#upright scaffolding

[intooth-inclaw]

once again experiencing the sad over people. purposefully misinterpreting posts about relearning how to be happy, bc yeah going on a walk isnt going to cure your depression. i went on a lovely walk in the beautiful spring warmth the other week and experienced great joy and had a panic attack the same night. but just meds and therapy also aren't going to do anything. i can talk over my fears and numbness as much as i want but its being with people, and eating food i enjoy, and having a space i love that actually make me happy. the meds just allow you to feel it

[localcuttlefish]

You know what. Fuck it. Classic horror AU Edward Little. Everyone sit down. Today you learn.

The scaffolding of Werewolf Edward Little:

Remember that dog that bit his hand as a boy? Not a dog. That was a whole ass werewolf mauling. He was lucky to have survived, and his father made a point of instilling the idea that he had to make something worthwhile out of his now cursed life, because who else gets a second chance like that.

(I bet the reason why he ALLEGEDLY threw hands and was involved in a court martial during his time on the HMS Dublin was because someone called him the Beast of Gévaudan or something on top of being called blackguard.)

Crozier, regardless of whether or not Ned is the only supernatural entity on the expedition (which he more than likely is not), would know Little is a lycanthrope. You can’t sneak that past Captain Francis Rawdon Moira “it’s not paranoia if I’m right” Crozier. The notion that the crew takes silverware aboard the expedition is also more notable— it’s insurance in the event of a werewolf attack.

Several scenes Edward can be interpreted as showing restraint or bottling up anger. Werewolves don’t only transform under the full moon in many modern iterations— they can transform under extreme stress, anger, fear, or even misery and sadness. He’s not just bottling up anger, he’s preventing himself from becoming a damn horse-sized wolf-monster on a ship barely big enough for most of the men to stand upright in its largest rooms.

(He’s not a violent dog, he doesn’t know why he bites.)

Fanbase characterizes Ned as a guardian dog a lot. It’s a really fun subversion of expectations for Edward’s “lunacy” as a wolf just being an overactive, twisted, violent, haunting need to protect, instead of a merciless bloodlust. He’s a resource guarder. It just so happens the resource is men aboard the expedition. It actually makes him quite a good Lieutenant when not in a massive tragedy, since he takes into consideration the importance of group survival, coordination, and safety.

The months where the moon is just spinning overhead in the Arctic are the worst of it. His skin itches from the inside out and he wants to peel himself to shreds to shed everything he recognizes as human about himself just for sake of his comfort. He can’t go outside. He can’t see the full moonlight.

Scientifically, it probably burns a TON of calories to transform from human to massive wolf thing. He’s spontaneously creating and reallocating muscle and bone. Realistically, he would need a lot of those lead-lined tins of meat to survive and not start looking to. Other meat sources. To stay alive. Which is why he’s so devastated and horrified to find out how all of the tins were poisoned. He needs to keep poisoning himself to keep everyone else safe.

The ending desperation and starvation hurts more if you consider the fact that most of the crew probably expect him of all people to snap and eat a sailor. But if we just change those watch chains from gold to silver… then he’s fighting to the end to remain human, remain calm, and not let the horror and hunger overtake him. And he succeeds in the end, actually.

I bet Le Vesconte told him frank that if the resource shortage continues, they won’t be able to trust Ned not to go feral. Ned takes initiative to PROVE the men can trust him and pierces his face with silver to poison himself and stay human.

Cainids can synthesize their own vitamin C. Scurvy was never going to be an issue for him (part of what made him good on the sea)— it was always going to be caloric deficit, starvation, thirst, and exhaustion. When Crozier finds him, Crozier can tell Ned is too weak to go feral with hunger if Ned transforms. Crozier can take the silver chains off Ned’s face. Ned can stop tearing at his skin and just be the monster everyone thinks he is, and he lies there, wolf head in his captain’s lap, whining with every weak exhale until he stops breathing.

[chanelgrll]

hi! could you do a ronin x reader who struggles with substance abuse? all good if not, thank you!

A/N: ofcc!! Please take care of yourself and reach out if you're struggling <3 your mental health matters This is a heavy one, please read warnings below CW: substance abuse, weed, reader is high, mental health struggles, addiction

Smoke and fire

There were nights when the dark tide rose faster than you could swim. Tonight was one of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall this deep into it, hadn’t meant to let the stress reach bone level, where it pulsed in your ribs and skull like a war drum. You’d been good, better, even. Weeks without falling apart. But tonight, something simple and stupid, a glass shattering on the kitchen floor, had cracked the fragile dam inside you.

It had started with your fingers trembling too hard to pick up the shards. Then the breathless, clawing sense that you weren’t safe in your own skin. You’d sat on the floor and pressed your palms to your chest like you could cage your frantic heart. No use.

So you’d lit up instead. It was supposed to be recreational, casual, a rare indulgence. But lately it had become a secret scaffold you leaned on when things tipped too far, not even something Ronin knew (that you were aware of). Tonight you tipped.

Now you were sprawled sideways on the worn couch, eyes half-lidded, the room pulsing gently around you like a tidepool. Music murmured low from the speaker. The world turned 2D and your head was filled with a heavy fog-like pressure. Your limbs were warm and slow and not entirely yours.

Some part of you knew this wasn’t good. Knew that this wasn’t how you wanted him to see you. But that part was far away, muffled, like a voice through thick fog.

The door clicked open.

You didn’t even flinch.

Bootsteps. Slow, deliberate. Then a long pause, silence stretching between inhale and exhale.

“...Darlin’.” His voice was low, no scorn, just weighted with something you couldn’t parse in your current haze. You let your head loll toward the sound. Ronin stood in the doorway, still in his coat, bag slung over one shoulder. His expression was carved from shadow and worry. One hand flexed at his side, as if unsure whether to reach for you.

“Roooo… hi..!” Your voice lilted high and thin, like a bird caught in a storm. You pushed yourself upright with sluggish, graceless limbs, pasting a smile across your mouth, something you hoped resembled normal. But the room swayed. The floor dipped and rolled like a ship at sea. Ronin blurred in your vision, edges smearing like ink in rain. For a moment, even he felt unreal, some towering figment conjured from smoke and shame.

You staggered toward him on trembling legs, one, two steps, then the world pitched. A breathless yelp escaped you as your knees buckled. The floor rushed up in a hard embrace. Before the sting could register, he was there, boots thudding fast against wood, a curse flaring low in his throat.

“The fuck did you do?” He sat down on the floor, careful as he gathered you, pulling your unstrung form against the steady wall of his chest. Your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his shirt, heartbeat thunderous beneath your ear. The rest of you sprawled limp across the floor, body gone weightless and wrong.

“Mmn… ’m fine, Ro… jus’ sleepy…”

“Bullshit.” The word landed soft but sharp as a blade’s kiss. His voice was low, frayed at the edges, carrying worry shot through with something that ached. “I smell it on you. Smelled it every damn time. Even when you snuck out, half an hour gone, thinkin’ it’d fade off your clothes.”

You tried to blink, to see him clearly, but the world remained blurred, awash in dull red and shadow. His face hovered just beyond reach, but you caught the rawness in his eyes, fury not for you, but for whatever had driven you to this unraveling. You made some sound then, a small, slurred thing, half apology, half plea. But your mouth felt heavy, tongue slow, words impossible.

The weight of his gaze pressed on you like a tide. Not cruel. Not cold. Just unbearably present. You wanted to disappear beneath it, crawl down through the floorboards and vanish. Instead you lay boneless against him, pulse stuttering.

Ronin exhaled slow, controlled, like a man holding back the sea inside him. His arms shifted, one beneath your back, the other curling beneath your knees.

“C’mon,” he murmured. The softness in it unraveled something in your chest. “We’re not stayin’ on the damn floor.”

And then you were lifted, weightless, shame hot against your skin despite the cold fingers of the high still tugging at you. You buried your face in his shoulder to escape the world, to escape yourself.

He carried you to the couch, lowered you down with bone-deep care, as if you were spun glass. His hands lingered a moment, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing beneath one eye where a tear had escaped without your knowing.

“Y’didn’t have to fight it alone.” His voice broke soft. “Could’ve called me. Could always call me.”

