#ad injured now.... rest up king

[noxiousgrace]

I'm not sure who said it first, but the theory that krs is the red dragon has been on my mind for days now

And it would make so much sense if that was the case

Like what's a better twist than finding out the man who ended the white stars bullshit is also the same being who was used to start it all?

And the fact that krs was able to be affected by white stars curse is so much worse now

Imagine sherrit finding out her child was hurt by the same thing she created to protect him 😭

This also places immense suspicion on the god of death, i mean it never made sense to me that the white star was just able to "pass his curse around" like a sickly virus just because he stole someones body. It sounds more plausible to me that the god of death never added the rule "this curse cannot affect anybody else" and then used it as a loophole to curse KRS.

The curse was a punishment for an oath only dragon slayers have made, what the hell could be more targeted and specific than that??? And now you're telling me this random guy from raon has to live with it in korea cuz the white star took his body before that soul got to inhabit it??

The only person who can break a curse is the one who made the curse and the person who wanted it to be made (in this case the GoD and Sherrit)

And in the sealed test choi jung gun says "the god of death is trying to hold the curse back from affecting you"

Excuse me??? He can't dispel his own curse?? I don't believe that at all. Also krs had nothing to do with the white star since he was born, so why is it impossible to remove him from the effects of it?? The god of death had about 36 years to figure out how to make it go away, and he just couldn't?? I smell bullshit

Sherrit also said that the red egg was affecting it's surroundings before it was born, the dragon inside would've been powerful to extents she probably couldn't even comprehend

It makes more sense to me if the GoD just wanted to get rid of any competition/ "wrench in his plans" and used the excuse of protecting sherrits children to create the perfect scenario to take out 2 birds with one stone

GoD does seem kinda stupid when we see him but it's always the mfs with that kind of act that are the most suspicious, also he literally became a god?? If he can do that, then he's more than capable of setting up some kind of intricate plan to get what he wants

Anywho, there's also other things I've noticed:

1) never accepting park jin tae as king until he proved himself, krs has never submitted to anyone without a valid reason for doing so. Which would seem kinda weird cuz he spent 90% of his upbringing being beaten into submission. I've only ever seen an attitude like that in dragons or just stronger creatures in general (coincidence? I think not)

2) this has been stated before but his affinity with dragons is crazy + he's constantly being mistaken for one 😭

3) the GoD called krs a mutant, we don't know why yet but being a human with the soul of a dragon is a pretty valid reason to call someone a mutant. (Especially if that mutant was able to activate a small % of its attribute)

4) i don't have anything to back this up with, but instant being his attribute instead of a power he got on earth would be pretty cool, just using it for a little bit is enough to injure him because it's meant to be used by a dragon as powerful as the Red one.

----

Imagine eden finding out that the heart he ate to become a chimera belonged to the person who saved him 😭

Imagine the rest of the dragons finding out cale henituse is a "dragon" that will literally die from using his attribute because he's living in the wrong body 😭😭

---

Cales honest reaction to that information:

[aspenmissing]

ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6440 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ, ꜱɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ.

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

VANDER

Vander had always been a stalwart figure in The Last Drop, a protector and a father to the kids of Zaun. But today, things were different. As fate would have it, a misstep while working in the bar had caused him to break his leg. The pain was sharp, but the scolding from Y/N was much worse.

"You’re not stepping foot in here, Vander," Y/N said firmly, her voice brokering no argument as she hovered beside his injured leg. "Not until you're properly healed. You’re on bed rest."

Vander grumbled from the couch, his large frame unaccustomed to sitting still for long. "But I can't just leave it all to you, Y/N," he protested, though his voice lacked the usual strength. "The Last Drop needs me."

Y/N crossed her arms, looking down at him with a mixture of concern and authority. "You can trust me, Vander. I’ll take care of it. With the help of Vi, Mylo, and Claggor, we’ll manage. You need to rest. No more arguments."

Despite his protests, Vander was caught by the fierce determination in her eyes. He would have grumbled some more, but the thudding of footsteps and the sound of a small voice stopped him.

"I’ll make sure he stays in bed, Y/N!" Powder’s small, determined face appeared around the corner, hands on her hips as she stood beside Vander’s chair. "If he tries to sneak out, I’ll tell you, and then he'll really be in trouble!"

Y/N looked to Powder, ruffling her hair with a small smile, her eyes gleaming with hidden smugness. "Good girl, Powder. You’re in charge when we're not here," she said, the words laced with affection but a hint of playful authority.

Powder beamed up at her, thrilled by the responsibility, while Vander let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping further into the couch. "This is ridiculous..." he muttered, though the fondness in his gaze softened the words.

As he glanced down at his cast, his lips twitched in a reluctant smile. It was already covered in drawings and doodles—mostly from the kids. Some were crude, some were surprisingly detailed, but all were an assortment of tiny messages, playful sketches, and reminders of the little faces who had come to check on him. Vi had drawn a particularly fierce image of him, arms crossed, a crown on his head like some kind of king, while Mylo had drawn a goofy rendition of his face sticking out from behind a bar counter. Claggor’s doodle was a dragon wrapped around his leg, protectively guarding it. Powder had added her own personal touch—her signature scribbled across the top in bold, bright letters: "Vander the Best"

He chuckled softly to himself, unable to hide the warmth that spread through him at the thought of the kids. They had all rallied around him, even if it meant forcing him to stay still against his will. "I guess I’ve got some new artwork to admire," he said, his tone softened with affection.

Powder’s grin widened, clearly proud of her handiwork. "I made sure it was extra colourful!" she said, bouncing beside him as she looked at the drawings with satisfaction.

Vander sighed in mock exasperation but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright, alright. I’ll stay put. But only because you’re all so persistent."

Powder beamed, her tiny hands clapping in victory as she immediately returned to her assortment of parts, ready to keep him entertained. And though Vander wasn’t thrilled about being confined to the couch, the warmth of the kids’ affection and the comforting presence of Y/N’s watchful eyes made it bearable. He might be stuck here for now, but for the first time in days, he felt truly at peace.

=

A few days had passed since Vander’s injury, and though he had begrudgingly accepted his bed rest, the constant stillness was starting to wear on him. The pain had eased, but his patience was running thin. He was a man of action, and being confined to a chair was a fate he was never fond of.

He looked down at Powder, who was once again beside him, deeply absorbed in her assortment of strange bits and pieces. Her hands were quick, assembling something intricate with enthusiasm as she chatted away about her latest invention.

Vander sighed, glancing out of the window with longing. "I’ve had enough of sitting around," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration.

Powder, sensing his restlessness, didn’t even look up from her work. "Uh-uh," she said firmly, continuing to twist and turn a metal rod in her small hands. "You need to stay in bed. Y/N will be mad if you get up."

Vander shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the door as though he could make a break for it. "I just need to stretch my legs for a minute. I’ve been sitting here for days."

Powder paused, finally glancing up at him with a knowing smirk. "You tried that already," she reminded him. "And you know what happened."

Vander grimaced as the memory of his last attempt to leave flashed through his mind. He had barely gotten to his feet when Powder had practically launched herself at him, pushing him back into the chair with a strength that belied her small frame. "I’ll tell Y/N if you leave!" she had declared, with all the seriousness of a seasoned enforcer.

He slumped back into the chair with a sigh, pouting in defeat. "You’re relentless."

Powder grinned, clearly enjoying the power she held over him. She hopped up beside him, settling in with a pile of spare parts as she went back to her work, a gleam of excitement in her eyes. "I’ll keep you company, Vander!" she chirped. "We’ll make something fun! And you won’t be bored!"

Vander chuckled softly, shaking his head at her. "You're a troublemaker, Powder," he said, though the warmth in his tone made it clear he didn’t mind. Despite his frustrations, there was something comforting about the small girl’s presence, her unyielding determination to keep him entertained.

As she began to arrange her parts into a new contraption, Vander couldn’t help but smile, watching her explain her ideas with the usual enthusiasm. For a moment, his frustration eased, and he allowed himself to just enjoy the company, even if his leg was still keeping him down.

Powder beamed, and without missing a beat, she began explaining how her latest invention could work, filling the silence with her animated chatter. And though Vander wasn’t able to do much, he felt the weight of his boredom lift just a little, content in the knowledge that he wasn’t truly alone.

=

The day Vander’s cast finally came off was a moment of triumph—not just for him, but for everyone around him. After weeks of grumbling, restlessness, and being bossed around by Powder, he was eager to return to The Last Drop and reclaim his role. With a confident grin and a barely perceptible limp, he pushed open the doors to the bar, feeling the familiar warmth of the place wash over him.

The patrons immediately noticed his return, and the room erupted in a chorus of cheers and greetings. "Welcome back, Vander!" "It’s about time!" "The boss is back on his feet!" The shouts came from every corner of the bar, accompanied by hearty claps on his shoulder and mugs raised in his honour.

He grinned broadly, his heart swelling at the warm reception. It felt good to be back, to see the familiar faces and hear the hum of conversation that had been sorely missed during his absence. But as the initial excitement settled, he began to notice a recurring theme in the chatter.

"You’ve got a real gem in Y/N," one patron said, raising his drink. "She kept this place running like clockwork."

Another chimed in, nodding in agreement. "She didn’t just hold down the fort—she ran it better than you do, Vander!" The comment was followed by a burst of laughter and teasing smirks.

Even the regulars at the corner table, notorious for their grumbling, offered praise. "Y/N’s got a knack for keeping the peace. She might be tougher than you, Vander!"

He chuckled good-naturedly, accepting the ribbing with a shake of his head. "I’m glad to hear she kept you lot in line," he said, though the pride in his voice was evident. He’d always known Y/N was strong and capable, but hearing how much the community respected and appreciated her warmed his heart.

=

As the night wore on and the bar slowly emptied, Vander felt a familiar sense of satisfaction. The Last Drop was back in full swing, and though his leg still twinged now and then, he felt whole again. He bid goodnight to the remaining patrons, extinguished the lamps, and climbed the stairs to their shared living quarters.

Pushing the door open quietly, he was greeted by the soft sound of Y/N’s even breathing. She was sprawled across their bed, sound asleep, her hair tousled and her face relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks.

His chest tightened at the sight. He knew how hard she had worked while he was out of commission—running the bar, keeping the kids in line, and still finding time to check on him every day. The exhaustion etched into her features spoke volumes, and guilt prickled at the edges of his relief. She had carried everything on her shoulders while he rested, and now it was his turn to take care of her.

Quietly, he stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that belied his rough exterior. "You did more than hold down the fort," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You kept it alive."

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple before carefully pulling the blanket over her. She stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but didn’t wake.

Vander stood there for a moment, watching her with a soft smile. The chair by the bed briefly tempted him, but the pull of her warmth and the comfort of being close to her was stronger. With a quiet sigh, he carefully climbed into bed, mindful of the weight he placed on his healing leg.

Once he was settled, he gently wrapped his arms around Y/N, pulling her closer until her head rested on his chest. The sound of her steady breathing mingled with the slow, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat, and a deep sense of peace washed over him.

Y/N shifted slightly in her sleep, instinctively curling into him as though she knew he was there. A faint, contented sigh escaped her lips, and Vander couldn’t help but smile, pressing another kiss to her hair.

"You’ve done enough, love," he murmured softly, his voice a low rumble. "It’s my turn to take care of you now."

As he lay there, holding her close, the exhaustion of the past weeks began to melt away. The world could wait for a little while longer. For now, he was exactly where he needed to be—right here, with her.

SILCO

The sound of something snapping echoed through the dimly lit alleyway, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Silco turned sharply, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he saw you crumpled on the ground, clutching your arm. Blood trickled from a scrape on your temple, but it was the unnatural angle of your wrist that made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t care to acknowledge.

“What happened?” His voice was tight, the icy calmness masking the flicker of concern beneath.

“I slipped,” you muttered, biting back a hiss of pain as you shifted. “The railing gave way. I tried to catch myself…” Your eyes darted to your wrist, the sight of the bone pressing against the skin making your stomach churn.

Silco crouched beside you, his gloved hands hovering for a moment before resting lightly on your shoulder. “Idiot,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual edge. His eyes flicked to the jagged remnants of the broken railing and then back to your wrist. A rare flicker of something softer crossed his face before it was gone. “Come on. We’ll fix this.”

He slipped an arm under your uninjured one, careful to avoid jarring your wrist, and helped you to your feet. You leaned against him instinctively, your legs unsteady. His grip was firm, his presence steadying as he led you out of the alley.

=

The walk through Zaun’s winding streets felt endless, the throbbing in your wrist growing sharper with each step. Silco’s pace was brisk, his sharp gaze daring anyone to so much as glance at you wrong. You clung to him, every jolt and uneven step making the pain bloom anew.

Finally, the heavy door to Singed’s lab creaked open, the acrid scent of chemicals and something burnt hitting you instantly. You wrinkled your nose, trying to focus on anything other than the fire in your arm. Silco barked Singed’s name, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Singed turned slowly, his scarred face impassive as he took in the sight of you. His gaze lingered briefly on your wrist before he gestured for you to sit on the edge of a metal table. Silco helped you up, his hands steadying you as you winced in pain.

