lover so he cannot create enough space between you to swing his sword. He screams, and you do too, as the gashes in your hand are split wider and deeper by his teeth, as his jaws close around your wrist and he tries to bite through the flesh and into your veins; but you do not relent. The pain is dreadful but not disorienting. You’ve had time to learn how to think through it.

Daemon flings you away and—choking, retching, doubled over—tries to claw the necklace out of his throat. You bolt for the embankment and begin climbing up towards Midnight. You have to move quickly; each time you hesitate, the saturated earth begins to disintegrate beneath your palms and bare feet. Rain falls in stinging sheets. Rods of lightning break the sky in two. Midnight is stomping and snorting at the apex of the gorge, waiting for you. You are halfway to her when you realize you can hear Daemon behind you.

He’s wheezing and weighted down by his armor; when you glance back at him, there are tendrils of blood spilling from his mouth. Still, the insanity in his eyes is alight and glittering. You claw for the summit desperately. When you get close enough to reach out to her, Midnight lowers her head; you throw your arms around her vast neck and she drags you over the top of the gorge and onto flat, muddy ground. But there’s no time to catch your breath. You clamber to your feet and try to pull yourself onto Midnight’s back. It’s no use; she’s too tall, you’re too weak. She looks at you with her attentive volcanic-glass eyes and upright ears, and then she understands. With ungainly effort, she drops down to her knees so you can climb onto her back. When Midnight stands again, you steady yourself and twist your fingers into her mane, and then she charges towards the stone bridge—

There’s a shrill, glass-sharp roar and a hand on your gown. Daemon is yanking you off of her. Midnight is whirling and shrieking, trying to shake him. There’s not enough for you to hold onto, no reins, no saddle. Daemon drags you down to the earth. You hit hard, the breath knocked from your lungs, your vision stunned black. You can feel that Daemon is on top of you with his sword at your jugular; you scratch and shove blindly at him. And then Midnight is stomping and kicking and there is a new sound: a crack muffled by gelatinous flesh like the sheet around a corpse, a great fracturing like the world splitting in half. And Daemon is gone.

Your sight materializes: black to grey to color, shadows to shapes. When you haul yourself upright, the rain is slowing and Midnight is nudging your head with her velvet-soft muzzle. Daemon is ten feet away. He has propped himself up against the entranceway of the bridge, his legs splayed out in front of him. When you go to him and kneel down in the mud—thunder growling distantly, moving into the west—you see that his jaw has been broken from the impact of Midnight’s hoof. It hangs disjointedly, ruinously from his face. A moon-white dagger of bone juts from the torn flesh. His teeth are a garden of ivory shards and excavated pits. Blood pours down his throat and chest like a river, like a sea. He cannot speak. He can only gaze at you with glassy, vacant eyes, the knowledge dripping in slowly, piece by piece, like waking up from a dream: he’s dying. And it occurs to you that sometimes dying is the end, and sometimes it’s just killing the version of yourself that existed before, sacrifice, spring after frost, a blade born from a forge, resurrection.

You press your hands to the blood that hemorrhages from Daemon and then drag them down your face, palms and fingertips, coppery-tasting scarlet like wine, like rubies. “You once told me that I’d look better covered in red,” you say to him as the last vestiges of consciousness flicker in his eyes. “That was on Christmas, just before you murdered my son in the womb and I spent weeks bleeding fragments of him out of me. How do I look now, Prince Daemon? Now you’re the one who’s bleeding. Now you’re the one who will never grow old.”

He hears you. You can see that he hears you: horror, agony, disbelief, mourning.

“I want you to think about that as you lie here dying alone. I want you to think about all those things you wanted—those glorious, ruthless things—and how you stole them from yourself.”

You stagger to your feet. Daemon’s hand, weak like a whisper, juts out and grabs your muddied ankle. You rip free of him without looking back. You are the last person to ever see him alive.

Midnight follows you back to the palace. Your damaged hand hangs limply by your side; the other cups your belly. You wait for the cramping to begin, the razorlike severing, the blood. It seems unthinkable that your child could have survived, that Daemon could have departed this earth without stealing one last life from you. But for all the places where you hurt terribly, that isn’t one of them. When you reach the well, you brace yourself for what you’ll discover there. You grip the cool grey circle of stones and peer over the edge.

“Your Majesty?!” Criston exclaims, gaping at you. He’s wading in water up to his chest. “Oh, thank God! I heard the footsteps and thought it was Daemon!”

“He’s dead,” you reply in a voice that sounds very little like yours: cold like winter, hard like steel. The rain has faded to a misty drizzle.

Criston shakes his head, not understanding. “How did you…? What did you…?”

“I’ll find a way to get you out,” you say, and leave him.

You procure a length of rope from the stable and—with considerable difficulty, your wounded hand trembling and nearly useless—tie one end around Midnight like the harness of a plow. You toss the other end down to Criston. He emerges from the well with a broken leg but otherwise relatively unscathed. He limps, leaning against Midnight (an only semi-willing ally), to where Daemon’s body lies by the bridge.

“Oh my God,” Criston marvels, staring down at him: ruined face, empty hands. “He’s gone. He’s really gone. He was the greatest weapon the Blacks had, and he’s gone. What the hell will Rhaenyra do now?”

You pry your sword from Caraxes’ corpse and then return to Criston. “I need you to help me. My blade is too small, and even if it wasn’t, my sword hand is practically unusable. I can probably do the first part, but I’ll need you to chop through the spine.”

Criston is horrified. “What are you talking about? The spine…?!”

And then you tell him.

You have just finished when you hear the rumble of hooves approaching. Vhagar and Aemond are at the front of a detachment of cavalry. The cannon fire in the distance has stopped; Daeron and Alonzo are doubtlessly overseeing the clearing of the battlefield. Aemond leaps down from the saddle and rushes to where you stand to meet him on the bridge, his gaze flying from your ragged hand to the streaks of red on your gown and your face. Your other hand is hidden behind your back.

“Are you—?!”

“I’m alright,” you say. “The blood isn’t all mine.”

And then you throw Daemon’s head—clutching it by his long, white, Targaryen hair—out onto the grey stones for everyone to witness. It rolls several times before coming to rest face-up, the last raindrops falling into Daemon’s vacuous eyes as the sky begins to clear. Aemond grins, a fiercely proud, wonderous grin; and the soldiers’ cheers are carried on the calm, cool breeze: “The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre!”

A physician is fetched to set Sir Criston’s leg and to tend to your hand. It is scrubbed with boiling wine (excruciating) and then the deepest gashes are stitched closed with a needle and thread (even worse). The process takes several hours. You are offered strong wine for the pain, but you don’t want to risk harming the baby. Aemond stays with you. He knows exactly what this feels like: the serrated agony now, the scar tissue that will grow through the rubble like roots. It will pain you all your life. You will never be free of it.

Aemond cleans Daemon’s blood from your face and allows you to squeeze his hand until your fingernails leave crescent-moon indents in his palm. And then he begins to distract you. He brings his lips to the curve of your jaw as one arm hugs your waist, and as he dusts your skin with tantalizingly slow kisses and teasing nips, you are reminded of the February night when he touched you beneath your nightgown for the first time, when he showed you how hot desire could burn and how kindly it could treat you. As your flesh is mended like a torn tapestry—the physician’s head bent low over his work—Aemond nuzzles you and murmurs to you and traces his fingertips lightly over your throat, your collarbones, the nape of your neck.

Miraculously, after a while you barely notice the pain at all. After a while, you are covered in nothing but weightless, glimmering desire for him.

In the room of Castle Rising that has become your bedchamber: back to the wall, hands in his hair, loose and wild and silver. In the starlight that streams in through the open windows, it has an opalescent sheen like moonstone. He’s kissing you like fire consumes forests; he’s breathing you in like smoke. You can feel him growing through you, flames licking, ivy climbing the trellis of your ribs and vertebrae. He’s tearing off your gown—once white, now red, impure and unrepentant—as you undress him and litter the floor with all the leather and fabric that once separated you. As Aemond’s hands skate up your bare thighs, you remember other moments with him: in the royal stables on a July afternoon, your miscarriage after the Christmas feast, on the bearskin rug in February, his wedding night at the end of April, here in the bathtub before the battle.

“Please, Aemond,” you beg as his fingers slip between slick warm folds of needful flesh, circle the place that raises euphoria in you like the moon pulls the tides. “I need all of you.”

“No,” he pants between fevered kisses. The ruby of his missing eye glints hungrily. “You first. I’m not going to last, I know it. You have to go first.”

Your unbandaged hand knots in his hair, tugging him ever-closer; his tongue darts into your mouth; his bare chest and hips press insistently to yours. You can feel his hardness, his length against your inner thigh, and this time there is no trepidation that roils in your mind like the waves of the sea. You want him with everything you’re built of, every minute and mineral and memory. You could not silence your moans if you tried. You can feel your shoulder blades bruising against the wall, heavenly pressure, delicious bites of pain, trapped blood that tomorrow will be swimming with recollection.

“Aemond, it’s happening—”

“Good, good,” he purrs through your disheveled hair. He slides one finger into you, and then another, kissing the slope of your cheekbone as your hips rock with his rhythm. “Come for me, Ivy. You wanted me to be the one to have you and now I’m here, I’ll be here forever, I’ll be here until the world ends. Let me show you how good it will always feel.”

You cry out against him, shuddering and rapturous. You can feel the past slipping away like a dream you can’t recall in the morning, a flash here, a phrase there, but otherwise indistinct, shadowy, the jagged parts sanded down until they no longer sting.

“I love you,” Aemond whispers, his fingers still inside you, buried to the knuckles in your pulsing warmth, your wetness, relics of the pleasure only he showed you was possible.

And you reply with his own words, cradling his face in your palms, half-scarred and yet entirely beautiful: “I would love you anywhere and at any cost.”

He draws you to the bed. He’s on top of you, he’s touching you, he’s tasting you, he’s stroking you until you plead for him to give you everything. But Aemond wants to be sure you’re ready. When he finally eases himself into you, it is a smooth and gliding action, overwhelming and unfamiliar but in no way painful. You hear his promise—I won’t hurt you, I’ll never hurt you—and you know that he has kept it. The intense fullness is a sensation you’ve never known before, never even imagined. When he moves, very carefully at first, it hits at an angle that rekindles your lust, somehow deeper, less pointed, more total than the peaks you knew before. You can’t catch your breath; you feel like if the wave doesn’t break, it will kill you.

“Again?” Aemond murmurs, stunned yet ecstatic.

“Again,” you gasp helplessly. He threads his fingers through yours on your good hand and pins it above your head, thrusting more powerfully as he kisses you, bodies and souls alike tangled up together, inseparable, irrevocable. When you come, it is an indescribable high; it is a force that feels like it could snap ropes of muscle and break bones. Aemond, unable to wait a second longer, empties himself with a trembling, reverent moan of the name he gave you: Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. And he holds you—tightly, to his chest, to his heart—for a long time before he pulls himself away, as if he is afraid that the moment he lifts his hands from you you’ll vanish.

Gently, he pushes your thighs apart when you move to close them. “Let me look at you,” he says. And he sighs, transfixed, as he watches his seed spill out. He takes a corner of the sheet that you’ve torn from the mattress and whisks the pearl-white river away. Then he smiles, his gaze flicking playfully to yours. “One day this won’t go to waste.”

You bathe together in water murky with steam and herbs and rose petals, washing away the past, cleaning the slate for the future. And when you return exhausted to the bed remade with fresh linens, neither of you stare up at the ceiling and wonder at the cruelties of time. You fold into Aemond—your head on his chest, rounded belly pressed against him, an arm slung across his waist—and you are asleep before you can begin to count the beats of his heart.

As soon as you arrive back in London, you and Aemond marry in the small private chapel, not illuminated by candlelight but by the sun, radiant afternoon beams refracted by stained glass scenes of kings and saints, colors on your skin like gemstones: ruby, sapphire, amethyst, emerald, amber, ruby again, treasures from the earth born only from suffocating pressure and the passing of time.

Two years to the day after you first set foot on English soil, Aemond is officially invested as regent pending either your deliverance of a daughter or your son’s coming of age in eighteen years. During the feast that follows, Alicent tends fretfully to Sir Criston: feeding him morsels of bread and meat, asking after the pain in his still-mending leg, forbidding him from rising unnecessarily from his chair. She finds excuses to touch his hair and his hands, and you observe them—furtively, from behind sips of honeyed mead, trying not to intrude—with warm blood blossoming in your cheeks. You are happy for them. You know exactly what it feels like to taste passion after a lifetime without it. It is better than a paradise, an oasis, a port in the storm. It is magic. It is a spell.

You and Aemond traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace to thank the Southern nobles for their loyalty, their sacrifices, their dead sons and widowed daughters. You collect wary apologies from Northerners who must now somehow be rewoven into the fabric of English society. You are offered praise for your heroism, condolences for your dead husband, well wishes for your unborn child who might one day be the king. And when, suddenly, you gasp and grab at your belly with your scarred hand, Aemond reaches fearfully for you.

“What—?”

“He’s moving,” you say, incredulous, beaming. And then you lay Aemond’s palms on your bump so he can feel it too. “He’s alright. He’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Aemond says; but you can see on his face that only now does he truly believe it, and that all along he was so adamant only because he knew it was what you needed.