You whimpered, shaking your head weakly. “Didn’t… didn’t wanna bother… didn’t wanna be weak…”

A curse, low and ragged, slipped from him. He knelt beside you, eye-level now, one calloused hand cupping your jaw with aching gentleness, forcing your gaze to his through the blur.

“Look at me,” he said. You tried. Gods, you tried. “You are not a bother,” Ronin told you, voice raw. “And you ain’t weak. You hear me? You ain’t fuckin’ weak for drownin’. You’re stronger than you know for survivin’ it.”

The words cracked something open. The tears came full then, silent at first, then in choking waves. You turned toward him without thinking, clutching fistfuls of his shirt as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone soft and spinning.

He let you cling. Didn’t pull away. One arm slid around your shoulders, the other stroking up and down your spine in slow, grounding motions.

“I got you,” Ronin whispered. Over and over, a steady chant against the storm in your skull. “I got you. Ain’t lettin’ go.”

Time dissolved. The high ebbed like a sick tide, leaving you wrung-out and trembling in its wake. Through it all he stayed, a pillar at your side. His warmth. His scent... leather, cedar, faint trace of iron—became the anchor you clung to. When the worst of it passed, when your body sagged exhausted and empty in his arms, he pressed a kiss against your temple.

“We’ll talk about this. Later. When you’re steady.” Another kiss. “But not tonight. Tonight, you rest.”

And when you slurred, voice cracked open and child-small, “You’ll stay?” he answered without pause:

“Always.” He sat on the couch, resting your head on his lap. Before you knew it, the exhaustion of the weed hit you like a trainwreck, and everything faded to black.

.....

You blinked, sluggish, and found Ronin sitting on the couch, head leaned back with a hand resting on the top of your head, which was still rested on his lap.

The realization struck hard and sharp. “Ro…” you croaked. Voice frayed, throat raw.

He opened his eyes instantly, all the iron edges of him smoothed to quiet concern.

“Hey,” he said soft, gently stroking your hair. “Easy.” A pause. “You with me now?”

You swallowed, nodded faintly. Shame rose like bile in your throat. “I—fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ronin shook his head, slow and sure. “No apologies yet. Not till you eat, drink. You’re still runnin’ on fumes.” A bottled water appeared in his hand; you took it with trembling fingers, sipped gratefully. When your shaking eased, he spoke again, voice low as dawn wind,

“We need to talk, darlin’.”

You closed your eyes, nodding once. You owed him that much.

He didn’t launch in hard. He waited. When you opened your eyes again, he met your gaze, steady as stone, unflinching but not unkind.

“I ain’t mad at you,” Ronin said first. Voice rough with the truth of it. “Ain’t ever gonna be. I’m… worried. And scared for you, if I’m honest. Scared what happens if you keep leanin’ on that shit every time it gets bad.”

You looked away. Tears prickled again. “I know,” you whispered. “I know it’s not good. I just, sometimes it hits and I—I can’t breathe, Ronin. I can’t think. It feels like drowning in my own skin.”

His breath caught faintly at that. Then he shifted, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice gone even gentler:

“You ever think I don’t know that feelin’? I do. More’n you know.” A pause thick with meaning. “But there’s better ways through it. Ways that don’t tear you down after.” You kept crying, tears pooling out your eyes that Ronin carefully wiped off. He gently pulled you up to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms around you and rocking back and forth slightly.

“I got you,” Ronin said again. Thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “I ain’t lettin’ you fall, darlin’. Not alone.”

And this time, when you whispered, “Okay,” you meant it.

[ceilidho]

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[redwolfxx]

twin dragons

CHAPTER ONE

lin lie x reader x danny rand

iron fists x reader (strategist)

context: marvel rivals

a/n:

danny rand is same age as lin for this (think ult spiderman age, so there isn't any weird age gaps?)

reader is strategist for the plot

idk where this is going to go yet so here we are

series

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

You materialize in a shimmer of light. Your shoes land on the once pristine and polished floors of the Baxter building.

Around you, several others spawn.

Groot, Storm, Hawkeye, Rocket, and Iron Fist - Lin, that is.

Then a voice cuts through the quiet um of pre-battle tension, Galacta.

"Thirty seconds before you attack. Get ready!"

The team begins strategizing, tension palpable. Groot’s barked limbs flex, Storm rolls her shoulders, static building around her. Lin says nothing, just flexes his fingers. His chi glows like a smoldering ember.

"We push together. Groot takes point, I'll look for high ground, Lin flank behind, Storm fly up, rain chaos. And the two of you-" Hawkeye nods to you and Rocket, "support where needed."

"I'll never understand what Quill sees in this lousy planet..." Rocket mutters to your left, already flipping through his gear with a disgruntled growl.

Then Galacta speaks again.

"Help get that vehicle to its destination!"

The heavy doors slide open with a hiss of pressure and steam.

Your shoes hit the fractured pavement of Midtown—cracked concrete, scorched cars, storefronts turned to ruin. Above, the sky bleeds red, pulsing as if it breathes. The payload looms ahead, waiting for movement.

You fall behind Groot, light on your feet, eyes to the sky, waiting for attack. Your role is clear: heal, buff, reposition.

The first attack hits hard.

Psylocke drops from a broken fire escape, blades glowing with psionic force. Groot intercepts her with a thundering shield of branches. You respond instantly—support pulse fired, your HUD lighting up with movement indicators.

Lin streaks forward like a thrown knife, clashing with Hela at the front. Her blades slice clean, catching him across the side. He drops back a few feet and you’re there, healing energy threading through the chaos to knit his wounds.

He nods, expression unreadable, before launching forward again—his fists blaze gold, and with a clean strike, Hela drops.

Metal creaks violently. Magneto tears a billboard from its place and slams it down. Groot groans, bearing the brunt of it.

Rocket skates beneath the debris, gun blazing.

Storm arcs high above, throwing bolts with pinpoint precision. Hawkeye darts past fallen scaffolding, angling toward the enemy’s backline.

Lin splits off to the left flank.

And then—Danny.

He lands light-footed in the nearby crosswalk. His hair is tousled, his fists glow gold. Not the controlled stillness of Lin's chi, no, his is hotter, more volatile. He grins, as if the chaos around him is just another day at the office.

His eyes find yours instantly.

"Strategist," he drawls.

You grin as you raise a brow. "Didn’t expect the multiverse’s golden boy to be playing in the shadows."

He laughs—bright and smug. "Cute. Let’s see if you’re still smiling in sixty seconds."

Lin hits him from behind mid-sentence.

Golden chi meets golden chi—blow for blow, fluid and brutal. Danny blocks, counters. Lin twists around the strike and retaliates with the precision of a blade.

You can’t look away.

They move fast—too fast. You lose them for a breath, then see Lin stagger, caught in the ribs.

Danny doesn't gloat. He just exhales through his nose. "You're good. Not me, but good."

"We'll see who's standing by the next checkpoint," Lin replies coolly.

You sprint forward to provide support, but Magneto yanks a rusted sedan into your path. You duck under it, firing a burst heal that skims Lin’s shoulder as he rolls upright.

Storm streaks overhead, lightning scorching down. Emma Frost glides through it unfazed, turning crystalline to absorb the hit.

Hawkeye's arrows whiz past, meeting Hela's blades mid-air.

The payload is stuck.

"Get that vehicle moving again!" Galacta quips from her perch above, lounging, safe from the danger.

"Down to thirty seconds" comes her voice once more.

"We're running out of time!" Rocket shouts, appearing beside you.

Smoke still lingers, the acrid scent of burnt metal and ozone thick in the air. The payload groans beneath a fresh barrage of attacks, inching forward with agonizing slowness.

When Danny drops between you and it.

His punch hits your side hard, knocking you off your feet. The air tears from your lungs.

The second blow slams into Lin, sending him crashing into a burnt-out car.

Your pulse races, hands steady as you send out healing pulses. Lin is back up and moving with a relentless precision—darting in, striking fast, then pulling back to avoid counterattacks. You catch the slight grimace as a glancing blow grazes his side and immediately flood him with your healing.

The two teams continue in battle, meeting each other blow for blow, but with no progress on the payload, your team begins to get pushed back.

Rocket’s snarky commentary echoes beside you, “Earth’s worst security system.” His machine gun sings, pinning foes momentarily, buying precious seconds.