“Broken,” Singed said after a quick examination, his tone clinical. “I’ll need to set it before I stabilise it. Hold her still.”

Your eyes widened. “Set it? What do you mean—”

“It’s dislocated and misaligned,” Singed interrupted matter-of-factly. “If it isn’t set properly, it won’t heal correctly. She’ll lose function in the arm.”

You instinctively tried to pull your arm back, but Singed’s grip was firm, his movements already efficient and deliberate. Silco stepped closer, his hand pressing gently but firmly on your shoulder to stop you from moving.

“Stay still,” Silco said, his voice low and commanding.

Singed glanced at Silco and tossed him a scrap of leather. “She’ll need this. The pain will be... unpleasant.”

You stared at the leather, your heart racing. “Unpleasant?”

“Bite down,” Silco ordered, holding the leather to your lips. His mismatched eyes locked onto yours, his voice softening just slightly. “Do it.”

You hesitated, but the flicker of concern in his expression pushed you to obey. You bit down on the leather just as Singed gripped your wrist and began manipulating the bone.

The pain was blinding, a sharp, unbearable agony that stole the air from your lungs. Your muffled cries were caught in the leather as Silco held you firmly, his hand pressing down on your good shoulder to stop you from jerking away.

“Almost done,” Singed muttered, his focus unwavering as he aligned the bone with unsettling precision.

Finally, the pressure eased, the searing pain fading to a dull, throbbing ache. You sagged against Silco, your breath coming in ragged gasps as Singed set down your arm.

“You’ll live,” Singed said flatly, already moving to gather supplies. He returned with a thin metal pipe, a coil of rope, and bandages. “This will stabilise it.”

You flinched as he began securing the pipe along your arm, the cold metal pressing against your skin. Singed wrapped the rope tightly, ensuring the splint was sturdy, before finishing with the bandages.

“She’ll need to keep it immobile,” Singed said, addressing Silco as he tied off the last of the bandages. “No heavy lifting, no sudden movements. If it swells or the pain worsens, bring her back. Otherwise, it should heal in time.”

Silco gave a curt nod, his jaw tight as he helped you off the table. His hand lingered on your lower back as he steadied you. “Is that all?”

“For now.” Singed’s attention had already shifted to his other projects, his interest in you seemingly gone.

=

As Silco guided you out of the lab, his arm remained firmly around you. The moment you were back in the dim streets, he stopped and turned to you, his eyes scanning your face.

“You’ll stay at the Last Drop,” he said firmly. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You frowned, shaking your head. “I can manage at home—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply. His gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. “You’re not risking infection or making it worse because of your stubbornness.”

His intensity caught you off guard. Silco rarely let his emotions show, but the flicker of protectiveness in his mismatched eyes was unmistakable.

You sighed, leaning against him slightly. “Fine,” you muttered, exhaustion weighing down your voice. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

He huffed, his lips twitching in the barest hint of a smirk. “Don’t make me regret it.”

As he led you back to the Last Drop, his arm never left your side. In his own way, Silco had done more than mend your broken bone that night—he’d reminded you that even in Zaun, there was someone who wouldn’t let you fall apart.

=

The Last Drop had a certain charm in its chaos—the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional crash from a rowdy patron. But Silco had cleared a quiet space for you, one of the private rooms upstairs, far from the usual bustle.

You were propped up on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with your arm resting on a cushion. The makeshift splint Singed had crafted itched slightly, but the pain had dulled to a tolerable throb. A tray sat on the table beside you, holding a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits that you were fairly sure one of Silco’s underlings had been tasked with fetching.

The door creaked open, and you turned your head to see Silco stepping inside. His sharp, mismatched eyes flicked over you, narrowing slightly as if to assess whether you were following Singed’s instructions.

“You look comfortable,” he remarked dryly, closing the door behind him.

“I am.” You gave him your best smug smile, leaning back further into the cushions. “Though I could use a bit more help.”

He arched a brow, his lips twitching as though caught between amusement and exasperation. “You’ve got everything you need. What now?”

You lifted your uninjured hand and pointed at the edge of the blanket that had slipped from your lap. “Could you just... pull that up for me? It’s drafty.”

Silco stared at you for a long moment before letting out a sigh. “You’re impossible.”

But he stepped forward anyway, tugging the blanket up over your legs with the precision of someone folding a document. You beamed at him, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Anything else, Your Majesty?” he asked, his tone dry.

“Now that you mention it...” You shifted slightly, holding up your uninjured hand. “My slippers are over there.” You nodded towards the fuzzy monstrosities sitting by the door. They were Zaun’s finest attempt at comfort, adorned with comically oversized pom-poms. “I’d hate to get up and ruin all your hard work keeping me still.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, but the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Slippers.”

“Fluffy ones,” you clarified with a grin.

He muttered something under his breath—something suspiciously close to “unbelievable”—but he retrieved the slippers anyway, holding them between two fingers as though they might bite him.

“Your footwear,” he said, placing them at your feet.

“Could you?” You wiggled your toes pointedly. “I can’t exactly bend over with my arm like this.”

Silco’s glare could have wilted a flower, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. With a theatrical sigh, he crouched down, slipping the ridiculous slippers onto your feet with surprising care.

“There,” he said, standing and brushing off his coat as though the act had somehow sullied him. “Anything else? Shall I fetch you a crown while I’m at it?”

You grinned, wiggling your toes in the slippers. “No crown needed. But...” You pointed at the teapot on the table. “I could use a refill.”

Silco’s expression was a mix of disbelief and begrudging amusement. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Of course I am.” You leaned back, resting your head against the cushions. “How often do I get to see the Silco waiting on someone hand and foot?”

He rolled his eyes but poured the tea, placing the cup in your good hand with a surprisingly gentle touch. His gloved fingers brushed yours briefly, and you caught the faintest flicker of warmth in his mismatched gaze.

“You’re lucky I have a soft spot for you,” he muttered, sinking into the armchair across from you.

You smirked, cradling the warm cup in your hand. “Soft spot, hmm? I’ll remember that next time you’re trying to be intimidating.”

“Don’t push it,” he warned, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

For the rest of the evening, you lounged comfortably, revelling in your newfound ability to call Silco for every minor inconvenience. He played along—grumbling, sighing, and shooting you exasperated looks—but he never left your side for long.

=

Weeks had passed since your unfortunate accident, and though the pain in your arm had dulled to a faint ache, the splint Singed had crafted remained an irritating constant. It itched, it was heavy, and it made every small movement feel like an ordeal.

When Silco finally declared it was time to visit Singed for a follow-up, you couldn’t hide your relief. The thought of finally having the metal pipe removed filled you with a mix of nervous excitement.

The walk through Zaun was quieter this time. Silco stayed close as always, his sharp gaze scanning your surroundings for any hint of trouble. You felt his hand brush your lower back occasionally, a subtle gesture of reassurance.

Singed’s lab smelled as acrid and unwelcoming as ever. The scarred scientist barely glanced up from his work when you entered, his focus fixed on some bubbling concoction. Silco’s sharp voice cut through the air.

“She’s here for the follow-up.”

Singed turned, his face unreadable as he studied you. Without a word, he motioned for you to sit on the same metal table as before. You climbed up with less grace than you’d like, but Silco’s hand on your elbow steadied you.

Singed’s long fingers moved with clinical precision as he examined your arm, unwrapping the bandages to reveal the bruised but healing skin beneath. You winced when he prodded certain areas, but the pain was far less intense than before.

“Good alignment,” Singed muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “The bone has set. No signs of infection.”

“Does that mean the splint can come off?” you asked, a hopeful lilt in your voice.

Singed gave a single nod, already reaching for a small blade to cut through the rope securing the pipe to your arm. Silco hovered nearby, his mismatched eyes fixed on the process.

The relief was immediate as the metal pipe was removed, followed by the rest of the bandages. You flexed your fingers carefully, marvelling at how light your arm felt.

“Be careful,” Singed warned, his tone flat as always. “The bone is still fragile. No heavy lifting, no sudden impacts. I’ll prepare a brace to support it for a few more weeks.”

You frowned slightly, the thought of another contraption on your arm less than appealing. “A brace? Can’t I just... not use it?”

Singed’s deadpan expression didn’t waver. “If you want it to heal properly, you’ll use the brace.”

Silco’s voice cut in, low and firm. “You’ll wear it.”

You sighed dramatically, earning a faint glare from Silco. Singed returned moments later with a lightweight metal brace, this one far less cumbersome than the previous splint. He secured it around your wrist and forearm, tightening the straps snugly but not uncomfortably.

“This will protect it during daily activities,” Singed explained. “But don’t push your limits.”

“Understood,” you said, wiggling your fingers experimentally.

Silco, satisfied with the outcome, stepped closer. “What does she need to avoid?”

“No overexertion,” Singed replied, adjusting the final strap. “And same as last time, keep an eye on her for swelling or pain. If anything seems wrong, bring her back.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t do anything reckless,” Silco said, his tone pointed as he glanced at you.

You offered him a cheeky grin. “Oh, I’m a picture of caution.”

Silco’s lips twitched, but he said nothing as he helped you down from the table.

=

As the two of you left Singed’s lab, you flexed your fingers again, marvelling at how much freer your arm felt without the splint.

“Feels good to have it off,” you said lightly. “I feel like a new woman.”

Silco shot you a sideways glance. “Don’t get too comfortable. You heard what Singed said—no heavy lifting, no overexertion.”

“Relax,” you replied, slipping your arm through his. “I’m not planning on getting into any fights. Not yet, anyway.”

His hand rested briefly over yours, his grip firm but gentle. “Good. You’ve caused enough trouble for one lifetime.”

“Admit it,” you teased, leaning into him slightly. “You’d miss me if I didn’t.”

Silco’s silence was telling, though the faint smirk on his lips spoke louder than words. For now, you were on the mend—and you intended to enjoy every moment of having him fuss over you just a little longer.

JINX/POWDER

The sound of hurried footsteps and a sharp gasp pulled Y/N from her thoughts. She was in her workshop, busy sorting through a pile of supplies when Jinx burst in, cradling her arm with tears pooling in her wild eyes.

“Y/N!” Jinx wailed, her voice cracking. “I—I think I broke something!”

Y/N’s heart dropped as she rushed over. “Oh, Powder,” she murmured, instinctively slipping into the nickname she’d used since they’d first met. She guided Jinx to sit down on a nearby crate, her hands gently examining the injured arm.

The bone wasn’t sticking out, thank goodness, but the swelling and the way Jinx flinched told Y/N it was definitely broken.

“Jinx,” Y/N began, her tone a mix of worry and exasperation, “what were you doing this time? Jumping off a rooftop? Playing with one of your bombs again?”

Jinx sniffled, avoiding Y/N’s gaze. “It wasn’t that bad! I was just testing a grappling hook idea, and it… kind of backfired.” She winced as Y/N carefully adjusted her arm, her lower lip trembling.

Y/N sighed deeply, shaking her head. “Reckless, absolutely reckless,” she muttered, though her hands were gentle as she reached for her stash of bandages. She always kept supplies handy for moments like these; with Jinx around, you could never be too prepared.

“Stay still, love,” Y/N said softly, wrapping the bandages around Jinx’s arm with practised ease. “This will have to do."

She fashioned a makeshift sling using a strip of cloth, tying it securely yet comfortably around Jinx’s neck to support her arm.

“There,” Y/N said, brushing a strand of blue hair from Jinx’s face. “Good as new… well, sort of.” She crouched in front of Jinx, her hands resting on the younger girl’s knees.

Jinx sniffled again, her tears slowing as Y/N fussed over her. “It really hurts,” she admitted, her voice small.

“I know it does,” Y/N replied, her voice warm and soothing. “But you’re tough, Powder. You’ll be alright.” She pressed a kiss to Jinx’s temple, earning a faint smile from the girl.

“But you’ve got to stop being so reckless,” Y/N added, her tone firm but not unkind. “One of these days, you’ll get yourself into a situation I can’t fix, and I won’t always be there to save you.”

Jinx’s face fell, guilt flashing in her wide eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said quietly.

“I know, love,” Y/N said, pulling her into a careful hug. “Just promise me you’ll think before you act next time. Deal?”

Jinx nodded against Y/N’s shoulder. “Deal.”

For the rest of the evening, Y/N kept Jinx close, doting on her as she prepared tea and a snack, ensuring the girl was as comfortable as possible. Jinx basked in the attention, her usual manic energy subdued by the warmth of Y/N’s care.

=

A few days later, the sound of loud, exaggerated groaning filled the workshop. Jinx was sprawled on the couch Y/N had set up in the corner, her injured arm still in its sling. She flopped dramatically onto her side, glaring at the ceiling as if it were personally responsible for her misery.

"Y/N!" Jinx whined, dragging out the name like a petulant child. "This is so boring! I feel like I’m gonna die just sitting here doing nothing!”

