#And the old river but the water is always flooded

[bonefall]

Thistle Law

The most extreme, violent interpretation of the Warrior Code, initially founded by Thistleclaw near the end of the Campaign Era, with its first implementation defining the beginning of the Slash-and-Burn Period.

One of three distinct Clan ideologies, next to Fire Alone and Traditionalism.

A guide to its origin, the parable associated with it, its principles, and most importantly, my authorial intentions with it in the Bonefall Rewrite. Seen a couple of questions about it, so I think this’ll help clarify.

Origin

Extreme interpretations of the Code go back as far as the founding of the clans themselves, but the roots of Thistle Law trace back to the Exile of SkyClan. Justifying the loss of an entire clan included cracking down on medicine cats and quashing a rebellion, and the ‘clan pride tide‘ added FOUR new laws to the Warrior Code.

The following wars and conflicts in the Chivalric Period further contributed to xenophobic sentiment in the Clans, with each one vying for supremacy over the others, branching out to attack non-Clan cats when there were brief stints of ‘peace’. Thistleclaw merely gave these ideas a name while educating his apprentice, using thistles as a metaphor.

Tigerclaw then went on to tell the story to his clanmates, to his own apprentices, and at gatherings to his future allies who told it to their own clanmates. Though the details of the story changed at times, the takeaway is constant;

Other cats must die, so yours can stay strong.

The Parable of the Thistle

The story goes that Thistleclaw brought Tigerpaw out to a massive, thorny bull thistle. He pointed out that the other plants were dying around it, but the flowers stood tall and proud. Thistleclaw explained the thistle was killing the plants around it to have more room to grow, and then cruelly commanded that Tigerpaw try to destroy it.

By the time it was done, Tigerpaw was covered in scratches and the sun was setting. All the way home, he tried to shake the thistlefluff out of his fur and forget the painful experience. The seasons turned, and one year later when Tigerclaw was a young warrior, Thistleclaw led him down a path lined with young, thorny leaves.

There, in a sea of green spikes, the thistle was standing as tall and as proud as the day Tigerpaw shredded it.

In killing every other plant in the area, the thistle had given itself room to come back stronger. The fluff that clung to Tigerpaw’s fur became new growth. Around them was an entire clearing of thistles, ready to burst into a wall of flowers and seeds.

Thistleclaw asked if Tigerclaw would dare to try again, and remembering how his last battle with the weed ended with scratches as deep as claw marks, admitted that he would rather be a thistle than fight one.

(Little did Ivypaw know, the beautiful field in which she meets Hawkfrost was completely strangled by flowering thistles.)

Principles

Depending on the exact time period and the cat it takes root in, Thistle Law can look different. For examples, Brokenstar’s goal was to drive every Clan out of the forest except ShadowClan, where Tigerstar’s aim was to annex every clan into TigerClan and enforce a standard of purity.

Incarnations of Thistle Law tend to share these principles,

The Code Hardens The calling card of Thistle Law is a stricter, more violent interpretation of the Warrior Code. The harsher laws are emphasized, such as the Law of Loyalty and the Right of the Challenge, while softer ones are downplayed or dropped entirely, like the Law of Honor and the Queen’s Rights.

Extreme Xenophobia Against outsiders, against cats of other clans, against half-clan cats. Thistle Law sets itself apart from Traditionalism for becoming willing to enforce some sort of purity.

Hierarchy Becomes Rigid The social power of medicine cats, deputies, and elders is suppressed. The leader is raised as the ultimate authority, even if that leader isn’t the Clan’s -star.

There Is No ‘Pointless’ Death The Clans are a battle culture, but a good battle is still fought for a reason. When tides turn to Thistle Law, fighting is the goal AND the means. To live is to battle, to kill is to win, and a warrior’s purpose is to die at war.

Each incarnation likely contains each point in varied amounts and tosses other ideas into the mix, but the name of the game remains the same-- and it springs from the taproot of Thistle Law.

Intentions

Thistle Law is what fascism looks like in Clan culture. I approach this using Umberto Eco’s 1995 essay Ur-Fascism as my primary reference. Ur-fascism is a ‘fuzzy‘ concept that looks very different depending on the exact society it springs from, mixing and matching several symptoms in varying degrees of severity.

So, in adapting this, I had to simplify a very complicated topic. I wanted to keep the antifascist theory recognizable, while still following canon events and creating an engaging rewrite.

So for simplicity sake, even if a clan might have technically called their own version of Thistle Law something else, I use this name to address it.

[phoenixblair666]

It Only Takes One Second: A Logan Howlett X Fem!Reader Story

This story takes place in the X-Men trilogy. It's a romance between Logan and Fem!Reader, where the reader goes through a traumatic experience that allows her mutant powers to emerge. She goes to Xavier's school in search of sanctuary but finds Logan instead. When He helps her learn how to use and control her powers, he creates a valuable new member of the X-Men, but what started as helping a new recruit find their footing, turns into a blossoming romance.

Authors Note: This story will be in multiple parts. As of now how many parts, is to be determined. The story starts off slow, but additional parts will be added. Enjoy! ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Word Count: 1,207

Reading Time Approximately: 5 Minutes

WARNINGS: Mentions of Traumatic experiences (Car crash), Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of Hospitalization

(Part: 1) How It All Started

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .

Driving has always given you a sense of peace. That certain feeling of highway hypnosis was more than welcomed; the cool breeze in your hair, the gentle warmth from the sun shining through your windshield, and classic tunes fit for a twenty-three-year-old woman playing through your out-of-date stereo.

You never feared the long roads during these trips, nor did you fear where they would take you. Living in a van had its perks. One day you may want to lie beachside, lemonade in hand, the next you're driving through the Rocky Mountains, taking in the natural sights. Today that feeling changed.

Screeching tires echoed through the twined peaks on either side of you, the smell of burnt rubber filling your vehicle. You tried to take control of the wheel as best you could, but the invisible ice covering the pavement made it incredibly difficult. Your car swerved one way, then the next before the sound of metal against metal was heard, airbags deploying, scraping your face, leaving first-degree burns against your skin. Now you were airborne, freefalling off the side of a mountain. Time feels as if it slows as you watch the raging river below get closer and closer with each second.

Then it happens. Suddenly your body senses the air surrounding you. The way the gaseous molecules float freely, only parting ways when they touch your solid form. You can feel the vibrations from each of these molecules not on your skin but deep within your muscles, a sensation that is completely foreign to you.

The car is only a few yards away from crashing into the aggressive waters when your body begins to use the surrounding air as leverage, and you begin to float on your own accord. It's not gravity lifting you from your seat, but it's you, manipulating the natural resource. Everything happens too quickly for this newfound ability to be of use, and before you know it your car is making an impact with the water. The surface of the river is like concrete against the metal, crushing the hood to your knees. Your windshield shatters, allowing water to flood the interior of the vehicle, and then everything goes black.

══════════════════════════════

The smell of rubbing alcohol and soap is the first thing your senses pick up, then the constant beeping in your ears. Your fingers feel the rough texture of fabric as you weakly grip a set of white sheets. All of your senses slowly come back, one by one, acclimating you to your surroundings. Finally, your eyes flutter open. Your vision is blurry, but you can see the bright fluorescent lights shining down on you. You blink hard, trying to make the rest of the room visible, succeeding when you begin to notice the objects around you. A countertop with a sink, an empty armchair, medical posters, and IVs wrapping around your arm with a small needle filling your body with a plethora of drugs.

Just like the rest of your senses, the unfamiliar buzzing in your muscles returns. Once again, you feel the sheer power of the surrounding air in your body. This is a sensation that is completely new to you, it is frightening. Your heart begins to quicken, and the machine next to you detects the rapid pulse, alerting nearby nurses. You begin to paw at the IVs that adorn your arm, ripping the needle from your skin and discarding it on the floor, allowing liquid to pool on the clean white tiles. Your body begins to hover as you panic, lifting a few feet above the bed. A nurse opens the curtain that led into your room, gasping at the sight before him.

As you float, the feeling of uncertainty washes over you. Everything that was happening to you in this moment was unnatural, almost alien. The fact that you survived the horrible crash the day before, and now you can fly without trying, was some sort of strange miracle.

Nothing in your life has been or will be the same since this day.

══════════════════════════════

The sign against the brick wall was a clear indicator that you had reached your destination. You had heard from one of the doctors a few weeks ago that there was a place for 'You people' that acted as a sanctuary. Until then you had heard few stories of mutants, let alone seen one for yourself. And now here you are, standing at the entrance of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. You inhale sharply, feeling a ball sit in your chest, all worries flooding your mind at once.

Hesitantly you take one heavy step forward, then the next. Gravel crunches under your combat boots as you make your way to the large mansion-turned-school. Two large oak doors decorate the front of the classic old building, and an elegant porch covers them, while vines grow upwards against the brick, some even covering the many windows that adorn the structure. A large water fountain sits in the middle of a rounded driveway, and different types of foliage surround the man-made body of water.

What was once gravel turns into a stone path, leading to the driveway. Your steps become more wary as you approach the stairs of the porch. The unknown sits behind the oak barriers, making your heartbeat thump against your ribcage. A few more steps and you are right in front of said barrier. Lifting your arm had proven to be more difficult than expected as thoughts raced through your skull. Despite this, the rough skin against your knuckles meets the solid object with three small knocks.

Your anxiety spikes as you wait for someone to answer. You almost don't notice that you're holding your breath, barely able to remind yourself to keep breathing. One of the doors swings open, making you jump at the abrupt motion. A tall man peers down at your shorter self, eyeing you intently. His hair is pitch black and came to two catlike peaks at the top, with facial hair that hugs his jaw but stopped above his lip and chin, leaving only a small amount of stubble. His eyes are a light hazel color, resembling two rounded drops of honey and his body is quite built. He wore a white, wife-pleaser that showed every muscle under his lightly tanned skin, along with a dark blue, denim pair of jeans.

Your breath hitches in your throat, as your eyes meet his. The stare lasts longer than you'd like, but when his hardened expression turns curious, you find it easier to find your voice. "Is this Xavier's School for the Gifted?" You ask sheepishly, searching his eyes for a silent response. The man looks you up and down, then to the gate that you had entered from. Once his eyes meet yours again, he smirks. "Do you know how to read?" He questions, lifting an eyebrow. You nod quickly, feeling quite small at the hands of his satirical response. His features change for a third time, and he smiles. "Then I think you're at the right place."

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:

You try to match his smile, but it comes off as nervous. He chuckles at your shy exterior before opening the door further and allowing you entrance.

Part 2: Nightmares

[aemondapologistfrfr]

What the Gods Gave Us

fancast!benji blackwood x targ!fem!reader

apocalypse asoiaf/f&b au 

Summary: The Gods chose their own side during the dance of the dragons and decided to cast the realm into winter and death. Only three dragons remain alive to see the fruition of Aegon the Conquers dream. 

Warnings: 18+ mentions of death, death, swearing, blood, fingering, p in v, heavy au, plot heavy

Authors Note: a request from @chainsawsangel that I absolutely got carried away with :) in reality I should’ve made this multiple parts but fuck that we gots to see it thru

Word Count: 9k just be chill about it 

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

When the dance began the Gods looked down upon us and frowned. They cast the world into winter and allowed death to come from above the wall. No one was spared from what broke down the barrier in the north and came flooding through. It didn’t happen slowly. In under a week the entire realm was cast in snow and bitter winds. Sicknesses wiped out entire houses. Noble and low born families alike were torn apart and scattered across the wastelands that used to once be the great seven kingdoms of Westeros. 

Winter took our entire family and most of our dragons. The only remaining Targaryens in this world are me and my two brothers. When the snow started sticking our mother sent us and our dragons to hide within the crumbling walls of Harrenhal. The only place that seems to be untouched from decay here is the weirwood. Its eyes follow us as we walk across the grounds as it pours buckets of blood from its eyes. There’s an old kind of magic about this fallen castle that deters the white walkers from entering. 

The only other living creature here is Alys Rivers who only speaks in riddles and hides herself away in her chambers with her potions and ramblings. We try to avoid her but we’ve made her an honorary member of our family. She cooks and cares for us and we offer her protection and go out and get supplies. Today’s supply run has us traveling to Ironmans bay. She’s seeking a specific plant that only grows on the coast of the Iron Islands. 

“Why must I stay here with her?” Luke whines pleading with me and Jace to come with.

“You are young and so is your dragon. We’re not risking it. Taking two dragons out is as big of a calling card that we can deal with.” Jaces voice does not falter as he orders Luke to stay. 

“Mother said we’re supposed to stick together.” Luke looks between the both of us with sad eyes. 

“We always come back.” I cup his cheek hoping to offer him comfort.

“Please come back.” Luke’s eyes water as he pulls us into a hug. 

It’s never my want to leave him behind but I would much rather have him here than out there with us. Jace and I cover ourselves with white fur and leave the main hall. Our dragons chuff to us as we mount and take to the skies. We always fly in the clouds if we’re able. We don’t want to announce our moves during these trying times. We fly over countless pyres. I’m thankful our word got out that the one way to kill these things is fire and we have the biggest weapon against them. 

The flight to the coast is quick and freezing. We land on the shores and pull out a rough drawing of the plant that Alys gave us. Jace curses under his breath and kicks the snow away. It took a lot of convincing on my end for him not to kill or kick Alys out of Harrenhal when we first arrived. He’s been so angry at the world and I get it. I’m living in this frozen hell with him and I’m slowly losing hope as the moons pass. 

“I don’t care about her stupid fucking plants. We could be using our time differently.” he crosses his arms standing next to Vermax. 

“Using our time to do what Jace? What else could we possibly be doing? If you want to go sulk around that crumbling castle then go.” my voice rises with my anger. 

His breath clouds in front of him as he sighs and begins to look for the plants we’re here for. I hear a groan of string and wood and fall to the ground as I hear the arrow coast through the breeze. I turn and see Jace rising from the ground unsheathing his sword. I turn and see a handful of men running towards us and another bursts out from the tree line and starts cutting them down one by one. Jace and I look to each other before we turn back to the man who was so ready to lay his life down for us. 

“That’s close enough.” Jace raises his blade to the man walking towards us who stops and falls to one knee. 

“I swore fealty to your mother and that extends to her children as well. My sword is yours.” he bows his head and I turn to Jace. 

“What do we need your fealty for? What do you think we’re ruling over? Death and decay?” the man’s head pulls up as he looks beyond as at our dragons. 

“If anyone could bring the realm back together it would be the dragons. It was word from your mouths that fire will kill them no?” he rises to his full height. 

“What is it that you want?” Jaces voice calls over to him. 

“Shelter and safety. These Bracken cunts slaughtered the last of my men. I’ve been hunting them down for days now.” he turns to them and lets sparks rain upon them as their bodies go up in flame.

“And what is your name?” I raise my chin looking him over. 

“Benjicot Blackwood.” he bows his head once more. 

“What is it that you can offer us if we take you with us?” I ask assessing him. 

“I have no dragon or dragon flame but I have a sword and flint and they offer the same results.” he holds his sword out with both hands offering it to us. 

“I say we burn him and leave.” Jace says from my side and my eyes bulge. 

“Why would we do that? He’s just one person. Surely we can use his hands and sword.” I try to reason with him. 

“I’m sure you would like to use his sword.” he sneers at me and it takes all my strength not to punch him in the face. 

“I will cut your tongue out if you speak to me like that again.” I hiss back to him. 

“If you want him then search him and see if your dragon will allow him to ride back with you. I’m not dealing with this.” he waves me off and walks back to his dragon. 

“Alright, let’s go.” I nod my head for Benjicot to come to me. “I will search your pack and person and then we will see if my dragon will allow you to ride him and then we’ll go back to where we stay.” I hold out my hand expectantly. 

“Where is it that you stay?” he hands me his pack and my hands stop searching as I see the plants Alys is looking for. 

“What are you doing with these plants?” I look to him with scrunched brows. 

“They help staunch the never ending hunger.” he tilts his head. 

“Very well, do you have anything on your person that I need to be concerned about?” I close the bag and toss it back to him. 

“You can come let your hands roam all over me and find out for yourself.” he smirks unabashed. “The only thing you might find concerning is how much you enjoy it.” I gasp at his words as a laugh falls from my lips. 

“You are very bold.” I offer him a smile of my own as I feel my body heat. “Let’s see if you get to come home with me or become a meal for my dragon.” I hum and he chuckles lowly walking to my side. 

My dragon looks over him licking his teeth. I don’t know if it’s boldness or lack of care for his life but he walks up to my dragon and holds his hands out. My dragon seems as taken aback as I am and looks to me and huffs. I shrug my shoulders and walk past Benjicot to his wing. 

“Well are you coming, Benjicot?” I turn raising my eyebrow to him. 

“You can call me Benji.” he smiles walking to my side with confidence in his step. 

Vermax and Jace shoot to the skies and we’re close behind them. Benji holds onto my sides tightly and I welcome in the extra warmth. The chill goes to the bone once the sun begins to set and I’m thankful for our quick flight back to our crumbling fortress. Benji slides down after me and Jace scoffs before strutting into the main doors. 

“You’ve found the plants.” she looks to Benji and I look to her confused but not surprised that she knew of Benji from all her self proclaimed premonitions that I’m starting to believe more of everyday.

“This is-“ 

“Benjicot.” Alys nods her head taking his pack and disappearing with it leaving us confused. 

“She’s an interesting woman.” Benji says chuckling. 

“Who is this?” Luke bounds down the stairs and looks to Benji.

“Benji Blackwood. We found him wandering.” I offer. 

“Jace isn’t happy.” Luke says looking to me. 

“I’m well aware.” I roll my eyes and turn to Benji. “Come let’s find you a room.” he trails after me as we walk deeper into the castle. 

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It has been just over a moon since we brought Benji back and Jace hasn’t gotten anymore welcoming. Luke on the other hand has taken a liking to him and it warms my heart to see Luke smile and laugh again. I want this for Jace but I don’t think he wants it for himself and that’s why he closes in on himself. I keep wanting to talk to Jace about Benjis words to us when we first met him. How us and our dragons could bring the realm back together. I talk about this a lot with Benji and he’s told me that there are survivors out there who believe this as well. I’ve been thinking about this nonstop and even have entertained the idea with Alys. 

“What do you propose?” Alys hums as I sit at the stone table while she’s crushing plants. 

“I don’t know. Something. We can’t possibly live like this forever. There has to be something we can do.” I try to search her eyes for any clue of to what she’s thinking. 

“The Gods are angry.” she offers me an unsettling smile. 

“They’ve taken it out on the realm what else is there left for them to take?” I ask exasperated. 