Danny moves with fiery grace—each strike a brilliant flare, each dodge a blur of golden light. His eyes lock on you briefly, and the unmistakable spark of challenge gleams in them.

His gaze goes back to Lin with a cocky grin gracing his features,

“Still standing I see, let's change that”

Lin doesn’t answer. He’s laser-focused, weaving through enemy fire, the heat of his chi barely contained. But when Danny launches a surprise attack, Lin reels back, the air whooshing as Danny’s fist grazes his ribs.

You rush forward, throwing a burst of protective energy just in time to soften the impact.

The battlefield fractures around you—the ground cracks, flaming wreckage smolders, and the team fights like every inch is their last.

Seconds stretch into an eternity. Every heartbeat is a gamble. With a coordinated push, Lin and Danny continue their clash, fists sparking as their golden energy floods the street.

Behind them, you cover Groot as he shields Storm from a sudden ambush by Psylocke. You throw beams of healing energy, reinforcing your allies just as Emma Frost storms through in an attempt to snare you with psychic binds.

"That was close," You mutter to nearby Rocket, focusing your ability to break free of the binds, just before Hela’s blade shoots towards you.

“Too close,” Lin’s voice cuts through the noise, knocking it away before it reaches you, and he flanks left, drawing attention away from you.

Your eyes flick to the payload—it shudders, then slowly inches forward, pushed by your team’s desperate efforts.

Galacta’s voice crackles again, “The final ten seconds!”

Your breath catches as the timer ticks down.

Just as Magneto’s steel barricade slams down between you and the payload, the battlefield seems to hold its breath.

With a powerful surge, Groot's limbs flare with raw energy—branches thickening, thorns sharp and gleaming.

Storm calls out from above, her voice steady and commanding, “On my mark—give it all you got!”

Hawkeye’s arrows whisper through the smoke, each one tipped with a pulse charge Rocket rigged on the fly.

Lin’s golden chi flares wildly as he readies a flank.

You feel it, too—a surge of energy in your hands, warm and steady, ready to pour out.

“Now!” Storm’s cry shatters the air.

A blinding storm of electricity cascades down, accompanied by Groot’s spiraling roots. The charged arrows streak through the air, explosive pulses detonating among the enemy ranks.

Lin darts in, fists blazing, carving a path through stunned foes.

You unleash a wave of healing and buffing energy, knitting wounds, heightening reflexes.

Magneto grunts in frustration, his control faltering as his metal begins to fall from the sky.

The enemy team stumbles, pushed back into disarray.

Emma Frost’s crystalline form cracks under the relentless assault, and Psylocke falls back, clutching a wounded shoulder.

The payload jolts forward, crossing the glowing arc of checkpoint one, Grand Central Terminal.

Galacta’s voice rings through your comms “The vehicle reached a checkpoint. Keep up the momentum!"

The team regroups briefly, breaths heavy, eyes blazing with renewed fire.

“Keep it moving,” someone shouts. “We’re not done yet.”

Storm launches into the sky, thunder booming.

Groot steadies the payload with a steady grip.

Hawkeye takes aim for cover fire, while Rocket revs his gear.

Lin and Danny exchange a tense glance, then push forward in tandem—two flames lighting the path.

The city around you trembles under the assault, but the payload moves closer to the subway station, checkpoint two.

Then—

A sudden, brutal counterstrike.

Magneto, rallying with terrifying focus, rips a twisted wrecking ball from a nearby crane.

Hela and Psylocke flank from either side, their attacks synchronized and deadly. Loki not far behind, providing critical support to their team.

A massive explosion sends debris flying.

Lin is slammed into a wall, gasping as his golden glow flickers.

You’re thrown off your feet by a surge of psychic energy, vision blurring.

Groot’s massive form is crushed beneath a barrage of metal shards, his roar echoing in pain.

Hawkeye is caught by Hela's unrelenting blades and falls behind a wall.

Storm falters in midair, lightning sputtering as she is caught in a telepathic trap.

The payload shudders, grinding to a halt just feet from checkpoint two.

You hear a faint "You got them all!" come from the comms of the other team as light envelops you and your teammates, sending you all back to the spawn.

Materializing in the spawn once more, you and your teammates make a mad rush for the payload, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

"Down to thirty seconds! Get that vehicle moving again!"

The payload sits between Grand Central and the subway station, the second checkpoint only meters away.

The enemy forces have already regrouped and are continuing their assault on your team.

Hawkeye signals sharply. “They’re pushing back hard. Watch your backs!”

The air fills with the clanging of metal debris, humming of psionic blades, and crackling lightning.

You throw out healing pulses as Lin darts forward, golden fists igniting.

Storm’s lightning pierces the darkening sky.

Rocket zips through debris, firing at anyone who gets too close.

Still, the enemy pressure doesn’t relent.

“The final ten seconds!” Galacta warns sharply.

The payload shudders, inching forward as your team fights tooth and nail.

But then—a devastating counterattack.

Magneto’s iron grip bends steel like paper, sending debris flying with deadly precision.

Emma Frost and Psylocke coordinate from the shadows, striking from unexpected angles.

Your team is pushed back, step by agonizing step.

The payload halts just outside Grand Central, stalled.

“Keep that payload moving, you're nearly there!” Galacta’s voice shouts above the chaos.

You grit your teeth, readying your arms.

Groot plants his massive limbs firmly, shielding the team.

Storm’s eyes flash electric fury as she unleashes a storm surge.

Lin meets Danny in continued battle, fists glowing in green flames.

But the enemy doesn’t yield.

A final surge of coordinated attack forces your team back once more, the payload still motionless.

With every ounce of strength, you throw your energy into healing and buffing your teammates, but the enemy’s relentless onslaught proves too much.

The timer on your watches all flash red, the round is over.

"Final score: one to zero! Time to switch things up! Including which side you're on." Comes Galacta's voice over the tension of the battle.

Smoke hangs in the air. Danny stands alone in the rubble, blood on his lip, fists still glowing.

He looks down at you, victorious. Smirking.

You rise to one knee, meeting his gaze without flinching.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

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

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[q-nihachu]

Timestamps from Niki's stream with summaries of the Tubbo-Herobrine lore!

2h 39m - Empanada and Niki wonder why Tubbo is on so late with a weird skin. They decide to go talk to him.

2h 40m - They find Tubbo dressed as Herobrine, spinning on his back on the ground to music. Bagi explains that he has a date with Fred and is probably nervous.

2h 46m - Bagi uses rainbow jelly on Tubbo, and he resumes standing upright. He seems to have a sort of weird power where, when he points at people, they disappear or reappear.

2h 53m - Tubbo makes all of the eggs disappear and reappear. Niki asks him if he’s evil, and he shakes his head. She gets blinded for a few seconds.

2h 55m - Tubbo flies into the air and logs off.

(interim)

3h 9m - Niki, Bad, Empanada, and Richas are working on Empanda’s egg carton room when they see Herobrine-Tubbo on the tablist again. Niki goes to see what’s going on.

3h 10m - Tubbo, in a different voice: We are not done yet. Take me to shells. Shells now. Small little shells.

Niki figures out that he means the eggs but refuses to take him to where they are. He calls her the “Keeper of the Shells” and continues to ask to be taken to them.

3h ?m - Niki: Do you know Tubbo? Are you Tubbo?

Tubbo-Herobrine: Unimportant.

3h 26m - Empanada arrives.

Tubbo-Herobrine: Shell, I must share news. Are you important?

Empanada: to my family and friends yes

Tubbo-Herobrine: In everything?

Empanada: oh I don’t know?

Tubbo-Herobrine: What is everything to you?

Empanada: my family and friends

Tubbo-Herobrine: So you are important.

3h 30m - Tubbo-Herobrine points at Empanada, and she disappears. He thanks Niki, but she asks him to bring Empanada back. He says “In 60 seconds.”

3h 31m - He asks Niki if she’s important. She says everyone is important. He brings Empanada back.

3h 33m - Tubbrine says he needs a home, and Niki says they can help.

3h 34m - They find out Tubbrine is a creation of Tubbo from the Tubchunk. He asks them not to tell Tubbo about it.

Tubbrine: Creator will not be mad. Just will have to start over. When start over, I end. I end forever.