Y/N glanced up from the table where she was working on repairing a gadget. “You’re not dying, Powder,” she said with a smirk, not even bothering to look her way. “You’re healing. Big difference.”

“Same thing!” Jinx threw her good arm into the air for emphasis, her slinged arm held protectively against her chest. “You won’t let me tinker, you won’t let me test anything, and you won’t even let me—” She cut herself off with a frustrated groan, kicking her legs like a sulking child. “I’m losing my mind, Y/N!”

Y/N finally turned around, crossing her arms as she leaned against the table. “You broke a bone, Jinx. You need to take it easy. Or do I need to remind you what happened the last time you ignored my advice?” She raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her face.

Jinx pouted, pulling her legs up to her chest. “You don’t have to remind me,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact.

“Good,” Y/N replied, walking over and sitting on the edge of the couch. She reached out, gently ruffling Jinx’s hair. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, you know. And if you want that arm of yours to heal properly, you’ll listen to me this time.”

“But I hate sitting still!” Jinx groaned, leaning her head against Y/N’s shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. “I wanna blow something up! Or tinker with my zapper! Or—”

“Absolutely not,” Y/N interrupted firmly, though she couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped. “But…” She stood, grabbing a small box from the workbench and returning to Jinx’s side. “I did find something for you to do that won’t get you into trouble.”

Jinx perked up immediately, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. “What is it?”

Y/N opened the box, revealing a small mechanical puzzle. “It’s a prototype I’ve been working on. A little puzzle box with gears. You have to figure out how to make it open.”

Jinx eyed it suspiciously at first, then reached out with her good hand, a spark of interest flickering in her eyes. “This… looks kinda cool,” she admitted, turning the box over in her hand.

“Thought you’d like it,” Y/N said with a smile. “It’s not the same as your usual chaos, but it’ll keep you busy. And it won’t involve any broken bones.”

Jinx let out a dramatic sigh, though she was already engrossed in the puzzle. “Fine,” she muttered, a small grin tugging at her lips. “But only ‘cause you’re no fun when you’re mad.”

Y/N laughed, leaning back on the couch. “That’s the spirit, Powder.”

And as Jinx’s tongue poked out in concentration while she worked on the puzzle, Y/N allowed herself a moment of relief. At least this would keep her out of trouble—for now.

=

It was late in the evening when Silco entered the dimly lit hideout, his sharp gaze scanning the room. The moment he stepped inside, he caught sight of Jinx crouched over a pile of scrap metal, her injured arm still secured in the sling. She was humming to herself, her good hand deftly tinkering with a handful of loose wires and a half-assembled contraption.

Silco’s footsteps echoed as he approached, his presence making Jinx flinch slightly before she looked up with her usual wide-eyed grin.

“Silco!” she chirped, quickly trying to hide the gadget behind her back with one hand. “What’re you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” Silco replied smoothly, his voice low and measured. His eyes flicked to her sling, and a faint frown tugged at his scarred face. “Didn’t Y/N tell you to rest?”

Jinx shifted awkwardly, her grin faltering for just a moment. “I am resting! I’m just… doing some light tinkering. It’s not like I’m fighting off enforcers or anything!” She laughed nervously, glancing away.

Silco stepped closer, his tone sharp. “You’re still injured, Jinx. And I’ve seen the lengths Y/N goes to when it comes to keeping you safe.” He paused, his mismatched gaze narrowing slightly. “What do you think she’d say if she found out you were ignoring her instructions?”

Jinx froze, her expression somewhere between guilt and defiance. “She doesn’t have to know,” she muttered, glancing at the gadget she was hiding.

“Doesn’t she?” Silco tilted his head, his voice quiet but heavy with warning. “You know as well as I do that Y/N has a way of finding things out. And if she learns that you’ve been… ‘mucking about,’ as she puts it, while still healing, she won’t be happy.”

Jinx winced at the thought, the memory of Y/N’s stern yet caring lectures still fresh in her mind. “She wouldn’t have to get so mad,” she grumbled. “I’m fine, Silco. It’s just a little break. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Silco’s expression hardened. “You might think that now, but if you push yourself too far, you’ll end up making things worse. And if Y/N were to see you like that—helpless because of your recklessness—I imagine she’d be far more than just disappointed.”

Jinx’s eyes darted to her arm, and she let out a frustrated sigh, plopping down on the floor with a huff. “Fine,” she mumbled. “I’ll stop. Happy?”

“Not entirely,” Silco said with a faint smirk. “But it’s a start.” He crouched down to her level, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You care about Y/N, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Jinx snapped, her tone defensive. “She’s, like… the best. Even when she’s being all bossy and overprotective.”

“Then respect her enough to listen,” Silco said, his voice taking on an almost fatherly tone. “She looks after you because she cares. Don’t make her worry unnecessarily.”

Jinx fiddled with the edge of her sling, her usual manic energy subdued. “Yeah… okay,” she muttered, her voice quiet.

“Good,” Silco said, standing and straightening his coat. “Now, get some rest. And if I hear that you’ve been sneaking around again…” He let the threat hang in the air, though his tone was more teasing than serious.

Jinx rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Y/N’ll kill me if she finds out. Message received.”

As Silco turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. “She’d only kill you because she loves you, Jinx. Remember that.”

Jinx watched him go, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sling. She huffed again, but this time, it was softer—less frustration and more fondness.

“Yeah,” she whispered to herself, a small smile creeping onto her face. “I know.”

=

It was finally the day Jinx had been waiting for. She sat perched on the edge of Y/N’s workbench, bouncing her legs excitedly while Y/N prepared to remove her sling and bandages.

“Alright, Powder,” Y/N said, carefully untying the makeshift sling. “Hold still, and we’ll get this off nice and easy.”

Jinx grinned wide, practically vibrating with excitement. “Finally! No more stupid sling, no more boring rules—freedom!”

Y/N chuckled as she began unwrapping the bandages around Jinx’s arm. “Let’s see if you’ve actually been careful, or if I’m going to have to lecture you all over again.”

Jinx feigned an innocent expression, her eyes darting to the side. “Careful’s my middle name!”

“That’s a lie,” Y/N quipped, rolling her eyes. She focused on her task, her fingers working gently to peel away the final layers of bandages. “Alright, here we go. Let’s see—”

The bandages fell away, revealing Jinx’s arm. As Y/N stepped back to inspect it, Jinx suddenly bent her elbow at an unnatural angle, making her arm look horribly twisted and misshapen.

“Uh… Y/N?” Jinx said, her voice trembling in mock panic. “I think something’s really wrong!” She wiggled her fingers for dramatic effect, her arm bent in a way that looked grotesquely broken.

Y/N blinked, tilting her head. “Hmm…” she muttered, her tone calm as she squinted at Jinx’s arm.

Jinx bit her lip, trying not to laugh as Y/N leaned in for a closer look. “Is it bad? Am I doomed? Am I gonna have a noodle arm forever?”

Y/N straightened, crossing her arms. “Oh, no, no. It’s not that bad,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “We just need to… re-break it so it heals properly.”

Jinx’s grin faltered. “W-What?”

Y/N turned and picked up a small hammer from her workbench, tapping it against her palm with a thoughtful expression. “Yep, just a quick snap back into place,” she said casually. “Shouldn’t take more than a second.”

Jinx’s eyes widened. “Wait, wait, wait! I was joking!” she blurted, waving her hands frantically. She quickly straightened her arm, showing that it was perfectly fine. “See? Look! Good as new! No noodle arm, no problem!”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching as she tried to suppress a smile. “Hmm,” she said, still holding the hammer. “You sure? It looked pretty bad a moment ago…”

“Positive! Absolutely positive!” Jinx insisted, laughing nervously as she scooted further back on the bench. “You don’t need to fix anything! Promise!”

Y/N finally cracked a grin, setting the hammer down and crossing her arms. “That’s what I thought,” she said, giving Jinx a pointed look. “You little troublemaker.”

Jinx burst into laughter, clutching her now freed arm. “Oh, come on, Y/N! You should’ve seen your face—it was priceless!”

“My face?” Y/N retorted, shaking her head. “I should’ve let you see yours when I grabbed that hammer.”

Jinx doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. “Okay, okay, you win!” she gasped, barely able to catch her breath.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh along with her, ruffling Jinx’s hair affectionately. “You’re lucky you’re adorable,” she teased. “But if you ever try something like that again, Powder, you’d better sleep with one eye open.”

“Got it, boss!” Jinx saluted playfully, still giggling.

As they laughed together, Y/N couldn’t help but shake her head, smiling fondly. Jinx might have been a handful, but she wouldn’t trade her for anything.

[thequietkid-moonie]

Secretly dating someone from another gang

[ HEADCANONS ] [ Caesar, Burnice ]

[ Zenless Zone Zero ]

IM SO IN LOVE WITH THE SONS OF CALYDON!!! I just love them so much 😭😭 their story, their desing, their gameplay, I just love them!!!

aaaaanyways, I enjoyed writing this a lot and I hope you enjoy it too 🩷🩷

Caesar King

Caesar is optimistic and reliable and being the leader of the Sons of Calydon just reflects that side of her, although her most romantic side, that part of her that makes her heart beat faster at the idea of having a cheesy romance is only know by those who are closer to her

Caesar doesn't even remember too well how it is that you two end up together and, in all honestly, she prefers to don't remember the details because it make her way too flustered and blushy, what she knows is that she is in love and that love is corresponded!

Caesar doesn't have much troubles with keeping your relationship as a secret, she didn't liked much the idea at first but she knows too well why it has to be done, specially when the Tour inferno is close, she doesn't anyone making up a rumor that can affect any of you, and, in the other side, having a secret relasionship is pretty exciting for her

Caesar is incredibly sweet and pretty hopless romantic so having to do things like sneaking out of the others to be able to see you and planning secret dates make her feel so flustered and excited that she doesn't even know how she is able to keep your relationship as a secret at this point (but she is trying her best)

Being from diferent gangs doesn’t mean you two have to be mean to each other, thats how things are on the Outer Ring and she end up taking advantage of that, using the excuse of the fact that she will be competing to become the overlord to get close to your gang as if trying to find out what it should be done when she takes the lidership

Caesar can be pretty silly and exaggerated when trying to act like you two aren't together in from of others just because she want so bad to go to your side and hold your hand or even just hug you! But if you point it out she will be too embarrassed and will even complain

As well, she has a hard time trying to hide what she feels whenever she gets to heard that you are injured or that your gang got into troubles and, surprisingly, she manage to stays serious enough to go as the leader of the Sons of Calydon to offer help if posible, but thats in public because the moment is just the two of you she is already over you asking you if you are alright with teary eyes

Caesar have promise over and over again that when she became the Overlord she will make public your relationship, always with a prideful smile, but when the moment finally came and she became the Overlord she find troubles to do so because now she has to face the troubles of the leadership and all that happened in the Tour inferno, even so she haven't forgotten her promise, she just ask to wait a little longer for her (she even assure you that she haven't forgotten and still plans on doing it public soon, and her frustration for failing in her promise is evident in her expression), maybe, for now, you two can start by telling the rest of the Sons of Calydon

Burnice White

Burnice has a personality that stands out, between her entusiasm and energetic self and her great work with the flamethrowers she is well know, adding to the fact that she is part of the Sons of Calydon, so getting to know each other it isn't that dificult

Deciding to keep your relationship as a secret wasn't Burnice idea, and she even compalined about it but doesn't take much to accept it as you explain that it would be better because of the circumstances, still it will take a while to Burnice to get used to have to don't get over excited and affectionate whenever you two are in public, it took a lot of willpower since she is incredibly affectionate and clingy but at the end she managed to do it! (however, she will make you make it up for her later)

Despite everything Burnice is surprisingly good at keeping your relationship as a a secret, she keeps distance and just talk to you in a friendly way, like with any other person, for the rest of the world it just seems like if you two were simply slowly becoming friends while in private Burnice never leaves you, her hands are always on you by either holding you, hugging you close and sometimes even climbing on you

Burnice takes advantage of the fact that as long as people don't know you two are actually together as partner to spend as much time as posible st your side, always making it seems as a coincidence or that simply happened that you two are at the bar or Cheestopia at the same time and choose to drink something together out of cortesy, or how whenever you two end up running into each other while riding across the road was simply coincidence

Secret dates in public becomes so common that it just becomes a game for Burnice, constantly thinking on how to do it next time, sometimes even going to the city to run some errands to have a secret date out of the Outer Ring (and being able to be extra clingy since no one will see you two there)

At the end no matter how much efforts you two do to keep it as a secret people will start to gossip about you, not exactly because they have find out but because the chemistry that you two have, how you two seem so comfortable and easy going at the side of the other, how well you two seem to work together or even that friendly rivality you two have build to try to cover up your secret dates just end up making some poeple think that you two could be good together, even the Sons of Calydon end up showing support and try to give advices and hints to her about the posibility of you two becoming a couple (wich Burnice finds incredibly hilarious)

At the end she won't say that you two are already together right away but will definetly tell you all that have happened, how everyone seem so supportive between giggles before asking you what you think, wanting to know your opinion after their reaction, hoping you will accept to make your relationship public so she can finally kiss you all day without having to wait until you two are alone

[yokumirumerafan]

Hi i hope this isn’t a bother but can you do that Y/N found a wounded animal and forces the character to take care of it with them (with the uppermoons, Muzan, Tamayo and Yushiro)

Please and thank you :)

Upper Moons, Muzan, Tamayo, and Yushiro would react to Y/N finding a wounded animal and forcing them to take care of it together

📌 Post Info: 💬 Request: Y/N finds a wounded animal and forces the characters to take care of it with them 👥 Characters Included: Upper Moons, Muzan, Tamayo, Yushiro, + Hashira (Sanemi & Obanai added for drama 😭) 🌎 AUs Used: Canonverse 📖 Summary: Y/N stumbles upon an injured animal and, without a second thought, forces certain Demon Slayer characters (and demons) to help take care of it. Some react calmly. Some… not so much.