“They can take anything they please.” she hums moving around the table. 

“There has to be something we can do to change the tides. Are we not of the line that is supposed to end this war? Is the song of ice and fire truly just a tale?” I nibble on my bottom lip and she turns quickly to me. 

“So you know?” she raises an eyebrow. 

“Of the dream, yes, but what are we to do? There’s only three of us.” I sigh rubbing my forehead. 

“Return to Dragonstone and retrieve the glass.” her words ominous. 

“What glass?” I ask tilting my head. 

“Beneath the castle. You’ll know it when you find it.” she waves me off. “Bring both of your brothers and Benjicot.” she adds as I exit. 

As I walk up the stairs to find them my mind races with the confirmation Alys just gave me. I know Jace is going to scold me but I truly believe this with my being. I find Jace and Luke lounging in front of the great hearth. Benji is sat on the other side of the room near the window gazing out. I call Benji over near the fire and begin to tell them of my conversation with Alys and what we must do.

“You’re just as mad as her if you think I’m coming with you.” Jace scoffs at me.

“This is our chance to try and set things right. We’re the last dragons. Mother told us of the song of ice and fire and you want to ignore that? Winter is here. She chose you as her heir for a reason. Start acting like it.” I rise along with my temper. 

“You think a story will save us now?” he tosses his head back and laughs. 

“There’s no harm in trying, we either sit here and starve to death or try to do something. We can find the other survivors, unite the realm once more. We can kill these things, brother. We can set the realm back to how it was supposed to be, together, as a family.” I plead with him trying to show him reason. 

“Do you include your stray in our family now?” he shoots Benji a dirty look. 

“My stray has a name and he has been nothing but kind to you. Why do you despise him so much?” I shake my head at his ridiculousness. 

“Because he feeds your obsession about saving the realm when it’s already a frozen wasteland beyond repair.” Jace turns to Luke for support who avoids his eyes. “Oh you believe this too?” he chuckles to himself at a loss.

“What harm will it cause to go home for one day. Remember what used to be, what could be again.” Luke speaks softly. 

“One day.” Jace says looking to me. 

“Just one.” I nod my head. 

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

The stone walls have never felt more cold than they do now in this abandoned castle. The wind seems to whisper as we pass through the empty halls sharing the story of our downfall. This once great castle brimming with life and happiness now offers us a cold embrace. Our dragons rumble beneath the floors from the pits and I allow myself to remember how lively these halls once were. Our home taken by fate.

“I’m going to my chambers. Let me know when you’ve found what you’re looking for so we can get off this freezing rock.” Jace bounds up the stairs out of sight. 

“Go after him.” I nod to Luke not wanting Jace to feel so alone and unheard. I sigh pulling my furs around me. Benji walks over to me and rubs his hands on my arms trying to warm me up some.

“Do you think I sound crazy, Benji?” I look to him with furrowed brows.

“We walk alongside death, Princess. I don’t think there’s anything crazy about wanting for something better.” he offers me a reassuring smile. 

“Then we must go to the pits.” I turn walking to the stairs. 

I hear him a step behind me and smile. Benji stops to light a torch for us and we enter the dark cave. I get us quickly to the bottom and we start through the small tunnels. I plunge us deeper as the air gets cooler. The torch catches on an opening showing us something dark and glossy. A smile spreads across my face as I take in the shimmering rock. 

“Dragon glass.” I turn to Benji. 

“How much does she want?” he asks looking at the massive trove in front of us.

“I’m assuming as much as us our dragons can carry.” I crane my neck to see the extent of the obsidian walls. 

“Do you think Jace will carry some?” he asks my thoughts out loud.

“I will make him. I believe in this and him. He is King even if he doesn’t speak it.” my voice hushed. “Do you think if he calls the survivors will answer?” I look to him as he looks at me with admiration. 

“Who would be bold enough not to answer the dragons call?” he chuckles. “I believe in what you say. You are a good sister, a good person, to keep faith in him when he doesn’t even have it for himself.” his words have me thanking Alys  for sending me to find those plants. 

“Thank you, Benji.” my voice barely a whisper as I look to him. 

“You are strong and resilient and any smart man knows there’s always a woman holding the realm together.” his words cause a welcome warmth to my cheeks. 

“I fear the realm has fallen apart.” I look away.

“You didn’t set that in motion. You are helping reclaim and rebuild. You will never have to carry that weight alone as long as I breathe.” my eyes see the sincerity across his features. 

“Thank you, Benji.” I cup his cheek before leading us out of the caves once more to find my brothers. 

They both groan at diving into the pits with me and Benji but follow nonetheless. Their eyes alight with wonder as they look around the obsidian cave. Jace places a hand on one of the rocks jutting from the ground and a warm breeze comes from deep within the ground. Just as quick as the warmth spreads it is replaced with ice. 

“What is it you want me to do?” Jace turns to me. 

“We need to mine as much of this as we can and bring it back with us.” I search Jaces face to see his mood. 

“This seems as if it will take more than the day I was promised.” Jace sighs. 

“We can figure it out. We can get you and Vermax loaded up first and you can go back to Harrenhal tonight if you want.” my eyes pleading. 

“I can stay and help.” a smile starts to spread across my face. “Don’t get too excited.” he glares at me and I have to bite my lip from smiling even wider. 

“Let’s go find some tools and start moving this out of the caves.” I nod my head leading us to the armory. 

As I push the doors to the armory open the castle seems to let out a breath it was holding since before this never ending winter. We all walk in and look around to find tools and carts. On the center table I spot two swords and a dagger with a parchment containing our mother’s handwriting. I call Jace and Luke over as we read her last words to us. 

My sweet children- 

Should you find this letter and our family blades it means you know what must be done now. My father always believed the song of ice and fire to be true and now I see that it is. The realms fate is left to you three. Jacaerys, I leave you Catspaw, the blade passed down to heirs over the years. Luke, my sweet boy, I leave you Blackfyre, do not allow anyone to underestimate you. Y/n, I leave you Dark Sister, that has been wielded by the strongest of us. Get the dragon glass and call the realm together. I’m sorry I’ve left this burden on you three. I love you, you were always the best of me.

-Mother

We look to each other with tear filled eyes and hold on to one another tightly. We sniffle and settle our breathing before nodding to one another. As we all grab for the blades we feel another warm breeze kiss across our faces. We turn and see Benji staring at us in awe. He shakes his head at a loss and falls to his knee. 

“The remaining dragons shall save us and cast the winter out of the realm.” he bows his head to us. 

“Rise, Benji. We have work to do.” Jace nods his head and I try to hide my smile that he called Benji by his name for the first time. 

We begin to pick up axes and shovels and toss them into carts. We make our way back down to the caves with a new sense of purpose. The next couple of hours are filled with grunts and curses at the hard rock. We take turns carting it to our dragons who look at us curiously as they curl up together. The energy we’re exuding actually has us hot for once and we take a break to walk the grounds. We end up standing in front of the weirwood as it stares back at us. The blood tears seem to still be ever flowing but less than what we’ve seen at Harrenhal. 

We decide to rest for the night and go about sourcing wood for a fire. After splitting up the frozen soup Alys sent us with we heat it over a fire in the main hall. We eat silently and quickly ready to sleep and start tomorrow anew. We each grab some wood and part ways and head for our chambers. As I’m making my way to my chambers I notice Benji is still trailing after me. 

“Where are you going?” I turn and raise an eyebrow to him. 

“To your chambers?” he tilts his head as if it was obvious. 

“I don’t remember inviting you.” I chuckle shaking my head. 

“It’s cold. We should share a bed. It’s the smart thing to do.” the smile that spreads across his face is serpentine. 

“Where is this concern when we’re at Harrenhal?” I smile before continuing down the hall to my chambers. 

“Are you asking me to move into your chambers with you?” he purrs quickening his pace to walk at my side. 

“We’ll see how tonight goes.” I hum as I push my chamber doors open and sigh at the familiar sight. 

“If there’s anything you need or want of me don’t hesitate to ask.” he says lowly before going to the stone hearth and starting a fire.

“Let’s move the mattress next to the hearth.” I toss the wood on the floor along with my bags. 

“Mm, how romantic.” he rises from the hearth and looks down to me. 

“It’s so we can be warmer.” I glare up at him. 

“I’ll keep you warm, don’t worry.” he strokes the side of my cheek before stepping around me and walking to the bed. I turn to him with red cheeks and cross my arms. “Stop pouting and come help me.” he chuckles. 

I flare my nostrils and walk over to my bed. I push my blankets and furs to the center and grab the edge of the bed to lift it. Benji lifts his side and we drop it on the ground a couple feet back from the hearth. I turn and look around my chambers taking them in. I never thought I would see these walls again. I pull Dark Sister from its sheath and place it on the table and look upon it. 

“A powerful weapon for a powerful woman.” Benji comes from behind me and looks over my shoulder. 

“I hope I’m not sending us all to our doom.” I whisper turning to him. 

“If you are, I will gladly stand by your side.” his voice doesn’t carry its usual playful demeanor. 

“Do you think we can do it?” I search his eyes. 

“I do.” he nods his head. “It will be hard but we’ve endured this far.” we slowly begin to lean into each other’s body heat. 

“Thank you for believing in me and not thinking I’m crazy.” I look up to him as our chests are almost touching. 

“I never said I didn’t think you were crazy, I said your idea wasn’t crazy.” a smile splits across his face and I push him back. 

“You’re such an asshole, you can-“ 

He pulls me into a rough kiss and I completely forget why I was angry. He pushes his tongue into my mouth and my arms wrap around his back holding him to me. One of his hands tangles into my hair holding my lips against his. His other hand holds my lower back molding me to him. We stay tangled in each other until we both pull back panting. 

“What were you saying?” he says lowly with his smirk back on his face. 

“Now I’m saying you’re an arrogant asshole and you can find somewhere else to sleep.” I glare up to him before looking at his lips and he chuckles catching the movement. 

“Want to try again and sound like you mean it?” his words taunting me. 

“Benji,” I warn huffing. 

“Hm?” he licks his lips and I roll my eyes at him brushing past him to the mattress. 

His hand reaches out and grabs my arm. He turns me towards him. I look up to him expectantly waiting for him to say or do something. I relent and start to reach up to capture his lips once more, over his games and he tips his head up making me chase his lips out of my reach. 

“I didn’t take you as such a tease. Or maybe you can’t get it hard?” I try to pull my arm out of his grasp but he just tightens his fingers. 

When he captures my lips this time it’s bruising and takes my breath away. His hands begin to pull off my clothes. When his rough hands meet my flesh I gasp into his mouth. I start to push off his clothes and he helps quicken the process. When our skin presses together I sigh at the warmth. We don’t separate as we fall to the mattress in a clash of tongues and teeth. He kisses down my jaw and I arch up into him gasping as I feel his hardened length slide against my wetness. 

“Benji,” I mewl as he rubs against my bud. 

“Hush,” he says before pushing into me. 

My breath catches at the stretch of him. He chuckles looking at my scrunched brows as I squirm beneath him. He slowly starts to rock into me until my moans become broken. His hips snap into mine and I feel my pleasure begin to coil. As he wraps my legs around his waist he starts a brutal pace. I throw my head back into the pillow as my hips meet his. I come undone around him and he grunts but keeps his pace. 

“Is my cock hard enough for you, Princess?” he dips down to whisper in my ear as he continues to rut into me. 

“Yes, Benji please,” I cry out feeling my high quickly approaching again. 

Our breaths come out in pants as we chase our highs. He rolls his hips into me and I whimper as he brushes against my sensitive bud. His trusts begin to falter as I start to pulse around him. He stills as I feel his warmth fill me. He brings his lips to mine as we still try to catch our breath. He rolls off of me placing one more kiss on my forehead. He pulls the furs over us and pulls me to his chest. 

“Do you still think I’m an asshole?” I roll my eyes and turn over putting my back to him. 

“I must’ve not fucked you hard enough if you’re still pouting.” he pulls me back to his chest. 

“I’m limited on options.” as the words leave my mouth his hand lands on my backside hard making me jolt into him. 

“Go to bed before I decide you don’t need any sleep.” his voice low as we hold each other tightly to ward off the cold.

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Over the past three days we’ve been able to collect as much dragon glass as our dragons can carry. I’m thankful to finally get back to Harrenhal because we’re low on food and supplies. As we make our way to our dragons my brother and I look back at our home. None of us are brave enough to say goodbye or even to express hope to return again someday. We know the path ahead now is victory or peril. 

The flight back to Harrenhal feels as if it takes forever. Once we land Alys sweeps out through the main gates and looks us all over. She assesses the dragon glass and nods in approval at the amount we got. She ushers us inside and pours us tea and hot soup. 

“I’ve begun sending word around the realm that their King calls for them.” she says this as if it’s just another daily task. 

“Alys,” Jace sighs. “What was the message? We should’ve planned this together.” he shakes his head. 

“This has been planned long before you were born, boy. I’ve been waiting for you to stop throwing your tantrums to start moving the plans into place.” Alys turns to him with a motherly tone. 

“And where are you calling these survivors to rally?” Jace sets his spoon down completely abandoning his soup. 

“Winterfell, of course.” Alys tosses over her shoulder before returning to her poultices.

“Are there any survivors that far north?” Luke asks shaking his head.

“The one who carries Ice still lives.” she doesn’t even deign to turn around.

“How is it that you know all this? The ravens don’t carry messages anymore.” I ask my eyes boring into her back.

“There’s another raven that still carries messages if you know how to listen. The trees whisper too, I’m surprised you haven’t heard them.” she hums absentmindedly. 

“I need proof that there is reason for us to pack up and go north. The winds are surely deadly that far up.” Jace takes a sip of tea.

“Then follow me.” Alys’ skirts swish out of the hall and we all get up and trail after her. She takes us out to the Godswood and we stand in front of the crying weirwood. “Do any other of you have a lack of faith in the song of ice and fire?” she turns and assesses us. 

I turn to look at Luke and Benji and they both seem contented that the song is absolute certainty. We all turn to Jace who has a pout back on his face still not convinced. Alys smiles and gestures for him to come closer. She reaches for his hand and he reluctantly gives it to her. When she places his hand on the tree it feels as if the sun is shining on us for the first time in moons. When I look up I still see the same overcast sky and sigh.

Jace has gone completely still as the blood flows over his hands. His eyes are watering as his features go blank. He doesn’t seem to be in any pain but I’m still concerned for him nonetheless. I go to rest my hand on him and Alys stops me. 

“Do not interrupt this. He’ll be fine.” she whispers and I step back to Benji and Luke. 

Luke clings to me as we wait for Jace to come back to the present. The minutes drag on for what feels like hours. Benji comes to my other side and rests his head on my shoulder and I drink in his warmth. We huddle together and our spines straighten as Jace inhales deeply.

“It’s true.” he turns to us with tears streaming down his face as he pulls us into a hug. 

“What happened?” I pull back so I can assess him.

“I saw.” his voice still far off. “I saw everything.” he pulls Catspaw from his belt and holds it between us. 

“To Winterfell?” I search his eyes.

“To Winterfell.” Jace nods and walks past us back into the crumbling castle with a new found sense of purpose.

“What of you, Alys?” I turn to her and she smiles. 

“I will be there should you need me.” she hums walking past us into the castle after Jace.

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

We stop every night on the way to Winterfell. Our dragons can only handle the chill for so long. We have them scorch the lands around us encircling us in a wall of flame. We are hoping to see some of the survivors Alys has talked about but the road has been silent. We curl up on the frozen ground clinging to one another for warmth. Sleep only offers us a reprieve for a couple of hours before we’re back in the wind. 

“How much longer?” Luke whines as he hugs onto Arrax. 

“If we push through we could make it a couple hours after moonrise.” Jace hums trying to see how we feel. 

“We can load up on furs. If Arrax can support him I’ll send Benji with you to help keep the chill off.” I nod trying to get us to Winterfell as soon as possible. I don’t know if we can survive another night outside in these temperatures, no matter how much fire our dragons supply. 

“You don’t have to baby me, Y/n.” Luke groans rolling his eyes at me. 

“You are a baby, Luke.” Jace laughs and I look to him with a smile of my own. I haven’t heard his genuine laugh in so long.

We decide on giving Luke as many of our furs that he could wear and still see. Arrax didn’t take too kindly to Benji and we didn’t want to stress anyone out. I give him more furs than Jace because I’ll have Benji behind me to help retain my heat. We mount the dragons and push forward to Winterfell. 

As the sun sets behind the clouds the temperature drops almost instantly. My muscles tense as I lean back into Benji. He opens his jacket and pulls me against his chest. He buries his head into my neck and I feel my body heat as his hair tickles me. He offers soft kisses to my neck that help distract me as the wind bites. 

As the hours drag by my body begins to shake trying to make its own heat. I look worriedly to my brothers who are probably in the same state and they don’t have someone to offer them extra warmth. I bury my head in my hands trying to regain feeling on my cheeks and nose. 

“We’re about an hour out. Once we’re in our chambers I’ll make sure you’re so hot you’ll be begging to go roll in the snow.” his words brush my ears and my entire body heats. I lean back appreciatively and excited about the warmth he’s offering. 

I fill my mind with thoughts of the man behind me and soon the blush on my face is heating my extremities. His arms wrap tighter around me as if he’s doing the same thing. Our bodies mend together pulling heat from one another. The walls of Winterfell finally come into view and I let out a choked sob. I see there are torches lit and it looks as if the integrity of this castle has still remained intact. Our dragons land inside the gates and burn the ground before us and I sigh in relief at the warmth as it licks at us.

“Welcome back, Your Grace.” a northern man with a large sword down his back approaches us.

“Lord Stark.” Jace nods his head before they laugh and hug each other.

“I’mglad that you guys are reunited but I would like to be reunited with warmth.” I say with a bite in my voice as Benji laughs next to me.

“Of course,” Cregan nods his head and we enter the warm halls quickly. 

“How is this the warmest place we’ve been in moons?” I sigh bringing my hands to the fire. 

“It was built to withstand the winter. After all, it’s always winter up here, Princess.” Cregan smiles to me. “We also have hot springs that should help you defrost and if that doesn’t help I’m sure we could find another way.” he chuckles as my red cheeks and Benji comes up to my side promptly. 

“We would love to try the hot springs.” Benji smiles to Cregan before wrapping his arm around me. Cregan brushes this off and walks back over to Jace and Luke. He leads us to the guest chambers. Benji tells him that he’s sharing with me and I roll my eyes at his dramatics. 

“Then I guess I won’t offer you a place in my chambers.” Cregan leans down and whispers into my ear. As he pulls back my cheeks are tinted and Benji is fuming next to me. “Someone will be up here shortly to bring you to the hot springs.” he smirks at me before shutting the door.