3h 38m - Tubbrine now says he needs the “Jump keeper,” seemingly referring to Niki.

Tubbrine: I struggle with jump.

3h 41m - Tubbrine stands in the water and says that it hurts. Niki puts down scaffolding for him.

3h 48m - Niki figures out that there’s a conflict Tubbrine needs help with. It seems to have something to do with Tubbrine’s ranking of the eggs’ importance. Niki thinks he’s looking for Sunny.

3h 51m - Tubbrine says he wants the egg with the aggressive personality that “may be powerful.” Empanada guesses he wants Moon, Sunny’s alter ego.

Tubbrine: May be childish.

Niki: Sounds like Richas.

3h 53m - Tubbrine says he can’t say Empanada’s rank, but she’s high.

~ 3h 56m - Tubbrine disappears.

3h 57m - Tubbrine reappears while Niki is afk and insists that Empanada go with him. She leaves a sign for Niki explaining and does.

3h 59m - Niki returns and starts to panic, searching for them, but quickly finds them nearby. She continues trying to decipher what he wants.

4h 5m - Richas arrives with Bad, and it seems to be what Tubbrine was looking for! Tubbrine questions him in a similar fashion to Empanada about importance.

4h 14m - Tubbrine makes Richas disappear, saying he was dangerous.

Tubbrine: Shell is now safe. 

Tubbrine: The rank dictates.

4h 15m - Tubbrine: What does shell want?

Niki: We want him back. Can you bring him back?

4h 17m - They ask his name, and he says “I am Creation.” He brings Richas back (about now? I might have missed it).

4h 20m - Creation says “Done” and leaves. Niki explains everything she knows to Bad, and they agree to respect his wishes and not tell Tubbo. They decide to go investigate the Tubchunk.

4h 26m - After not finding anything at Tubchunk, Bad and Niki plan to ask Tubbo questions without revealing exactly what happened.

[moonflower-rose]

May Prompt Thingy!

Part 6 - Floral

Pansy Parkinson dresses like she's personally trying to dismantle the statute of secrecy. But somehow, with enough money, dressing exactly like a wizard in Muggle public really just makes you seem like you're stupidly rich. And she is (definitely rich and a bit stupid, which Harry feels just a tiny bit bad for thinking even in the privacy of his own thoughts).

She's got actual pyjama bottoms on, satiny floral flowy ones with a visible tag from Primark on the leg. And then a vest that looks like she's nicked it off the washing line from a local farmer but which Gin's admiringly said is actually Gucci, and Harry doesn't even know where to start with all that. What does Ginny know about Gucci, and why is she looking at Parkinson like that? Parkinson who hasn't seen fit to wear a bra under her coal miners vest and who has an insane pair of platform boots on with her shiny, beflowered sleepwear. Like, how is she upright without magical scaffolding for her ankles or something?

"So what was this all about again?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes at her but he does it in a way that anyone with functioning vision (or prescription specs for light to moderate myopia) can see is pure affection.

"It's one of our little perks for being tops in the department, the reward and recognition program. I've told you about seven times, Pans, do you actually retain anything or is it unable to penetrate the hat?"

Right, Parkinson also has on the biggest hat Harry's ever seen, a humongous wide brimmed floppy black thing that she refused to take off even in the pub, at well after nine at night. It’s got Audrey Hepburn proportions, and it’s weird that Harry knows who that is actually but he’s acquired a lot of strange knowledge since becoming chummy with Draco Malfoy.

"We've got our certificate up on the wall at the office and now we're making our way through the drinks voucher."

"We've made our way through that already and now we're into a healthy bar tab." Ron's draining a pint and looks like he might chance another if Hermione allows it. She's on her fourth glass of party petrol, so she just might.

"I'll cover the tab tonight, darlings. So proud of you Draco, making Magical Law Enforcement your bitch. How, specifically, did you do that? Short version please my duck."

Malfoy pretends to be wounded (a long-standing talent of his). “Do you doubt our prowess as a crime fighting team? Are you suggesting I may not be the prodigy of charms and transfiguration that the establishment is constantly affirming me to be? I’m first name on the plaque, you know.”

“Firstly, it’s a certificate not a plaque, you self-aggrandising wanker.”

Malfoy has his finger up the second Ron starts to speak. “Oh ho, ‘self-aggrandising’, someone’s been getting lessons from wifey.”

“Secondly, your name is only first because it’s in alphabetical order-”

“D’you think one day they’ll actually punch each other?” Ginny asks in a low voice, and Harry tilts his head to the side and remembers dozens of arguments and fingers thrust in faces, and shoulder checks in doorways.

“Nah. This is pretty much recreational now.”

“And thirdly I think she’s understandably curious as to how we could be such a high performing team considering two of you are as thick as shit.”

“So fucking thick,” Ginny adds and Harry turns to her again with a frown.

“Oi, what do you mean thick?”

“It’s a colloquialism Potter, referring to a person who’s rather built in the lower regions.” Malfoy must have had a bit much to drink because he’s suddenly got a mighty wine flush and he’s clamping his lips together like he’s trying not to spill state secrets.

“Who, Ron?”

“Oh Salazar, he really is fucking thick.” Parkinson rolls her eyes like she can’t quite believe how thick. “Thank you for the linguistics lesson darling but I actually meant very stupid, not…beefy.”

“Hey!” Harry’s honestly not following but he’s always been able to tell when he’s being insulted and it’s definitely coming from all sides at the moment.

Parkinson sips her scary-looking cocktail and bats her lashes at Malfoy. “Darling have you been brewing amortentia again? You’ve gone terribly pink.”

“Everyone knows Potter does the brewing you shrew, he’s tops at potions.”

Harry feels a flush rampant across his whole entire face and he hardly has enough space in him to have another mouthful of his lager.

Ron sighs. “Fucking thick as shit I’m telling you, it’s a wonder we’re not killed daily.”

Prompt List

Part 1 - Key

Part 2 - Black

Part 3 - Coffee

Part 4 - Pathetic

Part 5 - Hang

[duhshereadz]

Ekko teaches Jinx how to ride a hoverboard:

The air in the Firelight base hummed with life—metal groans of scaffolding shifting, the faint whir of machinery, and laughter from the kids darting around. But in a quiet corner, Ekko stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a crate, smirking as he glanced at Jinx.

She perched on another crate nearby, her long, thin braids draping to the floor in a tangled cascade. Her pink eyes glimmered with their usual mischief as she fidgeted with a small trinket in her hands, spinning it between her fingers. “So,” she started, her grin widening as she tilted her head, “you gonna let me ride this thing, or are we just here for your amusement?”

Ekko raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering. “Oh, it’s definitely for my amusement,” he teased, nodding toward the hoverboard standing beside him. “But if you’re real nice, I might teach you how not to break your neck on it.”

“Pfft,” Jinx scoffed, tossing the trinket over her shoulder like it didn’t matter. “You’re just scared I’ll be better than you. Admit it.” She stood up, practically bouncing on her toes as she closed the gap between them.

“You? Better than me?” Ekko said, pretending to look deeply skeptical. “I mean, you are good at blowing stuff up, but this takes actual skill.”

Her pink eyes narrowed playfully, and she jabbed a finger at his chest. “I’ll have you know I’m great at everything—except rules. Suck at those. But balance? Speed? Danger? That’s my thing, Zippy.”

Ekko groaned, running a hand down his face. “If you keep calling me that, I might change my mind.”

She grinned, stepping onto the board with zero hesitation. “Too late!”

The board wobbled violently under her weight, and for a moment, Jinx’s grin faltered as her arms flailed for balance. She grabbed Ekko’s arm with a sharp yelp. “This thing’s trying to kill me!”

Ekko laughed, his voice light and warm. “No, you’re trying to kill yourself. You can’t just jump on like that—you gotta ease into it.” He placed a steadying hand on her waist, guiding her back to center.

Her cheeks flushed, but she tilted her head, smirking up at him. “You just like touching me, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said dryly, stepping back before she could make it more awkward. “It’s not because you almost faceplanted or anything.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, still wobbling slightly but managing to stay upright. “Alright, Mr. Know-It-All. What’s the secret, huh?”

He moved behind her, hands gently resting on her shoulders to keep her steady. “The board reacts to how you shift your weight, so stop moving around like a lunatic. Stand still, keep your feet flat, and let it level out.”