🌑 Muzan Kibutsuji Disgusted. "Why would I, the Demon King, care for a weak, insignificant creature?" Tries to ignore it, but if Y/N insists (or gives him the silent treatment), he just sighs and lets them do what they want. "Fine, but it stays away from me." Cue the animal immediately liking him. Secretly watches Y/N care for it and starts wondering why they care so much. Might even start seeing a weird parallel to his past life. 🌒 Kokushibo At first, he doesn't react much. Just stares at the small, wounded thing in Y/N's hands. “...If this is your will, then so be it.” (a.k.a. he just follows along bc he respects Y/N) Ends up silently tending to the animal when Y/N isn’t looking. Pretends not to care, but definitely does. If it’s something small like a bird or rabbit, he finds a quiet place for it to rest. 🌓 Doma “OH?! A tiny helpless creature? JUST LIKE YOU, Y/N~!” Immediately dramatic about it and pretends to be a “loving father” to the animal. "We'll nurse it back to health together, and it will become our cult pet! Oh, this is WONDERFUL!" Accidentally overstimulates the poor thing by holding it too much. Y/N has to stop him. Loses interest after a while, but pretends to still care just to make Y/N happy. 🌔 Akaza “Tch. It’s weak. Let it die.” Absolutely refuses at first. Says it’s not worth the time. But Y/N gives him THE LOOK. And suddenly, he’s holding the tiniest, most fragile thing in his big hands. "I don’t see the point of this." (But he’s secretly protecting it from the cold.) If it gets better, he’ll say, “Good. Now it can survive on its own.” (But he’s lowkey proud.) 🌕 Gyutaro "Ya really think a piece of filth like me should be takin’ care of somethin’ so fragile?" Lowkey scared to touch it. He thinks he’ll hurt it. Y/N is patient with him, and he actually ends up being super gentle with it. Gets attached. “Damn thing’s kinda cute, I guess.” If anyone tries to hurt the animal? He’ll MURDER them. 🌖 Kaigaku "Ugh, why me?!" Complains the most but still helps. Acts like it’s a huge burden, but Y/N notices him secretly making sure it’s warm. "Tch, whatever. If it dies, don’t come crying to me." (Literally the first one to panic when it looks sick.) If it survives? He’s just like, “Of course it lived. It had me.” Tamayo Instantly goes into doctor mode. “Poor thing… Let’s clean the wound first.” Super gentle and efficient. Probably has some kind of herbal remedy for it. Gives Y/N an approving smile, happy to see their kindness. "It will be alright. You have a good heart, Y/N." Yushiro "Why do you care? It's just an animal." Complains like crazy but still helps. If Y/N is sad over it, he gets pissed at whoever hurt it. "Tch. Whoever did this is a waste of space." Ends up being the best at keeping it calm and stable. Pretends to be annoyed but actually proud of himself for saving it.

Eheheh also I feel like I should do some of the Hashira, I'm thinking of Sanemi and Obanai, because everyone else would react calmly except these mfs <33

🐍 Obanai Iguro & 🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa React to Y/N Forcing Them to Care for a Wounded Animal

🐍 Obanai Iguro "Absolutely not." The second Y/N shoves the small, wounded animal in his arms, he freezes like he just got cursed. “I am not touching that thing. It’s filthy.” Y/N does not care. They just wrap it in a cloth and shove it at him again. Kaburamaru sniffs it. Now he’s conflicted because if his snake isn’t hissing at it, it must be harmless. “…Fine. But you’re the one feeding it.” (Spoiler: He totally feeds it.) Lowkey protects it without realizing it. If anyone else tries to touch it, he glares. “You’ll scare it. Back off.” Will never admit he cares but will stab someone for it. 🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa IMMEDIATE LOUD REACTION. “THE HELL IS THIS?! YOU THINK I GOT TIME FOR A DAMN ANIMAL?!” CROSSES HIS ARMS AND REFUSES. “Not my problem.” Y/N gives him the biggest death glare. Y/N: “Sanemi. Pick it up. Now.” Sanemi: Grumbles, picks it up aggressively like it’s a sack of rice. Instant regret. "Shit, it's shivering—WHAT DO I DO?!" Panics but refuses to show it. Calls Y/N dumb for caring but is the first to keep it warm. “Tch. If it dies, I ain’t takin’ responsibility.” (He’s totally taking responsibility.) If it survives, he acts like it was all Y/N’s doing. Secretly checks up on it when Y/N isn’t looking.

😭 THESE TWO WOULD BE THE MOST DRAMATIC FOR NO REASON. I LOVE THEM. Hope you enjoy, bae!! 💖

[uselessmoonlight]

Stranger finale

Reader is Telemachus' friend, and when he leaves for his "diplomatic mission" he asks her to watch over his mother. Later, once the king has returned, she stumbles upon an injured Poseidon.

Previous / series masterlist / character sheet

Content specs: she/her pronouns used, afab reader, Platonic! Telemachus x reader, Epic!Poseidon x reader, possible OOC!Poseidon, Polites’ daughter! Reader, unrequited love, blood, fighting, nudity, illusion, possibly more?, trying to avoid using y/n, slowburn, suggestive themes.

“Love? Do you not think that’s too strong of a word?” Ónoma questioned the man.

“I do not, in fact, I think it is not strong enough to describe what I feel for you. It is something I’ve never felt before, not even for Amphitrite when we were still married. The Gods do not feel as humans do, you are well aware of this, do not question my feelings for you again, they are carved into me like a river cuts through a mountain, like a ships cuts through the waves.” The sincerity and seriousness of his voice stunned her.

He had been serious with her before, but it had not been this pressing. She’d not meant to hold her breath an inhaled deeply when she realized. She searched his eyes for any insincerity, but came up with nothing. “Show me.” Was all she replied.

“What?” Five.

“You said you were in disguise, I wish to see you, the real you, so that we may bury all lies told.” She held his gaze as she spoke. A smirk graced his face as he took her face in his hands.

“I thought you wanted me to show my love, not that I’m complaining about this, but I think that would have been way more fun. Though, I suppose this request is way more you.” He winked at her, caressed her cheek, then took a step back. “Whatever you wish, my lady.”

If he was ethereal before, he was something else entirely now. His hair was longer, flowing like waves, but his frame was broader. He seemed to be as sharp as the earthquakes he caused, but as soft as the sea in rest at the same time.

“I accept.” She stated, seemingly out of nowhere. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“What do you accept? My proposition?” He asked, sounding almost giddy while trying to retain a cool exterior. Three.

Ónoma feigned a sigh and struggled to contain her smirk. “Your apology, I accept your apology.” She was having way too much fun riling him up. Poseidon noticed her expression and narrowed his eyes.

“Are you teasing me?”

“Maybe, I believe that’s two questions left.”

“You’re still keeping track of that, huh? Well then, if I have two left, what is the goal of your teasing?” Ónoma recognized the first question to be rhetorical, and allowed him that much.

She took a challenging step closer. The two now breathing the same air, chest to chest. She looked up at him through her lashes and ran a finger down his chest, stopping at the cloth that covered him. “I think you know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I want you to ruin me, completely.” She whispered. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were bold as she held his gaze. He grabbed her by the waist with one hand, the other holding the back of her head, and brought her impossibly closer. Just the smallest shift would have their lips touching.

“Oh, I intend to, but first, will you be mine?”

“Yes.” She breathed. As their lips finally touched, she felt him smile, and she followed suit.

A/N: Could this have been added to the previous part? Yes. Did I want to be evil and make you wait just a bit longer? Yes.

To the friends of the fic in the taglist, do you want to be added for the works mentioned in the poll in part 19? Please let me know and I hope you enjoyed this series. I might write some standalone fics about the future of Poseidon and Ónoma, I might not. For now, this is my goodbye to this storyline.

Taglist:

@apollos-dodgeball-target @barrythestrawberry041 @darling-eos @doodle-with-rhy @glaciuswduo @hardbarbarianfox @h0ne4bee @isla-finke-blog @keikeiluvyou @missam

@suckerforblondies @trashcannotbealive @visha1965

[meeludrawz]

New Rehab Program - Pt 4

A/N: Hey if you wanna get tagged, just tell me! Cuz life makes me update slow, rip

Warnings: Mention of blood, mention of you being badly injured, mention of death, also you hate the Twilight saga

During the next couple of days, Shigaraki was oddly 'clingy'. Not physically, but he was always following you around like a dog or cat.

You were watching tv? He was there, sitting on the lazyboy, playing on his phone while sometimes, looking at what you're watching too.

In the kitchen? He was there, sitting on the kitchen island, still doing his own thing though.

The only times he wouldn't follow was when you were in the bathroom, or your bedroom. During those moments, he'd stay in his room. WITH HIS DOOR OPENED. He never closed it now!!

You didn't really understand that sudden switch in him until you decided to examine his behaviour.

From what you had observed, he was clearly grateful to be freed from this collar. That was an easy guess though because the day when you removed it, you put it on the counter. Guess what? Next day there was only a pile of dust left there.

It made you smile, because in all honesty, you would never put it back around his neck. He wasn't a wild animal or caveman with rabies.

You quickly realized that, him following you around, was his own way of saying that he appreciated your presence. Though, knowing his personality, you knew he'd tell you the opposite.

He was still quite silent but at least he didn't ignore you when you asked or talked to him.

You were more than glad to see all this progress when all you did was being kind and patient to him. Even if there was still lots of work to do.

"She should dust them both" Shigaraki hissed at the tv.

You had been bored and had decided to rewatch Twilight. Tomura was still on his phone but he was clearly more focused on the movie. You didn't like this saga but you watched it to see his reaction, to see if he disliked the franchise like you. Was it some kind of therapy? Not really, it was more like bonding time. So far, his reactions were hilarious but you kept your laughs inside.

"Why does Jacob has screen time? He should be a background character only" The white haired man hissed again.

At this point, your show wasn't Twilight anymore but Tomura.

"Why does Jasper keeps staring like a fucking moron? I want to kill him." He went silent for a few seconds. "Is Bella a fucking zombie? She has no emotions" He growled before adding. "If she's a zombie, that would fucking explain why she smells weird to them"

Your laughs escaped your mouth without your consent but you couldn't stop them.

Shigaraki snapped his head in your direction and raised a brow. "Why are you laughing?"

"Sorry it's you- You're just funny, 'cause I agree with you" You wiped your eyes, sighing with a smile.

"Was this a therapy?" He growled in a very low and menacing voice.

"No, I was bored and thought it could be fun" You chuckled and shrugged. "I like judging that saga with my friends"

"I'm not your friend" Tomura frowned.

"Maybe, but it's still fun, right?" You smiled.

Tomura narrowed his eyes as he stared at you, probably trying to decipher how the gears in your brain worked.

After that, he stayed silent for the rest of the movie. Even if his mouth was shut, you could read his body language. He hated that movie and that was an amusing sight.

During the week, All Might, Eraser Head, Tsukauchi and some of your bosses showed up.

You were all sitting at the dining table. Shigaraki and All Might sitting at both ends, right in front of each other. As if they were kings of some kind. Well, Tomura was trying to look intimidating but All Might? He probably just took the first chair he spotted.

As a normal civil, you'd think that everyone was pissed at each other but as a therapist or as someone very observing, you knew how to decipher people. All Might was nervous, Eraser Head was on his guard, even if he hid it quite well, your superiors were angry, Tsukauchi was calm but intrigued while Shigaraki was fuming. He hated those people.

What about you? You were nervous, sitting there in the middle of this silent war. And also because you removed Tomura's collar without anyone's permission, oops. Oh and with the help of All Might on top of that….

Tsukauchi spoke first. "I will ask some questions to begin"

You nodded and dared a look in Shigaraki's direction, he was glaring at Tsukauchi. He knew he couldn't lie, because he knew the cop's quirk and that must be pissing him off.

"Have you two been manipulated to remove his collar?" The officer clicked his pen, turning to you and All Might.

"No" You and All Might shook your heads and Tsukauchi wrote something down before turning to the 'ex-criminal'.

"Have you manipulated them?"