“Are you serious?” Benji turns me towards him.

“What?” I tilt my head still flushed from Cregans words.

“You’re lucky I didn’t take you in front of him.” he growls pulling me to him. 

“Benji,” I gasp as he starts pulling my furs off. “It was harmless.” he starts to pull off my shirt and I bite my lip as his hands find my skin.

“Harmless? He all but asked you to fuck in front of me.” he says through his teeth as he lifts my shirt off. 

“He did not.” I say hushed as his hands slide up my bare skin.

“What did he say that had you blushing?” he fingers brush against my nipples and a whimper falls from my mouth.

“He said,” I gasp as he pinches one of my nipples. “He said he was going to offer me a place in his chambers.” my hands rest on his arms as he continues to fondle across my chest.

“Is that what you want?” I shake my head at his words. “Tell me whose bed you want to be in.” his voice low as his hand dips beneath my waistband. 

“Benji,” I cling to him as his fingers spread my wetness. 

“Go find a robe.” I whine as he removes his hand. “Someone should be here to bring us to the hot springs soon.” he leaves me squeezing my thighs together. 

I huff and walk over to the wardrobe hoping there was something left. I sigh thankful that there are some robes left over. I slide my trousers down my legs and quickly wrap myself in the robe. I turn and toss Benji a robe and try not to let my eyes linger on his exposed torso. He starts to unlace his trousers and I look to him with low lids as he chuckles at me. He slides them off and I squeeze my thighs once more taking in the length of him. There’s a knock on the door and Benji is quickly slipping the robe on and walking to the door. 

“It seems as if I’m the only one left awake to take you both.” Cregan takes up our doorway and I internally groan. 

“Mm, of course.” Benji exhales grabbing my hand and pulling me to his side. 

The walk through the castle is silent and I can feel Benjis frustration pouring off of him. I squeeze his hand to try and get him to focus on anything else but he keeps his eyes focused on Cregans back. We start down a stone staircase and as we enter the cavern I sigh as the warm air kisses my face. I see that there’s more than enough space for the three of us to be here comfortably. I walk past them both and begin to dip into the water. Once my bottom half is in the water I slip off my robe and sink beneath and let out a breathy moan. 

I close my eyes as I let the hot water soothe my muscles. I sink lower into the water and I feel it ripple next to me. I peek an eye open and see that Benji has claimed a seat next to me. The water shifts again and I see that Cregan has also gotten in. I sit back up and feel the tension in the water and roll my eyes. Benjis hand falls to my thigh and my head snaps to him. 

“So are you guys together?” Cregans voice carries across the stone walls and I groan knowing this will set Benji off.

“Yes.” he says as his fingers grip on my thigh spreading them open. 

“Mm, how long?” Cregan looks to me as Benjis fingers slide to my core.

“Couple moons now.” I try to keep my voice steady as he swirls around my bud. 

“Where did you find her?” Cregan shifts to Benji and I’ve never been more thankful as he dips a finger into me. 

“Near the Iron Islands. I saved her and Jace from some Bracken beasts.” Benji narrows his eyes at Cregan as he pushes a second finger into me and a moan slips out. I try to cover it by clearing my throat but I can tell Cregan caught it. 

“Do you both need some privacy?” Cregan chuckles at my red cheeks and Benji keeps pushing his fingers into me. 

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Benji uses a patronizing tone. “She’s been begging for my cock since we started the journey here.” he chuckles and I snap my head to him ready to scold him until his thumb rubs against my bud and I’m hoping that Cregan will leave soon because I can’t contain the whimpers leaving my lips. 

“Treat her well. Or I will.” Cregan chuckles again before standing out of the water unabashed. Benji starts moving his fingers faster and I try to close my legs around his hand. 

“Benji.” I mewl as he continues with his motions.

“She’s content here.” Benji chuckles waving Cregan off. 

“Are you done now?” I pant at Benji.

“Not even close.” he growls as he flips me so my chest is against the cool stone. “Gunna fuck you here because I know he’s listening on the stairs.” he breathes into my neck as he lifts my hips.

“You sound paranoid.” I turn to look at his dark eyes as I spread my legs open for him. 

“I don’t care.” he pushes into me in one movement and I rest my cheek against the stone. 

Moans begin pouring from my lips as the water laps against us. His pace is quick and I have no hope of covering the curses and whines that fall from my mouth. The second his fingers brush against my bud my body goes taught. He continues to push into me as my high spreads through me. My hips push back into his as I continue to chase more pleasure.

“You like when I fuck you like a common whore?” he pulls me up against him and wraps his fingers around my neck.

“Fuck, Benji, please,” I whine as my chest heaves. 

The hand that he has supporting my waist goes to my bud and I contract around him as my pleasure washes through me. I feel his thrusts get sloppy as he begins to fill me. He slips out of me quickly pulling a moan from my lips. I brace my hands on the stone as I catch my breath. 

“When you’re ready we’re going back up to our chambers and I’m gunna fuck you until he knows you’re mine.” he sits back and I nod to him with flushed cheeks.

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It’s been almost a moon since we’ve landed in Winterfell and the amount of survivors showing up is astonishing. We have a large camp circled around the walls that grow larger by the day. As more people arrive we give them dragon glass to shape into weapons of their choice. We’ve had confirmation dragon glass works on the white walkers and everyone seems relieved to have finally confirmed this theory. 

“When do we march north? Or are we staying here? What is the plan?” I look to Jace as I sprawl across his couch. Benji and Luke are sat at the table and look to Jace ready for his commands. 

“We fight here. He will come to us in the end.” Jace nods and goes to look out the window at the growing host around us. 

“Who will come?” Luke asks nibbling his lip.

“The night King. We kill him and this ends. We go home.” his voice seems far away and we look to each other with confused brows.

“You’re starting to sound like Alys, brother.” I chuckle and he turns to me with a smile. 

“Surprisingly, I don’t take offense.” he smiles sitting on a chair across from me. “I saw him beginning to march here. He has a large host of white walkers with him that he has no care if they live or die. We’re fighting for something. We have a reason and purpose. Fate is on our side. He will be here during the hour of the wolf.” he turns to look at Luke and Benji. 

“Tonight?” Benji asks taken aback.

“Yes, so get some rest. We either come out victorious or die.” Jace rises nodding to us. 

Benji, Luke, and I leave Jaces chambers to go and find a couple hours of sleep. We drop Luke off at his chambers and I hug him tightly and kiss his head. We make our way back to our chambers and collapse to the bed. We simply hold each other and curl up under the covers basking in each other’s warmth.

I sit up in bed as a loud horn is blown. Benji is looking out the window and I rise and go to his side. The castle seems to be surrounded by flame as I see a white mass headed for us. I turn back to the chambers trying to wake myself up quicker. I start to pull on my armor and sheath Dark Sister at my side. I turn back to Benji who is holding his hand out to me. 

“Are you ready?” I ask him slipping my hand into his. 

“I am. With the three dragons burning from above we will be able to be victorious on the ground.” he nods to me. We make our way to the main hall and see the remaining leaders gathered. On approach I see Alys coming out of a dark hall.

“What are you doing here?” I look to her confused.

“Making sure you both were awake for this war. They need you.” she nods us over to the conversation being held. 

“My siblings and I will be in the skies burning as many as we can without burning our own men. This is our last stand. We have all of the tools we need to succeed. It’s now or never. May the Gods choose our side.” Jaces voices carries throughout the hall and I tear up hearing him speak so confidently.

“A word sister?” Jace nods his head to the corner where Luke is waiting for us. “I wanted to tell you what I saw when I touched that tree. I saw us all here. Making the prophecy come true. Everything we have done has led us right here. We can reclaim this realm and break it free from the icy grasp of the Gods. It will be a new age for us. These men and women believe in us and will follow us even to their death.” his words cause my heart to tighten knowing no matter how much dragon flame and glass we use we will still suffer losses. 

“I will follow you even if it means my death, my King.” I lower my head and I see Luke do the same at my side.

“You both will live. I can’t do this without you. Together we will revive the Golden Age.” his words capture my breath. 

We all embrace and begin to walk out of the hall. Benji returns to my side and walks with us to our dragons. I make sure he’s armed with as many dragon glass weapons as his person can carry. I look up to him unable to help the worry written across my face. He smoothes my brow before placing his lips softly on mine. 

“If you die tonight, I won’t let them burn you. I’ll keep you as my white walker pet or something.” I pull back and look to him with furrowed brows and he barks out a laugh.

“I’ll try my best to stay alive.” he smiles down at me. “But it seems as if I’ll see you after regardless.” he kisses me once more and disappears into the sea of men and women. 

I sigh and turn to my dragon and see my brothers also talking to their dragons. I hug around my dragons neck and he lets out soft chuffs. Jace looks to Luke and nods and offers me the same motion. I begin to mount and once I’m settled and clipped into my saddle I turn back to my brothers once more. Jace and Vermax shoot into the sky and his dragon alights the sky with dragon flame. Luke and I fly up in unison our dragons spitting flame and washing the world in red for a couple moments. 

Our dragons cry out and we dip down aiming for the approaching white hoard. We all separate and bathe the undead in a fiery bath. A horn is heard from behind us and we hear the war cries from our host as they clash with the dead. A cool wind sweeps down from the north and I gasp as the world is cast in a blizzard. Our dragons cry out at being blinded and spit fire around the skies hoping to find a break. 

My heart beats wildly as my dragon and I try to find our way to the ground. He dives down spraying flame to clear our path and once we land we’re engulfed in flame as Luke lands next to me. White walkers approach us an instant later and our dragons call out as we’re surrounded. Luke and I dismount and pull our blades. There’s no time for hesitation as we begin swinging. Where our blade lands death follows and our dragons finish them with flame. I risk a glance into the skies for Jace and shake my head as I see nothing.

This has to work. It couldn’t have all been for nothing. All of the death and loss had to have meant something. My emotions pour into Dark Sister as I begin to court death. I hear Lukes grunts from a couple feet away as he’s engaged in a dance with two white walkers. I gape as he cuts them both down and doesn’t falter before he moves to the next. Pride surges in my chest as I focus on the walkers in front of me. As I swing my blade the blizzard begins to let up and I can finally see the host around us and see we’re not too far from the walls. 

The sun begins to rise washing the word in the normal gray as we continue to fight. I take small glances at the force around us and allow myself to smile as I see that a majority of us are still standing. I push off the walkers and run to Luke. 

“Mount Arrax and find Jace and then come and get me.” I take over the walkers he was dealing with as he shoots to the sky. I watch him fly north and turn my focus back in front of me. My dragon picks off the walkers that try to get to me when I’m further engaged. Arrax gives out a cry above me and I’m quickly mounting and flying after him. I follow him to the weirwood inside the walls and land running to the tree. There I spot Jace standing in front of a man made of ice. This clearly has to be the night King. 

“Jace,” I breathe out as I see the two Kings standing off. 

Jace lunges and their bodies are too close together to see what’s happening. Luke and I stand there frozen not knowing what to do. I hear a blade cut against flesh and I gasp. Jace staggers back hand still wrapped around Catspaw that is sticking out of the Kings chest. He twists and pulls it out swiftly and the King falls to the ground. Jace turns to us, blade in hand, and the sun begins to break through the clouds. It casts across Jaces face and the weirwood behind him. 

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It’s been six moons since the sun shone upon our faces again. The losses the realm endured were too many to count. Rebuilding has taken time and will take longer than our own lives allow. Jacaerys was coronated in Winterfell before we flew to Kings Landing to see what remained. We all have been slowly healing and moving forward. Today in the peak of summer as the sun is its highest Jacaerys will be coronated again before the masses in Kings Landing. 

The remaining Lords and Ladies of the realm stand on the dais beside us as a crown is placed on his brow by the new High Septon. This crown has been forged with dragon glass and valyrian steel and named after him as the Reclaimer. Jace smiles and nods to us before he turns to the crowd and they erupt in cheers. 

“Jacaerys Targaryen, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Reclaimer.” the High Septons voice reverberates off of the walls of the dragon pit as the crowd continues to cheer.

“I told you that the dragons would be able to reclaim the realm. I always believed in this outcome.” Benji whispers in my ear and I turn to him with a wide smile. 

“Stay here with us.” I look up to him with pleading eyes. “With me.” my voice soft.

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you.” he dips down and places o kiss on my forehead.

“I should hope not or I would have to marry Cregan.” I smile up to him.

“Do not start.” his voice low as he pulls me against him before he pulls us off of the dais and he’s leading us into a carriage back to the Keep.

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

masterlist 🔌

this literally took over my mind for the past couple of days fr

taglist ✍️

@clarityisnofun @callsignwidow @gabriella-aesthetic @llynx7 @violetiss3lfish @ka1afbr @akiko-oo @papichulo120627 @lizzylovebooks280501 @thatgirl101blog @ashovertheriver @p45510n4f4shi0n @anaviieiraaa @zanygot7straykidsbonk @hueanhdang

[frantic-fiction]

Reoccurring Nightmares

(Gif: margonite-seer)

Astarion x GN!Reader / Astarion x Good!Durge

Summary: A night reveals that maybe the past is not left behind, and maybe old urges have begun again. As people always say healing is never linear.

Triggers/Tags: Implied mentions of self harm. Violent topics. Angst Hurt/comfort.

Minor spoilers for Durges plot line nothing very specific but you have been warned.

Word Count: 2.2k

(Quick note I gave reader Tav's name so hope y'all don't mind)

Cold damp earth thunders under your feet as you run, each step echoes in the silent woods. Your chest heaves, each breath a meager attempt to fill lungs that can't seem to feel satisfied. 

Why are you out here? 

The forest is a maze, and you navigate it with urgency, propelled forward by the rhythmic pounding of your heart. It threatens to break free, like a wild creature desperate to escape its cage. You don’t stop, fueled by the momentum and the all-consuming fear clawing at your throat.

Why were you running?

This isn’t the first time your memory has betrayed you, leaving you disoriented in the unknown.

Ducking beneath a fallen tree, the rough bark scratches against your skin. You turn sharply and press on, the underbrush snapping beneath your hurried steps. The surroundings are a blur, darkness shrouding any discernible features. The moon, a mere sliver in the night sky, casts an eerie glow through the dense canopy.

A plan forms in the chaos of your thoughts. The distant sound of water becomes a lifeline; a river might offer refuge from a pursuer. You move toward the sou-

 Your foot snags a root, and you collide with a rock. Blood fills your mouth, the metallic taste jarring, familiar. In the darkness, your hand tightens around a shard of glass. The moonlight reflects off its jagged edges, casting faint ethereal patterns on the forest floor.

Frogs and crickets harmonize in the night, their symphony a stark contrast to the turmoil within. The beauty of the scene clashes with the disarray of your mind. A brief moment of clarity emerges, allowing you to catch your breath. 

What happened? 

You examine the shard of glass, uncurling your fingers for a better look. A deeper wound reveals itself, and the blood flows unabated. The taste and sight is both revolting and comforting, a paradoxical sensation that grounds you in the reality of pain.

Where did the glass come from? Memories fracture, and images of a shared life flood your mind. The house on the outskirts, memories of love and healing. Someone's absence looms, silver curls and sharp teeth; Astarion, a question unanswered. 

Knees pulled to your chest, you notice the blood-soaked clothes. Panic sets in; that part of you, the monster believed buried, threatens to resurface. Did his blood taint you again? Did you harm Astarion?

Jerking to the side, you vomit, the weight of imagined horrors overwhelming you. The riverbed offers a cold sanctuary, and you scrub the blood away. The water numbs your body, but you persist until your fingers ache. The raw emptiness grows, time stops, and the world holds its breath in shared grief. You can’t face your friends; the word "friend" is tainted by your actions. Astarion’s absence is a void you can’t bear.

Wasn’t this the fear? The fear that kept you awake, haunted by the possibility of losing control. The dark whispers that the urges would resurface. 

Your reflection in the river, blood-soaked and tormented, triggers waves of self-loathing. The glass shard gleams, a macabre symbol of your descent into the abyss.

Fingers graze the cold surface, and a distant voice interrupts your thoughts. 

“Tav!” The sound pierces through the chaos, freezing your movements. 

“TAV!” Astarion’s voice, a lifeline in the disarray. 

Frantically searching, he emerges from the trees, disheveled and relieved. He is by your side in a moment joining you halfway into the river. He cups your cheek, his touch offers a brief respite, a moment of grounding in the maelstrom. 

Words are cement in your mouth. You're mystified by the reality that is facing you. Astarion is here, in front of you. And, in fact, very much alive. You reach up with a shaky hand to barely caress his cheek, as if a more stern touch would shatter the fragile moment. He grabs your wrist and kisses your cold palm softly.

“You’re alive,” you choke, collapsing into his chest sobs rolls through your body.

He momentarily freezes in confusion at your words before refocusing at the current urgency of your state. Pressing you tighter against him, Astarion strokes your hair and gives you a gentle kiss to your hairline. Maybe he had just fed before finding you, or maybe it's a testament to how long you have suffered the freezing night, but he’s warm. You bury yourself deeper in his embrace, hiding your tear-streaked face in his neck.

“Of course, my love,” He softly says and holds you a moment longer, allowing you to feel the truth of something he’s not quite understanding but knows is important just the same. But little by little, he begins to pry you from his body.

“No,” you make a pathetic whine in protest, desperately trying to stay attached. Too afraid that once you let go, he’ll disappear and the truth of what you did will be brought back into the moonlight.

“Hush now, my sweet,” Astarion stands up suddenly and removes the heavy jacket you had given him. Kneeling back down, he drapes it over your shoulders.

“You have been in the middle of the woods in freezing weather for gods know how long. And you've had a bit of a swim.” His thumb brushes the line of your cheekbone. “Let’s get you home so I can warm you up, and if you are feeling okay tonight, we could discuss what my darling was doing alone out here.”

He doesn’t leave room to argue, and you have none to give. So he takes you in his arms and begins to walk. You’re too tired to speak, so you simply curl closer into him and resume your position, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His scent invades your nostrils, and finally, since waking up in the woods earlier this evening, you breathe a sigh of relief.

***

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you awake on the plush sofa in your living room. Astarion must have moved it because it is now as close to the fireplace as safety would allow. The only thing standing in its way was the intricately sculpted metal table Dammon had gifted you for a housewarming gift. 

What seemed to be the entire house's stock of blankets was now piled on top of you, effectively cocooning you in cotton and silks. You try to sit up, but find that no strength is left in your bones.

“Stari?” You croak, your voice hoarse from your sobs.