Jinx inhaled dramatically, stiffening like a statue. “Standing still. Got it. Like a rock. A super cool, badass rock.”

Ekko chuckled. “Yeah, sure. A badass rock.”

After a few moments, the board stopped shaking, hovering smoothly beneath her. Ekko grinned. “There you go. Now lean forward—slowly. Not all at once, or you’re gonna go flying.”

She leaned forward, her movements careful for once. The board responded, gliding forward a few inches. Jinx’s eyes lit up, her grin returning full force. “Holy crap, it’s working! I’m doing it!”

“Of course, it’s working,” Ekko said, walking beside her. “You’re not completely hopeless.”

“Wow, such high praise,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. But her joy was palpable as she started experimenting, leaning a little more and picking up speed.

Ekko smirked, stepping onto his own board. With a single smooth motion, he zipped past her. “Alright, let’s see if you can keep up, Jinx.”

“Oh, you’re on, Ekko!” she shouted, leaning forward and speeding after him.

The base turned into their playground. They wove between crates and beams, their laughter echoing in the vast space. Jinx was wild, taking every turn too sharply and almost crashing more than once, but her joy was infectious.

Ekko slowed as they neared the tree at the heart of the base. The glow of its arcane roots bathed them in soft light, and he hopped off his board, leaning casually against it. Jinx skidded to a stop beside him, panting slightly but grinning like she’d just conquered the world.

“Not bad,” he admitted, his brown eyes glinting with approval.

“Not bad?” she repeated, feigning outrage. “I was amazing! I was like—like a star falling through the sky or something!”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, a star that almost slammed into a wall three times.”

She elbowed him lightly, her grin softening as her gaze drifted upward. The stars glittered above them, their light almost shy compared to the arcane glow. “Kinda nice out here, huh?”

Ekko’s smile faded into something gentler as he watched her. “Yeah. It is.”

She turned to him, her pink eyes unusually calm. “Thanks, y’know. For teaching me. For putting up with my crap.”

He hesitated, his chest tightening at her rare moment of vulnerability. Slowly, he leaned closer, his voice quiet. “Always.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away as he closed the gap, brushing his lips against hers. The kiss was soft, unhurried, filled with a care neither of them quite knew how to put into words.

When they pulled back, Jinx blinked, her grin creeping back as she tried to hide how flustered she was. “Okay, maybe you’re not completely terrible at this.”

Ekko chuckled, stepping onto his board and motioning for her to follow. “Come on, Jinx. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

They took off into the night, their boards weaving in tandem under the stars. For once, the chaos of the world felt far away, leaving only the sound of their laughter and the hum of the boards as they soared together.

[justagirlfr]

I don’t want to play this part but I do, all for you.

Noah Diaz x fem!reader (angst)

tw: death, blood

summary: the CIA find out you’ve been hiding an autobot and want some answers.

a/n: my writing is progressively getting worse. Sorry guys 😓

—

The government agents had burst through your apartment unexpectedly. The wooden door was chopped in half by one large black boot, while many more swarmed into the living room which was once very cosy. You and Noah had been on your couch, him holding you while you told him about your day. Your head immediately lifted off of his shoulder at the sound of the door but he held you close, arms tightening around your waist to keep you safe.

When they started filing in, two by two through your small door, he rose from the couch and put an arm in front of you. "What the fuck?"

"CIA, you're both under arrest for assisting in the hiding of government property." A group of the men dressed in heavy black gear surrounded the two of you, and you quickly latched onto Noah as one of them grabbed your wrist.

"Noah!"

At your voice, he lunged forward, trying to fight whoever was harming you. "Get away from her!" He was grabbed by another agent and whipped backward. You heard his violent thrashing as they pulled the two of you apart.

Harsh, cold metal encircled both of your wrists and you were forced against a wall. The impact of the scaffolding against your forehead made you see stars, and you weren't sure if the scream you were hearing was yours or not. You could hear your name from a distance away, and you yearned to reach whoever was calling for you. They sounded so desperate, but your vision clouded over as more bodies pressed around you, suffocating you. Your head was slammed into the wall again, and the last thing you heard was a gunshot before you were out.

—

When you came to, you were instantly blinded by the white lights above you. There was something soft, but firm underneath you, and as you tried to get up you recognized the soft feeling of bedsheets. Where were you?

You squinted, eyes adjusting to the brightness surrounding you. It made your head throb to rise, but having no clue about where you were or what you were doing there made it a necessity to stay upright.

It was cold in the little cell you were confined in. There were bars to your space, but looking outside of them, all you could see was grey concrete. You tried to stand up from the bed, but soon fell onto the floor. Your ankles were shackled together, and your hands cuffed. The fall hurt like hell, you not being able to break your fall with your hands. 

"She's awake sir," you heard a voice nearby say. "Shall I move her to interrogation?" A crackle of static and a muffled voice rang from what sounded like the other end of a walkie talkie. "Right away, sir."

A man in black appeared in front of your cell, and his uniform was enough to give you flashbacks of previous events. 

Scared, you backed onto your cot and into the corner. "Stay away," your voice was hoarse and raspy, but it conveyed your message. Your heart was beating out of control from within your chest and you willed yourself to calm down, to stay level-headed while you figured out the fuck was going on. 

"I'm going to need you to come with me," the man said, unlocking your cell. "You make any wrong move, and your friend is dead."

A wave of anxiety rolled over you, and suddenly you could care less about what would happen to you. 

The man, his features hard, unforgiving, and stern, motioned for you to follow him out of the small room. You complied without a second thought. You loved Noah so much, and even though the two of you weren't really together, you would have happily risked your life for him any day. Worry continued to claw at you as you headed down the long, dimly lit concrete hallway. There were other cells that you passed by on your way to the exit, which appeared to be two double doors with mesh wiring on both sides of the glass rectangular windows that they adorned with. The other cells held people strapped into straight-jackets who seemed dastardly and absolutely evil. As you moved, they shouted nasty comments at you and the security guard. He beckoned you to move more swiftly. 

Once you had made it through the exit, the man took you threw a series of white hallways until you got to one sterile, grey room with a metal table in the middle of it. There were two chairs there too, which you had assumed were for you and whoever would be conducting the interrogation. Scared, you approached the door silently and felt the breeze of the heavy door close behind you. A feeling of annoyance and anger began to stir in your stomach as soon as you took a seat in one of the chairs. Why the heck had a bunch of CIA people barged into your place in the middle of the night? And why had they taken you and your best friend? Shit, that would cost a fuck ton of money to repair, and you didn't want the landlord to be even more pissed at you. You could taste a little bile in your mouth, probably from your frustration. You didn't want to seem angry but you were. The interrogation would probably run more smoothly if you kept your cool.

After what seemed like an eternity, someone finally stepped in to see you. It was another man, one with a slicked-back hairstyle and sunglasses. He was pretty tall and bulky, and you figured they had chosen him because you seemed like the type to be easily intimidated. Which, to be fair, you were. 

"So," he began, taking a seat and staring dead at you. "You wanna tell me why I found 'places to hide a huge alien robot' in your search history?"

Fuck…

"I don't know what you're talking about," you attempt nonchalantly, trying to casually lean back in your chair. "I've never seen a space robot in my life."

"Sure. And your friend, Noah, he knows this?" 

Your blood began to boil at the mention of Noah, but at the same time the anxiety in your stomach made you want to throw up. "Yeah."

"Funny, because he told us something different." You continue to stare at him dead-on, rolling your eyes for a laid-back effect. This was probably some technique they used on people to get information out of them. Noah wouldn't have said anything, he's too good at this for that. 

"You know," he says, carefully. "We've heard that you have a pretty strong attachment to him. Is this true?" He grins at you smugly. 

"No, it's not. Look, I had invited him over to hang out, hoping to have a one-night thing with him. It's really not like that at all." But your smile falters, and you know that you've already lost. 

"Well if that's the case," he sighs and smiles. "You won't have a problem with us, well, terminating him, correct? He's of no use to us, and we find that the projects in our little sector of government are best hidden." 

You hesitate from making any moves. This is probably another trick, right? It's not legal to do stuff like that. But then again, from what he said, it seems sort of like the laws don't fully apply wherever you are. 