It took a few seconds before Tomura only shook his head, clearly pouting at the officer's quirk. Tsukauchi could detect lies.

"Were you trying to hurt your therapist before your collar reacted?"

"Yes" The white haired man narrowed his crimson eyes.

Tsukauchi didn't seem surprised. "Why?"

"Because they were pissing me off"

Ha, yes, Tomura's famous excuse over anything really.

The inspector noted something before turning back to you. "Has he tried again?"

You shook your head.

Tsukauchi nodded before looking at your superiors, telling them that his part was done.

One of your employers sat down in front of you with a menacing frown. "Now, why did you remove his collar? Do you know the risks?"

Ah, there it was. The one million dollar question. You gulped as you felt everyone's eyes on you but not Tomura's. He was glaring at your superior. But why? Wasn't he interested into what you were about to say?

"Because it's inhuman, because he is NOT a wild animal with rabies. He is NOT a do who has to be put on a leash. He is HUMAN. No one should treat a human like this, it's unfair and cruel. Sure he probably did-"

"Nah, I never put a fucking collar on anyone. I just used handcuffs on that young brat and even removed it from him before he fucking decided to attack me."

"We're not talking to you, Shigaraki" Eraser Head frowned at the man.

Shigaraki only raised both his hands in a 'defensive' way and scoffed.

You decided to continue.

"Yes I know the risks. He can be dangerous, he has free will, like any of us. But I strongly believe that for example, forcing someone to eat when they don't want to is a very bad idea. Just like how you guys forced him into this therapy and forced him to wear the collar."

Everyone stayed silent as they registered what you said.

Oh fuck-

Maybe you spoke too much?

But before you could worry, a huge hand was softly put on your shoulder, All Might was smiling at you with pride and comfort in his eyes.

He was probably thinking that you were the perfect therapist for Tomura. That choosing you was the right choice.

You had only under 5 years of experience and yet, people liked you because you made the therapies different. And for some reason that you ignored, people had started talking about you and it had eventually landed in All Might's ears.

So when he showed up at your workplace, you were speechless. He had asked you, THE symbol of peace, had asked you to help him.

That day, you led him to your office, thinking that he needed therapy. He wasn't there for himself, but for Tomura Shigaraki.

At first, you honestly couldn't understand why he wanted to save the 'apprentice' of his now deceased, arch nemesis. Well no, All Might was known to help countless of people no matter who they were. But then he had revealed you something intriguing. Nana Shimura. Tomura's biological grandmother. Who was no other than All Might's mentor.

Again, you were speechless so you had let him continue. The way he spoke about her, she was a mother figure to him. It clicked in your mind. He wanted to save Tomura because he was family to him, because he felt a mountain of guilt on his shoulders for not being able to be there for the ex-villain.

Frankly, you weren't supposed to let your feelings decide as a therapist but this case touched your heart. You wanted to help. But also, if a criminal as bad as Shigaraki was open to get into therapy, wouldn't that mean he wasn't as bad as we think? Plus, that meant you could help fixing society, right?

You sighed with a smile and glanced at the white haired man.

The villain was staring at you as if you had just confessed that you were an alien sent on Earth.

You chuckled. How great would that be? No more crimes. Just peace and happiness. Sure it probably sounded like an impossible dream but hey, if you could save THE Tomura Shigaraki, you would be saving thousands of people, right?

Your superiors and the Pro Heroes discussed together about this whole 'collar removed' situation.

They weren't really happy with this but the heroes (mostly All Might), had taken your side. You were quite surprised that Eraser Head and Tsukauchi seemed to believe in you too. Again, hella surprising, but much appreciated.

You watched them leave with their cars as you stood in the doorway. Once they were away, you walked back inside and closed the door.

Tomura was still sitting at the table, staring at nothing.

"Are-" You remembered that he disliked being asked if he was okay. "Tomura? You're staring into the void"

He didn't react.

Hm, what could you do?

Ah right! He was obsessed with video games, from what you observed. Hell, you didn't even need to be a therapist to find that out. You decided to speak his 'language'.

"If you keep doing this, you'll start glitching and crash the game"

Tomura finally glanced at you with a scoff. You smiled, happy to see that it worked.

"Never been this close to Eraser Head.." He mumbled.

"Are you a fan?" You genuinely asked.

Shigaraki's face scrunched up as he frowned. "No"

You nodded, you weren't going to ask more so you only headed to the living room.

And just like the past few days, he followed a few seconds later. He plopped on the couch and grabbed his phone while you turned your favorite console on. You picked a new game.

After an hour, you weren't far into it but it had piqued Tomura's curiosity as he often looked up at the TV screen. You were struggling with a boss.

"Don't"

You didn't listen, you were stubborn when you had an idea.

"Dodge! Just- Damn it! What the hell are you doing??"

"I AM dodging!" You replied back.

"No you're not, hand me that!" He leaned towards you and reached for the controller. But you stubbornly refused and stretched both arms away from him, while still holding it.

Did you forget that he was also stubborn? Yes, yes you did. He almost climbed on top of you to snatch the god damn controller.

"Tomura! I can do it on my own! Go away!" You tried pushing him back to his place with your foot but as you both stretched further to keep, (or grab) the controller, you dropped it on the floor.

"HA! Dibs!" The white haired man jumped off the couch to snatch it.

"No!" You quickly grabbed his shirt and he fell on you.

It hurt, you both groaned then immediately froze when you realized, with wide eyes, how close your faces were from each other. You both stared at the other for what seemed like an eternity. He leaned his face closer and closer until your lips were just an inch away. You were short circuiting and shut your eyes hard, panicking a little.

Suddenly his weight was gone.

You opened your eyes, letting out a breath that you'd been holding. Your heart was also pounding, ready to break your ribcage while Tomura was sitting on the floor, in front of the tv, like nothing happened. He didn't seem to give a shit either because he had snatched the controller when you closed your eyes.

But- What happened?

Your cheeks were red and you felt like the room had suddenly become warmer.

Seriously- What the fuck just happened??

Blood

Everywhere

All around you

Shigaraki was holding you tightly against him, screaming in rage and agony. But why?

It was your blood

Your stomach had been shot and you were unconscious… Or dead? In his arms.

He was in pain too, but not physically. He only had small scratches. But his heart? It felt like someone had stabbed it

The young man closed his eyes as he cried. But why was he crying?

And when he reopened his eyes to look at you, the first thing he saw was his pillow that he was clutching against him. It quickly vanished into dust so the villain sat up, confusedly looking around. He was in his bed, right next to his gaming desk. He was back home, but how? Oh right, a dream. The white haired man glanced at the dust on his bed. He didn't care about his pillow right now.

He stood up, Tomura couldn't understand that weird dream. Why was his heart pounding in his chest? Why was his eyes felt itchy? He didn't like you. Did he? No, no he didn't. It was just a stupid dream. Maybe it was that weird werewolf vampire saga that messed up his brain, nothing else.

And yet, even if it was 2 am, he instinctively walked to your doorway. It was never closed for some reason, so he looked at your silhouette sleeping softly.

The bloodied scene came back to his mind and his heart restarted to ache. He couldn't understand, you were there, safe and sound. Sleeping peacefully. Nothing bad happened to you.

He decided to go back to sleep, but first, he needed to clean his bed.

Why did he needed to check up on you? It was only a dream so of course you were fine. His feelings were dumb, he frowned.

What the fuck did you do to him?

A/N: OOOOOOOH THE FEELINGS HAVE STARTED TO SHOW HEHEHE >:3

Pt 3

Pt 5

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

“some wounds that cannot be wholly cured”

What will be the most likely consequences of Morgoth’s crown wound on Galadriel? Let’s us explore the possibilities, clues and foreshadowing:

The parallel between Galadriel's series arc and Frodo's arc as well, and you can look at... you know... a couple... sort of commoneries they have. You know, Frodo getting stabbed by the Morgul blade and Galadriel getting stabbed by the crown of Morgoth. And you know, his, sort of like, push and pull relationship with the Ring, her push and pull relationship to Sauron, which is basically the Ring personified. Hum... there's some interesting things to look at and unpack there across the series. - J.D. Payne 

Galadriel/Frodo and Sauron/One Ring parallels in “Rings of Power”

At the same time he struck at the feet of his enemy [Witch King of Angmar]. A shrill cry rang out in the night; and he felt a pain like a dart of poisoned ice pierce his left shoulder […] With a last effort Frodo, dropping his sword, slipped the Ring from his finger and closed his right hand tight upon it.

“I fear, Sam, that they believe your master has a deadly wound that will subdue him to their will […] He is not slain, and I think he will resist the evil power of the wound longer than his enemies expect. I will do all I can to help and heal him. […] Findol will lead you onward, he shall see you safely to Rivendell.”

“What happened at the Ford?” said Frodo, after they had recovered. “It all seemed so dim somehow; and it still does.” […] “I don’t know.” Frodo answered. “They [the side and shoulder] don’t feel at all: which is an improvement, but” -he made an effort- “I can move my arm again a little. Yes, it is coming back to life. It is not cold,” he added, touching his left hand with his right.

In “Fellowship of the Ring”, Frodo is injured by the Witch King of Angmar, using a Morgul blade. In spite of being physically healed by Elrond, this wound never fully heals, not even after the One Ring is destroyed and Sauron is defeated. And on its anniversary, Frodo becomes seriously ill.

In Two Towers, Frodo can sense the wound whenever the Witch King is nearby:

a Rider, all black, save that on his hooded head he had a helm like a crown that flickered with a perilous light. Now he was drawing near the bridge below, and Frodo's staring eyes followed him, unable to wink or to withdraw. […] Here, yes here indeed was the haggard king whose cold hand had smitten down the Ring-bearer with his deadly knife. The old wound throbbed with pain and a great chill spread towards Frodo's heart.

Frodo also got a nasty scar for life:

One evening Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away. “What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?” said Sam. “I am wounded,” he answered, “wounded; it will never really heal.” But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop. Time went on, and 1412 came in. Frodo was ill again in March, but with a great effort he concealed it, for Sam had other things to think about.

“Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured," said Gandalf. “I fear it may be so with mine," said Frodo. "There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?” Gandalf did not answer. Return of the King

This wound forever changes Frodo, and it’s only a blade forged by Sauron, what consequences will Morgoth’s very own crown, a object filled with dark magic, have on Galadriel?

If Frodo’s wound is anything to go by, the hypothetical consequences will be it will never heal; and, straight out of “Harry Potter”, the wound will hurt whenever Sauron is near.

And can 2x08 already have provided us with some foreshadowing on this?

Galadriel's case

First things first: Morgoth’s crown is not a Morgul blade, per say. “Morgul-knifes” were dark magic weapons forged by Sauron in Minas Morgul, to gift the Nazgûl. This is necromancy, and they, indeed, turned victims into slave wraiths to the Nine and to Sauron himself (and this was the goal in stabbing Frodo, for him to surrender the One ring).

The difference here is: the tip of the Morgul blade would remain inside of the victim to complete this wraith-transformation process (this happened to Frodo, and the tip had to be removed); and the sun would vanish/destroy them (this also happens in “Fellowship of the Ring”, when the Witch King leaves the blade behind).

We know neither of these things happened with Morgoth’s crown (which was forged by Morgoth, and reforged by Sauron, to fit himself). And I highly doubt Morgul-blades had the power to destroy Sauron’s physical form, either (this is another misconception: he lost the ability to take on “fair form” after the Fall of Númenor, not physical form).

Unless we are assuming Sauron “took notes” from this event with Galadriel, and perfected the method with his own Morgul-knives, but his overall attitude and his smile of victory seems to imply he knew exactly what he was doing in this scene.

Which leads me to the next theory: blood binding. The entire fighting sequence appeared to be a charade building towards one moment: Sauron binding Galadriel to him. He did, after all, stabbed her with a dark magic object infused with his own blood (Adar used it to destroy his previous physical form, in 2x01).

2x01 / 2x08 parallels: “Only blood can bind.” (Adar; 1x05)

We saw Sauron mind-communicating with Galadriel after the stabbing. To me, this scene marks the beginning of his grouping of her mind, for thousands years to come (because we haven’t seen this in the show, yet).

Visually, we have some clues that seem to indicate this, indeed, happened:

These shots can imply blood binding theory is correct, and Sauron might have transferred some of his powers to Galadriel. This is not mere “camera work”: in the first screenshot it’s Sauron looking down at Galadriel, and the second is Galadriel waking up. The effect on both is the same; hinting a sharing power between them.

And Sauron didn’t do this “by accident”; not only he’s been a master in blood magic for over thousands of years (probably for longer than Galadriel herself has been alive), but this was his intention ever since 1x08: “you bind me to the light, and I bind you to power.”

Then, "Rings of Power" appears to have taken some inspiration from these dark veins on Galadriel's chest in her "elf-witch" form in Peter Jackson adaptation of "The Hobbit", for Sauron's wounds from Morgoth's crown in 2x01:

We can see the dark veins appearing on his neck, face and forehead:

Interestingly enough these are the same veins on Frodo’s wound from the “Fellowship of the Ring” adaptation (2001), so I’m not sure why Peter Jackson decided to place them on Galadriel’s chest, in 2014.