There is not an immediate response, just the crackling fire and the rustling of dinnerware from the kitchen. You don’t bother to call out again; you know he’ll be in to check on you soon. When it comes to you, Astarion’s mother hen tendencies rear their head with great urgency.

 While you wait, you stare transfixed into the fire, mesmerized by the crackling wood and swirling ash. The chaos of fire has always been interesting to you. In small quantities, fire can bring warmth to a home and light to darkness. But uncontrolled fire burns, burns everything in its path. No mercy, no complexities, just fire and fuel; anything in between is insignificant in the grand scheme. It's familiar, too familiar.

Maybe this topic was best left untouched; maybe you hated fire. After all, fire is made to burn.

“Oh good, I was just about to wake you,” Astarion sets a tray on the coffee table. “I made tea,”

He starts to unearth your body from your blanket tomb and helps you into a more seated position before moving to the armchair. You catch his wrist; his crimson eyes meet yours. You're not entirely sure what you want; you just can’t bear him being so far. Not after thinking he was lost to you forever.

“Hold me?” The words are barely above a whisper, hesitant as if Astarion has ever denied you anything. “Please,” you tack on for good measure, though you're not sure why.

“Of course, my sweet,”

Handing you your tea, Astarion motions you to lean forward so that he can slip in behind you. Sandwiched between his legs, he wraps an arm around your middle and eases you against his solid torso. 

He’s warm; you must have been right. During your trek in the woods, he must have stepped out to feed. Now that the winter is approaching, he’s been hunting larger game; he likes to be warm, says it’s not always fair when you're the only one bringing heat into the relationship. 

He silently urges you to drink your tea, and you do. It’s quiet; neither of you speaks; you simply drink your tea and Astarion comforts. Hands gently trail up and down your arms, in between peppering tender kisses on your neck and shoulders.

You know what he’s doing. You’ve done the same tactics on him plenty of times in the past. He’s waiting. Waiting for you to speak first. To share with him why you were in those woods. What horrors brought you there. It’s an unspoken rule between two very broken people. You offer each other comfort, the safety each has lacked in the past and wait. If or when the person wishes to speak, the other listens.

But how do you even begin to describe the night that has occurred? The terror, the guilt, the hatred. It all just boils in your chest like wet tar. You can’t even really explain what happened to yourself. Once the tea is finished, you pass the cup to Astarion, who in turn returns it to the tray.

With a deep breath, you say simply, “I thought it happened again,” he knows immediately what you're saying and holds you just a bit tighter. 

“I-I-I don’t know what happened, b-but I was just running. I was… Gods, Astarion, I was so scared.”

Pushing the blankets further away from you, you turn in his arms and wrap around his neck. His eyes reflect the same sadness and fear you are feeling. “I was covered in blood, and then…then all I could think about was you,”

Tears begin to roll one by one down your cheeks; he collect them with his thumbs. Tears of his begin to follow a similar path. “I thought it finally happened,” you're crying harder now, hiccuping between words. 

“I thought he finally made me kill you,” words began to fail you from there. You pathetically tried to say more but the only sounds that escape are choked hiccups and wet sobs. When you know you have no hope of continuing you simply hide your face in your hands, no longer wanting to face the world.

“We’re okay, little love. Everythings okay.” Astarion is rubbing soft circles into your back, repeating calming phrases until they stick. “I’m here, nothing can change that. You’re okay darling.” 

It takes a lot of lovely words and small touches before your breathing calms down and you seem to have run out of your tear supply for that night. But even then Astarion doesn’t let go. You two stay interlocked, warmed by the slowly dwindling fire. He clears up your scattered thoughts. 

Astarion's voice, tinged with concern and a hint of reassurance, breaks through the remnants of your panic. "It was probably just one of your nightmares," he offers, a familiar acknowledgment that nightmares are woven into the fabric of your existence. In the quiet aftermath of your ordeal, the weight of his words settles in the still air. 

As he gently extracts one of your hands from your tear-streaked face, the dim light catches the glint of a heavy bandage wrapped around your trembling fingers. The glass shard, a cruel messenger, the night will leave its mark. With a tender touch, Astarion guides your gaze to the bandage, and then, with a careful motion, he lifts the fabric of your pants to expose a larger wound on your thigh, neatly covered in thick gauze.

The size of the injury is alarming, and the realization dawns that stitches would have been a necessity. Astarion's eyes reflect a regret that mirrors your own. "I should have been there, I'm so very sorry, my love," he whispers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken vow to protect you from the horrors that lurk within your own mind.

As you open your mouth to argue or perhaps offer words of comfort, Astarion anticipates your protest. "Regardless of what you are going to say," he interrupts, his words cutting through the heavy air, "from now on, I will be feeding exclusively when you are awake." The admission reveals a vulnerability in his eyes—a fear that lingers from the night when the scent of your blood permeated the air, and you were nowhere to be found.

"There was nothing more frightening than coming home to the smell of your blood and you gone." His hand begin to play with a strand of your hair. "Not to mention the absolute nightmare of a talk I’m to receive once I call for Shadowheart come morning, because I’m still not convinced you didn’t contract hypothermia during your midnight swim.” 

A small smile plays on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the impending lecture from Shadowheart, whose disapproval you can almost taste. Astarion seems to relish in your smile, and he cups your jaw, pressing his forehead to yours in an intimate gesture that transcends words.

"That is all behind us," he declares, a note of determination in his voice. "Our wounds are still fresh, but we are here, and we are healing. We'll get through this, we always have." His smirk carries a promise of resilience, and you nod in agreement, surrendering to the irresistible urge to find solace in the warmth of his lips pressed against yours.

Author's notes: Oh boy I haven't posted any of my writings since 2018 but damn BG3 has sparked something in me. Astarion is something special and I love him. If anyone has some ideas they would like to throw my way I would loved to see them.

Feedback is welcome, hate is not! Have a nice day, cheers.

[rivetingrosie4]

Duet

(Part 1/2)

RDR2 | Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: Explicit | Part 2 | tumblr masterlist | Ao3

Summary: Arthur takes you out for a much-needed fancy date. Though you both thoroughly enjoy the whole evening, you’re both eager to get home and make love. When you finally arrive home, Arthur invites you to take a steamy shower with him.

Tags: modern au, post gang, romantic angst, romantic smut, loving marriage, hot date, parenthood, eventual shower sex

Chapter word count: 6,097

𑁦𐂂𑁦

This work is partially inspired by the following song lyrics. It’s been my sincere goal to capture both the spirit of the lyrics and the feel of the song's music in this work. Please consider giving this beautiful song a listen at the link below.

- Penny and Sparrow, “Duet”

It’s a starless night in the city. Arthur pulls the steering wheel to the right, and the city’s bright lights, stark in their atmospheric places, reflect in a swirling mirage off the black hood of his pickup.

There you are beside him, your still form a steady breath of soundness amidst the rushing streams of blurred people along each side of the vehicle.

He sits back in his seat and breathes it in deeply—your presence. He’s always hated coming to the city. Where the buildings grow taller and tighter together. Where the voice of the stars is hushed to muted, then silenced by the blaring insistence of humanity’s crush. Where strangers are forced into each other’s spaces. But with you, he feels none of it. Feels only that breath of soundness that floods and fills the inside of the truck cabin, here and now. That follows the two of you wherever you go.

So, what was once a loathsome chore to be avoided is a pleasure, with you. And he’d been eager to carry it out.

It had been long past due anyway. He can hardly remember the last time the two of you had gone out for a date. Which is a sin in itself. It must’ve been before the baby. Had to have been after the private little wedding. Too long ago, either way. He’s always wanted to keep the feelings of excitement and specialness alive anyway, to repel any atrophy that could creep into your relationship over time if either of you failed to notice. To make you know that he hasn’t tired of you. Never could. And enough has happened since then. So he’d made a point to finally take you out, and to make it a thing both easy and sure. Not to let it slip from the calendar. To assure you the baby would be taken care of, that everything would be.

He’d even enjoyed the easy familiarity of getting ready in the same rooms. The sounds and smells of your preparation. Your heady, sensuous perfume that so easily undid him like the tail of an old, ragged 3-ply strand of yarn. The sight of you leaning toward the mirror to clasp the sparkling black pearl and diamond cluster earrings that he’d gifted to you moons ago to your lobes before turning to him.

God, had you shown out. A tiny slip of a number. Black silk that drapes along your form like shimmering river water, its bias cut showing your every bodily curve and setting his nerves aflame. The straps that display your dogwood petal-soft skin and highlight the elegant outlines of your shoulders, straps that are sure to be slid away when he gets you home and secreted away, alone in the quiet. He’s only too eager help them off and to see the gown fall in one moment to the floor around your feet, transformed to nothing more than a heap of rippling satin without you to fill it.

It was something—not a wonder to him, but something—that you could still so easily make him so crazy. Inside, like a wild dog with his tongue hanging from his head. How you knew just what to do, to make him so. And did it with quiet simplicity.

Because the reality is he knows you. He knows more about you than he knows about anyone, things he couldn’t put into words if he tried, maybe even knows you better than yourself. And one thing he knows is how deeply, how painfully difficult it’s always been for you to let anyone see your skin and body. Knows the reasons, what you’ve lived through, both in yourself and from others. Knows the pressure put on you by the world and by yourself to be some form of perfection. Knows how you like to cover up with covert layers, with sleeves and baggy, flowing frills.

But without asking if he’d like it, without even a single word, you’d done it. Worn a dress this evening that makes his own knees and body turn to mountain lake melt. Shown off your scars and stretch marks and rolls. Put your deep trust in him and unyielding love for him on bright neon display, in a way only he could know.

Christ alive, the mere thought of your trust swells his heart full of love and sends him wild with pulsating desire and need. And there won’t be anything to keep him from you tonight.

Silent in your seat beside him, you watch the show of neon lights on the hood of the pickup as it rolls down the city streets.

It had gladdened you heartily when Arthur had invited you out on a date of his own volition, unprompted. You’d gotten to a place where such things weren’t remotely on your radar anymore. And the invitation alone had quickened things inside you, like the sparked flicker of an incipient flame. You’d smiled and agreed, and he’d smiled, and the moment had been like widened lungs amidst the ruddy, laborious muss of daily life.

And you’d so wanted to be good for him. In your own mind, had wanted to be something less messily human and more put together. To be something with its unsightly bits tucked away, something easily and naturally suave and gracefully sexy. Wanted to remind him that you still cherish him so deeply and still so dearly long to be and feel cherished by him, though behind your fears, you always already know you are.

But you’d seen a black silken slip dress in the back of your closet with the tag still on it. And you didn’t have any other reason to wear such a garment than for an imaginary sexy date, by which time you would have magically become a different person—one without gnarled scars on the backs of your shoulders left by body acne in years passed, or flab hanging from under your arms, or silvery stretch marks from gaining weight and losing it and gaining it and losing it again, or rolls of fat above your pubic bone.

You’d pulled it from the rack and run the pads of your fingers over its shine, knowing it would never see the light of day—or dark of night—if not now. Hoping that Arthur could still feel something physical for you in it. Finding in yourself ample trust in him, that even if he didn’t, he’d never, ever hurt you, and would only behave in a way to make you feel special.

So you’d tried it on and decided to leap.

And from the master bathroom, you’d stolen peeks to watch Arthur dress in the connected master bedroom. With his hair already pomaded and already dressed in his black slacks and white ribbed undershirt, he’d slid his arm into the sleeve of his crisp white button down, then the other arm, then had stood before the full-length cheval mirror and had tugged and straightened the collar before looking down and slipping each button into its hole, working upwards. Then he’d tucked his shirt neatly into his slacks and had snaked his black leather belt through the loops, finally buckling it closed with a faint jingle. Each movement, each sound, had unraveled you from warp and weft to mere fibers.

You’d told yourself you needed all this intel. Because you’d also seen when he’d turned away and flipped his wrist to unbutton each cuff, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and checked his antique 1899 pocket watch before slipping it into his pocket. And then you’d heard the low, deep clacks of his brightly shining black dress shoes against the hardwood floor, and you’d seen the faintly pronounced ripple of a few muscles in his back through the white fabric and the way it was stretched by his broad shoulders, hard arms, and tapered waist when he moved. And you’d known you would be the one to undo each button and remove each article when you both returned home tonight.

Though after years, you know well the order of all the garments and undergarments he wears, as he knows yours.

And when you’d turned towards each other, him entering the bathroom to dab on cologne, you entering the bedroom to slip on your shoes, the expression on his face had been a memory you will cling to and wear like a jewel until the reaper calls to fetch you. It had turned your spine and knees to oil and had heated your chest and face as if with steam.

He wanted you. Good God, did he want you. One fractioned moment of a glimpse had been all it’d taken. And it had silently stolen your breath. He’d said something like how stunningly beautiful you are, though you can’t recall the exact words. Because his eyes and face had said much more, and you hadn’t wanted to miss it. Nor had you missed when he’d fought to softly smile and not appear so ready to have you.

How deeply and fully you’d wanted him too, just the same. Like a guttural pull to his physical form in your belly, in your throat. Its inexorable urgency would only prove to continue to snowball steadily throughout the night.

Then you’d toed past each other, and he’d donned the bay rum cologne that always makes you weak and wet and delivers you into his arms, until you’re finally arching your back.

Sometimes, in your life now, a few moments catch you. Snare you. And you think. Of all the things you’ve been over the course of your life thus far, at turns. Young and stupid; an awkward whelp; a reckless thief; then a sly con; and, briefly, a friend among friends. A wife, and now a mother as well. But alone was the thing you had been for most of your life. Much more alone than the average person, for longer, and alone in every way that mattered.

Then Arthur had come and made you a woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body. A woman who has carried a part of him inside you. Things that had been so other—so distantly removed from what you were and had always, always been—that you’d never been able to conceive of such an existence or its experience. To be one—to actually be one. Now you are one. A woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body.

Then Arthur had come and taught you things about life and love you couldn’t possibly have ever known on your own. Things no one could have ever told you. That love could have such a brutally frightening quality and texture to it—what if the one you loved came to harm? That to be united with someone meant risking yourself—that if he or she died, part of you would decay with them. That love isn’t always something one must do, as is often with blood. That love could be just as strong a tie or stronger when one chooses to love. That the absence of shared blood dulls and fades nothing. That two may share one heart, and therein is the strongest of bloods. That the decision of love itself is not merely a flippant fancy, but a fixed rock of reality. Then Arthur had come and given it all to you.

Who would have ever thought? Who could have? Certainly not you.

The drive into the city and to the restaurant had been punctuated with quiet coos to each other for directions through the tight streets. He’d opened every door for you, from the car to the inside of the restaurant. Had rested his large, calloused outlaw-turned-rancher hand very gently on the bared, dimpled skin of your lower back, to show you through each of the doors.

Holy God, did it switch every nerve inside you to electric, flipped the fluttery animals inside your chest into a swarming frenzy. The considerate gestures had put you into the pocket of his palm like warmed, dripping honey. But just as moving for you, it also plainly told the whole wide world: you were his.

Once inside the ritzy restaurant he’d chosen, he’d even pulled your chair out for you. Your shared supper had featured smiles and genuine, familiar laughter over the white linen tablecloth. And even that had been his gift to you, that you’d felt in your body. Laughter’s soothing, comforting effects flooding and lulling you as the tightness of stress left you. And the thought had occurred to you—how grateful you are for a spouse who can make you laugh, who wants to, and whose ability to do so has never faded with time. He’s never even seemed to shy away from sharing in moments of laughter, not when it comes to you.

It was his marked attention that—for reasons you couldn’t quite explain—had brought you close to tears behind your blithe smile. He’d hardly ever taken his eyes off of you. It was truly like you were the only woman in the room. And rather than it being a possessiveness that had made that so special for you, it had been the fact that he didn’t need to see any other woman. That you were the only one who did anything for him. That he was spoken for. Then there was the fact that if anyone had gawked and ogled him or flirted with him, you could glory in the simple truth that a man with his heart and his body would be going home with you tonight. No one else.

But more than any of that, his generously given attention had filled and satiated your soul. Things you never—or hardly ever—received from any other human: sincerely absorbed and thoughtful conversation, the clearly apparent desires to hear your inner life and thoughts and to smile and laugh with you. The fulfilled longing to just be with you. It welled inside you, because it was everything you craved from him and everything you wanted to give him as well.

You’d been completely relaxed and at ease all through your date. Every time you’d released a rested breath, you’d noticed some lovely new thing about your surroundings. Dimly glowing light from the scrolling sconces and the faint clinks of several types of silver cutlery on fine china. Classical piano, violin, and bass played live in the corner and the brush of luscious velvet on your skin from the seat back. A divine yet light meal of delicately crafted scallops and the finest fresh oysters. You’d reveled in the briefest sensation of the oyster filling your throat and slipping down, each time you’d swallowed one.

For dessert, chocolate ganache and a mound of macerated strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries, tossed with mint and Grand Marnier, topped with scratch-made whipped cream, and dusted with fine honeycomb sugar. Sparse sips of bourbon barrel-aged Cabernet for him, and for you, a glass each of Chardonnay and later ruby port, from stemmed glasses. Undivided attention and meeting each other’s eyes with a wellspring of affection.

It had been just what your soul had needed, and he’d known it.

Arthur slows to a stop at a red light, inwardly groaning at the obstacle drawing out your journey home. He quietly sighs through his nostrils and taps his thumb against the wheel. He glances to you at his right side, and you exchange sincere smiles.

Facing forward again, he glances down at his left ring finger. A simple ring—a rounded silver band inset by a much narrower black one—rests upon it.

In a blink, he’s taken back to those early days, before the whelming thrum of daily life, before the visceral clutch of those terrifying days in the hospital, before Grace, before you’d even become pregnant.

How he’d loved you, in a raring, aflutter, dithery way; in a way that engulfed himself sweepingly, wolfishly; in the natural way, it often seems, of new love. Though he’d kept himself tempered and even, until he’d known with surety you’d felt the same.

Then had come the quiet little ceremony, and you’d spent over a year in honeymoon bliss. Trying all the while to become pregnant, knowing you only had so much time. Then you had. And effervescent couldn’t begin to describe the two of you. Your very body, your miraculous and wondrous body, had caressed and carried all those other dreams Arthur hadn’t been fully aware that he’d still had.

Then Grace had come. A month and a half early, and earthshakingly beautiful. But her lungs had wanted to fail her, when she’d only just had a chance to greet and grace the world with herself. And in one swoop, that same beautiful new world had threatened to shatter and crumble in on itself. The blistering maelstrom of vicissitudes had nearly spun his head off his shoulders. At the time, he could only imagine all that you were going through.