The nobility—Greens and reformed Blacks alike—try not to raise their eyebrows too much when you and Aemond announce that you wed immediately upon your return to London. Yet they accept it, and so do the kingdoms of the Continent, and—after some adept persuading by your father and Alonzo—so does the Pope in Rome. There are far greater sins still fresh in everyone’s memory. And no one can deny that Aemond was built for ruling. He is the best thing for England, for all of Europe. So are you. You are beloved by the people. The name they call you—the Queen from Navarre—lives in the same breath as martyrs and saints.

Daeron is rarely left alone. Even the Duke of Hightower has compassion for him. Aemond takes him hunting and sparring, you walk with him in the gardens where Nico once sat and wept as she read his letters. He does not forget her—not at all, not even a little bit, not ever—but he does learn to remember her with more affection than bitterness. Bitterness does not come naturally to Daeron; he sheds it more swiftly than other men could. Someday he will have to marry, of course, but he is allowed time to mourn. The promise of the child you carry grants him that. And Aemond asks you to sew a new banner for the Greens: two roses, one red and the other emerald, entangled on a field of golden yellow like the flags of Milan and the Holy Roman Empire. Yellow for Nico, yellow for Kunigunde. Yellow for the dawning future they helped pay for in blood.

As retribution for his daughter’s murder, the Holy Roman Emperor demands that Rhaenyra’s three children with Daemon be sent to him as wards…including her only girl. And so Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya—still young enough for the memories of their true parents to be essentially obliterated—are shipped off to the Continent, never to raise armies or enlist poisoners, never to marry into the illustrious families of Northern England, chess pieces removed from the board. Luke and Rhaena relocate permanently to Scotland where they will one day inherit the throne; Aemond corresponds with them regularly, seeking to establish a rapport that will spare both kingdoms from further bloodshed. Joffrey is raised by King Corlys and Queen Rhaenys. Rhaenyra is banished to an abbey on the irrelevant, dreary, windswept island of Iona off the west coast of Scotland. As long as she commits no treachery, she is permitted to have visitors there. But she may never leave without forfeiting the lives of her children held as perpetual hostages by the Holy Roman Empire.

In the bleak depths of November, your labor pains begin as you are visiting the royal stables, feeding Midnight and Vhagar and Tessarion knobby carrots from the gardens and handfuls of oats. The midwives and physicians are baffled by Aemond’s insistence upon staying with you during the birth. He is similarly baffled by their assumption that he would rather be off somewhere else: hunting, sparring, writing, politicking, gifts he possesses in equal measure. And mercifully, for all that you have suffered in pursuit of motherhood, this particular trial passes as unremarkably as possible. Your labor begins one afternoon and ends the next with the birth of a small yet healthy, living, white-haired son. The midwives let Aemond catch him, cut the umbilical cord, and place him on your chest, a weight you have waited nearly two and a half years to feel.

“You did it, Ivy,” Aemond whispers, kissing your temple with tears in his eye, as if he had no part in it at all. And the rest of your life suddenly lines up in front of you like stars in a constellation: teaching your children to walk, to read, to ride horses, to fight for themselves and their country if the fragile peace the Greens have brokered ever crumbles.

When Daeron comes to see you, you tell him as he cradles the baby in tentative arms: “We’ve named him after Nico.”

“Nicoloso?” Daeron replies, pleased yet rather amused. It is a ludicrous name for an English monarch.

“Nicholas.”

“Ah. Yes. Grandsire won’t hate that quite so much.”

Daeron studies the infant king, his tiny flailing hands, his drowsy yawns, and when Nicholas grips his thumb Daeron laughs for the first time that you can remember since Nico was alive. And you think as you watch them that maybe time is less like a wheel—something that crushes and repeats—and more like a vine that climbs ever-higher. Maybe chronology is less like a prison than an open door.

Tonight, Aemond is cross-legged on the bearskin rug and holding Nicholas, smoothing his downy silver hair in the amber firelight, telling him the same stories he once told you: King Arthur, Beowulf, Robin Hood, the Rollright Stones, Saint George and the slaying of dragons. On the wall hangs the tapestry that Aemond moved from his rooms to the bedchamber you now share. In the trunk at the foot of your bed are his poems, your sword, the letters that Aegon sends from Navarre. You are reading the most recent one now. It is—peculiarly—written in Spanish.

Wife,

I have endeavored to compose this letter in the language of your homeland. (I’ve begun taking lessons with Alonzo. Am I any good yet?)

No, he’s not; he’s made at least six grammatical errors and has confused the word patria (homeland) with patear (to kick).

I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations upon your safe deliverance of a son. I am sure it has brought you and Aemond immeasurable relief. The court here has celebrated with a feast of traditional English food (a crime! have I crossed the sea only to still be tormented by black pudding and salmon pie?) and plenty of dancing. But don’t grow too proud. They still gossip about your hasty second marriage to a man whose own wife was barely cold in the grave. You should be thankful for Rhaenyra’s brazen mating with her loathsome, deranged uncle. Your supposed transgressions seem mild in comparison. No one mourns me much. I suppose that is the mark of a life not properly lived. I’m hoping to remedy that. I really am.

You wrote that the baby looks a lot like me. That made me smile, although I’m not sure why. I’d like to meet him someday, once you have fully recovered and he is old enough to travel. Summers are beautiful here, as you well know. You and Aemond should visit in June. It will be the anniversary of my death. We can celebrate with rosado and lamb.

I had this thought recently that I can’t seem to shake. It feels too insightful to be mine. Sometimes endings are more like beginnings…don’t you think?

Whatever the color of his hair and eyes, I hope Nicholas is more like you than me.

I’ll be dreaming of you. Both of you.

With great affection,

The King in Navarre (and Sunfyre)

You re-fold the letter and place it in your trunk. Then you look to Aemond and the child he considers his own. “Navarre in June?” you say hopefully.

Aemond smiles, warm like embers. He ruby eye reflects the firelight: crimson comets, red stars. “Navarre in June,” he agrees. “It’s been too long already.” And then he touches his lips to Nicholas’ tiny, flawless forehead before laying him in the cradle.

Once, as golden afternoon light poured into the royal stables, Aemond had asked you what brought you happiness here in England. Everything, you would answer now if he asked you again.

Everything.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you

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sleepyfan-blog · 2 months

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Religious Excerpts

Author's note: this is the first part of the Fem!Guilliman in 40k AU fic! I hope that you enjoy it! Next

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @i-am-a-dragon34 @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

warnings: religious writings, deification,

summary: A small collection of snippets from a collection of writings on the demi-goddess of the Imperium, Roberta Guilliman

She had asked for a brief synopsis of how she was most likely to be seen as, by different parts of the Imperium. She had sent out hundreds of intelligence gathers to move stealthily throughout the Imperium, including within Ultramar itself.

Her sons had been eager to follow her every order, the worshipful way in which they interacted with her bothered her tremendously. But she had been handed a dataslate that was a collection of poems, psalms, prayers, and fables written about The Lady Of Ultramar, the Daughter of the Emperor, Roberta Guilliman. If known, the date of creation and the author’s name has been noted down, though many such details have been lost to time.

Ballad of the Risen Primarch - written by Frater Matthew, Militant Apostolic, M42.076

The Lady with her sword aloft

Charges into the fray

To hunt down the vile traitors

And bring them true dismay

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers

While we were lost and desperate

Showing us that she cares

She scoured Chaos from Imperial Worlds

And chased them from our space

The Avenging Daughter protects us

From Chaos and disgrace

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers

While we were lost and desperate

Showing us that she cares

The xenos quail before her gaze

And fall before her might

Orkz, Aeldari, Tau, Tyranids

Failed to survive the fight

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers

While we were lost and desperate

Showing us that she cares

Her divine light shines so brightly

As does her wit and charm

She rules with a just and fair hand

She protects us from harm

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers

While we were lost and desperate

Showing us that she cares

She guards us from internal strife

Corruption, decay, lies

All are placed into cleansing flames

She is Evil's demise

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers

While we were lost and desperate

Showing us that she cares

This was written by Frater Matthew, the current Militant Apostolic working alongside Primarch Guilliman herself. He was inspired to write this poem after spending a number of months in her holy and robust presence.

She could feel a familiar headache starting to build in the back of her mind, and a low, frustrated growl threatened to rumble through her chest. She had picked Frater Matthew as he was an orator of some skill, and able to rally mortals and Astartes alike to his cause. But this... Travesty was annoying to read through.

Mother's Psalm - Author unknown. Suspected to have been written somewhere in the mid-M35s.

The sacred temple lies

The saintly Mother, who's eyes

Watch over her sons’ endless toil

At home and on foreign soil

The stasis field keeps her here

Away from the reaper's spear

Traitor's poison will not take

The fortress’ walls will not break

As Mother does, Maccrage stands

Protected by loving hands

And a sturdy wall of blue

Made of sons, loyal and true

One day, Mother will awake

With her, a new dawn shall break

She'll lead us out of shadows

And send evil to the gallows

This Psalm is found to be commonly sung by serfs of Ultramarines as well as their successor chapters, along with the civilian populations of Ultramar itself. The Psalm is also sung by the Auxilla of Ultramar, though they tend to prefer singing war songs in praise of The Avenging Daughter as she leads them to battle in Righteous fury against foul xenos and traitors alike.

A soft sigh left her as she finished reading the psalm. At least this was less overtly religious in tone, though the fact that this was marked as a psalm did not improve her mood in the least. She was starting to realize just how wide and deep the Adeptus Ministorum had a stranglehold on the Imperium of Man as a whole... This was going to be a misery and a half to slowly and carefully untangle... If she could.

Prayer for Information This prayer was written sometime in the early M37s, by a Historitor whose name has been expunged from all records by the Ordo Hereticus.

Oh great Lady of Insight and wisdom, Maiden Mother of fair Ultramar, I come to you, humbly, on bended knees and clasped hands.

To you, I confess that I have not been sending my daily morning prayers to Him on Terra as I should be. Instead, I have been researching what I can of the history of our Great Imperium. I know it is a sin to try and learn of the past beyond what is taught in school… But my curiosity pushes me onwards nonetheless. Surely this knowledge will not cause harm?

You have my deepest thanks. For I and many others upon the world of [REDACTED] owe you our lives. Because if your auxilla and Astartes had not come to our rescue against the [REDACTED] we would have all been killed and our souls consumed by the forces of [REDACTED].

I humbly ask you to grant me entry into the library within the Temple of Corrections, where I would be able to continue my research and studies. I feel that if properly understood, our past could teach us many things. I patiently await your response.

Your humble servant,

[REDACTED]

There was quite a bit of fierce debate as to whether or not to include this particular prayer to Lady Guilliman, as it has heretical elements in the prayer. Ultimately, this shows that even otherwise stalwart and obedient citizens can be heretical, and that one must always be vigilant.

... Since when was knowing the history of the Imperium illegal? Father damn them all. Those who did not learn from history were doomed to repeat it. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, unable to read on as she swore viciously in every tongue she knew. Considering what the Inquisition was like... She could guess that this poor Historitor's fate was a gruesome and miserable one indeed. She also hated that this letter had been phrased as an Emperor-damned prayer.

Psalm of praise - written shortly after Lady Guilliman’s interment into the stasis chamber, perhaps three hundred years past that event.

I will extoll the Lady at all times; her praise will always be on my lips. I will glory in HER; let all who hear rejoice. Glorify the Lady of Ultramar with me; let us exalt her name together. I sought the lady, and she answered me. She delivered me from all my woes.

This Psalm is frequently murmured by serfs and similarly ranked civilians who often work under Astartes. Particularly while the Astartes are preparing for a particularly vicious and bloody battle.

After reading the first psalm, she decided to skip the rest of the section, the blood boiling in her veins as the grip on the dataslate caused the device to creak in protest. She would rather not have to request a new one with this information on it, because she had broken this one in her fury.

A Lesson in Obedience- This fable was written sometime in the early M34s, and presented without the artwork to shrink the file size.

The world that The Soldier was going to be deployed to protect was one of hundreds if not thousands like it. A small yellow gem of a world with over ninety percent of the available aland devoted to growing a singular crop that fed the loyal and true citizens of the Imperium. It was this soldier’s first deployment, and excitement thrummed just below the surface of his skin as he walked over to where his mother was busily working.

His mother with her honey-blond hair and clever ice-blue eyes was carefully working at her desk a dataslate in one hand, a stylus in the other as she swiftly worked. She looked up and smiled warmly as her son walked over to her. She set down the dataslate and hugged him tightly, murmuring “Good morning, my wonderful son. How goes your training?”

“It goes very well! Mother, I have good news to share with you!” The eager, blue-clad young man explained, happily hugging his mother back as he beamed with joy.

“What news do you bring to me my son?” His mother asked, reaching up and ruffling his dark, curly hair with one hand, still hugging her precious son.

“Like my older siblings before me, I am benign deployed to fight foul xenos! I am being sent to fight Orkz who threaten one of the worlds that grow crops, mother.” The soldier explained, still beaming up at his mother “I will be the one to kill the most of the vicious brutes of my entire battalion! I will decapitate the Ork Warboss and rip his tusks from his mouth. I will carve them into combs for your hair, mother. As a trophy!”