Anyway; can this be a clue towards something? Will we see this version of Galadriel in “Rings of Power”?

In Tolkien lore, Galadriel is a powerful “elf-witch”, an Elven queen of great magic and power, however in "Rings of Power" we haven't seen her either dealing nor displaying any kind of magical abilities. Yet. Having her blood bound with Sauron can be the show’s explanation for her source of magical power, as well as to why she never faces him directly, working against him from afar, and why Sauron couldn’t conquer Lothlórien unless he went there, himself; as well, as for Sauron’s grouping of her mind for thousands of years into the future, and how Galadriel is able to see into his mind, as well.

The Unexplicable Wound on Galadriel's Face:

A mysterious wound appears on Galadriel’s face, and some fans seem to think this might have been an error in editing. But, is it, really?

We know, for a fact, Sauron didn’t cut her face; he didn’t had time for that. Galadriel cuts his face, he turns around and goes for the stabbing in the next minute. But, in the meantime, the wound is already on her cheek (and is the same as the one she cuts on his face):

However, there’s another character with the same wound:

And this wound isn’t meaningless, because the scar is still visible on Galadriel’s face, even after her healing by Two of the Three Elven rings of power. She had several cuts on her face, but they were nearly gone but this one (besides the obvious camera focus).

And this scar looks off, because it doesn’t look like a cut scar, but a burn mark, almost.

Even stone cannot hide the mark of one whose very hand is flame unquenched. He was here... Sauron was here. Galadriel arrives at Forodwaith, 1x01

But what does this mean? When did Sauron ever touched Galadriel's cheek? He touched her chin, in 1x08. And how is Elrond connected to all of this? Why do these three characters share the same scar, in the same place?

Because the "Elrond in the tent" in 2x07 was not Elrond, at all. It was Sauron. Context: here, here, here, and here.

[tkachuktkaching]

Matthew was on the Up & Adams Show this morning with Kay Adams

She didn't know anything much about hockey and the questions reflected that... but it was fun & good to see & hear from Matthew and there is some fun things in there.

He was asked the most botched version of his name he's heard?

Matthew said people just quit and called (Tkachuk) Ketchup before! People give up trying and make fun but that's the worst I've heard.

When asked about his personality being one of his best attributes?

I've always tried to be myself, I think my personality tends to mix in with my style of play, I likes to play a very upbeat, intense, emotional, physical but with grace and try to make good plays.

He was asked about the rat king thing?

Matthew laughed and said it was not him that came up with that at all, but he thinks it's kinda funny. He added, We have a bigger rat on the team in Marchand now so he can take over that title!

She asked him Can you have two rats on the squad?

What made this team successful last year we had about 15 rats on the team so I think it's good and OK to have more than one!

She asked who texted who first him or Marchand? With the whole rivalry between them with USA/Canada?

I texted him first when he first got traded, to let him know we're super excited to have him and let's go finish the job this year. With something like that (4 Nations) competitiveness is in everybody but when you are on the same team it's an instant connection and you have to if you wanna win.

She says 203 game from 2022 to 2024 is crazy, insane or diabolical but to describe how much he wants to get back out there?

He says : It's been crushing me the last little bit, I've been wanting to get out there so bad, the first couple of games after the four nations you wanna be out there but it's good to try and get some rest and try to recover and everything but for the last month I've been itching so bad so he can't wait to get back out there for whenever that day is... hopefully very very soon. So I'm excited to get back.

Matthew when are we going to see you out there? She asks...

I'll get in trouble if I say but I will say it's been a very good last few days on the ice, I've only been on the ice a few days for a couple of legit skates so just trying to peak sometime around game one! I'm looking forward to it.

She says he's one of a few guys to have 40+ goals & 60+ assists since 2021, she says he's trying to take the positivity from the buzz kill that is his 4 Nations injury but what has he learned from his time away?

It's really hard to find good in anything like this because personally I felt I was playing the best hockey of my career even before the tournament and at the start of the tournament I was just feeling good, I doesn't know the good but it gave me the time to reset what I injured and the rest of his body for hopefully another long play off run so that's the way you gotta look at it.

She says he'll be refreshed it'll be like being shot out of a cannon, he hasn't played since February.

Yeah mentally I am, it will not take me very long and it will not be very tough for me to get right back. (She says she has high expectations of him) He's excited he adds.

You played with and against your brother Brady there's a chance for something special both of their teams qualify going to the post season for the first time. You could be facing him, what will that look like, how will that go?

I think it's guaranteed now we're not playing each other first round, but if we both win we meet in the second round, so we've got to take care of our own business and make that happen, I think it'll be really cool not only for myself and Brady but for the whole family, to see their boys, their brother, to go out there and compete for their dream. I will say it was more fun playing with him than against him, so not looking forward to going up against him and playing, he's a beast he'll be the toughest guy to play against in the league in the play off. It will not be fun.

The interviewer says she's surprised in his answer it's a departure from what she thought he was going to say she thought he would take the opportunity to eviscerate him, she adds she saw a documentary where you guys were playing putt-putt and he wasn't letting him win at all, she's surprised at this line of answer...

I've seen what he's been able to do, playing with him in the big stage games going back to the four nations, and it's a different beast so I'm definitely not going to poke the bear before any chance we play him.

Have you ever given him a haircut?

I haven't but when we were younger I said that it's probably going to be cool for both of us to shave our heads, in the summer it was getting hot if there's any time to do it it's now, so he goes "Ok I'm in" so he goes first does it & I was kinda was soft and backed out and he was sooo mad! We actually talked about this the other day and still is!

You have partnered with the official team salon of the nhl so tell me what he teamed up with them to do?

It's not my first time teaming up at this time of year but they're bringing a whole new meaning to play off hockey and checking and fans can enter the Great Clips App and enter through to May 19th and you can win tickets to the Stanley Cup final and if you don't you an still win gift cards & stuff from the nhl shop. It's such a great partnership, I've loved working with them for multiple years now.

I'm looking forward to getting my hair cut before Play offs, I always like to rock a little bit of a different hair style and they give great cuts.

What would Jayson Tatum look like playing hockey?

I think that with his size and length a defence man would probably be perfect for him, I just worry about him skating because I don't think he's skated much in his life, I think it would be tough for him to get up to speed but once he figures his size and reach and power it would be tough those are the hardest defence man to play against.

Who would survive each others sport longer?

Oh, gosh that's so tough I used to play basketball, I don't think he's ever played hockey but I'm not tiny....

She says you've never got him to play hockey?

We've played hockey in gym class and street hockey but never got out there and skated. I couldn't survive 3 seconds in NBA but I could survive 1. I think he would have a tough time.

NFL player comparison to himself in terms of toughness

I love watching Baker play he's nails he's so tough and very talented so that's a great comparison but I will say when he was going through my draft 9 years ago his player comp was Gronk that was one I liked.

[arcielee]

Command me to be well

Summary: Lord Osferth has been injured and she takes care of him. Paring: Lord Osferth x Female!Reader (third person) Word Count: 1845 Warnings: Teasing baby monk, mentions of battles, injuries, oral (m receiving), 9th century remedies for bruises? Author's Note: This was inspired by @hightowhxre story of Lord Osferth x Maid!Reader, which is so brilliant and has been living rent free in my brain as you can see from the 1800+ words. Beta read by the wonderful @sylasthegrim surprise this was that request you sent me an eternity ago 💜 Dividers by @saradika 💜

The day hung heavy on his shoulders adding to the weight of the mud heavily caked onto his boots, along with the perspiration that caused his layers to cling to his lithe frame, the night’s cool air chilling him. Osferth entered his sleeping estate but noticed the pool of amber from the backroom where the Dane woman remained, her steadfast devotion to his humble household despite him expressing that her choices were solely to be her own. 

He thought back to the last time he had spoken this outloud, how her startling eyes focused on him, the flutter of her long lashes that framed them. “Then my choice is to serve you, my lord,” she had replied with her honeyed tone.  

Her words caused a lump in his throat and Osferth swallowed hard. 

At first he rued the day that Uhtred had marched her into his modest, but comfortable, manor bestowed by his dear sister in Rumcofa. His title was behest after the death of King Alfred–their father–by a scroll with his signature, his final command for his eldest son’s legitimacy. When they returned to Mercia, Æthelflæd glowed with pride. 

“You will be an ealdorman of Mercia,” she smiled.

Sihtric and Finan teased his title, but it was Uhtred who insisted he take in the Dane woman, how hands were needed to run the homestead. His large hand rested on her shoulder and pushed her towards him. “This is your lord,” Uhtred said with a smile, with a smirk. Osferth felt mortified. “You will serve him well.”

For a time it was them alone and he learned that she showed diligence, but not obedience; she possessed a sharp wit and sense that she always knew what was best for Osferth, more so than he himself. He also learned that she was a sanctioned healer, blessed by the gods–or so she claimed, and he indulged her natural curiosities, taking the time to teach her to read and to write. 

She seemed to agree to this tutoring with the sole purpose to tease and to torment Osferth, always pressing too close for propriety. At the end of each lesson, her every fiber lingered after, from the lavender on her washed skin, a sinful scent that hung on his clothes, to the soft touch of her finger pads on the back of his hand, a soothing and circular motion to catch his attention. If he dared to look, she would always lean closer until he could see the candlelight dancing in her eyes. 

Osferth would then create the much needed space between them, if anything so that he may begin to breathe again. 

Though he felt her haunting tactility, he suppressed his desire when he saw her shifted attention and felt a sense of pride with how her fingers now grasped for every scroll, tome, and book within her reach. Her days were now spent gathering herbs and in the evening, she would painstakingly transcribe her remedies known to parchment. 

He could only assume this was what she was doing at this moment. Osferth winced as he began to remove his boots, and then he heard her soft steps; she peered out from her room, her familiar silhouette against the amber light, and he could hear her concern. “Are you injured, my lord?”

At first, she picked up the teasing from the men he considered his brothers–Finan and Sihtric, relentless with his newfound lordship–but right now there was a genuineness to her tone. 

“Please,” Osferth grimaced from her formality, from his subtle movements to unlace the ties. “I am simply Osferth.” 

He saw the shadow of her brow furrowed and she then called for the water to be heated for their returned lord; Osferth burned from her words. “It is not necessary–” he started to say and, as always, she was quick to cut him off.

“It is needed, Osferth,” and her eyes that usually danced seemed to darken as she moved towards him. She kneeled in front of him and helped him remove the other boot before her palm moved to slip into his own hand, walking him back towards his room. 

She turned to scrutinize his disheveled state; it was another long day patrolling the riverbanks and a small skirmish won on its shores. Osferth was not injured, severely, but he was beaten and it showed with the severity that lined his face. His weary hands went to remove the scabbard around his slender waist, a sharp exhale from the pain he felt explode in his chest. It was alleviated with her touch, a warmth that pooled from her palm that rested on his hip, taking over to remove his sword, his dagger, and returning to unlatch his embossed cuirass worn over. 

She was careful to remove his upper layers which revealed the beginning bloom of purples, blues, and greens in the center, bold against his pale skin. “You are bruised to the very bone,” she assessed. Osferth hissed through clenched teeth when her fingers touched and she pulled away. “I’m sorry, my lord–”

“Please,” he rasped. “You know that when it is us alone…the title is not needed.” 

He would have sworn he saw the wash of rose across her face, but she was quick to leave the room. Osferth looked to grab for the wooden chair when she returned, a pestle gripped in one hand to grind within the mortar held in her other; he could smell the crushed herbs mixed with honey. 

“This will help with the bruising,” she explained, peering up at him.

Osferth hummed in response, and again with the touch of her hand against his bare chest; it was the same slow, soothing circular motion as she spread the poultice over where his blood rose dark on his skin. “It must rest for a moment,” she continued to explain. Her hand remained and he was unmoving, elated with the feeling of her skin against his own.

Once again, she was closer that good priority would allow, close enough to see the pink hues that dusted her cheeks and how she brightened when he spoke her name. “Thank you,” and he grimaced again with his exhale. Her fingers twitched, her touch still anchored on his chest before they began to trail lower. “You do not need to stay…”

“But what if I choose too?” 

Osferth looked up, his surprise apparent with her bold words; the shades darkened across her cheeks, her lips wet from her tongue, and he had the intrusive thought, she is beautiful. 

“This is not necessary–” but his words stilled on his tongue as her soft fingers wiped themselves clean on the fabric on his pant leg, the tug of fabric jolting the length of his spine. Osferth shifted his weight as her silk touch dipped into his waistband and followed back towards his center where his cock began to press against his breeches.

She licked her lips again and he now saw how lust swallowed the color of her eyes. “This is why I am here, my lord,” her voice was low, sultry and smooth like velvet as she repeated, “I choose to serve.” 

And her fingers were quick to unlace and pull at his slacks until they puddled at his feet, her touch still gentle to push until he sat back in the chair. She followed, slowly sinking between his splayed legs, her hands resting on his knees to keep her balance and her eyes were up, never leaving his. 