"We don't know anything you're talking about, I swear," you get out after a minute. "I mean, I guess, if you want the truth…" Your palms are sweaty and you wipe them on your pants. 

Your interrogator looks at you expectantly. 

"Okay, there was this car that I bought from a shop. It transformed, freaked the hell out of me, but told me that if I hid it it would still be my car. And you know, I got it for a cheap price- it's a Porsche. It was pretty broken when I got it, but I fixed it up and it's limited edition now. And I don't want to just let that go, you know?" You attempt to lighten the mood up with your story, hoping it makes you sound trustworthy. "I seriously don't know where it is, it was in the apartment garage parked in my space. But I assume you guys have already checked there. It's the most obvious place to put something like that. Your CIA shit probably scared him off and he's long gone. He never trusted me much, anyway." You refrain from swallowing out of nervousness, knowing it will only make you more suspicious. 

He looks at you, unimpressed. "I know that's not the story, kid." 

"Wait-" 

He gets up from his chair and says into what you assume is a hidden mic on his lapel, "bring in the kid."

The door swings open abruptly to reveal a frantic looking Noah. He's doing his best to shove the two guards off of him, until he sees you. Then his movements become more manic. He screams your name and is immediately tasered. 

"Noah!" you yell. "Let him go! Stop!"

They stop, and Noah falls to his knees on the ground. You get up from your chair abruptly and try to make your way to him, but your interrogator stops you. "Talk, or he'll suffer."

There are tears bubbling in your eyes. You can't reveal where Mirage is, but you can't let Noah get hurt like this. "Fuck," you whisper. 
Suddenly, an explosion throws you against a wall and you feel one of the metal chairs bash into your stomach. You grunt loudly, ears ringing and vision clearing as the smoke around you settles. You shout for Noah, but with your ringing ears it's hard to tell if you really did. It smells like burning flesh, and you gag, pulling your shirt up to cover your nose as you crawl around the ground, head spinning and wanting to vomit. As desperate seconds pass, you begin to hear sounds of gunshots, and you feel the rubble around you shake. You touch the hand of someone else, and from there the rest of the body appears. 
"God, I was so scared," Noah seems to say, pulling you into his arms. His cuffs must have severed during the explosion. The impact seemed to have knocked the wind out of him too, but noticing the unconscious guard next to him, you surmise that he must have cushioned Noah's fall. Noah pulls the both of you up and gets you moving towards what remains of the most affected wall. You're hopping clumsily across the debris, and you continue until you spot the Autobots within range of the two of you. But before you can get to them, there's a shout from behind you. You turn to look, and see the interrogator coming after you and Noah with his gun drawn. 
Before you can warn Noah, he fires. 

Time slows as you envision the bullet hitting your best friend, the guy who's been there for you through everything. It's sad, you think. Because you'll never be able to tell him how much you wished you were more than friends. 

Optimus kicks the guy away before he does any more damage, but you're already collapsed on the ground. Noah has you in his arms again, like every other time in your life, and you're happy that in your last moments, he's the person you get to see. 

"Fuck, Noah-"  The red was everywhere. It was on your hands, your clothes, Noah. It smelled like blood. It tasted like blood. You could hear the blood oozing from you. "Noah, I'm," you take a painful, absolutely excruciating breath, "I don't, I'm not feeling so- so hot right now-"

"Shh, shhh," Noah holds you closer to him, sobbing. "Stay awake, okay? Prime is holding them off, and Mirage is on his way to get us. He's so close, just stay with me. Please."

You touch your stomach tentatively, feeling the pool of stickiness spread onto your fingers. You gasp at the sight of it. "Don't look at it, look at me." He holds you halfway up, using one hand to gently turn your head to face his. 

"Noah-" you gasp. "Noah-"

"Don't talk, Mirage is almost here," he cries. He brings his forehead down to yours. "Stay with me, please."

"Noah- I-"

Mirage's engine revs from behind the two of you and Noah scoops you up in his arms. He makes his way urgently to Mirage's open doors, but slips on the pool of your blood and ends up on the ground again. He shields you from most of the gravity of the fall, the both of you landing on his back as your writhe in pain. Noah gets up quickly, picking you up again and shoving the both of you into the backseat. 

"I love-" Noah shushes you, kissing you softly. 

"Save it for later," he cries. "Don't tell me that because you think you won't be there to properly say it later."

The drive to the hospital is sharp and noisy. Mirage tries his best to weave through traffic, overlooking any laws or rules of the road in order to get you to the emergency room as fast as possible. Your eyes close, unable to stay awake any longer. "I love you," you whisper, and then he's gone. 

–

˜ Bonus ˜

Noah can't bring himself to show up at your funeral. He should be there, to say one last goodbye, but it physically hurts to remember you, knowing that you never got to hear him say he loves you back. Mirage tries his best to be there for Noah, but he's reeling with grief too. The both of them spend their time at the warehouse with the other autobots, all grieving from the loss still. He's kept the clothes that are soaked in your blood hanging on the back of his bedroom door. It's gross, it's disgusting, it's weird. He knows all of this, yet he can't let go of the last part of you he got to see. Today at the warehouse, he's all alone. The autobots are showing up to pay their respects in their alt forms, and plan on recording the event for Noah in case he ever regrets not being able to show up. They don't blame him though, all he's feeling is the regret of never being able to tell you what he really felt about you. He never got to touch your hair, the both of you being happy and in love. He never got to kiss you on your wedding day. Never get to dream about it, ever again. He feels like he'll never feel anything forever. 

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 10 - Blow to the Head

title: head explodes. ouch. gets up and acts normal.

fandom: hermitcraft smp

cw: blood, head injury

~

Skizz’s build is not stupid.

Ugly? Sure. He’ll call it ugly. It’s an ugly mess of deepslate.

But stupid? Not in a million years. He’s a Hermit, after all (and the name fills him with pride, makes his chest puff out). Nothing he works on is stupid, by nature of being a Hermit. The Hermits aren’t stupid.

Except Impulse. Impulse is pretty stupid.

Skizz’s build isn’t stupid.

That’s what Skizz tells himself, day after day as he lugs stone bricks up the ever-growing pyramid, his walk getting longer and longer the taller it gets.

“It’s not stupid, it’s not stupid, it’s not stupid,” Skizz grunts, pushing and heaving at a stubborn chunk of rock. It’s going to be beautiful! His beautiful hierarchy of needs pyramid. The other Hermits won’t know what hit ‘em.

Skizz doesn’t really know what hits him either, at first.

One moment he’s there, heaving with this stupid rock, and the next—

He’s on his back, the scaffolding bridge creaking under him.

He blinks, and his vision explodes into pain.

His head is—his head is rupturing, it feels like—like someone swung a baseball bat at him as hard as they could, like someone dropped a bowling ball on his head. It hurts, it hurts more than anything that he’s ever felt, hurts more than his aches from shifting stone, more than a creeper explosion, more than his appendix bursting when he was nine.

It hurts. A lot.

Skizz’s arms feel like jello when he lifts a hand to feel his head, gingerly brushing around the most painful parts. He’s crying, he realizes dumbly, tears streaming down his face at a rate unheard of.

His hand comes away dripping with blood.

What? Did his head actually burst?

That can’t be good.

Skizz doesn’t really know how he manages it, but after a couple of long moments of lying on the scaffolding, he finally manages to roll over, getting his shaky arms under him and pushing himself to his knees.

He feels terrible. Probably the worst he’s ever felt. He might puke from the pain, honestly.

Looking down gives him the dizzying sense of how high up he really is. How is he meant to get down from here without calling for help?

He really doesn’t want to call for help. The other Hermits would never just let their head explode. Rookie mistake.

He can’t see all that well. The ground far, far below is hazy and spinning, just enough that his eyes can’t focus on it. He can probably land on it though, right?

If he falls. If he lets himself slip off the edge, engage his elytra. Yeah. Yeah, elytra. Why was he thinking to try and climb down from here? That’s stupid.

Then, before Skizz can consciously think about it, he’s falling.

His stomach lurches to his throat as the world tilts even more, rapidly whirling around him, and the wind tears at his broken skull in ways that he can’t quite understand but can definitely feel.