A soft sigh left the Mother as she hugged her over-eager son, pressing her forehead to his, before looking into his dark eyes, hoping that her words reached his heart and resonated within his mind “I don’t need an ork-tooth comb my son. As with your older siblings, all I want is for you to serve our great Imperium with honor and grace. Fight and win the battles set before you, but do not seek glory for it’s own sake. Rushing to grab glory with your own hands will only get you killed first, my son.”

“That won’t happen, mother~ I am too strong and too swift for the Orkz to be able to kill me.” The young soldier protested, shaking his head a little “My armor is too sturdy for their shoddy and broken weapons to damage.” His armor was indeed well-polished. Shining a brilliant blue and bright gold.

“Orkz are -” The soldier’s mother tried to warn him, but the young man stepped out of her embrace as his vox began to buzz loudly.

“That’s The Captain, mother! I have been taught how to fight Orkz and other filthy xenos. I will come home victorious and with a chest full of accolades before you can start to miss me!” The young Soldier boasted as he ran out of his mother’s office, ready to take on any threats, big or small. “I must answer the call to war! Goodbye for now, mother!”

Years of training and months of waiting and sparring had led to this moment for the young Soldier as he stared over the incoming horde of Orkz. They were a disorganized tidal wave of hooting and hollering green, and he double checked his bolter before he started to level his weapon at them, taking in a breath and letting it out as he prepared to fire.

“Hold your fire.” The Captain ordered. “I need you four to help complete the evacuation of the civilians from this world.” He pointed to the young soldier and three of his fellow warriors.

“But… But sir, the Orkz are almost upon us! Shouldn’t we start to fire?” The young soldier asked, a confused expression appearing on his face.

“Are you questioning my orders, soldier?” The captain asked, his words underlined by the roar of artillery fire as they steadily flung shell after shell at the oncoming Orkish horde. “They are too far for you to hit reliably. Get going, soldier!”

The young soldier grumbled to himself as he dutifully got up and followed his squadmates over to the landing pads where several other groups of soldiers were -

She put down the dataslate, unable to force herself to continue to read the fable. She could guess as to where the story was heading, and the likely ways in which it would end. It was not worth the space it would occupy in her brain to continue to read through it. She hid her face in her hands and let out a low scream, trying not to alert the guards outside her office as to her distress.

There was a brief knock on the door before one of her brasher Captains barreled into the room, sword in hand as he did a visual sweep of the room. He didn't see any threats, so he removed his helmet and approached her, a look of mild concern on his face "I heard your yell, Mother. Is something bothering you?"

Roberta couldn't help but smile a little at his concern. Cato was rough around the edges and brash, but his boldness meant that he was the least anxious of her officer-sons to interact with her directly. "I was reading through the collection of legends that have sprung up about me, in my absence."

"Ah." Cato rumbled, briefly glancing at the dataslate on her desk, before looking back up at her "You are widely revered and held in great awe, as are all of the Holy Primarchs."

"Mm, but who we truly are has been lost to time. If Sanguinius found out how the masses - and perhaps his own sons believe him to be now..." Roberta sighed. The majority of the Imperium had come to believe that Sanguinius was a tragic, gentle-spoken martyr, whose death at the hands of the Vile Arch-Traitor was the final proof of the utter depravity that Horus had sank to. They seem to have forgotten, or been made to forget, from whom the Black Rage that afflicted most if not all sons of Sanguinius stemmed from. “His reaction would have been… Spectacular.” Throne on Terra, she missed her siblings.

Cato nodded, looking uncertain. “Is there anything you wish of me, mother?”

A small smile appeared on her face “Only your company, if your duties permit it. I am… Finding it difficult to adjust to this new time I have woken up in. Please tell me of the battles you’ve participated in.”

Cato’s eyes lit up as he begun to talk about his past exploits, gesturing occasionally for emphasis.

#cw religious writings #cw deification #my writing #cato sicarius #roberta guilliman

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four-loose-screws · 8 months

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FE2 Novelization Translation - Chapter 2 Part 1

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

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Chapter 2 - Mila’s Restoration Army

Part 1 - Celica Embarks on Her Journey

Black rain. Few people knew what it meant - just a fraction of clergy units - who learned of it in their studies and through their heightened spiritual senses.

The sky and earth are not filled with only good substances, such as the nourishment that fosters life. For whatever amount of good exists, so does an equal amount of bad. The black rain was the result of those bad substances gathering in such a great amount that they boiled over.

It was also proof that Earth Mother Mila was abandoning her very duties as the Earth Mother. That was the true meaning behind the black rain.

And why was Mila abandoning her duty? Had a god appeared that commanded greater control than she did? Or could it be that she was dead? So long as the black rain fell, ascertaining its cause was the sole duty of all clergy units in Zofia.

…About as far south as Ram Village, but off the southeast coast instead, was Novis, an island that took roughly three days to reach by boat from the Zofia Castle town harbor. If the Mila Shrine on the northernmost tip of Zofia was the Mila Faithful's mecca, then Novis was the central location for their clergy units to train and study.

The very same black rain that dirtied Sister Silque's cheek was also streaking down the windows of Novis' priory. A black thrush, resting its wings by the window to escape the rain, looked inside a room in the priory, and saw the bright lights of a lively banquet currently ongoing.

On this very day, a holy woman of the highest rank had been named, a Priestess unit who appeared only once every one hundred years, and excelled in both magic and sword. Because one of the core teachings of the priory was a life of modesty and simplicity, its members only drank herbal wine together. It was not a luxurious beverage, but it possessed a very deep meaning.

"May Mila bestow her divine protection upon Celica, of which she is more than worthy! May she guide this priory as Priestess to further deepen our faith."

This new Priestess' name was Celica. She was a young woman with thick hair as red as a strawberry. It had never been cut once in her entire life, and curled around her waist like a lion's mane. Transcendence need not happen at a specific age, but it was considered exceptional that she had transcended to Priestess at age eighteen. If Alm was a prodigy of swordsmanship, then Celica was a prodigy of spiritual wisdom.

After all of the various ceremonies were over, only the units closest to Celica gathered to celebrate, so the number of people at the banquet table was small. After the priory's highest ranked male clergy unit, the Sage Nomah, proposed the toast, Celica did not even drink a single drop in her glass, pursing her rose-colored lips.

Celica was still just a baby when she was brought to the priory. To Nomah, that was as unusual as her transcending to Priestess so young. He'd watched her grow her entire life.

Nomah said, "Celica, tell me what is weighing on your heart." He saw straight through her, taking her by surprise. "I will support your decision. Though I am three times your age, you are a Priestess, and I am a Sage. We are equals. I cannot stand in the way of your path."

Celica had been impatiently awaiting this day for a long time. Now that she was a Priestess, her mind was finally made up. She said, "I've decided to go to Mila's Shrine. I want to find out where she is, and learn why the black rain is falling."

Nomah was ready to hear those words. When he became a sage, he decided to devote his abilities to teaching the students who all loved the priory dearly. But Celica was different. She was choosing to go out into the world.

"The shrine is located on the northern tip of Zofia. You will need to travel across the entire continent. But Zofia is currently being ravaged by the civil war caused by Chancellor Desaix's coup-d’etat, and groups of Brigands are taking advantage of the chaos. I have even heard that evil spirits are being set free by selfish and heartless Mage units. The roads you travel will be a far cry from what they normally are.'

"I know the violence in Zofia is because of the strange things happening to Mila."

It was also unusual for a person of the highest clergy unit rank to thrust themself into the secular world. Priestess and Sage units were a symbol of every unit's soul, and their purpose was to serve as leader of a priory or shrine, and be a sacred figure who could not be swayed from their faith. But if one looked from Celica's perspective, they would know immediately why she was so determined.

And beyond all of those details, the black rain was currently a very real reality dirtying the roof of the priory. Nomah did not even attempt to stop Celica because he felt his aging body might prevent him from taking the long journey to the shrine; and as a holy man, he should devote himself to his sole duty.

"You should take as many people as you need with you." Nomah said.

In response, out of the numerous people sitting around the banquet table, three young units all stood up at the same time and walked behind Celica. Among them were two Mage units, a young man named Boey and a young woman named Mae. The final member was a cleric named Genny, who shared the exact same ideals with Celica. They all still had youth in their facial features, but Nomah knew they were the three top students at the priory who would go with Celica. She did not even have to ask.

"Sage Nomah is so formal it's a huge pain! He was like that the other day, too! He already knew that Lady Celica had decided to travel, and when he ordered me to travel with her, he also told me which chair to sit in, and exactly what to do, step-by-step!" Boey said from the back of the group.

Celica was the lead, the middle was Sister Genny, and Mae was in the back with Boey. They traveled in that formation down the road at night, the priory lights already far off in the distance.

Mae answered, "It's all because he loves her so much! You may not have noticed because you're a boy, but he had tears in his eyes. He really did! He even remembers changing her diapers! …Oh, that was rude of me to say out loud."

Celica looked back with a smile on her face. Mae bowed in response, but did not look too sorry about her own mistake, as she also quickly stuck her tongue out.

Boey snorted, folded his arms underneath his mage's cloak, and said, "Nomah is old. He's just gotten soft."

"Don't try to tell me you're some kind of big manly man!" Mae retorted to Boy's rude words without skipping a beat.

"You're such a child! I'm gonna call you babbling baby Boey!"

"I'll never forgive you for talking to me like that, Mae!"

"I'm just saying that a baby like you, who can only cast Thunder, can't understand how deep his feelings are."

"Is that a threat?!"

"You are so rude to women! How are you going to fight me when you slack off in your wind magic training every chance you get?! You know I'm better than you in every way. After I wipe the floor with you, you'll be begging me to forgive you! You're such a baby you can't even drink herbal wine without adding sugar to it. Babbling baby Boey!" Mae shouted.

Genny finally couldn't take it any more, and angrily stepped between them.

Ever since they came to the priory as children, as they both concentrated on their studies, they had developed a relationship like that of siblings. To outside observers, they sounded as if they were having an intense argument, but their fights were actually a sign of how close they were.

However, there was no time for them to have such fun right now.

There was a reason why they had decided to set out not in the morning, but at night. The base of Grieth's Pirates was located in the deserts of central Zofia, and they had for some time been sending ships out into the strait between Novis and the Zofian mainland. However, they were now finally beginning to act like Novis itself was their land to do as they pleased with. Though at first they acted as thieves stealing in the night, being little more than an annoyance to the people; recently, they had begun to show themselves during the day. Now, the greatest danger at night was simply the darkness, making it once again the safer time of day to be outside.

So long as nothing got in their way, they would make it to Port Novis by daybreak to secure a ship and travel to Zofia. However, that would not end up being the case, as Celica realized when she sensed a presence nearby, and stopped moving.

"Someone's coming! Stay in formation!" She said, and drew the sword at her belt.

"Is it Brigands?!" Boey whispered.

"No, not Brigands!" Mae answered. "I don't feel any warmth from their bodies in the night air. They aren't human!"

"Ghosts!" Genny shouted in response to the figure that appeared from the darkness.

Ghosts are the spirits of the dead, both those that no longer have a corpse; and those whose corpses had long ago been buried beneath the ground, then come out from the ground to gather together and take new form. One of Earth Mother Mila's duties was to keep the souls of all dead life within the ground so that they could not escape. Their appearance made Celica feel that something very, very wrong must be happening.

They had no idea how many ghosts there were. The ghosts wore withered plant matter, innards and bones of beasts attacked by wolves, and rotting flesh on their bodies to give them human-like form. Thinking that killing a human would mean they could obtain a new body that perfectly matched their desired form, the entire group inched closer and closer, their intent to kill very clear to sense in the air.

"Boey, Mae, protect Genny!" Celica said, and raised her sword. "This is a new type of Terror I have never seen before. Don't cast any spells until I give the order!" She jumped like a deer crossing between two rocks, and swung her sword at the head of a ghost.

Having taken a direct hit from the Priestess' sword, the ghost vanished, leaving behind its small pile of rotting matter.

"These guys are total wimps!" Boey breathed in surprise at the sight of how easily the ghost went down. "I'll show you what my wind magic can do, and you'll never say I slack off ever again!!" He said to Mae, underestimating the ghosts.

"Don't do it! What did Lady Celica just say?!" Genny shouted, but it was already too late. She tried to grab the hem of his mage's cloak to stop him, but it slipped through her fingers, and Boey ran off towards a group of ghosts still far off from them.

"Wind! Cut through my enemies!" He chanted a wind spell. For a moment, his body was enveloped by it, then the gust shot out and shook the ghosts' flesh and leaves. However, that was all it did before the wind petered out.

Without mastering a spell first, there was no chance that it could have an effect on any foe. The ghosts immediately circled Boey.

"You're such an idiot!" Mae shouted, and started running. As the ghosts wriggled their way closer and closer to Boey like maggots, she chanted a Thunder spell. "Thunder! Slay my enemies!"

A bolt of lightning appeared in the sky and pierced the darkness, falling amongst the group of ghosts, smashing them to pieces. After they all disappeared and returned to piles of rotting matter, Boey stood up from the middle of it all, covered in viscera and clumps of putrid stems and leaves.

Contrary to her ashamed expression, Mae was actually furious, but it was only a moment later that something made her freeze where she stood, and forget all about Boey's rash move..

She whirled around to see that Genny had been captured by a ghost. It was dragging her into the even deeper darkness of a cluster of trees.