Together you’d watched her every ragged breath, every labored rise of her tiny, ruddy chest, from morning until night, in days that blended and stretched to insanity. Had been forced to remain on the other side of a glass cocoon that smacked too familiarly of a coffin to him. A tiny coffin.

It had nearly killed him, your loving protector, to have to watch you go through such intense heartache and not be able to do a single thing to inoculate you against it. To watch his new infant daughter struggle to hold onto life, when he could do nothing. It had been a sort of pain concocted especially for him.

Still, the two of you had clung to each other for strength.

But hadn’t you been the bearer of all the strength? Because when turmoil and uncertainty had crushed and clamped in on him, the very worst of his hideous fears had come pouring out of him. Instead of stalwartness and fortitude, he’d proven a source of splitting chaos and weakness. After a life with some seasons of swindling and criminality, spans of cool violence and masked cavalierness towards tenderness and endearment, it had been a tiny, helpless babe that had shredded him and turned him inside out. Coming apart at the seams; bloodying his knuckles with the trunk of an oak outside the hospital; in the culmination of his inner storm, whispering insidious, nonsensical fears through the pale, eerie, hospital-room gloam that the recompense for his life was to blame and that you’d be better off without him.

With seeming great effort and a quietly tremulous voice, you’d told him, without turning, that he was the only thing keeping either of the two of you alive. That such thinking was preposterous. And that you both loved and needed him now. And forever.

Of course, his special brand of fear and self-loathing had turned out to be the very last goddamn thing you’d needed to hear, and once he’d remembered your own anxieties and insecurities, he’d been flooded with remorse.

When he’d been coming apart, you’d been holding together. When he’d left his family to beat against the tree, you’d been the one to remain at Grace’s side. And when he’d whispered the lies his mind had convinced him of, you’d quietly, though quaveringly, spoken the truth aloud to right him.

It was you who was the strong one. You who had borne the immense weight of his fears. You.

And you’d continued to prove it when the two of you had finally been able to take Grace home. She’d been so frail. So helpless. But together—just as you had been to see her struggle—the two of you had been witness to the unfathomable mystery of the simultaneous fragility and resiliency of…life. Because she’d strengthened and flourished and breathed.

He recalls somewhere in the days afterward, when you’d sought to bathe her in the tub on your own, without the aid of a plastic doodad. You’d hastily offered promises he hadn’t asked for: that you’d be sure to keep alert and wouldn’t let her drift below the water’s surface.

It had been then that he’d noticed the faint, receding shadows beneath your eyes. He’d had to ask himself if he could remember whether they’d previously been darker than they were in that moment, and whether they were beginning to brighten. Either way, he’d realized the toll the ordeal had taken on you, that you’d never voluntarily alluded to—the fullness of which he’d somehow missed, having been caught in what he deems his own silly, self-focused storm.

In memory, he can still see you from his secreted place behind the threshold, seated nude in the tub with the naked babe on your arm, skin to skin. Can still make out the tinkle of the water droplets falling from your fingertips onto her tender crown and the soft babbling of Grace’s healthy coos. Can still hear your quiet, broken plea—

“Wouldn’t you like to stay with Mama, baby? Won’t you stay? Stay with me? Please-” you’d whispered, and had sniffled when you’d wept, “Stay.”

It had put his heart and soul through a sieve. Thoroughly riven, he’d silently leaned his crumpled face into the wall, resting his forehead and eye socket against the doorjamb. He had reached up and felt wetness upon his cheek.

It had been you who had been the strong one.

He remembered being forced to ponder: how close had he come? Had he been a cobweb’s thread away from losing Grace? From losing you? He’d never know. Didn’t want to. And in those moments, shadowed in the bedroom, he’d been thrust into the experience of how it could’ve been: what would he do? How when, in search of an answer, his head had poked through a firmamental membrane to find the black mist of—nothingness.

Willing himself back to the present moment just in time, he swallows thickly, and gives attention again to the onyx light of evening.

Such shoulders, he thinks, envisioning that elegant outline of your neck exposed by your black silken gown without needing to turn and look at you. They’ve surely borne more than just those thin straps.

You watch placidly as Arthur takes the truck to the left, and the traffic ebbs and flows as you roll through the night.

Somehow, it’s enjoyable to simply sit here with him. His passenger seat princess, sharing in the sweet, silent glances and smiles. Needing no words to know that he’s on pins and needles to get home and make love to you. And ruminating in the knowledge that you feel exactly the same way.

It had taken no convincing for you to agree when he’d invited you out, though he’d been ready anyway with explanations of the provisions he’d planned, having foreseen your thought for Grace. He’d spoken them before you’d even fully opened your mouth to form the question. And you’d had to smile, because Arthur didn’t normally tip his hand to show—well, much of anything; but of all things, certainly not eagerness.

Your current train of thought flits to Grace, and though you know you should try to remain in the present with him, you can’t help but wonder if she’s cooing and smiling, enjoying time on her belly or struggling with it, or maybe drifting off to well-fed sleep.

Four months ago, you’d been so caged with guttural worry, you hadn’t been in a position to imagine time away from her for a romantic evening. Four months ago, when you’d pushed her from your body too early, and her little lungs betrayed her.

An unmooring. That was what it had felt like. Snagged and suspended in a strange, amorphous abysm with no corners, no boundaries. Hovering somewhere in life that looked on fate.

You’d tried to be steady for her. Remained there, in her room, beside her glass case. With your body still wracked by the huge task of childbirth, you’d clawed to hang on by a wisped fiber. You’d held yourself and slightly swayed by the waist at times, to cope. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t ready for her to become nothing more than a lifeless shell. Weren’t ready to see these newly sprung fears become reality. Weren’t ready.

Arthur had held you up. He’d been the only witness to the crystalline dew of your tears in the early hours as they teetered and finally rolled down your skin. Had been there every moment of every morning, every afternoon, evening, and early dawn. Right at both your sides.

When your weak, poisonous mind had told you all the worst—that you were to blame, that your despicable body had failed her when she’d needed you most—he’d held you and poured into your ears the antidote: that all of it was beyond your control, that your amazing body had been a loving home to her, and that both he and Grace loved you.

And when you’d finally required sleep, he’d forced himself to keep awake. And you’d discovered him in the same place when you’d blinked awake. But that was when you’d noticed the stark rim of red all the way around his eyes, from more than just fatigue. And he’d quietly told you he needed to step outside.

When he’d returned, he’d looked worse than when he’d left. As you’d been watching Grace sleep, he’d walked up, arms hanging haggardly at his sides, and uttered the poison in his own mind with a sheer, ragged breath.

Hearing it had split a rift in your heart, and you’d fought not to let it feed the fear wanting to grow inside you. For so long you’d fought your own anxieties that you weren’t enough to keep Arthur from leaving you. He couldn’t have known that during those days and nights of worrying for Grace, this fear of yours had been exacerbated and magnified by thoughts you couldn’t seem to keep at bay: what you’d heard once somewhere, that even the most loving, devoted couples often part after the death of a beloved child. Surely, for him to leave you after such a loss would be too selfish, too cruel. But he had been cruel. Hadn’t he? He had, to others. Why not you? It would only be a different incarnation of cruelty, for him to leave you. Was it enough that he’d changed, that you’d seen it in him, that he loved you?

Roiling and scattered and warring against fears that seemed to leap to others like lily pads, you’d tried to work it all out inside, without a word across your tongue. You’d even inwardly berated yourself for such thoughts over your relationship with Arthur, while Grace was right there, fighting for life. But you couldn’t help it. You loved them both. So it was that the fear had grown to monstrous inside you. And to hear him speak nourishment to that beast… But he couldn’t have known. And in that moment, you’d had to consciously choose to use all your might to force yourself to believe it was only his extreme fatigue and worry talking.

But after you’d gently spoken the fruits of that internal fight aloud to him, you’d known he would be reminded of the history of your personal anxieties, like a clap of thunder to the back of his head.

You’d caught sight of his weary back hunching as he succumbed to all of it—the truth, the memories, the remorse, the renewed constancy, the overwhelming drain.

As he’d resumed his place at your side, you’d quickly fallen to sleep again, without having realized it. And when you’d awoke that time, you’d found his body had given out. Slumped back in his padded chair, head hanging to the side and mouth open, the fabric of his shirt rumpled to a wad. The journal left open and hanging haphazardly on his lap, his pencil limp in the pocket of his curled hand upon the armrest.

It was only then that you’d noticed the bloody damage to his knuckles, what looked like tiny fragments of tree bark left in his wounds. He hadn’t merely pounded a tree; he had hit it and dragged his fist through the jagged, toothy bark.

You’d called a nurse into the room and asked her to fetch you a first aid kit, planning to tend to him yourself. While she was gone, your eyes returned to the journal.

Since you’d been together, he’d voluntarily made it your shared journal, a place only the two of you could go. A haven. Nevertheless, since it’d been his custom for so many years beforehand, he always seemed to use it a little more than you did. There he was again, retreating to that sacred, secret, communal place.

You took the journal from its sliding perch on his thigh and saw the messy sketches of Grace in her cocoon, of you in your sleep. And you read in his beautifully old-fashioned hand, though it now bore a touch of needling worry to its scrawl, .

Grace Ada Morgan~

For a moment, I forgot. It was this insanity gettin’ into my head. I’m so exhausted, sweet babygirl. I forgot that leavin’ doesn’t ever fix anything. Please forgive me. I promise I didn’t forget that your mother and you are everything to me. Just forgot the right way to show it. Forgot that you both need me too. But I’m not goin’ anywhere. I swear it. I ain’t ever leavin’ you. Either of you. So please, don’t ask me to go into the ground. .

It had broken loose something inside you, and you had wept until, when you’d started cleaning his wounds with soapy water, he’d begun to wake. You’d quickly brushed your tears away, tried to smile, and kissed him, though you’d known he couldn’t miss the puffy redness of your eyes and nose.

Jointly, the two of you had renewed your commitment to never let Grace go without the knowledge of your love. You’d both affirmed the reality that you already had been loving her and would continue to love her through every moment of her life, short or long, including the moments of pain or difficulty.

Arthur had been your strength, even when he hadn’t realized it. He’d unwittingly been the catalyst to processing things you’d needed to, and had spoken aloud things you’d desperately required to hear. And before then, his broad back had carried the cumulative load of the fraught situation, his own fears, and your anxieties. He’d been much stronger than he’d known.

Having left city borders several minutes ago, the black truck’s headlights slice through the indigo night as Arthur begins the pickup’s slow ascent to your mountain home. He’s given the familiar sights of stately pines and dancing moths and a craggy dirt path. Ensigns of the home he’s made with you.

He can’t keep his mind from ambling again to all the times he’s been alone in these woods with you. Night fishing, skinny dipping. How often, even in the midst of such pleasures, his doubts and fears would surface. He would warn you of them, that to be with him would only bring you some sort of pain or cause you irreparable harm.

You’d always reply something to the contrary; different variations, but always the same meaning. That he couldn’t know that. That you loved him. And that to be without him would do you a deep pain you were certain of.

He pulls onto the winding road hidden by thick foliage that begins your shared property and leads to the homestead. Further down, he stops at the metal gate, hops out to open it, drives the truck through, exits again to close it behind you, and continues up the road.

Once he’s parked at the house, you’re happy to let Arthur hurry around to your truck door and open it for you one last time.

Out of habit, you try to hide the roll of your belly with your forearm as he leads you from your seat. You’ve never felt the urge to do so more strongly than you feel it now, after carrying your baby and acquiring even more flab and stretch marks than you’d had before. But it occurs to you that he’s told you numerous times there isn’t any need for such things. That he loves you and craves your body, just exactly the way you are.

Internally, your mind has always warred to believe that it isn’t too good to be true, that such spoken words are not only pitying sentiments and niceties. You’ve told him multiple times, even early on, that he deserved better, could easily get better, and that you harbored fears he would realize it all too soon for your heart. Fears that he would leave you all together, throwing you away like you just might deserve.

But he’s sworn himself to you, in heart and in body, over and over again. It’s as if you are shattered potsherds, scattered upon the floor, unable. Presumed by yourself to be worthless. He gathers you—every discarded splinter—dressing and filling the cracks of you with his own love, not hiding your history but honoring it. And binding you, until you’re stronger than before.

And in this way, he joins himself to you.

Have you done enough of the same for him? You think on it all through entering the empty house, hardly noticing the moon’s glimmering cast that strikes his wedding band as he unlocks the door before you, hardly hearing him toss his keys on the counter. You think on it as you both slip from your shoes and quietly pad into the bedroom, and you’re finally cognizant of your surroundings. You think on it as you turn and watch him walk into the room.

What his love and loving him felt like, at the beginning.

Like the sharp tip of a jagged pane of glass thrust up into your belly, channeling through your ribcage, pausing when it reaches your heart, and slicing slowly with a surgeon’s motion into the organ. Never had anyone but you seen the inside. Fear wouldn’t have captured what you’d felt. Because there would be no earth that could withstand the force of your knees when they hit, if when he saw the inside he tossed it aside, and turned away to depart.

But when he had seen, the moment of his seeing had imprinted you with the inside of his own splayed heart—a thing more primal than a name—on the inner walls of the atriums and ventricles, on the abdominal aorta, on the pulmonary valve. On dredged parts of you that you’d never thought another human would glimpse.

And now, you think on what that same love feels like, after all these years.

Seeing him, all of him, as he is. Being known so thoroughly by him. Splayed heart meeting splayed heart, clotted that way, the bloody cells fusing and knitting themselves anew. Grown over and healed to a scar. But healed. Forever one flesh and one blood. The mess of a deepening, steadfast, stronger love.

A love that stays. That chooses to. There was never anything more romantic to you.

Arthur flips on the bedroom light and gazes at you where you stand removing your earrings and setting them aside, waiting for him. All he can think as he ventures towards you is loving you, and feeling your love. The full scope of it, in its history, and in this moment. How it had started, so heady and engulfing, it had swallowed him whole; though it had hardly been ready for life’s travails. How it’s still those things, but much more. How he knows you. Better than he’s known anyone. How he’s seen you in your every form, in every turn of life’s capricious road, and loves you the more for it. How your heart understands his.

This love has long drawn a rich burgundy, like the Cabernet he’d sipped tonight. This love that has long taken anchored grasp, its taproot reaching down into the core of him. It has flowered and fruited several times over. And like any goodly, fragrant fruit, it refreshes and sustains him. Gives him life.

He takes his time gazing over the exposed skin of your shoulders, doing what he can to ready himself to show it to you. This shared love that has matured and sweetened and ripened to something devastatingly deep and forever lasting.

a/n: Part 2 will pick up with the very next moment in the story. Comments always welcome! Reblogs always greatly appreciated! Thank you so much for your gracious support.

tag list: @shootybangbang @photo1030 @appalachiancowboy99 @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @clevergirl74 @subpopizzy @cassietrn

[youryanderedaddy]

When The Flood Comes

tw: female reader, cannibalism, starvation, murder (not reader), religious imagery, hinted past sexual assault, imprisonment, hinted jealousy, slut shaming, dark!Cassian, disturbing descriptions

You used to love Easter as a child. It was the only time your mother would spare money on something as non - essential as chocolate or food dye. She would take a short break from her needlework, or whatever sewing project she had going on, and she would sit down to paint a few eggs with you, barely a carton, with whatever charge her client had left the day before. The first egg was always as red as blood, and she would rub a small cross across your forehead while the paint was still warm. For luck, she would say - and may the year ahead be fruitful. 

These days you think about your mother more often than you’d like. Sometimes you dream about her - you’re brought back to the tiny yellow cottage in the middle of the forest, so very close to the river that started the whole mess. You can feel her hands caressing your hair, the warmth of her long skirts soaking into your bare legs as she sings you a lullaby and rocks you to sleep. You can almost hear the melody in your head - you don’t remember the lyrics anymore, but you know it must be something soothing. Something suiting of a soul destined to go to Heaven. 

It makes you chuckle - but it also makes you cry, the thought of it all. Your mother probably thinks you’re up in the sky now, naked and running in a flowery field surrounded by angels. You wouldn’t blame her, you decide, if she has already given up on finding you. You’re not sure how long it’s been, but you’ve bled three times already - so it must have been three whole months at least, and that’s enough for the heart to grow weak, for the mind to forget. Especially those not worth remembering. 

Cassian doesn’t let a single day pass without reminding you just that. He explains that once you enter the catacombs, you become part of the church. You melt together with the stone and the marble, you blend in behind the old dungeon bars just like a martyr nailed to a cross. Nobody knows you’re here - nobody knows that this place still exists. As far as the public is aware, the catacombs burnt down to the last peg during the Saturah war. 

And yet here you are, chained like a dog. Your stomach hurts again. In the beginning of the Lent you didn’t feel much different, some phantom pains here and there, a wave of nausea washing over you as you woke up, but now the emptiness is almost ever - present. Just like a bitter past lover it doesn’t let go, leaving you curled up and aching more often than not. You can’t remember the last time you had something solid in your system - something different than watered down soup or herb tea. Chamomile. Hibiscus. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal.

It’s hard to see in the utmost dark - but Cassian’s candle burns bright, illuminating everything around. Once your eyes settle into focus, you make out his face - his eyes sparkle with cold reflected light, but he’s not looking at you. His entire focus seems to be directed at the plate before him. He runs a finger through the white satin tablecloth, wrapping his digits into one of the knitted holes, and your heart stops beating for a second, anticipating the crumble of the table and everything on it - but it never happens.

The deacon eats in absolute silence for what feels like eternity - the only sounds that leave his body are muffled moans of perverse appreciation as he cuts into the bloody meat and brings the piece into his open mouth. It’s utterly disgusting - the warm scarlet essence of the poor animal drips down his chin, his cloth, his hands, it smears all over the beautiful handsewn cover, and yet you’ve never felt such intense hunger in your life. All you want is to sink your teeth into the rich pithy texture, to tear into it until you feel the vein pop under your teeth. Your mouth is watering.

“He has risen.” The man finally smiles, a nice warm smile, but his eyes never leave the meal. You look up, keeping your hands on the ground to retain balance - even such small movements are enough to make you dizzy and you end up falling backwards. Cassian holds up something you barely recognise as a glass, greedy to gulp the liquid inside. It leaves a purple stain down his jaw and he quickly wipes it with the end of his white sleeve. “You must be hungry.” He purrs as if talking to an animal, and you nod with unhidden desperation. You’ve never been so hungry in your entire life.