Osferth burned under her gaze, her lustful scrutiny before she blinked, breaking the spell, and her attention refocusing on his length; her eyes traveled the ridges and veins, the shift of color to the red shine of his cockhead. He whimpered at her touch, the slow curl of her fingers around the base, and she gave a tug, watching the wetness that trickled.

She was a vision, her thighs plush as she rested on her heels between, one hand rested on his bare thigh and the other around his cock. The vision she made caught his breath, and when she leaned forward, the air staled in his lungs, watching rapt as her lips pressed against his flushed head. Her tongue cleaned his spill before she began to take him into her mouth and he exhaled sharp feeling her wet muscle pressing to the underside, slavering over his girth, relaxing her throat to press until the patch of hair above tickled her nose; she hollowed her cheeks as she fell back, the glisten of her saliva, and she took a deep breath through her nose before she returned again. 

Osferth moaned unabashed, a white hold of his hands on the edge of his seat, his eyes rolled to the back and his head lolled with. He felt her palm tighten around what could not fully fit in her mouth, and he watched the bob of her head following his length; he grit his teeth with another guttural groan that reverberated from the back of his throat.

His hands moved to rest on her shoulders, a firm hold to ground himself, and she quickened her pace at his touch; the glide of her swollen lips in tandem with her tongue, the lewd noises that spilled with the spit at the corners of her mouth.  

And he saw the stars spark in front of his eyes, lost in the overwhelming heat of her mouth; his thighs began to tremble, the pulse and swell of his cock with her ministrations. She seemed to notice and she hummed, the vibration rippling through his veins and towards the base of his spine, a push over the edge he precariously balanced with vibrant flashes of colors. 

“God!” He gasped. Gods? He was no longer certain as he followed blindly after his pleasure, the buck of his hips in his seat to sate the suction of her mouth that seemed determined to milk the last drop of his release, until he cried out from the oversaturation of pleasure. 

His chest heaved, a dulled ache, and he moaned loudly as she slowly pulled away, her tongue trailing the underside of his still half-hard cock. She paused at the end, a glassy eyed exchanged, and then suckled. Osferth could not help but whine pitifully, and he felt the curl of her lips; he watched as she let him drop from her mouth, her fingers wiping her corners and her tongue licking them clean.

Osferth tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.  

“I will see if your bath is ready, my lord,” and she pushed to stand. 

Osferth watched her go, the rumpled fabric of her gown now settling over her curves, the sensual sway of her hips. He could not stop the words that spilled from his mouth. “Would you care to join me?” 

She paused and looked back at him, with her hooded eyes and heady stare, the candlelight glimmering in the black that swallowed the color of her irises. “Whatever you desire,” and her sinful mouth curled upwards. “My lord.”

Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @aemondx @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @theobjectofyourire

arcie's masterlist

[darkfluffydragon]

Operation Abundance Oneshot: Aureate's Dream

(Quick reminder that Aureate is Golden Cheese Cookie, includes poly ancients.)

Aureate lay nestled within the arms of Pure Vanilla Cookie, their bodies enveloped by the cool shade of a towering palm tree. The bright, warm day bathed them in a soothing light, casting dappled patterns across the plush blankets and pillows scattered around them. Her wings, shimmering with a golden hue, draped protectively over him. They were both adorned in jewellery, catching the sunlight and adding a touch of added beauty to their rest.

Sleepiness weighed heavily on Aureate, her eyelids fluttering as she teetered on the edge of slumber. The warmth of Pure Vanilla Cookie's embrace was comforting. It was a momentary escape from the reality that often haunted her. The rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart, it all created a lullaby that pulled her deeper into tranquillity. It was a loud, alluring call of sleep that distracted her from the visages of castle ruins, dust, and sand that was supposed to be anything else but what it had become.

Yet, even in this peaceful moment, her thoughts were restless. She gazed at Pure Vanilla Cookie. She longed to tell him how deeply she loved him, to pour out her affection in rambled heartfelt confessions. She wanted to share with him the depth of her gratitude for his unwavering kindness, his gentle personality that had become her anchor, her constant.

She thought of the other heroes, the brave, *wonderful* cookies she had journeyed with. Each one carving a space in her heart. She wished she could tell them all how much she treasured them, how their strength and courage had inspired her, had made her feel as though she was part of something greater. Those feelings were real, raw, and pure, born from true bonds and shared experiences.

It was emotions built up from shared stories around the campfire, from laughter and banter that erupted when Dark Cacao was pushed into a syrup lake by Hollyberry, from the concern and worry they showed when she found herself too weak and tired to stand back up after a battle. It was from the time Dark Cacao had risked his life within a rampaging winter storm, in order to find and drag the lost ancients, still young and mere adventurers, back to safety. It was from how Pure Vanilla stayed unwaveringly by their side whenever they were injured, or how White Lily murmured about such curious new findings, or how Hollyberry always knew how to make everyone smile.

They were her treasures. Like the streets, the buildings, the gold, the cookies of her kingdom. Just like those, they were her dearest treasures. The ones who had grasped, captured, her affection and her love. The ones who treasured her as much as she treasured them.

For so long now, she had kept the truth to herself. There had never been a good time. She wanted to invite them to her grand palace, to spoil them in her riches and feed them the finest feast and liquor in all the land. She wanted them all to be together, underneath her desert’s starry sky as she offered to them the most valuable gem she owned, her heart. 

They would spare no expense. No, each of them held their kingdoms and traditions too closely to themselves to simply be happy with only her offerings. They would go to the Dark Cacao Kingdom, of snow and warriors where they would prove their worth to the king’s loyal subjects. They would go to the Hollyberry Kingdom where they would eat and drink and dance the week away. They would go to the Pure Vanilla Kingdom to enjoy the stores, the scenery, and the everyday life of such a peaceful haven. They would journey into the forests with White Lily to search for flowers and berries, and return back to their roots as simple wanderers searching for a purpose. 

But Aureate knew these feelings were meant for her real friends, not the illusions that surrounded her now. This scene, this perfect moment, was a construct of her desires, a prison crafted from the deepest yearnings of her heart. The heroes here, though they looked and acted like her friends, were mere reflections of her memories, not the genuine souls she held dear. 

She never had the chance to tell them how she felt, she never got to hold them all within her wings. 

Her heart ached with the weight of unspoken words, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips as she looked at Pure Vanilla Cookie. She cherished this moment, even as she knew it was a fleeting, beautiful mirage in the desert of her longing. She held onto the warmth, the comfort, the love, knowing that one day she would find her way back to them (if what that child said had been correct). She would return with more power than ever, with a complete soul, with her kingdom and cookies back in her hands. She would return, victorious.

Until then, she would keep her feelings close, a precious secret tucked within her heart. The words would wait for the real heroes, for the day she could look into their eyes and speak from the depths of her soul. For now, she embraced the dream, her wings curling tighter around Pure Vanilla Cookie, as she drifted back into the warmth of sleep.

She dreamt a life with her most beloved Treasures.

[wyvernquill]

I'm rewatching Anastasia and this convo would really fit in your AU

Hob: look, Murphy, I'm just trying to help Murphy: do you really think I'm an Endless, Hob?

Hob: you know I do.

Murphy: then stop bossing me around

I'm sorry, this ask is already over a year old, but I finally got around to writing a scene based on it! (Plus some Murphy&Gil bits I wanted to put in somewhere, anyway.) Hope you enjoy!

[Mild warning for contemplation of one's potential death, and having once lost the will to life - I wouldn't call it suicidal ideation, it doesn't quite go there, but I figured I'd better be safe than sorry.]

Link to Anastasia AU Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

“Hob.” Murphy interrupts, eyes flashing with frustration.

(Today’s how-to-be-a-Dream-Lord lessons are not going well - not that any of them have, but this one is a particular catastrophe. Gil has already given up on their contrary charge for the evening, and with the way Murphy’s shoulders are up and tension bristles between them, Hob is unlikely to make much more headway tonight.)

“Tell me. Do you truly believe I am him? The Prince of Stories? The Dream King?”

“Yes,” Hob lies, easily, unflinchingly, and with a smile on his face. A good lie has to be treated like the truth, and maybe, one day, it’ll actually turn into one. They’ve been trying so very hard to teach Murphy this, he should know it by now. “Of course.”

“Then, perhaps,” Murphy spits, and despite his feral arrogance, despite the way he holds his head high and squares his slender shoulders, it’s not the regal indignation of a King, but the helpless tantrum of an angry child who’s failing in class. “You ought to finally treat me with the fucking deference an Endless is owed, Hob Gadling!”

(There are tears in his pale-blueish eyes, Hob can see them, can hear the crack in Murphy’s hoarse voice.

Nobody has treated this man with respect in all the years he remembers, that much is obvious. Nobody but his birds. And he knows, they all know, that he’s no prince, that his blood runs red, not blue - runs at all, come to think of it. Endless don’t bleed.

But he wants to be. He wishes he was. Murphy is not Dream of the Endless, but he is ravenous for the spoils of such a role. Desperate to be respected, to be worshipped and revered, desperate to be owed the sort of treatment he has never received.

Hob ought to be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of that helpless hunger for kindness and decency… and he will be. For the rest of his immortal life, he’ll live with the shame of what he did to cheat Death, and still not regret it.)

Hob plasters a smile over his impatience and opens his mouth, gentle, calming words already on the tip of his tongue. Murphy is lonely and frightened and frustrated, that much is obvious. Fine. Hob knew it wouldn’t be easy, to teach their false Dream all he needs to know, and this is not an insurmountable roadblock. If Hob can only reassure him, earn his trust, be his friend, even, it will make everything much easier. Poor thing, lashing out like an injured animal. But Hob can surely coax him into-

Murphy recoils. Flinches back from the admittedly-half-faked warmth, his face, his entire bearing collapsing into itself like a heavy portcullis rattling shut.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, pointing one of his stick-thin fingers at Hob’s face, “don’t you DARE! I have no need for your false pity, and I want no part of it! I want-” the white of his eyes is bloodshot, and in his terror, in his fury, in his desperation, awash in unshed tears “-I want out. This deal is off. Find some other poor sucker to teach how to play Endless, I won’t do it! I’ve had enough!”

And before Hob can say as much as a single word, Murphy has snatched up his coat and slipped out onto the rainy street, Matthew following - but not after awarding Hob with a colder glare than he would’ve thought a mere raven capable of.

Murphy does not manage to flee very far.

He is in an unfamiliar town, with no money, no valuables besides the clothes on his back that are now slightly finer than he used to be; and the winter is cold and deep and stifling. He gets no further than a handful of streets until he slows halfway across a bridge, shaking with cold more than anger, snowflakes dancing around him. It is a quiet, windless night - and it has always calmed him, to stand underneath the dark sky at night, and know that most of the city lies asleep around him.

Matthew settles on the bridge’s parapet, caws. Hops closer, cocks his head to one side. There is a clear question in his bearing, a what now? glinting in his eyes. Birds are open and honest - unlike humans. Liars and hypocrites all.

“...I do not know, Matthew.” Murphy admits quietly. He has taken the coat, but forgotten the scarf in his haste, so he tugs at his collar, to keep the cold air from trickling down his spine. “I truly don’t.”

He does not have the means to return to London on his own - and at the same time, does not have much desire to do so. He had nothing and no-one there, but for the birds. Pockets can be picked anywhere - he could make a new start in this nameless town.

…if only it weren’t winter.

Murphy shivers, feeling his bones rattle with it. The night is calm, but bitterly cold, and it will not end well for him, sitting in the snow until morning. In the dark of winter, he cannot afford a night without shelter, a day without a sure way to come by some food to keep his strengths up. In London, he would have known where to go. Here, he is helpless.

Damn Hob Gadling, and may Destruction take him! Murphy will have no other choice but to crawl back to him, and hope he’ll be kept on as Endless-impersonator. Hope, because Murphy’s made a right pig’s ear of it so far, slow and clumsy to learn, and outright refusing to play at nobility. He will always be a gutter rat, Murphy knows it. They can’t fashion him into a Dream King, and perhaps this flare of temper will prove to Hob once and for all that there is no point in trying.

There is no point in trying.

Murphy gives up on his collar, and rests his hands on the parapet. Matthew caws, and presses his head against his arm, a far better reassurance than Hob’s false smiles. It comforts Murphy, at least a little. He’s not alone, never alone - no matter how lonely he might feel.

Underneath them, a foreign river flows just fast enough to avoid the freeze. The water does not reflect any stars, but the snow dancing over the surface makes it almost look as if. His own reflection wavers and breaks across the waves.

(Some nights, he dreams of a darkened shore and a sea stretching far past the horizon, black waters that fold up into the night sky, indistinguishable from each other. Of a wooden pier, and galaxies swirling underneath.

Whenever he leans out too far, the reflected eyes he meets are not his own, and he wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.)

Murphy shivers again, and savours the last remnants of his pride, before it, too, will have to be cast into the dirt and abandoned.

“I believe you forgot this, young friend.”