When Genny looked at Celica, she saw her slashing away with her sword, surrounded by a group of seemingly never ending ghosts.

Mae ran after Genny, with Boey following after her. 'The ghost that took Genny must have disappeared around here!' She guessed, and walked into the trees, but their thick branches blocked the sun, and the area was truly pitch black. Then, a small ball of fire appeared from within the darkness when her torch went out.

The fire slowly got bigger and bigger, proving that it was coming closer and closer.

Was the fire the faint light that a ghost emitted? Or perhaps another new enemy? Mae froze once again, this new development making her nervous once more. She instinctively reached out to grab Boey's hand, who was standing next to her, proving that no matter what she said out loud, she still depended on him. Boey spread his cape open to hide her in its shadow and protect her.

The fire was now close enough that they could clearly see what it was - the light of another torch. A unit, holding a torch in their mouth, was always coming their way through the trees. Because of where they held the torch, Mae and Boey could clearly make out their facial features, and see that he was a young male unit with unkempt hair.

He had his torch in his mouth because something - or rather someone - was in his arms. It was none other than Genny, unconscious but safe.

An eye patch made from wolf hide covered his right eye, and judging by the light armor he wore, he was a Mercenary, a unit with their own freedom that worked under contract. A Mercenary's core principles were centered around their own personal profits. The benefits they could reap from their contract was their absolute. And so, when they met a Mercenary they did not know, it was common sense for all units to first judge whether or not they were an enemy. And on top of that, while Brigands ignored all rules, no units were truly allowed on the holy island of Nova aside from clergy, meaning his presence here was very suspicious. Boey did what was only natural, and shifted into a fighting stance.

"Thank you for your assistance. I have no intention of fighting you." The unit spit out his torch atop the grass and said. He paid no mind to Boey and his threat of a fight, instead gently laying Genny down beside the grass now brightly lit by his torch. "This cleric's quite a beauty. I assume she's with you religious sheep, and got snatched away by that lump of garbage."

Boey's face turned red with rage upon hearing words that belittled his sacred duties. "A hired thug like you has no right to speak to me like that!" Boey shouted, and drew the mark of a fire spell into the air.

"You may be overreacting, but seeing as how you couldn't protect a lone cleric, you don't seem to know much about magic!"

“Fire!” …Boey chanted and tried to attack, but the mercenary was too fast.

He must have been experienced in battle, as he danced expertly through the shadows of the complex and twisted trees. Whether wielding a physical weapon like swords or magic, terrain has huge influence over the effectiveness of an attack. That was why he put his back against the trees, and would never reveal himself on open ground like Boey and Mae were on. All Boey's fire magic did was turn three trees to ash.

"I'm not sticking around to be cooked and served for dinner! I'm not a sheep!" The mercenary shouted from the darkness before all signs of his presence finally disappeared.

#fire emblem #fe #fire emblem 2 #fe2 #gaiden #fe gaiden #fire emblem gaiden #fe15 #fire emblem 15 #shadows of valentia #fire emblem echoes #alm #celica #japan #japanese #translation #novel #light novel #fe2 novelization translation

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waltwhitmansbeard · 10 months

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a my fair lady playlist

a year ago today i posted the first chapter of my fair lady, which was supposed to be a little thing that i just needed to get out of my head after reading @romeoandjulietyouwish's for the love of a princess. 144 chapters and one year of obsession later, what i got is my biggest writing project to date. it was also my first real foray into the cr fandom, which has since become, frankly, the biggest part of my life, and i'm just endlessly grateful to each of you who read and interacted with mfl in any way. i'm so lucky to have gotten to share this with all of you.

so to celebrate, i have assembled a way-too-long playlist inspired by the events of mfl. the songs represent the moments and feelings that most stood out to me (or that i could find an appropriate song for, lol). it was fun trying to remember everything that happened (as of rn the entire fic is 450 pages in google docs so...there's a lot) and piece together the story through song. i've written a little blurb to justify each choice in the cut below, but you can listen to the playlist on spotify here! thanks again for sticking around!

1. "My Fair Lady" - KALEO as the song from which i took all the titles for the series, i couldn't not start off with this one. i can't even hear this song now without thinking of mfl.

2. "Security" - Joss Stone since this is a song about being there for a friend in a time of crisis, i thought it was the perfect choice for the beginning of keyleth and percy's lifelong friendship. percy showed up in zephrah traumatized and barely holding it together, and keyleth was the rock that kept him from collapsing.

3. "Best of Friends" - Pearl Bailey marisha put this one on one of her keyleth playlists to represent keyleth and percy, and she was right! is there any better song for those two growing up as best friends?

4. "Fountain" - Sara Lov keyleth grew up under the shadow of her mother's loss and the pressure of a nation's expectations. someone give this child a BREAK!

5. "Uptown Girl" - Billy Joel oh, you think this is about vax and keyleth? WRONG. percy is an uptown girl and vex is his downtown man coming to shake his world.

6. "Stay Awake" - London Grammar how many nights did keyleth and vax stay up with the moon, learning to love each other? who did they become with no one but the shadows and each other to watch them grow?

7. "goodnight n go" - Ariana Grande this song just gives me such intense vex vibes. she wants so bad to get percy out from under her skin but no dice, he's there to stay.

8. "Foolish Thing" - Darren Criss vax knows that he absolutely cannot be catching feelings for the princess for any number of reasons. but that doesn't stop him from being a dumbfuck in love!

9. "Sacrilege" - The Yeah Yeah Yeahs keyleth knows that she absolutely cannot be catching feelings for her guard for any number of reasons. but that doesn't stop her from being a dumbfuck in love!

10. "You Get Me" - Michelle Branch even though she grew up royalty, keyleth never felt like she fit in in her own world. she was always different, out of place. but vax sees her strange edges and knows the shape they make.

11. "Dreams" - Caroline Glaser keyleth is down bad! she can't sleep without vax there, and vax is more than happy to reassure her that she's it for him.

12. "Take Me to Church" - Hozier this is my pick for some night just seem forever lasting, because if there's one thing vax is gonna do it's worship on his knees at keyleth's altar.

13. "Holy" - King Princess keyleth is busy with a nation and a war but she has time at the end of the day to fuck her man, and that's what really matters.

14. "Into You" - Ariana Grande this one is for the true sluts of the castle, vex and percy. stay horny, you absolute lovesick fools.

15. "River of Tears" - Alessia Cara just absolute depression and forlorn longing from vax and keyleth both when they're forced to be apart. drama queens, the both of them.

16. "The Lightning Strike (Part I: What If This Storm Ends?)" - Snow Patrol remember that time keyleth summoned lightning and used it to strike a bunch of attackers dead? so do i, and so does vax. it was his first time being confronted with the possibilities of the wild power she wields, and it definitely isn't something he was ever going to forget.

17. "Rich Youth" - Hayley Kiyoko keyleth and tiberius were both raised in the shadow of powerful fathers, and they came together to advocate for a future that represents the nations they want to lead.

18. "My Immortal" - Evanescence thank you to @ravendruid for the suggestion! does anything say vaxleth more than melodramatic longing? this song is for all the lingering heartbreak as they tried (and ultimately failed) to stay apart for so long.

19. "I Don't Mind" - Darren Criss one of my favorite pieces of writing from mfl was keyleth's proposal to vax. he's so convinced that she'd be better off without him, and all she wants to do is convince him that he's worth all the trouble waiting them.

20. "Love Story" - Taylor Swift forgive me for adding taylor swift to this list but you gotta admit, it's very appropriate for the vaxleth wedding.

21. "Dancing in the Rain" - Johannes Bornlöf let me be indulgent! this is the song i picked to play while reading the wedding chapter, so ofc it makes the list.

22. "The Deal" - Mitski thank you to @crispysnake for the suggestion! i mean, this is absolutely vax carrying his dead wife's body beneath the castle and striking a deal with the raven queen to bring her back. it's like it's what the song was written for.

23. "Castle" - Halsey just big keyleth charging to the throne room to demand her father release vax energy with this one.

24. "Growing, Growing, Gone" - Theo Katzman korrin was confronted very suddenly with the reality that his little girl wasn't a little girl anymore. she has a whole life ahead of her that is outside of him, and that's hard for a dad to come to terms with.

25. "Kiki (feat. Iron and Wine)" - Rett Madison y'all, the way i SCREAMED when i first heard this song on rett's new album!!! i just imagine vilya trying to reach out to keyleth, to let her know that she's been watching and of course, of course she's proud of her, of course she approves of vax, of course she wants nothing more than for her baby girl to happy.

26. "Wildflowers (Tom Petty Cover)" - Miley Cyrus this song makes me thing of the little cottage on the hill, and of korrin's wish for his daughter to have a place where she feels free. he knows that the castle has never really felt like her home, and so he gives her and her new husband a place they can build a home for themselves.

27. "Bubbly" - Colbie Caillat this song is just the pinnacle of happy love. it's vax and keyleth waking up in their bed, in their house, in their love's arms. it's happiness.

28. "Sunday Morning" - Maroon 5 remember that time vex was like "this was fun but i gotta go home" and percy was like "but what if i was home?" and fluttered his lashes like a harlot? me too.

29. "Family Tree" - Matthew West pending fatherhood is terrifying, especially when your own father is a sack of shit. of course vax would doubt his own ability to be for his child what syldor couldn't be for him and vex.

30. "A Woman's Work" - Kate Bush the definitive anthem for women creating life. keyleth is a goddess for so many reason but especially for making a literal person.

31. "Dear Theodosia" - Original Broadway Cast of Hamilton just DAD feelings up in this bitch! vax is a dad and korrin is a dad and percy (eventually) is a dad! also there's a new nation coming just around the corner! the perfect song!

32. "Brother Run Fast" - KALEO to me, this song represents vax and percy's understanding that the horrors of percy's past are coming for vax's present, and the two of them will stop at nothing to fix what was broken. they are both desperate for forgiveness they do not need, and they are both determined to keep the other on course.

33. "Yours & Mine" - Lucy Dacus imagine telling keyleth of the air ashari to sit at home while her family and friends venture out to save her daughter's life. IMAGINE!

34. "Trials - Demo" - London Grammar what is keyleth and vax's relationship if not an endless gauntlet of trials from which they must continually find their way back to each other?

35. "Delilah" - Florence + the Machine this song is just...everything. it's delilah and sylas. it's cass and the ghosts of the castle she's caged in. it's vilya, crying out for her mother. it's keyleth, coming to kick ass with a daylight spell. it's percy, reclaiming what was his all along.

36. "Show Me the Way" - Styx vax went THRU IT during gocmh, and his turning to the raven queen was a move of absolute desperation. he needed his matron's guidance not only to get his daughter back, but to put the pieces of his life back together.

37. "Glory and Gore" - Lorde what can i say? vox machina fucks shit up.

38. "Work Song" - Hozier percy may die twice but that ain't gonna stop him from simping for vex.

39. "Happiness" - The Fray this song is about happiness, but it has such a melancholic sound to it, which really works for baby vilya's return to zephrah. yes she's home, which is an immense relief, but she's brought home to a tragedy. nothing is simple.

40. "Kingdom of One" - Maren Morris hey vallen: get fucked.

41. "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)" - Billy Joel this is, to me, the ultimate father-daughter song, and in the context of mfl it makes me think of the unfinished letter keyleth found in her father's room after his death. just a reminder that even after someone dies, their love for those they leave behind never will.

42. "Starts With Goodbye" - Carrie Underwood i don't know what it's like to fundamentally reshape the structure of an entire nation in order to secure a more stable future for your child, but i imagine it feels like this!

43. "Matchstick" - American Royalty thank you to @ravendruid for the suggestion! sometimes self-care is setting the man who murdered your parents and helped kidnap your daughter on fire.

44. "Chords" - The Amazing Devil parents play such a big part in the story of mfl. the absence of keyleth's mother, the fact that her father is also a king, korrin being a father to percy, the twins confronting the father they fled, and of course, vaxleth and perc'ahlia becoming parents themselves. if there's anything they can take away from all of the heartbreak, it's wanting the best for their children, at the cost of everything else.

45. "Everywhere, Everything" - Noah Kahan had to end on some noah kahan in order to keep @crispysnake from gnawing at the bars of their enclosure. again, just the absolute vaxleth melodrama of "wanna love you til we're food for the worms to eat, til our fingers decompose." disgusting. i love them so much.

#my fair lady #critical role #mfl 1yr

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apuckishwit · 2 years

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Steve is handling this SO well

Previewing chapter 26 of Rolled a 1 on the Check, Rolled a 20 on the Save, by APuckish_Wit

All things considered, Steve thinks he deals with the realization that, yeah, he’s apparently not as straight as he thought he was his entire life, and it looks like he is going to deal with that right now pretty well.

That is to say, he promptly nopes right out of any thoughts about Eddie, grabs the entire six pack he bought for the week out of the fridge, and starts slamming them back like he’s at one of the ragers he threw in high school again, and spends the next six hours scrolling through anything on TV that’ll distract him. He ends up slumped on his couch, dead drunk, groaning at a competitor on Chopped because they tried to make a risotto for the main course round. Rookie mistake.

He wakes up on the couch the next morning with a pounding head, a crick in his neck, and the cold, merciless truth that Mike Wheeler, of all people, made him realize he’s got undeniable, inescapable, completely-non-heterosexual-in-any-way-shape-or-form feelings for the man who has become one of his best friends over the past few months.