He makes a gesture for you to come closer and you crawl towards the bars, opting to get your head out despite the tight gaps between the metal sticks. The man caresses you with one hand, calling you a good girl and a hundred other sweet names you’ve never heard him even utter before. It becomes increasingly hard to follow his voice as your stomach growls louder and louder, filled up with acidic emptiness to the brim. He finally takes pity on you and throws a ripped piece of the slab towards your feet.

Your past self would have laughed at that. She would have smiled mockingly, turning her back on this depravity. She would have broken the rusted grates with a shove - and then she would have strangled the fucker with her bare hands. But you’re not her anymore. You’re not the woman who could fall asleep under a cloak tree, who could smile and sing during a rainstorm, who could skip with the wind. You can pretend to be her all you want, but you doubt she’d want to share her skin ever again. The body you’re stuck in, her body, is wretched beyond repair. Covered in belts and bruises, melting into a puddle of pain and scarcity, begging for the tiniest moment of mercy. And what a mercy it is.

What a mercy it is to feel the raw, dense flesh on your tongue, to be able to bite into something instead of slurping salt and broth from someone else’s hand, someone else’s spoon. What a mercy it is to tastе the grease and the fat, the sweet, tangy bite, for the meat to stick in between your teeth and not flow through. To chew slowly because there’s something to chew on, to drink the fluid oozing out of each nip and abandon the bones hidden beneath. It tastes… divine. 

“Do you like it?” Cassian asks eventually, voice full of amusement as he brings his hands together. He’s covered in stains from head to toe, but somehow he still remains as proper and pure as a tear. You don’t want to break away from the pigsty on your lap - you want to bury your face in the meaty red goodness, to savour each and every bite, but the singular surviving thought in you tells you to obey the man, lest he takes the food away. You don’t want him to take it away. You don’t want to die. Despite everything, you don’t want to die. So you nod - with your whole body, and you bow, because you need him to understand that this moment right now is essential. Fateful. 

“What is it?” You rasp breathlessly, unable to hide the excitement in your tired, sluggish movements. You feel a spark of energy building up inside your chest and you want to scream with joy. Maybe the next bite is what gives you the strength to break out of this hell. Maybe the next bite will bring her back to life. “It tastes like lamb.” You mumble, tapping your knee impatiently - waiting for the man to speak so you can return to devouring the remains of your… dinner.

“You can call it that.” He chuckles, eyes glowing with pride. “It is a sacrificial lamb of sorts.” His finger grazes the flame, but the man seems oblivious to the burn. “Although, I’m surprised, dear. I mean, I knew you were an insatiable whore…” He finally looks at you. His eyes are inhumanly cruel. “But to forget your own lover...”

“W-what do you mean?” Your heart skips a beat and you immediately freeze in place. As your ears ring with uncertainty, you become painfully aware of the stench of blood soaking into the collar of your filthy robe. “Don’t you find the taste familiar? Come on, darling… I know you’re going absolutely crazy with starvation, but it wouldn’t hurt to use that pretty little brain sometimes.” Cassian sneers, ever so malicious, picking up the wine glass again.

You inhale sharply as your chest tightens with panic. Someone is screaming at the back of your mind, threatening to tear your head open. Your thoughts are racing. Places, places, men, meat, sweat sticking, drenched in… You don’t have a clue what he’s getting at.

“Aww, my love. You really don’t remember? You must be completely gone by now.” His voice is sweet, but nothing like chocolate. Nothing like butterfly kisses and sugar, nothing like a warm hug on a cold night. It’s so sweet it hurts your throat. “You’ve had his lips,” The deacon grins with all his pearly teeth out - it makes you shiver. “And now you’re having his heart.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?!” You scream, unable to take the suspense any longer. You should be used to it, you should be used to his stupid love for theatrics and tension just like you should be used to the rats crawling around at night, and his hand gripping your neck until you see stars, and the stinging pulsing pain between your thighs, but you’re not, and you never will. Maybe that’s why you still have it in you to get angry.

“Michael, of course.” Cassian spits the name out like a curse, breaking the play - pretend once and for all. “That fucking tub-thumper you stole from Martha.” He laughs loosely, shoulders going up and down with ferocious madness. “I figured, if you love him so much, why not become one with him?” His voice drops to a sinister mumble. “Eve was created out of Adam’s rib. I wonder if his flesh will compose a new form inside of you and me.” He steps closer towards the bars, taking a hold of them like a man possessed - and for a moment you’re not sure who’s the prisoner and who’s the warden. “We’re born from blood and blood we become. His death will mark the beginning of our love.” 

His tone is gentle, his arms are soft, digging into the metal grates with the patience of a saint - trying to pull you outside through sheer will alone, but you don’t budge. You can’t. You’re stuck in place, tied down to the stone - cold filth you've already spent forever in. And before you know it, you’re emptying your guts upon the ground, watching the warm bile settle into each crook and nanny. Yellow, green and red mix together, painting the tiles all odds of brown. The reek of sickness fills the damp air, and you wish you could sense the mayor’s perfume beneath all the vomit, but there is nothing more to it now. He was a man and now he’s acid. He was loved, and now he’s less than meat. 

“How ungrateful.” Cassian hisses, letting go of you. He takes a second to brush the vomit off his shoes before turning back to you. “I decided to do something nice for you despite your betrayal, and this is the thanks I get?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. 

“You’re sick.” You clench your eyes tight, drowning in a storm of tears and snot. You can’t comprehend what just happened, what he told you. You’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or if you’re awake, if your reality has turned into an endless nightmare. Like crickets inside of your temple, the screams never end. “If I’m sick, then you must be poison.” The man bites back with venom, but you can see the smirk waiting to spill at the end of his lips. There is an air of conspiracy, of shared obscenity that should unite you, but instead it only makes you want to choke on your own spit. 

“I tried to cleanse you, my girl, I really did.” He squints, drowning whatever is left of the wine in one go. “I kept your body pure for forty days and forty nights. It’s the Last Supper. You can become one with me, or you can rot away.” He leans down, pushing himself closer to you. “All I ask is that you erase him from your soul. Devour whatever’s left of him, and let the memory go once and for all.” He speaks slowly as if he’s performing a ritual. You can feel yourself go drowsy, falling under his trance. “Then… Then come back to me. I’ll be waiting.” He kisses you deeply, urgently, letting you taste the blood off his tongue. 

The hunger is back.

[blairstales]

The Cailleach | Scottish Folklore

The story of the Cailleach can change drastically depending on what area of Scotland you are in, making her a hard figure to pin down as one thing or another.

In some stories, she transforms each year at Tobar na Cailleach(well of the Cailleach) from an old woman into youth, and the change of seasons depict her cycle from youth into elderly age.

In other stories, the Cailleach is more of a villainous figure, that either stubbornly fights back the forces of spring(and is ultimately overcome by the united forces of the sun, dew, and rain), or the Cailleach holds spring prisoner in the form of a beautiful young woman named Bride. Bride is eventually rescued by a young man named Aengus, and their union brings forth spring.

To again bring on winter, she washes her great plaid in the whirlpool of Corryvreckan, a spectacle that heralds the onset of winter storms.

The Corryvreckan Whirlpool

Thanks to her winter and storm association, it is perhaps no surprise mountains named after her, such as Beinn na Cailleach, often become engulfed in storm-clouds during the winter months.

However, there are also stories that reflect a side of the Cailleach that goes beyond her association with winter.

“-… it is undoubted that the Cailleach is the guardian spirit of a number of animals. ‘The deer have the first claim on her. They are her cattle; she herds and milks them and often gives them protection against the hunter. Swine, wild goats, wild cattle and wolves were also her creatures. In another aspect she was a fishing goddess. “ A Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs (1976)

Sometimes, she is a guardian of sacred wells, demonstrated in Alasdair Alpin MacGregor’s “The Peat-Fire Flame” which recounts a tale where the Cailleach’s failure to cover a spring with a stone results in a catastrophic flood and the forming of Loch Awe.

“But one day, weary with hunting the corries of Cruachan, she fell asleep on the sunny hillside. Not until the third morning did she awaken; and by that time her heritage lay beneath the waters of the loch that since then has been known as Loch Awe.” The Peat-Fire Flame: Folk-Tales and Traditions of the Highlands and Islands by Alasdair Alpin MacGregor (1937)

Othertimes, she is a source of healing, such as at the ancient shrine of Tigh nam Bodach(sometimes also called Tigh na Cailleach), which is associated with the Cailleach, the Bodach (Old Man), and their daughter Nighean(who is not always mentioned).

“The Tigh na Cailleach near Glen Lyon in Perthshire, Scotland”

At the shrine, there are stones known as healing stones, and they are carefully taken care of. Historically, someone had to put them inside on the first day of November, and take them out on the first day of May. As well as that, they were to be give a fresh bed of straw on winter festival days.

“In what is believed to be the oldest uninterrupted pre-Christian ritual in Britain, the water-worn figures from the River Lyon are taken out of their house every May and faced down the glen, and returned every November. The ritual marked the two great Celtic fire festivals of Beltane(Summer) and Samhain (Winter)and the annual migration of Highland cattle on and off the hills.” Highland Perthshire

So who is the Cailleach? She is the changing of seasons, sometimes a protector of sacred wells and animals, and can even be a source of healing. Basically, she is likely the most complicated subject to study from Scottish Folklore.

Further Reading:

The Folk-lore Journal, Volume 6; Volume 21: The Folk-Lore Of Sutherlandshire  by Miss Dempster

The Celtic Review, Vol 5 (1905): Highland Mythology by E. C. Watson

The Peat-Fire Flame: Folk-Tales and Traditions of the Highlands and Islands by Alasdair Alpin MacGregor (1937)

A Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs (1976)

The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man by A. W. Moore[1891]

Carmina Gadelica, Volume 2, by Alexander Carmicheal, [1900]

Highland Perthshire (website with a blog post)

Historic Audio Recordings

Healing stones at Taigh na Caillich (Track: ID SA1964.72.A24, Date: 1559) “There were healing stones in a house in Gleann na Caillich; the shepherds looked after them. Talk about shepherds in the glen.”

Anecdote regarding Beinn na Caillich and Gleann na Caillich. (Track ID: SA1964.017.B6, Date: 1964) “An old woman and an old man lived in a house in Gleann na Caillich. The shepherd had to put them inside on the first day of November, and take them out on the first day of May. He also had to thatch their house each year.”

Information about St Fillan’s healing stones at Killin. (Track ID: SA1964.71.A5, Date: 1964) There were stones, known as the bodach and cailleach, in a house in Gleann na Caillich in Glen Lyon. Discussion about St Fillan’s stones at Killin. Different stones healed different diseases. The miller was in charge of them. They had to be freshly bedded with straw thrown up by the river on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve. This is still done [in 1964]. The person in charge of St Fillan’s relics was known as An Deòrach and he had a croft in a place called Croit an Deòir.

[brooklynn3253]

Fractured Moments

Bucky Barnes paced the dimly lit streets of Brooklyn, the cool autumn air brushing against his skin like a soothing balm. He could still feel the sting of the argument that had pierced the heart of his relationship. His fists were clenched, not out of anger but rather an insistent need to keep his emotions in check. His girlfriend, Sadie, had always been his anchor, and now – now he had somehow let them drift apart with reckless words.

Earlier that evening, they had been sitting in their cozy apartment, the aroma of tonight’s dinner lingering. What was meant to be a quiet night had spiraled into chaos. A seemingly harmless discussion about their future had turned sour as old wounds reopened. Bucky, still grappling with the shadows of his past, had reacted to her concerns with pointed remarks, hurting Sadie deeply.

“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she had shouted, tears glistening in her eyes. The pain in her voice had pierced through him like a bullet to the chest.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he had replied, his voice low but filled with an intensity that might have intimidate others. “I don’t want this life for you. Not with me.”

“It’s my choice, Bucky!” she had screamed, her voice echoing against the bare walls, the words sharp enough to cut through the air.

And in a moment of pure frustration, Bucky had stormed out, needing space to breathe, not realizing the impact of his departure.

As he roamed the streets, the city lights twinkled like distant stars against the backdrop of his guilt. With every step away from their home, the weight of regret pressed heavier upon his shoulders. How had he allowed the past to overshadow the possibility of a future with Sadie? Memories from his wartime experience crept into his mind, shadows of battles fought and people lost. He could still feel the cold grip of remorse.

After what felt like hours of aimless wandering, Bucky found himself standing on the waterfront, overlooking the glistening waves of the river. The rhythmic sound of water crashing against the shore brought a sense of calm, but deep down, a longing tugged at him. Sadie was everything he had ever wanted; she was the light in his dark world. He closed his eyes, replaying their argument, questioning why he had let his demons dictate his choices.

With the weight of indecision still heavy in his mind, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned back toward their apartment. Each step felt longer than the last. The return journey, while necessary, was also laced with the fear of what awaited him. Would Sadie still be there? Would he be able to comfort her? Or had he created a rift that would prove insurmountable?

As he reached their building and ascended the stairs, the sounds of the city faded away, replaced by the rapid beating of his heart. He fished out his key, hesitating for just a moment before pushing the door open. The sight that met him was one he had dreaded. Sadie sat curled up on the sofa, her red rimmed eyes flooded with tears. The warmth that once enveloped their home felt cold and desolate.

“Sadie…” he began, his voice cautious, but the plea hung heavy in the air.

She turned her gaze to him, the hurt written all over her face. “You came back,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Bucky stepped closer, his heart aching at the sight of her emotional turmoil. He knelt down in front of her, searching for the right words to heal the still fresh wound he had inflicted. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, honesty pouring out. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. You have every right to be scared or concerned. You’re not choosing a life of danger—I am.”

She sniffled, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and he saw the turmoil reflected in her eyes. He reached forward, his hand gently touching her knee, offering connection that he desperately wanted her to accept.

“I don’t want you to feel alone in this,” he continued gently. “I don’t want to push you away. Let me be a part of your life, Sadie. Please. We can face whatever comes together.”

“But you never let me in, Bucky,” she choked out, the pain of the truth resonating between them. “You act like I can’t handle your past, like it’ll ruin me. I’m here, I want to help you, but you keep pushing me away.”

He exhaled shakily, memories of dark times creeping into his mind. He fought against the urge to close off, to resign everything to solitude. “I’ve lost so many people I care about,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you too. It’s not that I think you can’t handle it. I just... I don’t know how to navigate it.”

A moment of silence passed between them, an unspoken understanding. Bucky could see the hurt in her eyes, but in that moment, he also saw her strength.

“Bucky,” she said softly, reaching for his hand. “I love you, but you have to let me in. Let me be your partner, not just a spectator.”

His heart swelled. Tentatively, he intertwined their fingers, feeling warmth spread through him. “I love you too,” he whispered, the words laden with both sorrow and hope.

With a deep breath, she smiled through her tears. “I want to fight the demons together, Bucky. You don’t have to face this alone.”

And in that moment, as they sat together on the worn-out couch, hands clasped tightly, Bucky knew they could begin to mend the fractures in their hearts. Together.

[stirringwinds]

are there certain visual themes or imagery you yourself particularly associate with yao as an artist or writer? i'm trying to visualize the nations better...

hmmm, interesting question. i like incorporating nature imagery into the hetalias, especially old nations like yao. there's something mythical and compelling about the sense of age and vastness that evokes. these are some (non-exhaustive) thoughts i've had:

a. i always associate yao with rivers and water; the Yellow River in particular, which is often seen as the "cradle" of Chinese civilisation (but of course, there's also the Yangtze, and the Pearl River too). rivers are life-giving but also untameable, powerful and dangerous—the Yellow River's fertile silt birthed agriculture and civilisation, but its destructive floods have claimed uncounted lives over the millennia of Chinese history. and...that's kind of how yao is, as a nation and an empire, towards others of their kind. the source of cultural and artistic innovations, but also death. water can be fluid, life-giving and nurturing, but also as treacherous as a torrential flood sweeping everything away, no?

like the Yellow River's relationship with humanity, yao's impact on world history feels to me like this duality of life and death; peace and warfare; mentor, empire, conqueror... it's like, yao's been a teacher to many others but...i don't think their predominant image of him is as a warm and nurturing figure. maybe more so with his own people, but less so with other nations. being the old warlord he is, he'd say certain things very matter-of-factly (especially to yong-soo and kiku), about how power is the only language their kind universally understands, or about history being written by the victors (when we consider how the only surviving written sources about certain periods of asian history are only chinese ones...), inasmuch he'd talk about the importance of confucian virtue, integrity and humility on other occasions.

b. for obvious reasons; dragons—they and rivers both have that overlapping association of being serpentine, powerful and untameable. in contrast to how european dragons often took on villainous roles and were harbingers of disaster, it's important to note chinese dragons usually have far more positive cultural connotations. they symbolise prosperity, fortune and are guardians; often associated with power over water (so again; Yao and rivers and water.) many dragons are associated with a particular river or sea. they're also believed to have powers over the weather and were often prayed to. after all, the capriciousness of the rains ruled people's lives so much through natural disasters or made a difference between a bountiful harvest and a famine. so, i think at various points in history his people might also have understood him as a literal dragon (spirit/deity) walking around in a human guise. dragons are also a visual staple of chinese culture, from statues to jewellery. at the same time: while they're auspicious symbols—dragons can of course have aggressive and far less benign connotations if we consider how they became symbols of the emperor—and thus chinese imperial power and dominion over others. he evokes majesty, but also dread from that perspective.

c. plum blossoms: much like the sakura in japanese culture, plum blossoms are one beloved motif you'll see showing up in chinese art and literature throughout history. they're elegant and ethereal, also a symbol of both transience and renewal in a way, i'd say—their blossoms wither and die, but they come back each year. there's also that saying about how without a bitter cold, you won't have the sweet fragrance of plum blossoms, because they start blooming in winter. that's...very yao to me. china, as an idea, makes me think of a lot of elegant and refined traditional culture (like poetry or paintings) which plum blossoms recall—but i also think of humbler themes—the simpler idea of someone and something who is enduring, adaptable and resilient. who endures the harshest weather time and time again until spring arrives, the way my (peasant) ancestors probably did, carving their way through all the hardships of chinese history. yao might appear refined in an indulgent, wealthy way when he's dressed in his finest silk hanfu or a smart western suit in the modern day—but if you shake his hand, his palms are always callused and you can just see the weight (and hard-won experience) of centuries in his gaze.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

What about a Dreamwalker AU, where Reader is somehow stuck in dreams, and that is how they interact with the X-Men?

Reader perhaps has an enchanted or cursed item that keeps their body from waking up wherever it is, but they can interact with the X-Men in their own world. And Reader has run into them quite a lot, enough that Reader can anticipate where they'll find certain ones at certain places, and where to go and where to hide, or even a few ways to outwit the younger ones.