This isn’t good. No, wait, he’s falling—

It’s instinct that saves him more than anything, his elytra flicking open at the last second to slow his descent, and Skizz lands on his knees on the ground and once again almost pukes.

Ohhhh man. That was not a good feeling. 

Skizz groans lowly, balls up his trembling fists. He’s got this. He can get to his bed without passing out or vomiting.

There’s a chunk of deepslate beside him, the size of a small dog. He stares at it as it pulses, one side of it splattered with red.

His fingers brush it briefly, its sharp edges rough under the pads of his fingertips.

Why is it here?

He ignores the rock for now, and just stumbles to his feet as best he can (which means to his knees, too unsteady to get all the way upright). He crawls, every breath coming in a gasp, his knees slipping out from under him.

There’s liquid dripping down his neck. He can’t lift his hand to see what it is, he just has to keep going. If he can get to his bed, he can take a little nap and be fine.

He can be fine. He just needs to rest. He has—he has the world’s worst migraine. That’s all it is. He needs to sleep it off.

His eyes are closed. He opens them.

It hurts. Everything is pulsing and too-bright and too-loud and—

His eyes are closed. He opens them.

He can see his bedroom door. He can smell blood. It’s right there, though, somehow he got here through all the pain and he can rest.

His eyes are closed. He opens them.

His bed is there.

-

“Oh, Skizz! Skizzleman! Come on, we have official permit business! Are you in here?”

Skizz’s mouth is dry. His mouth is dry and he can’t open his eyes, his head—

It feels like someone split open his head with an axe. It feels like he’s going to die.

“. . . Um, Skizz? Skizz, there’s . . . there’s a lot of blood. . . .”

Skizz licks his lips. He’s so tired. He could pass out right here, right now, wherever it is he is. He probably will.

“Oh! Oh my goodness, Skizz—”

Someone touches him, touches his head and it hurts it hurts it hurts—

“Oh no, okay, what happened? Can you hear me? Skizz? I’m calling for help, don’t worry, uh—”

Skizz pries open his eyes.

He can’t see.

He can kind of see. There’s wayyy too many black dots swimming across his vision, and he can kind of see a familiar face that he can’t quite put a name to. He moves his lips, tries to speak, but the words don’t surface.

He closes his eyes—just for a moment—and there’s another face there.

Impulse.

Impulse smiles at him, squeezes his hand. He’s holding his hand. That’s nice.

“You,” Impulse says, leaning in close, “are so stupid. You hear me, Skizz? Stupid.”

Skizz blinks.

His head really, really hurts.

-

“Drugs are great,” Skizz says, tugging at his hospital bracelet. “I love drugs. Do you love drugs?”

Impulse huffs out a laugh. “Dude. Shut up.”

“I can’t even feel my head explosion,” continues Skizz. “It feels so good.”

“Your head didn’t explode, idiot. Why weren’t you wearing a hardhat, huh? You know how dangerous brain damage can be in a respawn.”

Skizz doesn’t answer that. He hadn’t even realized there was a loose chunk of stone above him. He didn’t know he needed a hardhat.

“I was kind of scared,” he admits. It feels silly, now. “I didn’t know what happened. I was just—boom. You know?”

“That’s why you need a hardhat.”

The drugs really do feel good.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “How many stitches?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Good number. Three-three.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Jerk.”

“Stupid.”

“Love ya.”

“Love ya.”

[ninadove]

Alma de araña 🕸️

He walks in, and you know instantly: it’s in the myosotis of his eyes, in the calluses of his hands. Light pours through the dirty panes like chalk on a blackboard, like stained glass trapped behind scaffoldings, and it’s a sweet pilgrimage that takes you to his desk.

“They say your father makes hats?”

It sounds terribly conceited, yet you couldn’t be more genuine. You recognise and share the damage of the pen, that terrible splint keeping your idle fingers upright; but there’s something else in his, in the pulse that drums against his wrist. Just below the surface, like carps tickling the open sky.

The boy you’ll die for peels away from his thoughts, and smiles.

Or: Nina goes insane about another rarepair in another small fandom. What’s new?

@theuselesshistoryweeb, this one goes out to you! 📚🔥

[hot-claws-420]

[What appears to be webcam footage of an Eschaton mech hanger; a partially melted SLAG KITTY stands proudly, despite the damage along the chassis. Sally is replacing one of the face plates melted by GOJIRA in her fight with Slagwell, but her methods are... unorthodox...]

[Instead of scaffolding or any kind of harness, a rope has been looped around SLAG KITTY's bottom jaw and hangs down a few feet. Sally has two footholds on the neck of the mech, and bites down tightly on the rope, which keeps her upright. Her hands are occupied with welder's tools rather than any sort of grip, and they move freely as she attaches the new plate just below SLAG KITTY'S chin.]

[When the welding is complete, she puts the tools back in a pouch on her side and grabs the rope to pull herself up and peer into SLAG KITTY'S mouth, examining her handiwork from the inside.]

EH?!?!

[Now suspended only by one hand on the rope and a foot on her mech, she reaches into the jaws, retrieving a small metal cylinder.]

THE FUCK??!!?

[She scurries down the chassis alarmingly quickly, coming to face the webcam with wild eyes.]

THE HELL IS THIS!?! WHO PUT THIS HERE?!? WHO TOUCHED MY SLAG KITTY!?!

[She frantically waves what appears to be a metallic, purple marker.]

nobody's been here all day but me!! is this place haunted????? whos fuckin markar is thiss?????

[billdenbrough]

fundamentally disinterested in the recurring discourse about kevin's drinking that aims to a) make it his Specific Problem To Focus On And Overcome when it is a crutch and coping mechanism to get him through a Much Bigger Problem (emotional fallout he can't square with by himself, culture shock, trauma, loss of his extremely wildly co-dependent relationship w riko, losing the structure of the nest, mourning a future he was meant to have, processing a grave injustice, anger and fear and desperate grief, all of which is his Actual Specific Fox Problem) while he builds himself back up, and b) thinks that even if it is a problem (more on that later), it's the foxes' problem to deal with.

like. it's just not.

yeah, he doesn't drink until he meets them. they gave him that habit, and in traditional terms, they're (the monsters specifically) a 'bad influence'. but these are the foxes. this is kevin day, son of exy, whose meteor is crashing spectacularly through no fault of his own. there are no traditional terms to be found here. the framework for it literally doesn't exist. neil comes into the foxes with more conventional expectations—appalled at the athletes' substance use, his horror at matt's trip to columbia, his steadfast and early repeated stance that none of the foxes should let andrew treat them the way he does, and certainly not nicky—and tends to engage with them less as the series goes on and he folds himself into the foxes. the thing about the foxes is that they've all been in pits deeper than they are tall. and some of them got a helping hand on the way—erik, andrew's extreme intervention methods, stephanie walker—and wymack was always waiting for them on the other side, ready to throw down a rope, but all the foxes dragged themselves out of their own holes. often not alone, often not without assistance, but at the end of the day, they have to do it.

there's that line neil has about aaron in that scene that got deleted when the timeline shifted around, when he thinks about how aaron got this far in life on his own, surviving on willpower and sheer desperation. that applies to aaron in a way that's a little more acute than some of the rest of them—boy who doesn't let the foxes in bc of andrew, boy who doesn't let nicky in bc he doesn't know how, boy made of flinching and seeking an escape and grieving the one who hurt him—but is broadly true for the foxes en masse.

this isn't to say the foxes can't help each other, but it's not their job. it just isn't. they'll keep kevin alive, keep him safe, keep him flanked and contained within their ranks. they'll fight tooth and nail in this battle with him, fight to get him to that championship game, fight to get that trophy in his hands. but that's all they've agreed to. that's all they're responsible for, in this covenant they've made with him. he says they can make this happen, and they're going to get him to that final game, but it's up to him what state he's in when he gets there.