He texts Robin and asks her and Vickie if they want to come over for—he checks his watch—lunch and maybe go shopping for a new couch for their apartment.

Then he screams into the throw pillow that gave him the crick in his neck.

Then he drags his ass to the shower, and, feeling marginally more human, looks into his fridge, deciding on BLT’s for lunch.

Yup. Definitely handling it pretty well.

It’ll take the girls at least an hour to get over here, and the bacon won’t have to go in the oven (who knew baking your bacon was the key to getting it perfectly crispy every time? Not Steve.) until about twenty minutes before they arrive.

So.

With nothing better to do until he can talk to Robin and Vickie, he sets his laptop up on the breakfast bar and, very calmly (see, he is handling this so well) Googles I think I’m bisexual. Pauses. Adds a question mark with a satisfied nod. So well. The top hit is an article from a national health organization that seems to be aimed at people who are ‘questioning.’ Okay, that sounds promising. Seriously handling this so well—just calmly looking up resources so he can maybe have some questions to ask the girls when they get here, just to clarify some things. Not having any of those big panics like he’s seen in movies or on TV. He's positively nonchalant (word of the day a while back—after almost a month of radio silence, his mother had called him. He had just stared at the number for a moment, and then very deliberately declined the call and blocked both of them. He hadn’t even had to think about it, debate about it…he doesn’t need them in his life, doesn’t want them.) about the fact that guys do it for him as much as women.

Or maybe…not?

He reads through the article, stomach tightening at the way he keeps going, “Huh. Huh. That makes sense.” Then he clicks through some of the related links in the sidebar, and kind of falls down a rabbit hole. Wait—it doesn’t have to be, like, 50/50? There can be a, a what do you call it, a sliding scale? It’s normal if you have preferences towards one or the other? Plenty of people get well into adulthood before it even occurs to them to question themselves? He somehow ends up on some forums, reading personal testimonials and he feels like the breath has been punched out of him at some of the stories. It…it makes sense. He feels like he’s reading about himself and…oh, holy shit. Holy shit.

He's not handling this well. He’s not handling this well at all.

But it’s not, like, bad? This isn’t—this isn’t shame or fear or denial churning in his gut, making his throat feel tight and his eyes burn. It’s not a bad thing…how could he think it’s a bad thing when he loves Robin so much it feels like he’s been waiting his entire life to meet her? How could he think it’s a bad thing when Vickie threads her arm through his with a dazzling grin every time the three of them go out somewhere where there’s dancing? How could he think it’s a bad thing when Eddie’s voice is one of his favorite sounds in the world? No, it’s not bad. It just feels so…big. Big in the same way leaving Hawkins was big, big in the same way that Nancy leaving him was big, big in the same way that applying for college was big.

His whole self has just been rearranged, and nothing is ever going to be the same. And yet, it also feels like something is slotting into place, something he didn’t even know was out of joint until it wasn’t anymore. He feels like he knows himself better than he did last night.

Why hadn’t he wanted to examine this more closely? What was he so afraid of?

He’s not handling this well. But he’s not panicking either, he’s not backpedaling, he’s not running. He needs to figure out what this means for him, what the tangled, bubbling mass of feeling that erupted in his chest once he let himself truly think about Eddie means for him.

He forgets to start the bacon for the sandwiches. But it doesn’t matter, because as soon as he lets the girls in, he says, “I think I need to talk about what happened at that club we went to,” and Robin, because she is his best friend, his other half, his fucking (platonic) soulmate immediately sees how shaken he is—not scared, not sad or angry or anything else, but it’s almost too big to feel, this realization—and flings her arms around his neck and leads him to his couch.

“Then let’s talk about it,” she says, steady and rock solid and sure, and Vickie shrugs out of her jacket.

“I’ll handle food,” she says, striding into his kitchen like she owns it. She starts ransacking the cabinet where he keeps all the snacks for the boys and then goes for the one where he keeps his bottle of good wine, as well as the glasses he bought especially for their movie nights. “Booze or no booze?” she calls. And he’s only just barely crossed back into not hungover territory, but he thinks his liver is just going to have to forgive him for this one.

“Booze,” he says, and Robin ruffles his hair. In a matter of moments he’s surrounded by snack cakes, chips, beef jerky, expensive wine, and two of the best friends he’s ever had in his life.

“Spill,” Robin orders, while Vickie pats his knee encouragingly.

He does.

#my writing #Rolled a 1 on the Check Rolled a 20 on the save #steddie #fic preview #stranger things #I love getting to the 'comfort' part of the hurt/comfort

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derpinathebrave · 2 years

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ICE -In Case of Emergency ~ IceMav

READ ON AO3

So I got the brainworms again. This time from @pilotsandgays and now I've started a chaptered fic of Ice and Mav being exes (slightly nasty exes) but Ice is still listed as Mav's emergency contact.

I'm posting the first chapter here but the rest will be only on AO3 unless ya'll really want it on both

SUMMARY: "I'm your emergency contact. You know, you're supposed to take that out when you leave someone." Commander Tom "Iceman" Kazansky has spent five years trying to forget Pete Mitchell ever existed let alone walked out on him. Everything is brought to a boil when he is called after Pete is in a serious accident and Tom is the emergency contact. Now Ice has to face up to some tough questions; why did Maverick walk out on him without a goodbye? And why is he helping the man that destroyed his heart?

TAGS: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Sarah Kazansky, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Exes to Lovers, Hospitals and Medical, Whump, not much beta we die like goose, Canon Compliant, mostly canon compliant anyway, Period-Typical Homophobia, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Mention of Aids crisis, characters being added later

WORDS: 3059

Chapter 1: A Ringing Phone

The phone was ringing. Commander Tom “Iceman” Kazansky could hear it through the front door as he struggled to juggle his paperwork and get the key working in the lock.

It was still a little strange to have his own phoneline after living so many years from carrier to carrier and sharing with literally everyone else. Every time it rang he jumped at the noise and then rushed to pick it up. Usually it was Slider, his mum or Sarah. They were the only people that really knew he was in a permanent residence again, and the only people he really cared enough to give his number to.

The sticky lock finally gave and Iceman shouldered his way through the door. He would need to fix that soon, the way the door jammed in its frame and the lock took a specific wiggle to get the key to turn.

He tossed the paperwork down onto his coffee table as he strode to the kitchen. The phone fell silent as he reached out to grab it from the wall. He pulled it to his ear anyway, haring the dial-tone. Rolling his eyes, Tom set the phone back in the cradle.

The house was small, single story and sparsely furnished. He walked back to the front door and pulled his boots off, setting them in place on the shoe rack. The door opened into the living room, a couch long enough to fit him on it lying down, a coffee table and a TV on a chest of drawers. He had bought two low bookshelves to line the wall beneath the window that looked out to his neighbours fence, but they were currently rather empty. His Top Gun trophy was propped up on top of the one to the right. Sarah kept threatening to come and decorate for him, but her work hadn’t allowed for that yet.

Ice moved through the living room and down the short hall to his bedroom. This was marginally more comfortable. He had a queen bed with a crocheted blanket his mother had pressed upon him when he had let her come and see his new place. It was a mixture of blues and greys and made him think of the ocean. Beyond the bed, he had matching nightstands with lamps, a laundry hamper and a winged arm-chair (another addition from his mother). He mostly just tossed clothes onto the armchair until it annoyed him enough to put them away in the cupboard.

As he was unbuttoning his shirt, the phone began to ring once more. He went to answer it.

“Hello?” He said, resisting the automatic urge to add “Commander Kazansky” as he had to at the office.

“Hello, is that Tomas Kazansky?” A feminine voice said.

“Speaking.” Ice frowned. He didn’t know this voice. A simmer of anxiety settled in his chest.

“Mr Kazansky, my name is Maria, I’m a nurse at Holy Spirit Hospital. You were listed as the emergency contact for Peter Mitchell?” Maria said.

Tom’s anxiety shot straight to a boil. His hand gripped the phone tight, his heart pounding loud enough to drown out the crackle on the phoneline. He realised she was waiting for an answer.

“Yes. Uh,” he blinked and shook his head a little. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Kazansky, he’s been in a serious accident and is currently in emergency,” Maria carried on in a solemn voice.

“What type of accident?” Ice forced out.

“He had a pretty serious collision on a motorcycle.” Maria said. “He’s stable for now, conscious but in pain, and he’ll be going in for surgery this evening. If you wanted to come down and see him, you’re welcome to. He’ll need a change of clothes and some toiletries.”

Ice turned and pressed his forehead against the kitchen wall beside the phone. He took a long, slow breath in, held it a moment and then let it slide back out just as slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, hating himself, “I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“OK. Just let our Emergency receptionist know you’re here to see Peter and they’ll let you through. I will let you know he can only have one visitor at a time, so if you plan to bring other people, they won’t be able to come in with you,” Maria said.

“Thank you,” he said again.

“No problem. Thank you.” The phone disconnected.

Iceman placed the phone back with extra care. As much as he wanted to smash it to pieces, that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He did allow himself thirty more seconds of pressing his face against the wall in despair.

Heaving a sigh, Ice straightened once more and headed back to his bedroom. He filled a backpack with sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, boxers and socks. He moved to the bathroom, taking a disposable razor and spare toothbrush from beneath the sink.

As he straightened, Ice caught his own face in the mirror. His blue eyes were slightly wild. He could not go into that hospital room and let Maverick see him like that. He paused, staring himself down until the startled expression had settled back into his trademark detachment. He toyed with the idea of a shower but decided it would only amp him up more if he had to wait longer. May as well just get this whole thing over with. He buttoned his uniform back up, tucking it in once more.

Ice let himself have one more second of hesitation before he grabbed the backpack, pulled his boots on and relocked his janky front door.

===

His jaw ached, knuckles white on the steering wheel and shoulders tense. Ice negotiated traffic with extra care. He was desperately trying to stay calm. His ice-cold facade was slipping and melting every time he remembered where he was going and why.

The sun was closing in on the horizon by the time he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Tom followed the signs for Emergency, completely unable to calm the thundering of his heart or the urge to bite at the inside of his cheek. He took up a soft mantra that everything would be fine, he would be A-OK and this would be fine.

The lady at reception gave him directions down to the bay that Maverick was in. Hefting the backpack, and giving one last attempt at masking his anxiety, Ice headed for the bed.

When he peeked through the curtain the bay was empty. No bed at all. After a moment he noticed the motorcycle helmet and boots thrust out of the way under a bench and he knew he was where Maverick had been at the very least. He slipped into the bay, leaving the curtain open.

Ice took a deep breath. He gripped both fists together and then shook them out. It made him feel a little better. He did it again.

With his body slightly calmed, he bent to look at the helmet. It was a mess. Deep gouges ran across the left side, the visor had been torn away completely. Ice swallowed.

“Excuse me, sir?” a man said from behind him.

Ice straightened quickly and spun. A tall, orderly in orange scrubs stood at the gap in the curtain.

“Can I help you?” The orderly said. His eyes scanned Ice, taking in the shiny wings on his uniform.

“Uh, yeah, the man that was in this bay, Pete Mitchell, where is he?” Ice said

“Are you the next of kin?” The orderly said, eyes narrowing a little.

Ice hesitated for a split second. “Yes,” he said.

“He’s been taken up to surgery. They’re prepping him now,” the orderly gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’re in the wrong place. If you want to grab those things I’ll give you directions to surgery.”

Ice nodded in reply, pulling the corners of his lips up but not really smiling.

He grabbed the helmet and boots, following the orderly back to the crossroads of the hallways. After extensive and confusing instructions, Ice ventured back to the elevators and headed up to the surgery wards.

Stuffed into the back corner of the elevator, a small kid with a very broken arm in a bed taking up the majority of the room, Iceman chewed on his cheek once more. Of course it hadn’t been as easy as bringing Maverick clothes and organising him a ride home. Of course the idiot needed surgery.

He squeezed out of the elevator on the floor he needed and followed the signs through the labyrinthine corridors. Finally he came upon another nurse’s station.

“I’m here to see Peter Mitchell,” Iceman said, resettling the boots in his grip.

“Let me see,” the nurse focused on her computer for a moment, tapping keys slowly. “Sure, he’s just gone in with Doctor Yanch. The surgery is set to be a minimum of two hours. You’re welcome to wait in our relations room, or head down to the cafeteria and come back closer to his end time.”

“Thank you,” Ice said, despite wanting to slam his head into her counter. “I’ll head to the cafeteria.”

The nurse gave him a nod and turned back to her work. Ice made his way back to the elevators slowly.

As he was sitting in the cafeteria, ignoring the stares of civilians because he was still in his khakis, Ice questioned his sanity. Only Pete Mitchell brought this side of him out. The side that questioned what the hell he was doing.

He ate a truly awful sandwich and drank worse coffee. The helmet was set on the table in front of him and Tom found his eyes straying to it every few seconds. The paint had once resembled Maverick’s flight helmet, the white and red lines leading over the back and “Maverick” stamped across there rather than the front. The eagle on the side was almost completely destroyed, gouged and scratched into an amorphous red and white blob.

If he had not seen the state of the helmet, he probably would have already gone. It was only the deeply unsettling scars on the helmet that kept him in the cafeteria, drinking awful coffee and waiting two hours.