Reader isn't sure why they end up in these odd places, or why they always walk alone, or why they frequent certain areas more than others. They aren't aren't sure when they get there, just suddenly coming to, and finding themself in a new place, and have to try and explore where they are...

They narrow where they go down to about five areas:

• The Art and Museum Area, where the outer area is full of tall, well-sparsed trees and several ponds and small hills, then the buildings, with grand marble columns and one area that seems to be a museum with art and and nature exhibits, a workshop and craft area, a place for theater, and large rooms that seem to be full of mirrors and paintings and windows...

• The Old Lodge and Mansion, where there's there's old, large wooden house, varnished and polished, with many aquariums and wooden furniture and plush rugs and stony walkways and inlaid paths, winding steps leading up to it, the various tall pime trees and other conifers that surround it, and the streams and waterfall, trickling with fish, amd somw that that fill built-in aquariums... but it's seemingly cut-off from the world...

• The Odd School and Library, with various buildings, fields, halls, and books, full of art and classrooms and an auditorium and lunchrooms, and even tucked-away rooms and odd halls that seem creepy at best...

• The City and Its Shops, full of all kinds of places and streets and long winding ramps and roadtrips, ranging from a large, hive-like mall full of all sorts of stores, the older worn buildings for groceries and general stores, the fast food and restaurants and bars, the tight streets and the old steep park and the offices and occasional dollar store or thrift place...

• And the Woods, far from the city and the school and the other places, where there are safer trails with calmer paths to take... and then the wilder ones that follow rivers and over look ridges and cliffs, that flood when it rains and where vines and trees dangle within reach, and where you can see the animals and the sand and dirt and the mud amd the water...

Reader doesn't know why they like they end up there, or why they see these odd people, they just know they do, and that sometimes, Reader runs. They'd didn't, not in the beginning. But they do now, after encountering them enough times to know they're trying to make Reader stay, to listen to them, to be with them, and Reader just- they can't. They don't know why... but they can't. (It doesn't help that sometimes those odd people would chase after them, or try to sneak up on them, or try to shoot them with a dart or pin them so they couldn't escape. But Reader always seem.to eacape. They don't know how, but they do.)

(Dreamwalkinh isn't Reader's mutation, that's caused by something else, but what do y'all think Reader's mutation could or should or would be?)

[vodika-vibes]

okay this follower event is intriguing so I’mma try something👀 okay so. I’m thinkin about an Apocalypse AU with Fox. romance for the genre because you know it gotta be romance with Foxy, & girl you can go WILD with the plot, I give you free reign. unless you don’t want free reign, I can just send another ask. but for now BE FREE🦅

Woe To The People

Summary: According to everything you read as a child, the end of the world was supposed to be the end of the story. It’s a shame that none of the stories tell what happens to the people left behind.

Pairing: Commander Fox x F!Reader

Word Count: 2230

Prompt: Apocalypse AU

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: You said be free, and so I was free. You know how in some farming sims, the end of the world happened, and then people have to recover. That's what this is. I could have gone with apocalypse heavy, but I wanted to do apocalypse light. Please let me know if you don't like it. The title came from a CamiCat song called Woe To The People Of The Order. Also, I'm limited on how long I can sit at the computer right now. I...hurt my foot pretty badly and I can't elevate it properly from the computer, lol.

You were a child when the world ended.

You were barely 9 summers old on the day that the blue sky burned red, and acid fell from the sky. You managed to find shelter in a skyscraper, climbing higher and higher up the building as the acid water flooded the rivers and the streets.

And you refused to leave, even when the other people you were seeking shelter with did.

It took almost a week for the flood waters to recede. A week where you survived off of snacks and soda from the vending machines. A week where you didn’t have anyone to talk to, where all you could do is watch the burning sky through darkened windows and watch the flood waters slowly recede.

There was no internet, no TV, and your only source of information came from a small battery powered radio you found in the janitor’s closet. And it was from there that you learned what was going on.

You learned about the natural disasters that ravaged the world. Massive wildfires that raged for days, floods powerful enough to wash away buildings, sinkholes opening in places where it shouldn’t be possible, earthquakes destroying entire cities, storm systems creating tornadoes in countries that have never had one before.

And when the flood waters receded enough for you to leave the building, you ran home. Though you already knew what you were going to find when you arrived. Your home destroyed, completely flooded out, and your family, like every other family in your neighborhood, lay dead.

Burned almost beyond recognition.

At barely 9 years old, this should have been the end of your story. You were not big enough to fend for yourself, haven’t learned enough about the way the world works to even consider it.

But you’ve always been lucky.

Several days later, after returning to the sky scraper because where else could you go, a survivor found you.

A firefighter, to be specific.

His name was Jango Fett, and he told you about the safe haven that his family set up, where they have food, clean water, and doctors. He praised you for surviving as long as you did on your own, calling you clever and resourceful as he scooped you into his strong arms and carried you down the stairs and to the massive fire engine that somehow survived the floods.

He passed you up to another man, who settled you on top of the engine and offered you a proper sandwich while he covered you with a reflective blanket, and murmured assurances that you’re going to be fine, that everything’s going to be okay.

There were fewer survivors than you expected, as men and women trek out of the nearby buildings in groups of two or three.

And then you heard Jango call out that that’s everyone, and the truck started to move, slowly pushing through the debris covering the roads. Miles, the firefighter looking after you, adjusted the blanket so you couldn’t see the bodies strewn across the road.

Jango brought the survivors to the Mereel Compound, a massive group of buildings set up on top of, and around, a dam. The reservoir was empty, and Miles explained that the reservoir had been emptied before the flood, so you had nothing to worry about.

After that, you were sent to a creche, a place for young children to receive the care and education they needed to be productive members of society. Of course, the education was a bit different than what you were used to. But at the same time, you realized that you probably didn’t need to know what a noun was in this new reality of yours.

So you settled yourself in to learn what you needed to survive in this new world.

It’s been over a decade since the day the world ended, and very little has changed. Oh, sure, there haven’t been any other massive storms since the original ones, but it’s still a struggle to survive.

Enough of a struggle, that you had to move out of the Mereel Compound. You ended up in a building that used to be a mall. And, with help from other young people, you managed to turn it into something like an apartment complex.

Your job in the complex is to ensure that the water wheel, which provides electricity to the homes here, remains in working order.

It’s not a hard job, but it is a very physical job.

In fact, that’s what you’re currently working on. With a thick pair of gloves to protect you from the acid that lingers in the water. The filters do a good job in making sure that most of the acid doesn’t make it this far, but they’re not perfect.

The water needs to go through a seven point treatment before it can be ingested safely. Luckily, over the last decade, the survivors did manage to perfect that technology.

You look up as the door to the water room clicks open, “How’s are the water wheels?” A voice asks from the door. It’s a voice you’re intimately familiar with, seeing as it belongs to your boyfriend.

“In perfect working order,” You reply as you straighten, and stretch your arms over your head to work the knots out of your back, “I’m probably going to have to take water wheel 3 out of commission for a couple of hours to replace a part, but I want to have all of the parts on hand before I start.”

You turn to face Commander Fox properly.

Commander Fox is one of Jango’s many children, and is the man responsible for this complex. He’s a fine leader, you think, quick thinking and decisive. Not to mention protective of the people under his care.

He’s also the love of your life, so you might be biased.

“It’s not like you to check on the water wheels personally,” You note lightly as you pull your gloves off and set them in the solution that keeps the acid from eating through them, “Something wrong?”

“Thorn is ill, so I took his route.”

“That’s unfortunate,” You murmur, “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just a stomach bug, but better to isolate him rather than risk everyone else getting sick.” Fox allows, he moves to the side as you step out of the room, before he follows you and waits for you to lock the door behind you, “You haven’t seen anything unusual lately, have you?”

“In what way?”

He folds his arms over his broad chest, “I got a message from Wolffe-”

“From the forest compound?” You ask, after thinking a moment.

“Yeah, apparently there have been raids on the compound, and I’m...concerned.”

“Raids? All of the Compounds from the desert to the mountains belong to the Mereel/Fett clan.”

“Hence my concern.” Fox rolls his shoulders and for a moment you see just how exhausted he is, “Cody’s putting together a group to investigate, but if there are raiders out there-” He exhales sharply through his teeth.

He doesn’t need to put word to his worry.

You’re hardly stupid, your expertise with water and the filtration system makes you valuable. And a target for anyone with malignant motives.

“I’m giving you a guard detail.” Fox says, “And restricting your movements to within the compound.” He drops his hand from the back of his neck, “Your apartment is on a wall, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He sighs heavily, and you feel guilty for a moment. But then, you didn’t ask for a wall apartment, you were assigned it. “It’s fine, you can crash in my room.”

“That’s hardly proper, Commander.” You tease lightly.

“Your safety is more important to me than propriety.” Fox counters, completely serious, “The alternative is sending you back to the Mereel Compound.”

“Please don’t.”

He chuckles, “That’s what I thought.” He motions for you to follow him, and you easily fall into step next to him, and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, “Besides, it’s not like you’ve never crashed in my apartment before. Or even in my bed.”

You elbow him, “This situation is a bit different, Fox. There isn’t a small difference between me sleeping with you because your my boyfriend, and me sleeping in your apartment because I need a protective detail.”

He leads you through the bustling halls, and you feel a soft surge of delight when you see that the market is bustling with activity. Only a few years ago, this scene would have been impossible.

How far you’ve all come since the world ended.

Fox’s hand on your elbow encourages you to keep moving, as he guides you through the winding streets, until he unlocks the door to his apartment.

Fox’s apartment is bigger than all of the other apartments in the compound, with good reason, as a whole quarter of the room is filled with the computers that connect him with his brothers, and father. Not to mention the dozens of outposts that dot the country.

He shuts the door on the working half of his apartment and leads you to the living half of his apartment.

And you immediately head to the window, peering out at the red sky and over the wall that separated the compound from the wildlife. You hear some movement behind you and you turn to watch Fox remove his armor.

It’s leather mostly, reminding you of the old westerns your dad used to watch when he was still alive. Still, it offers a fair amount of protection against anyone who might want to hurt him, so you’re happy he has it.

He focuses his gaze on you, and a smile, soft and warm, graces his tired face. “Do you have any idea how stunning you look when you’re framed by the sky?”

Your face heats, and you turn away from him, “You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

He laughs softly and walks over to you, his arms sliding around your waist, “Then I clearly need to tell you more often.”

You face him again, your hands settling lightly against his chest and smoothing the thin shirt he wears under his uniform, “I know you think it, Foxy.” You tease, “I know you, after all.”

Slowly he leans in and presses his forehead against yours, his gaze locked with your own. “You know, you could just move in with me. That would make everything easier.”

“We’ve had this conversation-”

“And you never think I’m serious, but I am. I want you to move in with me.”

“Ask me again after this crisis.” You counter.

Fox sighs and lifts his hands to cup your face, “We’re not guaranteed tomorrow, angel. Especially with the way the world is. We need to take what happiness we can when we can.”

“And what if you change your mind-” You start.

“Never. I will never change my mind. I love you. I’ve loved you since we were kids in the creche and you were that bossy little girl who told me that I was wearing my jacket wrong. I loved you when we were teenagers and you had your heart broken by my brother and I was your shoulder to cry on. I’m not going to stop loving you. Ever.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you huff, “I was not a bossy little girl.”

“You were so bossy. It was adorable. It’s why I went along with it.”

You pout at him, and he grins at you, looking young and boyish in his delighted amusement, “Fine. I’ll move in with you, but only because you’re being pathetic about it.”

“I can live with that.” He agrees, before ducking his head just enough to catch your lips with his.

You lean into the kiss, intent to deepening it, to fan the flames of passion, when there’s a loud chime from the other room, and he breaks the kiss with a sigh. He tilts his head to the bed, and murmurs an instruction to get comfortable, before he releases you.

A giggle falls from your lips as you sit on his bed to wait for him. You watch him walk into the next room and you watch, through the open doors, as he reads something on the computer.

And you watch as tension lances through his body.

“Fox? What’s wrong?”

“Cody found the raiders,” Fox replies from his work room, you get to your feet and walk over to him, “Apparently they’re not raiders. They were informed that you, and several other people who are in charge of food, water, and power were being held against your will.”

“Who are they?” You ask, offended that anyone would think something so poorly of the men who saved you.

“They call themselves Jedi. They’re demanding to meet you and the others.” Fox scowls, “Cody doesn’t think we should do it, he says it stinks like a trap. Dad says that we should, but we should meet in a neutral place. He says that survivors need to stick together.”

“And...what do you think?”

“I think I want you to stay safe, but if this is the best option…” He trails off and then turns and pulls you into a kiss.

You sigh into the kiss, melting under his skilled touch.

“I promise,” He breathes against your lips, “No one will ever hurt you.”

[tekia]

Sun Blind

I commissioned @meredithmcclaren! She was a pleasure to work with and produces some of my favorite art! (I got my character drawn by @meredithmcclaren!!!!! omg how cool is that??(◕ᗜ◕))

Najma closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.

In the shade offered by the balcony above her, she stamped her feet and stretched her arms, twisting her back and bending her knees. She had ran around the arena twice before arriving at the entrance, and her skin was pleasantly flushed, her body loose. Her bare toes dug into the dry dirt under her feet, the bite of the marble stone walkway bisecting her foot, cold and rough compared to the fine grain of the dirt in the arena.

Cheers and cries of merchants filled the air around her as the people gathered in the stands awaited the show. Children laughed at the antics of the fools now dancing for their entertainment. Drunkards shouted for more wine and beer. Somewhere, one woman’s boisterous laugh carried over the rest. Horns trumpeted in the distance as a foot race concluded, and a cheer went up as the victor celebrated.

Najma tried to ignore it all as she shook out her arms. She bounced on the balls of her feet, balanced delicately on that edge of marble.

“Najma,” her brother called softly from just beside her, and her eyes popped open.

“What are you doing here?”

Zilan smiled slightly, his dark hair blowing in his face as a breeze picked up, carrying with it the scents of fried foods, unwashed bodies, and animal. Najma shivered at the scent of angry bull.

“I’ve come to wish you luck.” He held out a length of ribbon, brightly dyed and thin. She peered at it happily until he motioned for her to turn. She presented her back to him and felt him tying the ribbon into her tightly bound hair. The tips of the ribbon only just brushed her shoulders once he was done.

“I love the color,” she said, picking up the end and eyeing it. It wasn’t an expensive ribbon, but Zilan surely knew how likely she was to ruin it today, perhaps even lose it. But it was the thought that counted.

Red for luck.

She turned back to him, smiling up at him.

He had always been taller than her, as far back as her first memories, when he held her clutched in his arms, his heart pounding loudly against her ear as she cried for their parents. It had been so cold back then, in the dark and rain.

She shivered again, and he reached out and rubbed his hands down her arms. “You’re ready for this.”

“Mn,” she agreed. “I know I am.” Her heart was pounding as loud as his had on the night they lost their home, for a reason so far removed that she couldn’t hold the sadness in her heart.

She knew the sadness of their loss was never far from her brother’s thoughts, something that kept him going in troubled times, but he tried for her. He smiled at her confidence and nodded.

“I’ll be watching from up there,” he said, pointing above their heads. She bit her lip.

Up there, the rich could afford seats under a shade and servants to bring them food from the market without them having to brave the crush. She and Zilan were certainly not wealthy enough to place among them.

Their parents had been simple folk, weavers by trade, dead these past eleven years. They had escaped the raging waves of the untamed river that had swollen with freezing waters into the city with only the clothes on their backs with the other displaced peoples of the flood. Just a pair of orphans among the dozens of others, lost into the crowd of poor and hungry.

Zilan had been old enough to become an apprentice, and clever enough to hide his sister in his little room permitted to him by his master that they had survived, but Najma had to wonder how much of their luck was due to hard work and how much of it was due to Zilan’s loose morals.

She had seen him come home far too often beaten and bloodied.

He patted her shoulder and shook his head. “Just focus on your performance today.”

She nodded. “Be careful up there with the lofty types, hum? They’re far more dangerous than any thief with a knife in the dark alley.”

“And you beware of the horn!” He pinched her cheek like she was still a child. Whinging like a child, she pulled away, batting at his hand.

“I know Sap well! He will not harm me!”

Laughing and shaking his head, Zilan left to take his seat as horns within the arena sounded. Najma returned to her preparations, stretching and bouncing on her toes.

She wore little clothes, so as not to have anything that might catch and pull. She had bits of cloth wrapped around the length of her feet, leaving her heel and toes free. Her hair had been pulled up, secured with pins and ribbons. Beside her, two other young women also prepared for their own performances. Dressed similarly, the three of them were a little troupe of dancers that knew no rivals in the city.

The oldest of them was Selika, dark and tall. She was well muscled and limber, and had been dancing their dance since she was a child, as her father had been a master in his own time. Najma was only two years younger than her, and the third girl was much younger, coming only up to Najma’s shoulder, and Najma wasn’t tall at all.

Salima had been sold to Selika’s father as a serving maid when her mother died and her father found he didn’t have it in him to care about a girl child that couldn’t work the fields. Selika’s father was a decent man that raised Salima as his own, giving her his family name, and teaching her alongside Selika. When Najma appeared to watch the girls practice, the man had easily drew her into the lessons until she was a part of the little troupe as if she were their sister, too.

He had died two years ago, a cough that wouldn’t go away, so Selika had taken over the training, while their cousin, Atam, insisted on taking over the business end of her father’s business.

He wasn’t as decent. Salima now lived with Najma, and Selika hoarded away as much money as she could, out of his hands.

Salima jumped into the air, touching the tips of her fingers to her toes in the air, and a few children spotted her, cheering at the display of skill. Salima landed, her arms thrown up into the air, posed just right, back arched, feet planted. A louder cheer went up.

Two fools came running back toward them.

“Let’s go,” Selika said, then ran out into the arena. Najma followed, and she could feel Salima behind her.

Two steps out of the shade, the sun bore down on them and sweat beaded on her brow, but she ignored it all in favor of leaping into the air, her hands landing with a dull thud in the dirt. She shoved back to her feet, into another flip, and a third, hands nearly touching her heels with every flip.

She caught glimpses of Selika doing a similar trick, higher into the air than herself. Then she stopped just in time for Najma to flip onto her shoulders. She caught her balance and held her pose as Salima lightly skipped onto her back. She touched a hand to Najma’s shoulder, and Najma gripped her leg and lifted her into the air.

Salima waved to the crowd, drawing more cheers, before Najma dropped her leg and caught her by her arm pits and then let her to the ground. Selika threw her into the air, and Najma twisted into a spiral before landing sideways in her arms.