like. they're foxes. they've been triaging their whole lives. they hate each other and they hate everyone else more. they're the kids with their backs up against the wall. half of them are addicts. i don't think kevin is comparable, personally; he's getting through a horrific situation with a coping mechanism. that's not the same thing as battling yourself to stop using. but that's not really the point of this. what i'm getting at here is that to the foxes, it's easy math: kevin who can lean on vodka and andrew and wymack and the foxes to stay upright when he's not ready to stand on his own two feet is still a kevin who is standing. a kevin with one less piece of scaffolding to lean on is a kevin who falls over, a kevin at risk of complete collapse, a kevin one phone call away from running back to the master, a kevin one crucial loss away from not ever making it back to himself at all. they're triaging. this is low on the totem pole of things they have the room to care about. they very much have bigger problems, both individually and even just kevin-related. if alcohol makes seeing the boy he knew best in the world and moved in tandem with his whole life and who destroyed their entire legacy and his entire life in one move — if alcohol makes facing that boy easier to stomach, then, fuck, why would they take that away? they're foxes. they've all got their demons. this is what kevin needs this year and a half to let him face his, that's all. they can understand that. it doesn't have to be pretty, as long as it keeps him in the fight. that's the priority.

i think there's absolutely space to explore this in fic and art and fandom in a way that maybe does explore it as a Problem, both that it's an active problem for kevin & that it's something to explore other foxes helping him with (there's a t&n fic that i've been gnawing at the bit to read for months that seems poised to explore this premise, and that's super up my alley)! i just think we're in different territory when we're talking about the series—and its characters and dynamics—in a conversational rather than transformational way, and end up talking about this like the foxes are responsible for kevin's choices. i love kevin day. i read these back at the start of 2015 & he's so dear to me that loving him was the blueprint for how i feel abt kageyama. but it's been pretty weird to see how the conversation has been translating Loving Kevin Day into... thinking the foxes are doing wrong by him with respect to this in actual canon. like that's just not how it operates there

[intriguingpeoplebyangelafloyd]

THE EXECUTION OF ANNE BOLEYN

19 May 1536 (aged 29 or 35)

On the morning of Friday 19 May, Anne was taken to a scaffold erected on the north side of the White Tower. Anne made her final walk from the Queen's House to the scaffold; she showed a "devilish spirit" and looked "as gay as if she was not going to die". She climbed the scaffold and made a short speech to the crowd:

Good Christian people, […] I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.

After a brief farewell to her weeping ladies and a request for prayers, she knelt down; one of the ladies tied a blindfold over Anne's eyes. She knelt upright, in the French style of beheadings. Her final prayer consisted of her continually repeating, "Jesu receive my soul; O Lord God have pity on my soul."

The execution, which consisted of a single stroke, was witnessed by Thomas Cromwell; Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk; the King's illegitimate son, Henry FitzRoy. Cranmer, who was at Lambeth Palace, reportedly broke down in tears after telling Alexander Ales, "She who has been the Queen of England on earth will today become a Queen in heaven."

She was buried in an unmarked grave in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula at the Tower of London. Her skeleton was identified during renovations of the chapel in 1876, in the reign of Queen Victoria, and reinterred there in 1877. Her grave is now clearly marked on the marble floor, although the historian Alison Weir believes that the bones identified as belonging to Anne might in fact be those of Catherine Howard.

Natalie Dormer as Anne Boleyn in The Tudors

[mild-crusader]

Somewhere in the North Atlantic...

Once upon a windy early morning on the cavernous clifftop of some abandoned island a heretic crew of slavers has unearthed 5 stone idols inscribed in the glyphs of some lost alphabet of Europe's heathen antiquity, two anointed emissaries from hell oversee malnourished wretched slaves erecting the engraved stones in arrangement with forgotten constellations, while a heretic priest burns sage over a padlocked coffin stained with blood slowly sinking into the center of an old muddy battlefield...

Satisfied with their preparation the congregation of hell marches back to shore. They hope to be a safe at sea by midnight when the stars would hang in alignment above the odious carvings and Crom Cruach awakens. Reborn, full of hate and hunger...

how unhappy must they be to see that a cruiser typical of the Eire Rangers, Faithful soldiers of the Church, have laid anchor. And worse yet! Boot tracks headed straight to the site of their ritual!!!

Will the devoted Rangers cleanse the Island of idolatry before it's too late??? Can the servants of Evil thwart the pesky interpose of the pious??? Stay tuned dear reader, you're about to FIND OUT!

BATTLE REPORT

This was a game played at 700 ducats and 0 glory using the 1.5 playtest rules for Trench Crusade. Using the Scenario "Sabotage" on a 4 foot by 4 foot board. The Attackers were the Eire Rangers sub faction of New Antioch and the Defenders were the Heretic Legion without any sub faction. Lists are posted below.

EIRE RANGERS:

Trench Cleric with Standard Armour, Grenades and Pistol

Berserker Lieutenant with Trench Shield, Sword, Grenades and Shotgun

Shocktrooper Bard Fianna with Carnyx, Sword and Standard Armour

Shocktrooper Fianna with Submachine Gun, Two Swords and Standard Armour

Shocktrooper Fianna with Submachine Gun, Two Swords and Standard Armour

Shocktrooper Fianna with Semi Automatic Rifle, Two Swords and Standard Armour

Shocktrooper Fianna with Semi Automatic Rifle, Two Swords and Standard Armour

[ EXPLORATION MODIFIERS ] Reroll

HERETIC LEGION:

Heretic Priest with Silenced Pistol

Heretic Death Commando with Tartarus Claws

Anointed Heavy Infantry with Great Sword

Anointed Heavy Infantry with Great Sword and musical instrument

Heretic Legionnaire with Gas Mask Shovel Semi-Automatic Rifle and Unholy Trinket

Heretic Trooper with Gas Mask Shovel Semi-Automatic Rifle

Heretic Trooper with Gas Mask Shovel Semi-Automatic Rifle

Wretched with Sword

Wretched with knife

Wretched with knife

Turn 0 setting up the board,

After the Trench and ruins were on the table we took turns placing the point scoring relics the attackers are meant to destroy, represented by 5 upright Stones scattered around the board and a coffin in the middle. Now time to deploy the troops.

All but one of the Ranger team were skirmishers, while my Heretic's only skirmisher was Death Commando so I placed all my wretched, my Legionnaire, and my Musical Anointed Heavy Infantry on the front edge of their Deployment Zone, clear of any obstacles ready to climb the trench and rush into no-man's land,

Death Commando would sulk inside a ruined building near the middle edge of the board. According to the rules for this mission I had to leave 4 guys in reserve so Heretic Priest, Troopers, and the un-musical Anointed Heavy Infantry, sit on the bench for the time being.

The Rangers set up more spread out, one fireteam of 2 Shocktrooper Fiannas hiding in a separate room of the metal ruined building ready to charge the commando, one Shock Trooper at the top of the cliff One at the Base of the Cliff behind some scaffolding, and the rest behind their own trench.

Now, time to let the blood flow!

Turn 1 Crusading this Trench!

First unit to activate was the humble Wretched with knife dashing up into no man's land hoping to shank the Shocktrooper at the base of the cliff.

However, he was not able to reach the Enemy before the end of his turn so it's on to the Rangers.

The Ranger fireteam get to act as one unit so it's both of their turns and it's Open Season on Death Commando,

After the first hit left him with a blood token the second killed him completely, and that marks the first casualty of our trench crusade careers! The second member of the fire team ends the turn by moving out of the ruined building into no mans land eager to get a head start on idol smashing in the next turn.

Now Wretched with Sword is dispatched against the Fireteam to get revenge! Because of his proximity to the Music of the Anointed Heavy Infantry his movement gets a boost

he scrambles up into no man's land and lunges his sword at the Fianna.

Complete miss.

Back to the Rangers it's the Trench Cleric and he moves right up the support beam of the trench and shouts something about snakes

resulting in my wretched feeling a sudden compulsion to lie down in the dirt, snake-like.

Then he turns to face a nearby stone idol and lifts his holy crozier off the ground...

Before drawing his pistol and shooting it to bits and pieces!

+1 point to the Rangers

Heretic Legionaire activates and climbs on top of a pile of cargo to get a line of sight on the Rangers

He fires one shot and misses, Then hides under the trench convincing himself to charge over into closer range next turn.

Continuing our story, the Ranger under the scaffolding at the base of the cliff counter charges the humble wretched with knife

Sliding right up behind him and in front of another stone idol, he bloodies the wretched...

and transforms the heretical stone into a patch of gravel.

the last reluctant wretched prepares his journey over the trench walls

Luckily for him, I've reached the image limit on this site so he'll have until Part 2 to steady his nerves.

End of Part 1...