When the time was up, he stood, stretched and headed back to surgery. His heart took up a new tattoo of anxiety in his chest as he drew closer to the ward. The nurse directed him down to recovery and warned him that Pete was recovering and the anaesthetic was going to linger for a while.

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell was pale, lips a little purple on the edges. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. He was shirtless but mostly covered with a paper gown. His left arm was in a sling, securing his wrist up by his right collarbone. As Ice followed the arm to the shoulder there was large bandages covering from his bicep to the rise of his neck. Mav’s lower body was covered with a hospital blanket. He was still hooked into a drip of fluids and a second of blood.

Tom’s chest squeezed, all air escaping at the sigh of Maverick. It was much worse than he had expected. A weird mixture of relief and irritation washed through him. He set the backpack down in the corner, out of the way, and turned back to find a doctor pushing into the room.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Yanch, you are?” The doctor said, eyes flickering over Ice’s uniform.

“I’m Tom Kazansky, his—“ Ice almost said wingman, aborting at the last second and amending it to “— next-of-kin.”

“Ah,” Doctor Yanch nodded. “I was just coming to do my post-surgery assessment. I was Peter’s surgeon.”

A nurse in teal scrubs bustled in, ignoring them both and heading straight for Pete.

Ice glanced at Pete but he hadn’t moved and his eyes were still closed. “OK.” He said to the doctor, “can you explain his injuries to me? I haven’t had a chance to hear the damage.”

“Oh,” surprise flickered across the surgeons face before he spoke once more. “Pete sustained a proximal humeral fracture dislocation. Meaning that his upper arm fractured and dislocated at the same time. I’ve set the bone with screws and relocated the joint through surgery. He was also brought in with rib fractures and a haemothorax, blood in his chest cavity that had collapsed his left lung.”

Tom realised he wasn’t breathing and inhaled through his nose, waiting for the doctor to continue.

“His lung has reinflated and we’re confident the internal bleed has stopped. He will be receiving blood for another few hours and fluids.” The Doctor gave a tight smile to show he was finished.

“Thank you,” Ice said, voice a little hoarse.

“Not a problem.” The doctor turned away and began scribbling in Pete’s chart, mumbling to the nurse. When he was done, he hung the chart back at the end of the bed and walked out.

Ice watched as the nurse leaned over and took Maverick’s right hand from under the blanket. She began squeezing it and calling his name. His heart began a horrid tap dance on his nerves once more.

“Peter?” The nurse called again, a little louder.

“Try Mav,” Ice said, stepping a little closer and immediately regretting it.

The nurse looked at him in surprise.

“His nickname, its Mav or Maverick, try that,” Ice explained at her expression. “He hates Peter.”

“Mav?” She called, “it’s time to wake up now.”

Slowly, Mav’s eyes flickered and opened. He frowned at the nurse and began to move. She pinned him down with a firm hand, clearly practised at this.

“No, no, no moving, Mav,” she said to him. “You’ve been in surgery. We fixed that shoulder up for you. Are you in pain?”

“No,” Mav mumbled. “Yes.”

The sound of his voice sent fresh spikes through Ice but he remained still and silent in the background.

“My chest hurts,” Mav said, his voice slurred.

“Yes, you’ve got some fractured ribs. Can you squeeze my hand?” She placed her fingers in his left hand and nodded when Mav obeyed. “Good. Alright, I’m going to let you wake up a little more and then I’ll be back to run some more tests. You can chat to your friend but don’t move too much, OK?” She said.

“Mm-hmm.” Mav gave a tight nod already closing his eyes again.

The nurse shot Ice a tight smile and bustled back out into the hall. He merely watched her go before turning back to where Maverick was laying. The other man had his eyes closed again but there was tension through his forehead, showing Ice that he was still awake.

Ice gripped his fists, ignored the nausea that was rising and falling in his abdomen, and sat on the uncomfortable armchair by the window. When he glanced at Maverick his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. They shifted, catching Ice’s and holding for a protracted moment. Pete blinked, shook his head a little and closed his eyes once more.

He didn’t open his eyes again for another fifteen minutes. Ice was watching, cataloguing the way Maverick’s tension would sink out of his body as he slipped into sleep and then rise again as he woke once more.

The second time Maverick opened his eyes, he whipped his head over to stare at Tom with wide eyes. He blinked.

Tom gave him the most mild expression he could muster.

“Fuck, you’re actually here,” Maverick said, voice less slurred now.

“I’m your emergency contact,” Ice said blandly, determined to not let Maverick see the agitation going on in his body. “You know, you take that out of your wallet when you leave someone.”

There was a beat of tension and Maverick turned away to stare at the ceiling.

“Flattered you came,” Maverick said, wincing a little.

“Mm-hmm,” Ice drawled at him.

Internally Tom was beginning to suspect he needed to visit the cardio ward and have his heart checked. It had been hammering a harsh rhythm in his chest for the last twenty minutes and showed no signs of stopping now.

“Why did you come?” Mav asked, voice strained.

“I knew no one else would,” Iceman shrugged. He almost regretted the words as pain flared and died on Maverick’s face. “Should I call the nurse? You look rough.”

“I was hit by a car, Kazansky, of course I look rough.” Pete was clearly trying to sound snappish but there was too much pain in his voice for it to carry.

Ice sighed and stood. He moved to the side of Mav’s bed and found the call button.

“Don’t you touch—“ Maverick didn’t make it to the end of the sentence before Ice pushed the button for him. “Go away, why are you here?” Maverick groaned, face growing steadily paler.

Ice didn’t bother to reply but simply returned to the uncomfortable armchair. He willed his heart back to a regular pace and when it refused to comply, he settled for fishing his gum out of his pocket and beginning to chew on a fresh piece.

The same nurse returned, took one look at Maverick’s face and launched into action. She set up his pain medication, teaching him about the button to let it release. She then began conducting the promised tests from earlier. Ice sat in the chair and watched, eyes roaming Maverick as he did. When the nurse pulled the gown down to attach patches to Mav’s chest, Ice couldn’t drag his eyes away. He knew he should, but the horrific red and maroon patches that spread from beneath Mav’s arm to the middle of his chest held him transfixed.

The doctor had said words like “collapsed lung”, “fractured ribs” and “bleeding into the chest cavity” but hearing about it and seeing it were vastly different things. Ice found his breath was caught in his chest once more. He tried to breathe, working hard to stay perfectly still.

As much as he wanted to deny it, Ice made a snap decision in that moment. He knew he would regret it later. He knew that it would cause him such intense pain that it would rival Maverick’s. But Tom also knew he couldn’t leave Maverick alone to deal with this.

He was still his wingman. Whether Maverick wanted him to be or not.

#top gun #top gun 1986 #icemav #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #fanfic

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queentheweeb · 2 years

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Gang Orca X Female Reader Pt 3

A/N: If you couldn't tell this book is self-indulgent chapters :D

Part 2, Part 4

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You did in fact end up spilling the tea to your ever-so-loving and nosy best friend Ember and to say she was ecstatic for you was an understatement

"You got to ask him out on a date as of yesterday bitch." You looked at her as if she just grew two heads

"You do realize he's not your average guy right? He's THE Gang Orca, the number 10 hero of Japan." Does she not realize that you can't just go up to him and ask outright? Or text him like that.

"And? You're point? I bet he would like for a woman to be a bit assertive or upfront. It'll show that you're not scared of him because as we both know despite him being a hero, most children run away from him and he intimidates half the civilians he saves." You hated that she had a point but, that didn't stop the butterflies floating in your stomach.

"I'm still nervous." Who wouldn't? You're not crazy enough to demand to have his babies or marry him or whatever else the crazed beyond-recognition fangirls are willing to do.

"Of course, it's normal to be nervous, but just think about it okay? I can sense some good things happening in the future between the two of you." She winked and with that said she left your office and went to her separate office. You sat there for a few minutes staring between your computer screen and your phone. It's been two weeks since the aquarium and he surprisingly texts a lot usually during the morning and at night. You kept staring at your phone and with a wave of courage you opened your phone to his messages and typed out a quick 'Hey I know you're super busy but I was wondering if maybe we can go out for coffee or something? It's okay if you can't :)' Before you can psych yourself out you hit send throwing your phone in the top drawer of your desk.

"Fuck." You grinned stupidly at yourself running your hand through your hair. You were acting so stupid it was just a question. The worst that could happen would be that he says no which will be a blow to your pride but it wouldn't be the first blow. A few minutes later your phone buzzed a few times so curiously you opened the drawer to look to see who it was. One of them was from Ember and the other 3 were from Gang Orca. You stared until you finally opened the messages and were pleasantly surprised.

'I would love to go for coffee but it'll have to be in the evening.'

'I have the perfect place in mind and I'm free on Friday and Saturday.'

'Are you free any of those days?'

Holy mother of Jesus lord himself he responded and ACTUALLY agreed. You were staring at the messages for a few before it hit you that you got to respond back to him.

'I am free on both days so whichever would be better for you will work for me.' Great, you sound eager but who cares. You were actually going on a date with your IDOL. You weren't sure what God or Goddess you pleased but you hope that they continue to bless you for this chance. Would this even be considered a date? Or more friends hanging out to see if something more could happen? You're overthinking it. You looked back down at the sound of a ding.

'Friday it is then. See you then L/N-chan.' You sent him a smiley face which he read and you placed your phone down taking a breather. You can't believe it. You are actually going out somewhere with Gang Orca. In public. Where the vultures can see you. "I'll worry about that later." That's when you remembered that Ember texted you so you opened her messages to see what she sent you. You read it and saw that it was just a picture of the stack of work she needs to do and her aiming finger guns at her temple. You smirked deciding to enlighten her of the plans between you and Gang Orca. Two minutes later she was keyboard-smashing your texts. You expected a visit from her at any moment now and were prepared when she slammed open your door and threw herself at you.

"YOU GOT TO LOOK EXTRA CLASSY AND CASUAL." You winced at her volume shushing her a bit as a reminder that you both were still at work

"I'm not going to dress extra." She rolled her eyes pinching your cheeks.

"No one said to be extra but you're going to get that fat ass in a dress and add some jiggle to your wiggle." You hate her.

"You're going to wear that cute ass sundress that I love on you and you're going to wow the shit out of him. I don't care what you say. Leave your hair straight put those matching hoops and necklace on with some sandals and a cute shoulder purse. I want pictures as well." Why must she always be assertive when it comes to these things? "I'm doing this cause I love you and want you to have his attention." You blushed to try to hide it but, of course, she noticed grinning at you.

"Yeah yeah yeah you'll have your pictures and details." You frowned at her squealing but as always she ignored you. She blew you a kiss before skipping out of the office to finish her work and to allow you to ponder and finish your work as well. "Maybe I should wear that dress...Maybe a bathing suit underneath as well just in case." You both loved the water so it was better to be on the safe side.

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This chapter was a bit short but the next part will be longer and include the date so stay tuned!

#anime #fanfic #manga #bnha #mha #fanfiction #quotev #quirks #fluff #x reader #x female reader #gang orca #Gang orca x reader #kugo sakamata #Gang orca x female reader #kugo sakamata x female reader

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jaynosurname · 10 days

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Shattered Across Worlds - Chapter 1 - Jaynosurname - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 17/91 Fandom: Deltarune (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game), Mother 3 (Video Game), OMORI (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Noelle Holiday/Susie (Deltarune), Kris & Ralsei & Susie (Deltarune), Claus & Lucas & Hinawa, Flint/Hinawa (Mother 3), Kumatora & Lucas (Mother 3) Characters: Kris (Deltarune), Kris' Red Soul (Deltarune), Ralsei (Deltarune), Susie (Deltarune), Noelle Holiday, Berdly (Deltarune), Asriel Dreemurr, Dess Holiday, Chara (Undertale), Undyne (Undertale), Napstablook (Undertale), Claus (Mother 3), Lucas (Mother 3), Hinawa (Mother 3), Alec (Mother 3), Flint (Mother 3), Wess (Mother 3), Kumatora (Mother 3), Boney (Mother 3), Duster (Mother 3), Pigmask (Mother 3), W. D. Gaster, Yokuba | Fassad, Kel (OMORI), Snowy (Deltarune), Monster Kid (Undertale), Mari (OMORI) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Nonbinary Kris (Deltarune), Multiple Crossovers, W. D. Gaster Being An Asshole, Dimension Travel, World Travel, Character Death Summary:

After Kris's attempt to create a dark world goes wrong. It sends the entirety of Hometown into the darkness and shatters Kris's soul into pieces. The pieces of the soul were separated into different worlds. Now Kris, Susie, and Ralsei must travel through different worlds to find the missing pieces and find their missing friends along the way.

Status: Ongoing

(Important Note! While other games will be featured in this fic, this is still primarily a Deltarune/Undertale fic. I wouldn't recommend reading this unless you are familiar with those games.)

Auther's notes:

I recently decided to contiue working on this fic after a year of ignoring it and I think it's really funny how basically no one but me will be able to enjoy it. I don't really care if no one reads it though. It's fun and I want to continue it.

There’s like a charm to it, it was the first fanfic I’ve ever written and it literally at its core was just a take on Deltatraveler except with games I like. And then it just spiraled into absolute nonsense, and I love it for that.