“Good,” Selika commented before setting her on her feet. Najma nodded to her before bouncing back into motion, kicking up into the air to the cheers around them.

Flip. Flip. Flip. Twist. Land and tumble under Salima’s flip. Climb Selika’s knee and flip. Catch Salima and throw. Pose. And breathe.

She looked over the crowd, but there were so many people she couldn’t quite tell one face from another, and the balcony was facing the sun.

Who had decided to make them face the sun?

She glanced at Selika and saw that she was also worried about the sun. Under the balcony, Najma could just make out the shape of Atam as he opened Sap’s pin, but the bull that exited wasn’t Sap.

He was an unfamiliar bull, and Najma stiffed as fear coursed down her spine. The bull scuffed the ground, his snorts sending up a plum of dust.

“That’s not Sap!” Salima cried, her voice high with terror.

“Salima,” Selika snapped. “You stay out of his sight.”

“But-”

“But nothing. You stay out of his sight. Keep the crowd entertained and distracted with your flips and tumbles.”

“Yes, xwişk.”

“Najma-”

“Let me do it.”

“You-”

“He’s too short for you. You’ll get injured if he tosses his head. I can do it.”

Selika sighed. “Okay. I’ll dance.”

Grimly nodding her head. Najma ran forward. She knew Selika would be running just beside her. Salima would be sure to flip around to the back of the bull where he couldn’t see her and would hopefully forget about her.

The first pass the two girls dodged his wide horns as he charged, and each flipped in a different direction as the bull turned to face them again.

From around her waist, Najma tugged free the red pennant that would draw the bull’s attention to her alone. With the dust and dirt in the air, the red wasn’t as vibrant as in the fields just outside the city, but the size and fluttering nature of the fabric was enough to keep him distracted.

Selika kept pace with her as she raced toward the bull again, but once more they diverged when the bull swung wildly. Too dangerous to trust.

Panting, Najma knew that they’d couldn’t keep it up. Two flips was the standard. Najma daren’t go for more. Sap would have tolerated it, but this unknown bull was dangerous. Where did he even come from?

The third pass arrived and the bull lowered his head just right. Najma felt Selika break off as she caught the bull by the horns and threw herself into the air, feet over her head, body twisting as the bull tossed his head, shoving her farther up into the air. Silently cursing, she released the horns and touched her feet to his spine before quickly skipping off into a second flip.

That wasn’t elegant or smooth, she thought as she landed on her knee, quickly tumbling to her feet and dodging out of the raging beast’s path. Selika distracted the bull only momentarily before he was once more charging at Najma.

He was too close. The sun was directly in her eyes.

Huffing, Najma nodded to herself and met him head on again. He swung his head the wrong direction, and, had she time, she would have broke off, but they were too close. She heard Salima cry out.

Launching herself into the air, she landed on her hands on the bull’s shoulders, felt his horn brush her thigh, but shoved off just as quickly and landed on the ground, knees bent to absorb the impact.

There was blood dripping down her inner thigh, but it was done.

She did a back flip in place then looked to the bull.

She had dropped the red pennant on the last jump, and the bull had mauled it into the dirt. Selika was flipping off to one side, headed toward the shelter of the balcony. Salima was already in the shade behind the stone guard that surrounded the arena.

Najma quickly made her way out of the arena amid the cheers. Panting, she stopped beside Salima. “Are you alright?”

“Mn, he didn’t come near me.”

She reached out and patted her hair. “Good. That was dangerous.”

“You still did it.”

She nodded. “It was too late for all of us to back out. Never jump over an unknown bull, Salima. You saw how he tossed me the first time and then gouged me the second?”

Salima looked down at the blood on her leg. “That looks painful.”

“If it was painful, she wouldn’t have done it,” Selika’s cousin sneered, snapping a rope in his hands. “What a pathetic display.”

Selika stepped between them, glaring at her cousin. “Where is Sap?”

Atam shrugged. “I sold him. He cost too much to feed.”

“What?!” The three girls shouted in unison. Najma and Salima gaped at Atam while Selika fought to keep the rage out of her voice.

“How dare you? He was my bull!”

Atam waved a hand and turned away. “And the money I got for him will pay your rent.”

“In my father’s house?”

“And for your upkeep,” he went on, ignoring her. “Next time, I expect to see a better show.” He snapped at the arena. “And get that bull back into the pin so I can return him to his owner.”

He left them, and Najma could only reach out and rest a hand on Selika’s shoulder.

Salima leaned against her own shoulder. “How are we supposed to get him back in the pin?”

Selika shook her head, looking lost and afraid. Najma didn’t know what to say, and when she turned to wrap her arm around Salima, she spotted her brother standing farther inside the shelter, his arms over his chest and glaring at Atam as the man walked away.

She shivered at the hatred and anger in his eyes. She hadn’t seen that look since the day they discovered that the district governor had been the one to order the dam upriver from their family’s village to be destroyed.

That governor was now dead through unknown causes.

She met Zilan’s eye and shook her head. His eyes narrowed then he moved away, disappearing into the shadows, out of her sight.

[nimarts]

TW: Hurricane Helene, flooding, death, etc.

I’m out of Asheville for now, I’m staying very graciously with some friends.

I’ve been doing a lot of journaling to process now that I have the time. I really didn’t lose anything material to me, I got lucky. The destruction in surrounding towns is absolutely catastrophic in comparison to Asheville. But still, seeing parts of my home completely washed away is beyond words.

I’ve never had to grieve for a place before. The area less than a mile from my childhood home is gone. Restaurants and businesses I’ve been going to since high school are completely destroyed. People I know lost everything they had. The entirety of their homes swallowed up underwater or crushed under fallen trees.

On the positive side, I’ve never seen my community come together like this. Every day, despite having no power or water at home, my housemate and I always found a place to get a free meal and drinking water. I’m so proud of everyone.

I don’t really know why I’m making this post. Just to get it out there and out of my brain, I guess? And to say please, please if you can, donate something to relief funds for the people who faced trauma and loss infinitely worse than mine. Asheville is a high tourist destination and so has garnered a lot of media attention. But there are people in Marshall, Swannanoa, Chimney Rock, Old Fort, Black Mountain, and more who need so much help, desperately.

I love you, please take care of yourself where you can.

Pictures I’ve taken this past week are under the cut, for those who want to see them.

Biltmore Village:

River Arts District, before and after flood waters receded:

And Downtown + West Asheville:

[igetthedisneybox]

Amada Madrigal

Inspired by @hannahhook7744's Encanto AU, and her own character headcanons.

Third image made using https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1558575

Fourth image made using https://www.dolldivine.com/la-colombiana

Fifth image made in Disney Dreamlight Valley

Amada’s full name is Amada Rafaela Guzmán-Madrigal.

Her first name means “beloved” and her middle name means “heal”. 

She is the fifth child of Dolores Madrigal and Mariano Guzmán.

She has her father’s lighter skin tone and straight hair. She has Dolores’ facial shape and ears. Her hair is lighter than her parents, probably from Pepa. She also has Pepa’s teeth. She looks almost identical to Avila, but is slightly shorter, and has slightly lighter skin.

She is eleven years old.

She has an older sister by eight years, Leta, an older brother by three years, Andrés, an older brother by two years, Carlos, and an older twin sister by thirty seconds, Avila.

She is currently uninterested in romance or sex.

Her gift is water manipulation. She can control and breathe underwater, but can’t conjure it. She loves her gift, and likes to blast people with water for fun.

Her door portrays her smiling with her arms in the air. Small water droplets fall around her, with one large bubble of water hovering above her head.

Her room resembles the nursery, with pale blue walls and wooden floors. The front part of her room is normal for visitors, but the rest of it is completely underwater. Her bed and other amenities are floating in the water, all anchored to the floor with ropes. There’s another rope on her bed she ties herself to so she doesn’t float off in her sleep.

His symbol is a water drop.

She and Dolores get along alright, but she is much more active and loud than her mother. They do share a love of bows, and Amada always wears a hair bow in her honor.

Both twins are Mariano’s pride and joy. They are his babies, and can do no wrong.

Leta is a horribly great influence on both twins. They often act as her sidekicks when she does stunts.

Andrés is the sibling they go to when they’re upset or scared. He always has comforting words for them.

Carlos gives the twins free stuff from his store, and encourages their wild antics.

She mainly hangs out with the other younger kids, Mariana, Tomás, Rómulo, Zoe, José, Héctor. She also spends time with Princesa.

She gets along best with Pepa, Isabela, and Tomás.

She’s more girly than her twin. She’ll go to Princesa to get her hair done, and cares a lot about clothes.

Unsurprisingly, she likes to swim. She spends more time in the rivers and canals around the Encanto than outside of them.

She plays the piano, but isn’t as good as her cousins. Even so, she, José, Beatriz, and a few others have a ‘band’ of sorts.

She got her ears pierced when she turned ten, and almost caused a flood in the Encanto with how freaked out she was. In the end it didn’t even hurt all that much.

She and Avila like to consider themselves like the ‘younger’ versions of Amelia and Sofía.

Her favorite colors are light blue, navy, turquoise, and light yellow.

[astrolovecosmos]

The seasons played and still play a major role in understanding the zodiac signs. The western zodiac most are familiar with today originated from the northern hemisphere. Medieval Europe also played a big role in our understanding of the zodiac signs and their symbolisms and associations. Below is how Pisces represents or connects back to the winter season.

Pisces can certainly embody the imaginative and magical side of winter. Sparkling snow, shinning icicles, dancing flurries - Pisces is a sign of fantasy and creativity. Pisces is dramatic and glamorous as well as whimsical and dreamy. Theatrical, poetic, seductive, mysterious, or comforting beings. Due to Pisces's connection with spirituality and death/rebirth it isn't surprising their season is at the very end of Winter - the end of the seasonal year. Pisces is also the last sign of the zodiac - the end, completion.

Pisces is a demonstrative, fluid, and flexible sign. Pisces is associated with fast moving water - riptides, whirlpools, thrashing waves, rivers, floods, avalanches or mudslides. Much like the end of winter Pisces can be messy. There may be mud and slush and dangerous falling icicles, all depicted of Pisces's nature. Pisces can be a beautiful and enchanting frost fairy or old Gregg in bubbling waters. Pisces is sensitive and always changing or moving. They are the chameleon. Their symbol is two fish moving opposite of each other, opposite currents, fluidity, encompassing two sides of water. Easygoing, caring, reactive, tolerant and passionate, rebellious, freezing cold or destructively hot, illogical.

Pisces is a Water sign and is therefore most compatible with other Water signs and Earth signs. However it is commonly said that Pisces is a sign that may seem compatible with everyone due to their adaptable and personable nature. Pisces is a healing, soothing, playful, and encouraging influence. They can be compared to the snow melt that nurtures and feeds the spring. Pisces is also connected to sacrifice. Their ability to give their all to others is sometimes depicted as a dangerous flaw. While they do tend to put others needs above their own to detrimental lengths, it's important to remember this can also be a strength or honorable act. Pisces ability to sacrifice for others, their compassion and loyalty can also be a place of power. Pisces are also known to deal with savior complexes. Pisces's kindness is a double-edged sword.

Pisces is a sign of spirituality and the free expression of water and emotions. They are associated with less structured themes and ideas around spirituality vs. recognizable, structured religion today. Pisces represents our personal spirituality. Pisces is connected to what is sacred, to love, mercy, gentleness, mysticism, transcending, ideas about nirvana or enlightenment, to joining/union, and the malleable self but strong soul. All seasons can certainly have some sort of spiritual connection, but Pisces time is during quiet, reflective winter.

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 30 - Oncoming Storm

The Coastal Run:

Glynn the Coffee Pot watched as the new engine for the branchline bustled about the yard, shunting trucks into place. His regulator sounded wobbly. “My own branchline, the Fat Director says,” huffed Thomas. “And yet there��s you old tin urn here telling me what to do. It’s not mine if there’s another engine!” Glynn could only chuckle. Edward had warned him about Thomas’ cheek and temper, and he was well used to the behaviour of the loaned engines who stormed about the mainline liked they owned the place.

In comparison to them, Thomas was a saint!

Still, there was one thing Glynn had to explain to Thomas before he could get any grumpier. Or before his regulator gave in; he really ought to mention that to Thomas. “It’s only until you’re settled in,” reminded Glynn politely. “Especially with storm season incoming.” “What does some bad weather had to do with anything?” snorted Thomas. “We had storms at Vicarstown and those never stopped trains.” “Oh no,” agreed Glynn. “Trains must get through no matter what. The big issue is the land around here isn’t stable. Knapford, Elsbridge, Dryaw and Toryreck are all built on reclaimed land from the old River Els marsh – it used to be one of the largest north of Liverpool. Rainwater normally drains out via the remaining marsh on the other bank, however during particularly bad weather, there are sometimes floods. It’s your responsibility as this branchline’s engine to look after the line when that happens.”

“Pah!” snorted Thomas, glaring out at the river. “It’s just some stupid water. What’s it going to do to an engine as big as me?” “You should not be so dismissive of heavy rain and flooding,” said Glynn crossly. “It’s very dangerous. You know… the mainline didn’t always go through Knapford tunnel.” Thomas raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Go on…”

“Oh yes,” hummed Glynn. “When we were built, the line only came as far as the abandoned harbour here. But the same company that had dredged the marsh here was invested in building a rail line to get the lead out of the mines. They had us built, and a line built around the headland.”

Glynn rolled forwards, leading Thomas through the yard to a set of points beyond the station. One set of lines continued straight along the mainline while another veered to the left, only continuing a very short distance before dipping down into weed-ridden ballast.

“Today, it’s a set of trap points to keep trains from heading for the tunnel, but back then it was our route to Tidmouth. It was a much longer journey, going right the way around along the craggiest and most difficult cliffs on Sodor. I hated taking my trains along that line; I always felt uneasy when I had to take my lead trains along that line. My siblings felt the same. One day, an oncoming storm had us all scrambling to prepare the line. One of my brothers had to get the last load of lead out to the harbour, and set off just as it began to rain. The rain lashed against the island, unleashing fury upon Sodor and dumping rain down by the lake-full. It was an absolutely horrible storm. Out on the line, my brother was doing his best to struggle against the buffeting rain and howling wind. Or at least… he was.”

Thomas gasped, realisation striking. “He…” “Wiped right off the side of the island with his train and most of the track. It was all swept away in the blink of an eye. Afterwards, a young Mr Topham Hatt helped build a railway through the hills, connecting the two towns and avoiding the cliffs.”

Glynn sighed, going back to his shunting. “I miss him so much. I loved my brother, and now he’d gone.”

Thomas sighed. He didn’t really believe in the idea of sympathy – likely a result of his upbringing. “Well, it’s done now,” he replied. “Let’s just do our best to keep my branchline smoothly. Do you know when that train bound for the Big Station is?” “Half past four,” replied Flynn easily. “But I’d be careful. The wind’s changed – a storm’s inbound.” Thomas scoffed. “Just because you felt some wind, doesn’t mean we’re about to get battered. And if we are, then don’t we have a job to do?”

Glynn couldn’t disagree with that. All through the rest of the day they worked hard, and as Glynn predicted, the weather began to change. Distant thunder rumbled as Thomas made his way up to the mine to collect his lead trucks bound for the Big Harbour. The first few fat raindrops fell as the little blue tank engine entered the mine, cold and wet and leaving dark splotches on the ground.

It only grew heavier as Thomas banged the trucks together. His regulator had begun to play up, leaving him irritable. He finished arranging his train, and set out into the oncoming storm. Rain buffeted the tank engine as he struggled on, each wheel turn struggling for grip against the rails. Wind howled and shrieked around him; branches were ripped off and flung into Thomas’ side tanks while a few stray roofing tiles were dragged from their spots and dropped onto the lineside with a smash.

Thomas was beginning to understand why Glynn hated the bad weather. Worse yet, none of the line were clearly visible, and the signals were barely any help. Thomas was still not used to this part of the island, and he just couldn’t make anything out in the driving rain and fog.

He rumbled through a station, and heard the roar of the sea being whipped up into a frothing monster by the storm. “That must mean we’re near Knapford,” suggested Thomas’ driver; he had to shout to be heard over the rain.

The train rumbled through the junction – or what might have been the junction, Thomas wasn’t sure. At the end of the station, they veered to the left, and the thunderous roar of the sea grew even louder. Thomas wasn’t sure where they’d ended up at all – but he hated it. The train was entirely exposed to the elements here, not even a few trees able to provide the slightest bit of cover. It almost sounded like he was running right on the coast – but that was impossible! The line ran through the tunnel.

Thomas struggled on, wheels slipping furiously as he tried to find at least the tunnel to shelter in. Anything would have been better than where he was. His wheels slipped again, and his driver rushed to stop the train from faltering. He moved too fast. Thomas’ regulator groaned, and with a clunk, slammed shut and jammed.

“Damnit!” groaned Thomas’ driver. “What will we do about the train?” “We have more immediate problems!” yelped the fireman. The two peered out of the cab to see the waves getting higher and higher, sea spray splashing against Thomas. It threatened with every crash against the rocks to rip the line right from the side of the hill!

Thomas felt queasy. “I don’t like this!” he shouted. “Get me out of here! Please!”

Suddenly, a whistle pierced through the roar of rain and sea. An engine bumped into their brakevan; Thomas could have cried in relief. The engine sounded just like Glynn! The engine dug its wheels into the rails and began shoving the train forwards. The minutes felted like an eternity, passing far too slowly. Thomas and his crew held their breath and prayed, both driver and fireman trying desperately to unstick the regulator.

And then, there was a bump. Thomas looked down, and could have whistled in surprise!

“Points?!”

Just behind them was the tunnel. Thomas’ crew did a double take, and fell against the regulator in shock. The bump jarred it back into motion, and Thomas shunted back violently, coming to a stop just inside the tunnel before his regulator gave out again.

Thomas thought he could just make out the shape of a Coffee Pot heading back down the weird coastal route.

A second whistle sounded out, and Glynn appeared in the mouth of the other tunnel bore. “Thomas! Thank goodness I found you! Where have you been?!” “Wait – Glynn? But weren’t you—” Thomas cut off with a gasp. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what had happened.

His suspicions were only confirmed when – to his horror – he found that there was no set of points beyond the tunnel. Glynn watched on, worried. “There were points here!” Thomas spluttered. “And a coastal run! I was nearly swept away!” “Thomas, the coastal run was destroyed nearly two decades ago. I don’t know what you saw,” replied Glynn for the fifth time.

But Thomas just couldn’t believe him. Not when he’d witnessed it for himself.

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