I can’t recommend it to people though because I would have to say “Okay before reading the fic you need to play Mother 3, Omori, A Hat in Time, Trails of the Sky FC, Celeste, Pikmin (idk even know which Pikmin I’m doing in the fic yet lmao) Majora’s Mask, and also understand that the Prologue and most of Part 1 were written while I was in high school, and it was the first non-educational related writing project I ever worked on so get ready for some messy writing. I hope you can enjoy it despite how inaccessible it is?"

I would post updates for it on this account, but I don't know if people care. I get zero comments for it and the Walking Dead fic I started got the same number of kudos not even a year since it was posted and way more comments. (Mostly because it's better ngl. Read that fic, I'm really proud of it. It's called "It's just a bad dream Sweet Pea.")

If you want to read Shattered Across Worlds just know it's very rough, especially the Prologue, but I hope I can show my improvement as I writer from when I first found out I enjoy writing in 2022, to now and even the future. Cause I don’t think I’m a good writer now even, I still think my narration is awful and I’m terrible at describing environments and character expressions. So, if I get better, I guess this fic will be able to show that in future arcs.

Also, why the fuck did I make this fic potentially over 100 chapters long. (The chapter count isn't accurate anymore btw. It's even longer than that.) What the hell was wrong me in Highschool to have my first fic be that long?! No wonder it was abandoned for like a year after part 1 finished. I’m looking at the outline for part 2, and holy shit what the hell is wrong with me. Why is this double the length of Part 1?! WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

#Fic post #fanfic #shattered across worlds #Deltarune #ralsei deltarune #susie deltarune #kris deltarune #Undertale #Deltarune fanfiction #Undertale fanfiction #This fic is something alright

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famouslastwrdz · 4 months

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herod.

theres black dye on my white towels, and he nearly cracks my eyeliner pencil in half. when i turn my back to mirrors, his shoulders move in the glass, and his tattoos turn to scarred flesh as i turn to see myself again. he sits in my kitchen, lets izzy sharpie stars on his face, lets lazarus treat the lashes on his back. one has cut through the depeche mode lyric inked into him, never let me down again, a coverup for nicotine branded into him by a blackhair brother he loses more each day. despite everything, he returns more to himself as days go by, and i'll often hear him in the library humming some sort of tune. today, as i write, it's wasteland- never wrote him as a mission fan, but he moves away from his paperself minute by minute.

there are glances of the king, the omen breaking my door locks in its hurry to put me upstairs, accent stronger and metal plate visible through skin- stay ere with ya mouf shut and dontcha move til i get you- and carnie manifests cheerfully in the window to teach me to play cards until the clown returns.

the king and the prophet argue, and sometimes i hear your name. i forgot all my russian but carnage scratches his mask awkwardly as it comes from someones mouth, the omen's harsh grit colliding with the false blue's jetblackspit, dontfuckingargue modulated wretch of a voice that comes from his throat and transfers through an invisible gp5.

the very first time i heard the omen cry was pleading with the king.

ever hear something that closes your throat and sends you stonecoldsober, frozen in place?

that afternoon was rainy, nice; sat in the church with aggie reading their book and i idly fiddling with the rosary on their wrist. the king and prophet were having a quiet argument under the image of the crucified christ. best place to have it, i suppose, aggie grimaced at me.

it sounded like it was ending, and aggie had finished their chapter, and i was dozing in the chair, when the clear voice of a much younger curtis locked us up and held us frozen.

a single, agonised "please".

and we both look for the clown, but the only one there was the prophet stood small under christ, hands white on the king's shirt. a man like that; so apathetic, uncaring, sarcastic, gone- reduced to his 20year old self in voice and face begging his big brother for some sort of mercy or understanding. the harbinger of the rapture with his burnedout chest heaving with uncontrollable emotion.

and the shepherd comes to stand to witness in the doorway of his own church, orange dye bleeding into his face from the rain outside and the memory of the future seared, a purifying holy flame of recognition, into his wrists.

the king will call for sons to be sacrificed, and the shepherd guards the church of the Mother that he built with his hands. everyone has roles now, and someone has to be lamb- who better than the one who leads the flock?

the prophet, silent, warning, burns a future into everyones head. a single nail to bind aggie's scarred palm to mine, two more for the son of god on the cross. the understanding is that verne will take the weight of herod's royalty through his wrists. the cross is heavy on his back for the sins of his brothers. the omen cannot die, but will breathe through his throat again. the wound never healed. redpop will be martyred. saint sebastian. dont count the holes, you know the number. camilla, the sister, the mother, the child, the trinity, will live.

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dfroza · 5 months

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sharing the message of God’s grace

even in the face of opposition

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 16th chapter of the book of Acts:

When Paul reached Derbe and Lystra, he invited a disciple named Timothy to join him and Silas. Timothy had a good reputation among the believers in Lystra and Iconium, but there was a problem: although Timothy’s mother was a believing Jew, his father was Greek, which meant Timothy was uncircumcised. Because the Jewish people of those cities knew he was the son of a Greek man, Paul felt it would be best for Timothy to be circumcised before proceeding.

Leaving there, now accompanied by Timothy, they delivered to the churches in each town the decisions and instructions given by the apostles and elders in Jerusalem. The churches were strengthened in the faith by their visit and kept growing in numbers on a daily basis.

They sensed the Holy Spirit telling them not to preach their message in Asia at this time, so they traveled through Phrygia and Galatia. They came near Mysia and planned to go into Bithynia, but again they felt restrained from doing so by the Spirit of Jesus. So they bypassed Mysia and went down to Troas. That night Paul had a vision in which a Macedonian man was pleading with him.

Macedonian Man: Come over to Macedonia! Come help us!

This vision convinced us all that God was calling us to bring the good news to that region.

We set sail from the port city of Troas, first stopping in Samothrace, then the next day in Neapolis, finally arriving in Philippi, a Roman colony and one of Macedonia’s leading cities. We stayed in Philippi for several days. On the Sabbath day, we went outside the city walls to the nearby river, assuming that some Jewish people might be gathering for prayer. We found a group of women there, so we sat down and spoke to them. One of them, Lydia, was a business woman originally from Thyatira. She made a living buying and selling fine purple fabric. She was a true worshiper of God and listened to Paul with special interest. The Lord opened her heart to take in the message with enthusiasm. She and her whole household were ceremonially washed through baptism.

Lydia: If you believe I’m truly faithful to the Lord, please, you must come and stay at my home.

We couldn’t turn down her invitation.

One day, as we were going to the place set aside for prayer, we encountered a slave girl. She made a lot of money for her owners as a fortune-teller, assisted by some sort of occult spirit. She began following us.

Slave Girl (shouting): These men are slaves like me, but slaves of the Most High God! They will proclaim to you the way of liberation!

The next day as we passed by, she did the same thing—and again on the following days. One day Paul was really annoyed, so he turned and spoke to the spirit that was enslaving her.

Paul: I order you in the name of Jesus, God’s Anointed: Come out of her!

It came right out. But when her owners realized she would be worthless now as a fortune-teller, they grabbed Paul and Silas, dragged them into the open market area, and presented them to the authorities.

Slave Owners: These men are troublemakers, disturbing the peace of our great city. They are from some Jewish sect, and they promote foreign customs that violate our Roman standards of conduct.

The crowd joined in with insults and insinuations, prompting the city officials to strip them naked in the public square so they could be beaten with rods. They were flogged mercilessly and then were thrown into a prison cell. The jailer was ordered to keep them under the strictest supervision. The jailer complied, first restraining them in ankle chains, then locking them in the most secure cell in the center of the jail.

Picture this: It’s midnight. In the darkness of their cell, Paul and Silas—after surviving the severe beating—aren’t moaning and groaning; they’re praying and singing hymns to God. The prisoners in adjoining cells are wide awake, listening to them pray and sing. Suddenly the ground begins to shake, and the prison foundations begin to crack. You can hear the sound of jangling chains and the squeak of cell doors opening. Every prisoner realizes that his chains have come unfastened. The jailer wakes up and runs into the jail. His heart sinks as he sees the doors have all swung open. He is sure his prisoners have escaped, and he knows this will mean death for him, so he pulls out his sword to commit suicide. At that moment, Paul sees what is happening and shouts out at the top of his lungs,

Paul: Wait, man! Don’t harm yourself! We’re all here! None of us has escaped.

The jailer sends his assistants to get some torches and rushes into the cell of Paul and Silas. He falls on his knees before them, trembling. Then he brings them outside.

Jailer: Gentlemen, please tell me, what must I do to be liberated?

Paul and Silas: Just believe—believe in the ultimate King, Jesus, and not only will you be rescued, but your whole household will as well.

The jailer brings them to his home, and they have a long conversation with the man and his family. Paul and Silas explain the message of Jesus to them all. The man washes their wounds and feeds them, then they baptize the man and his family. The night ends with Paul and Silas in the jailer’s home, sharing a meal together, the whole family rejoicing that they have come to faith in God.

At dawn the city officials send the police to the jailer’s home with a command: “Let those men go free.”

Jailer: The city officials have ordered me to release you, so you may go now in peace.

Paul (loud enough that the police can hear): Just a minute. This is unjust. We’ve been stripped naked, beaten in public, and thrown into jail, all without a trial of any kind. Now they want to release us secretly as if nothing happened? No way: we’re Roman citizens—we shouldn’t be treated like this! If the city officials want to release us, then they can come and tell us to our faces.

The police report back to the city officials; and when they come to the part about Paul and Silas being Roman citizens, the officials turn pale with fear. They rush to the jail in person and apologize. They personally escort Paul and Silas from their cell and politely ask them to leave the city. Paul and Silas oblige—after stopping at Lydia’s home to gather with the brothers and sisters there and give them parting words of encouragement.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 49th chapter of the book of Genesis:

After this, Jacob called all of his sons to him.

Jacob: Gather near to me, so I can let you know what to expect in the days to come.

Gather around and pay attention, you sons of Jacob.

Listen carefully, my sons, to Israel, your father.

Reuben, you are my firstborn son,

my power and the vigor of my youth,

first in rank and first in power.

But you are out of control, like floodwaters; you have forfeited your place

because you have lain with your father’s wife

and defiled his bed—you climbed onto my couch!

Simeon and Levi are indeed brothers, kindred spirits

who use their swords for cruelty and violence.

May I never enter their confidence;

from the two of them I must part company to retain my honor.

Because in their anger, they’ve killed men,

and they’ve hamstrung oxen on a whim.

Their anger be cursed, for they have fierce tempers.

Their wrath be cursed, for they can be cruel.

I will scatter their children among Jacob’s descendants

and spread them throughout the land of Israel.

But Judah, your brothers will praise you.

Your hand will firmly grasp the neck of your enemy,

and your brothers will bow down before you in respect.

Judah is a lion cub;

my son, who rises from the prey,

Who crouches down and stretches out like a lion,

and like a lioness—who dares to rouse him?

The scepter will not depart from Judah;

the ruler’s staff will rest securely between his feet.

Until the One comes to whom true royalty belongs,

all people will honor and obey him.

He ties his foal to the vine

and his donkey’s colt to the choicest vine.

He washes his clothing in wine

and dips his robe in the blood of grapes.

His eyes are darker than wine,

and his teeth are whiter than milk.

Jacob: Zebulun will settle near the shores of the sea,

and he will be a safe harbor for ships.

His border will extend to Sidon.

Issachar is a strong donkey,

lying down between its saddlebags.

He saw a good place to rest

and a land that seemed pleasant,

So he bent down to shoulder another load

and embraced a life of hard labor.

Dan will judge his people,

as one of the tribes of Israel.

Yet Dan will also be a snake by the road,

a viper along the path

That strikes at the horse’s heels as it goes by

so that its rider falls backward.

I wait patiently for Your salvation, Eternal One!

Gad will be raided by thieves,

but he will raid them in return.

Asher’s food will be rich and delicious,

and he will produce royal delicacies.

Naphtali is a beautiful doe, wild and free,

that bears lovely fawns.

Joseph is a fruitful plant that grows beside a spring,

its fruitful branches reaching over the wall.

The archers fiercely attacked him,

shot at him, and pressed hard against him.

But his bow remained taut and strong,

his arms firm and agile.

They were made so by the strong hands of God—

by the Mighty One of Jacob, by the Shepherd of the Rock of Israel,

By the God of your father, who will come to your aid,

by the All-Powerful One who will bless you

With the blessings from heaven above,

blessings of the deep that lie beneath,

and blessings of the breasts and womb.

May the blessings of your father be more potent

than the blessings of the ancient mountains.

May they extend to the heights of the everlasting hills,

and may these blessings now rest on the head of Joseph,

on the brow of him who was set apart from his brothers.

Benjamin is a ravenous wolf,

devouring prey by morning

and dividing spoil in the evening.

Now all these are the heads of the twelve tribes of Israel. This is how their father described them when he blessed them—blessing each one with a blessing that suited each son.

Jacob (charging his sons): I am about to join my ancestors in death. Please do as I ask, and bury me with my ancestors in the cave at Machpelah, near Mamre in the land of Canaan. It is located at the edge of a field owned by Ephron the Hittite. Abraham acquired the field from Ephron as a burial site for his family. This is where Abraham and his wife Sarah are buried, also Isaac and his wife Rebekah. I buried Leah there myself. The field and cave were purchased from the Hittites long ago.

After Jacob finished with these instructions to his sons, he pulled his feet up onto the bed, breathed his last breath, and joined his ancestors in death.

The Book of Genesis, Chapter 49 (The Voice)

A set of notes from The Voice translation:

Israel’s blessing speaks not only what is but what will be. His words establish Judah as the father to the royal line from which King David and his dynasty will one day come. They anticipate God’s eternal covenant with David that brings peace and prosperity to the entire world. It is little wonder that early Christians referred to the risen Jesus as “the lion of the tribe of Judah,” for they found in Him the fulfillment of Israel’s blessing.

•

When Israel’s inheritance of the land is divided, Levi is not included; but Joseph’s two sons become the leaders of two tribes descended from Joseph. Manasseh and Ephraim take Joseph’s and Levi’s places, filling out the twelve tribes.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, April 20 of 2024 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about trusting:

The receiving of God’s revelation (קבלת תורה) must take place each and every day, as it says, “Trust in the LORD 'bekhol libekha' (בְּכָל־לִבֶּךָ) - with all your heart; and know Him 'bekol derakhekha' (בְּכָל־דְּרָכֶיךָ), in all your ways” (Prov. 3:5-6). The revelation of Torah is described as a “loud and never-ending voice” (Deut. 5:22), though it is our constant responsibility to “shema” – to take heed and receive the invitation of God’s heart.

It is written in our Scriptures: "Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding" (Prov. 3:5). The Hebrew word for trust is "bittachon" (בִּטָחוֹן), from a root word (בָּטָח) that means "to lean upon," to feel safe and secure (Psalm 31:19). Bittachon expresses the emotional conviction that you are welcome and accepted before God, and that you have access to his heart (Heb. 4:16; 1 Pet. 5:7). We trust with “all of our heart” when we let go of our need to control (or understand) things and instead rely on God’s ability to take care of us. Trusting God means knowing “in your kishkas,” that is, in your guts, that God is taking care of you (Rom. 8:28); it is the comfort of being made safe in his love...

“In all your ways know Him, and he will direct your paths” (Prov. 3:6), and that means you are to know God in whatever “way” you happen to find yourself in, which includes ways of joy and happiness, but also ways of struggle, ways of sinfulness, and ways of heartache (Job 1:21; Job 2:10; Psalm 119:71; Micah 7:9). In all these ways we are to know him.... And just as we are to trust God with all of our heart and abandon ourselves to his care, so we are “know God” in all our goings, opening our heart to his loving presence and trusting in his guidance for our lives. The Good Shepherd will lead us down the right paths for the sake of his beautiful name (Psalm 23:3). Amen.

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

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Proverbs 3:5-6 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/prov3-5-6-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/prov3-5-6-lesson.pdf

4.19.24 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel365:

The purpose of the commandments is for us to serve God by creating a Godly society. Even the laws that address individual behavior are meant to contribute to this goal. Our own private obedience helps make this Biblical vision a reality.

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

April 20, 2024

Hidden Rocks

“These are spots in your feasts of charity, when they feast with you, feeding themselves without fear.” (Jude 1:12)

The “spots” that the translators chose for this description by Jude may be better understood as “hidden rocks” just below a lake’s surface or covered over by shallow sand in a pathway. Spilas is the Greek word, not used elsewhere in the New Testament.

The feasts that Jude refers to are somewhat difficult to describe biblically since this is the only time the word agape is used in the plural. There is some evidence that the early churches were extending the time of celebration of the Lord’s Supper improperly (1 Corinthians 11:20-21), and it is probable that his warning would apply to churches that are indifferent to maintaining purity (1 Corinthians 11:27-29).

But the imagery also appears to express the danger that the “spots” present amidst the loving environment of most churches. Jude gives several insights about the character of those who would resist “the faith.” These people have established themselves as they feast and are “feeding themselves without fear.” The word choices are powerful.

The spots are suneuocheo (feeding with) and getting along very well with the rest of the church, shepherding themselves (poimaino) boldly (aphobos). This is bad! These evil men have become so entrenched that they lead their own faction with no fear of resistance or confrontation. The Lord Jesus has stern words to speak to those churches that allow biblical error to establish itself through false teachers and unconcerned leaders (Revelation 2–3).

Peter describes such people as “spots...and blemishes, sporting themselves with their own deceivings while they feast with you...that cannot cease from sin; beguiling unstable souls” (2 Peter 2:13-14). Not a pretty picture. God does not tolerate such ungodly behavior, and neither should we. HMM III

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percontaion-points · 1 year

Text

The Chemist chapter 5

Chapter 5

Even if they’d clocked her getting on and off the last train, they’d be hard-pressed to keep track of one cab in a sea of identical cabs twisting together through rush hour.

I’ve seen enough crime dramas to 100% tell you that they watched as Julie helped Daniel into the cab. They made note of the taxi number, and then called up the taxi dispatcher to find out who owned that cab. They’ll then asked the cabbie where they dropped the man and woman off. And the cabbie wouldn’t have any reason to NOT tell them.

Literally anywhere that Julie takes Daniel is likely going to have security cameras, and they can watch as they get onto a bus or into a car Julie has waiting or whatever’s going to happen next.

“Sure. This is the airport.”

“Yes, that’s where my car is.”

WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU GO TO THE AIRPORT?! Holy shit, there are so many security cameras there.

It’s like this is Julie’s first day of being a spy.

“No, just born this way.” She got her coloring from her absentee father. Genetic testing had informed her that he was a mix of many things, predominantly Korean, Hispanic, and Welsh. She’d always wondered what he’d looked like. The combination with her mother’s Scottish background had created in her an oddly ordinary face—she could have been from almost anywhere.

NOBODY FUCKING CARES. STOP INTERRUPTING THE PLOT FOR THIS!!

She just had time to slip on her own gas mask before she was totally unconscious.

Chapter 5 summary: Julie and Daniel ride in a taxi, where he will not shut up about the girl’s volleyball team he coaches. Julie asks why he gave her his number, and he says he doesn’t know, but that he liked her face. That he usually doesn’t do stuff like giving random women his number… Or confessing to a near stranger that he thinks that she’s pretty.

They take the taxi to the airport, where she has a car waiting. She tells Daniel to lie down in the back, but then she injects him with something to get him to go to sleep for hours and hours. An hour outside of the city, she pulls off into the woods and starts inspecting him for a tracking device, but fails to find one. She then pulls off all of his clothes, because they might have external trackers in them. And she also ditches his laptop. This takes up so much page time while somehow barely going anywhere at all. I never imagined that the taxi scene would be the most interesting part of the chapter.

She then drives out to the safe house she’s renting for this. Although there is a house, she’s wired it up with light timers to make it look like somebody’s home. And meanwhile, she’s set up her workstation in the barn. Which we get to read ALL about, yet somehow literally not one single bit of it is important. She sticks a bunch of medical stuff onto/into Daniel before going to sleep herself.

#The Chemist #chapter 05 #Daniel Beach #Julie Fortis #headdesking #i can't deal with this #what is happening #shitty writing is shitty #plot what plot

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ramrodd · 1 year

Video

youtube

19. Belief and Doubt (6:60 – 7:9, 3/26/2023)

COMMENTARY:

The Holy Spirit gave Jesus the sing that His time had come in John 11 by the method of the doubling of Martha and Mary's salutation upon His arrival which led to the chiasmatic moment of the Bible as a epic in John 11:35 "Jesus Wept". Everything in the narrative of the Bible comes down to that moment and, from that moment on, the narrative begins to expand into history.

The Holy Spirit cannon enter into History, directly, but, like Jesus, he as agency over the Spirit of God and is able to influence the here and now through its presence. In this case, the Holy Spirit caused Martha and Mary to utter the same phrase to Jesus "Lord, f you had been here, my brother would not have died" (John 11:23; John 11:32). I've had this experience of "doubling" with the Holy Spirit myself and it is ratified in Genesis 41:32 KJV. And Jesus knew exactly what the message was. Which is why He wept.

In terms of the interconnection of The Gospel of Mark with the Gospel of John (Mark) it is important to recognize that the Holy Spirit employs the same method, in coordination with Jesus, with the rooster crowing twice resulting in Peter weeping in Mark 14: 72. And immediately the rooster crowed a second time. Then Peter remembered the word that Jesus had spoken to him: “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny Me three times.” And he broke down and wept. The combination of the two weeping sequences in the two gospels are like cosmic quotation marks or parentheses employed by the Holy Spirit to intertwine the two narratives as if by a common author. The Holy Spirit does things like this all the way through scripture.

The narratives of Mark and John converge with Mark 6 and John 4,.5. & 6 and they converge again with Mark 11 and John 11. The Triumphal Entry happens on the early afternoon of Palm Sunday and the arising of Lazarus happens in the late afternoon of Palm Sunday and the Holy Spirit wants to make sure that pilgrims like us recognize the convergence of events, ol, these 2000 years later. ' The Holy Spirit uses "doubling" quite a bit in the textual numerology, for example, the 12 years of the woman's hemorrhage in Mark 5 and the 12 year old daughter of Jairus. Jesus was a virgin when He died and did not have carnal knowledge of women until the Holy Spirit caused the discharge of the Spirit of God to heal the woman, which informed Jesus of everything He needed to know to make the Samaritan Woman pregnant in John 4 in the same manner as Mary, His mother. The numerological meaning of 12 in that case is subordinate to the figure 12 itself in the textual numerology. It's a sign.

Another example you pointed out was the 28 years of the wandering in the wilderness in the Torah and the 38 years of self-pity of the crippled man at the Porch of Bethesda.

Now, the Holy Spirit plays all over the mundane numerology of the Bible,, the numbers of chapters and verses. I just noticed that Martha's salutation is verse 23 and Mary's salutation is 32, which is another example of the doubling of the Holy Spirit that alerted Jesus.

I was pleased to hear how you have described the way that the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of John fit together chronologically. The Gospel of Mark begins at the baptism of Jesus between the Passover of 27, when John Mark is 12 years old and preparing for his Bar Mitzvah, and Penta cot 27. Jesus walks down to Jericho after Passover to be Baptized and to begin His minitry, spends 40 days in meditation and then walks back up to Jerusalem for the reading of the Law. Everything from then until the end of Mark 3 is outside the purview of John Mark, who reconnects with Jesus in John 2 at the wedding at Cana. John Mark's birthday is before Tabernacle, when he turns 13 and we know from John 3 that John the Baptist is still at large for the Passover of 28. His arrest occurs sometime afterwards and is the proximate cause of the sermon from the boat in Mark 4 and the events of Mark 4 and 5 are out of the purview of John Mark.

Joh Mark turns 14 just before Tabernacle 29 and he joins Jesus and the Disciples in John 4, 5, 6 that converges with Mark 6 and expands the events until just before the Passover 29, whereupon Mark 7 could occur in Galilee, but probably occurs in Jerusalem at Pentecost 29 and the reading of the Laws. John 7 begins after John Mark's 15th birthday with Tabernacle 30, It is my interpretation that John Mark is the "rich young ruler" of both the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of John and that the encounter is precisely located at Hanukah 30, which John Mark wants to enlist in the Jesus mission, but is discouraged by Jesus, who knows he is still sleeping with a teddy bear. John Mark is the naked young man of the Gospel of Mark and the eye witness to the Passion of Jesus in Gethsemane,

Joh Mark is not the author of the Gopsel of Mark, but becomes it's publisher in Alexandria as well as an editor, contributor and character in the narrative. He is the author of The Gospel of John, at the insistence of Papias, although he probably begins to compose his Gospel when he is a companion of Paul in Rome.

The Gospel fo John is probably the strongest argument supporting Peterism. The 7th Seal was broken with the ratification of the 19th Amendment.

This is where Hegel comes in handy. Hegel rejected Calvinism, because Martin Luther wasn't Calvinist and the TULIP doctrine as conveying the popish seeds of the Inquisition except for "irresistible Grace" which is the pivot point he shares with Kant's transcend self0-interest of the Categorical Imperative. Both Kant and Hegel conceived of the relationship of Man to God as that of the Sunflower to the sun.

Which is my personal experience of The One. Calvinism and election violates Free Will and Jesus's Second Commandment, "Lover your neighbor as yourself" is the Atheist Clause of the Shema that obviates any rationalization for burning Michael Servetus at the stake.

Just for the record, the growing influence of Pro-Life Chaplains in the military is the source of the culture of sexual assault and the rate of suicides by combat veterans. Calvinism is a deliberately insurgent doctrine and is the proximate cause of the English Civil War. George Washington was a Deist as a legacy of the Church of England's antipathy of "religious enthusiasm" of the Charismatic Protestants.

The military has a serious problem with the legacy of Campus Crusade for Christ eroding the good order and discipline of the military community, especially the Air Force, with its academy right in the heart of the evangelical Jesus Freaks of the 60s.

#youtube

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legendarywizarddetective · 3 years

Text

Hi everyone, I know it took me a while to finish my part of my lovely joint venture with @nashibirne ... Please don't be mad at me because life was a bit of a whirlwind lately. So now I just hope you will enjoy it.

PART 2: Hidden Treasure

Pairing: Henry Cavill x reader

Summary: you are trapped in writers block but as you saw Henry's new post on Instagram your wheels start to turn

Words: appr. 2500

Warnings: smut, dirty thoughts, sextoys, pleasuring yourself