Murphy’s head snaps up.

Dreams and nightmares approach without a whisper, perfectly silent at night if they choose to be. Gilbert is no exception; and if Murphy were to pay attention to anything but his heart racing like a startled hare, he would perhaps be a little distressed by the fact that there are no fresh footprints in the snow beside his own.

But it’s only Gilbert, kind-eyed and not-human, holding out Murphy’s scarf like a peace offering.

Murphy does not take it.

“Did Gadling send you?” he asks, wary.

“Robert informed me what had transpired between you two.” Gilbert admits. “But rest assured, I am here on nobody’s behalf but my own - and, well, yours. Frightfully nippy tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

Murphy does not say. He trusts Gil as little as Hob, perhaps even less. A dream attempting to betray the memory of his master seems hardly like a paragon of virtue, and is perhaps even more suspicious than a deceitful human.

(He does, however, take the scarf now. It’s too cold to be stubborn, and when he winds it around his neck, it smells of sunshine on a summer meadow, warm and comforting.)

“And if you truly wish to leave… dear boy, I won’t stop you.” Murphy does not like the way Gilbert looks at him, as if trying to see someone else beneath his skin. He does not meet Murphy’s eyes, if he can help it. “In fact I would send you off with well-earned compensation for your time, and travel fare. Unless…”

Gil steps up to the parapet beside him.

“...unless I can convince you to stay…?”

“Why would you?” Murphy mutters, instead of why would I, if you’re offering to pay me off? “It should be perfectly obvious that I’ll never pass muster.”

“Ironically,” Gilbert smiles, but only at the man he pretends to see whenever he looks at Murphy, “it is well known among the former denizens of the Dreaming that His Lordship was often prone to very similar bouts of pessimism. I have faith in you, Murphy - and so does Robert Gadling. Please, do not leave. I rather doubt we will succeed without you.”

"You…" Murphy struggles with the words, the sentiment behind them lodging uncomfortably in his throat. "You have great respect, even love, for Dream of the Endless' memory. So why do you pretend? Why try to fool his siblings that I am him?"

For a moment, Gilbert seems ready to insist, as always, that Murphy is, or at least might be - but, to his credit, he does not play Murphy for a fool, in the end. Not this time. Not like Hob always, always does.

"You are quite correct. I loved His Lordship deeply, in a way that could never be understood by anyone but a dream and their creator." Gilbert sighs, his soft meadow-green eyes gazing far into the distance of better days, lined by old grief. "He made me to be the Heart of the Dreaming, and he was the Dreaming, so I knew his heart and self better than any other. The loss, when he… you cannot imagine it, young friend. I thought I would wither away and die. I thought that would be a mercy. To live as a dream in a universe that does not contain Dream of the Endless seemed entirely unthinkable, and to be quite frank, I did not think I would survive longer than a year at most in the Waking."

"I understand," says Murphy, quietly, and he does. He is no stranger to the feeling of being so untethered, only floating along with the end looming over him, death - not Death, no longer, the Endless have been cast from their domains - only biding its time.

(In the first year he can remember, Murphy did not think he would see another, either.)

"And yet, the year passed. And I lived." Gilbert smiles, faintly, taking off his glasses to polish them. "I suspect it was humanity which saved me, for all that they robbed me of my home and Lord, as well. I found… such joy, in this world. In my human form, wandering among them. Calling a few select individuals friends, even. Young Robert's companionship was a particular blessing, and I owe him more than he can ever know."

He sets the glasses back on his nose.

"Lord Morpheus is dead." Says Gilbert. Says it like fact, like something too absolute for the sort of dream-creature born of hypotheticals he is, like an unshakeable truth he has resigned himself to. His voice only barely breaks over the words. "And I shall grieve him for all the rest of my days… but I must live to mourn him. Life goes on, young friend, and we must all move along with it. And, well. I cannot speak for Robert's motivations, but the true reason why I have agreed to this mad scheme…"

Gilbert takes Murphy's freezing hands in his own. His fingertips are not lined quite right, they would not leave prints that look even remotely like those of a human - but aside from that, his grip is warm, avuncular, firm, reassuring.

"I fear that his siblings will not be able to live on without him." Gilbert confesses, quietly. "They are not made to accept change and move on from a loss as monumental as what humanity has wrought upon them. To have you… not him, not entirely, but perhaps enough… it is my most solemn hope that it might give them some form of closure at long last."

"So that's what it is?" Murphy laughs, bitterly. "Charitable concern for the well-being of personifications of abstract concepts!?"

"No." Gilbert corrects mildly. "Love. For my creator's family."

Murphy scoffs. His chest aches with it.

"What you, hmm. What you must understand, about Lord Morpheus…" Gilbert seems to be choosing his words very carefully. "...is that, for all that he was often harsh and commanding, he was so very loving, always. My Lord loved with all his self, even if he would attempt to turn a cold shoulder to the world - and I think you are much like him in temperament, young Murphy.”

Murphy does not acknowledge that. He doesn't think he can.

“He loved his family, and he loved the Dreaming, and all the beings in it. I was his heart, or near as, you must recall, I knew the truth at the core of him.

Memories or not, love as he did, and you will be a credit to his name, and a comfort to all who knew him."

(Murphy does not have it in himself to love like Dream of the Endless did. He already struggles to love at all.

But perhaps, for the sake of the entity whose memory he will dishonour, he can try.)

“So. Will you come back and resume your lessons?” Gil asks, very gently. “You may leave, now or any other time, of course you may. But it would be to your benefit, as well as to that of many others, if you did not.”

“I’ll stay,” Murphy forces out. He could blame the way his hands shake on the cold. “For now.”

“Thank you, dear child. Thank you.” This time, when Gilbert smiles, it very nearly feels like it is directed at him, after all. “Now, let’s get you out of this cold, hm? And Matthew as well.”

Murphy lets Gilbert herd him back to their inn, sits through Hob Gadling’s apology and wonders if it was sincere - he can never tell, with this infuriating man - and continues to learn as much as possible about the life of Dream of the Endless.

But he’s slowly realising, if anything will convince the Endless siblings, then it certainly won’t be the trivia. He’ll have to learn to love like the Lord of Stories, for their deception to have a snowflake’s chance in hell.

(Oh, wonderful. As if this wasn’t difficult enough already…)

[nonexistent-introvert]

One Kick

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Content: One-bed trope, pure fluff. Based on the prompts: "You pushed me off the bed!"-"I'm sorry?" "I'm sitting in the dark. I like it."

A/N: For @pedrostories celebration! Congrats on 1k! I'm swamped with exams but I really wanted to participate in this, hence the inactivity. Just a drabble and it was kinda rushed.

   “Joel.” You called out into the dark, rubbing at your eyes. Exhaustion and sleepiness were practically dripping off of you. He let out an annoyed grunt in response, his figure barely illuminated by the scarce moonlight that was lighting up the room. Joel’s eyes stared at your shadow that was dancing on the walls, ignoring the urge to go to you. “You’re injured,” he stated sternly. You could hear the silent scolding in those two words, he wanted you to rest and not move around. “I’m not dead.” You assured him. With how silent the night was, you heard the huff he let out at your words. 

   “What are you doing?” You asked as you fell limply onto the chair next to him. You flinched slightly at the creak that resounded within the walls. He looked over at you, folding his arms over his chest. “Sitting in the dark.” He deadpanned, then with a small smile he added “I like it.” You let out a chuckle at his words. In an apocalypse, night was the scariest part, you’re alone in the darkness, unsure of what lurks beyond the next corner. However, most of the survivors who had made it so far had learnt to enjoy the serenity that night brought, a huge contrast to daytime where everyone fought hard for supplies to survive. 

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” You asked with a curious tilt of your head. “Someone has to keep watch.” Joel replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You scoffed at his response, “The door is barred and the windows are nailed shut. It’s perfectly safe, there is no reason to keep watch.” You argued. “You’re injured, you can have the bed to yourself. I’ll just sit here until I eventually fall asleep.” Joel said, insistent on doing it his way. You stared at his unmoving figure, he was as stubborn as a mule. “I don’t need a king-size bed to myself, I barely utilize all the space of a single bed.” You told him while looking at the chair that Joel was sitting on. Joel’s head was leaning against the top of the chair, his whole body too big for the chair. He was using his legs to support himself up, you just knew that it was a matter of time before his legs go numb and he falls from the chair. From the months you spent with Joel, you knew better than to argue with him. You sat up on the chair, folding your arms across your chest as well. “Then I’ll accompany you.” You said, stifling a yawn right after. Joel frowned as he looked at you, his eyes drifting toward the bloodied bandage on your calf. “You're going to make your injury worse.” You closed your eyes, ignoring his words. “Have you never shared a bed before?” You teased instead, ignoring the stern tone of his. “I was married.” Joel deadpanned. “Then why won’t you just share the bed with me? I know you’re tired too Joel.” You shifted your chair to sit in front of him. “So why stick to the small chair that is definitely uncomfortable when there is a king-size bed?” Joel stared into your eyes, his eyes studying your every feature and yet he kept that poker face of his. It used to intimidate you but now with every passing second, your confidence only grew. 

   You threw a fist into the air in victory when Joel relented. He pressed on his knees for support, letting out a huff as he stood up. The moment Joel laid his back against the mattress, he felt all his muscles relaxing, thanking him. Joel was practically on the edge of the bed, he would fall if he decided to inch any closer to the edge. You simply sighed as you got into the bed, a considerable gap between the both of you.

   It didn’t take long for the both of you to fall asleep. 

   Joel had an inkling that something bad was going to happen. He was still exhausted but his guts were telling him that something is wrong. Before he could truly pinpoint what was wrong, Joel felt a force against his stomach and he dropped to the cold hard ground. He let out a guttural groan, as his tired mind tried to put the pieces together. 

   His jaw drops slightly. Did you just kick him off the bed? He brushes himself off, standing up with a grunt. Joel towers over you, his discerning eyes trying to figure out if it was on purpose. You seemed totally oblivious as you turned to your side, sleeping soundly. A few soft snores escaping you.

==== 

   “Do you hate me that much?” Joel turns to you at the sound of your voice. The morning sun now letting in some light through into the small apartment the both of you were seeking shelter in. “I know you still slept on the couch last night.” You stated, there’s a disappointed look on your face. He huffs, rolling his shoulder back as he massages his sore muscles. The blankets on the couch only served to prove your point. 

   “You kicked me off the bed!” He defended. His impatience caused by the bad sleep he had last night on the couch. “I’m sorry?” Your eyes widened in shock. “I woke up when I fell to the ground and decided at least I wouldn’t be kicked to the floor if I slept on the couch.” He responded sarcastically. “You’re lying.” You laughed, it was rather comedic. Joel was a stoned survivor and yet he was simply kicked off the bed by you. “It’s not funny.” He frowned, “Even with your injured calf you’re still pretty strong. You should be fine for the trek then.” He said. You chuckled, moving your leg around. “I told you I was fine, was a kick all it took to assure you?” You said, a playful tone in your voice. He narrowed his gaze at you, he remained silent as he packed his bag. “Maybe I should kick you more, to reassure you.” 

   He let out a small amused breath. “Don’t worry, I will not be sharing a bed with you anytime anymore.” He replied, a playful twinkle in his eye. You beamed, it was rare when Joel would allow himself moments where he seemed human. That he wasn’t void of positive emotions. “Joel! Come on, I know you find it funny too. Just smile! Like this!” You pushed your cheeks up, giving him an exaggerated smile. Joel chuckled lightly at your face, unable to resist the humor in this situation. 

“A chuckle! That’s more than I’ll ever ask!” You celebrated. He shook his head in amusement, letting the grin on his face shine. 

   “Maybe sometimes you do need a kick, to knock that grumpiness away.” You suggested. “Don’t you dare.” He warned but there was still amusement in his voice. 

  It was moments like this when you treasured your time with Joel. Times of normalcy between the both of you. He gave you a sense of home when everywhere else was not. 

   Home was a person, not a place. 

  Even if Joel wouldn’t admit it, you were his home too. You’re the only person who can make him smile despite everything the apocalypse has put him through. 

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

God's Gambit, An Adler/Bell Fantasy Au fanfic

Chapter 1: May Anderim strike you down.

Summery:

At some point in battle the screaming gets annoying, the constant non stop cries of pain and death rattle a person's ears so much that you;d wish you couldn’t hear anymore but what was even worse was the aerie silence that fills your ears after a battle.   No screaming, no gasps of pain or struggle, just quiet, dreadful silence.   But there were two on the battlefield that were still alive, for now.   A young unknown soldier and a general whose name and sneer of cold command brought forth respect from allies and fear from enemies. Both now lay dying, leaning against an oak tree that knew more years than the both of them combined.   But a fae scouting group approached.   And the fates of the two were uncertain; the soldier could die whilst the general would live with the weight of all the lives lost dragging down on his shoulders. 

Chapter 1: May Anderim smite you all.

the shuddering breaths that Bell takes as he looks down at his bleeding side, wincing softly in pain cursing himself mentally ‘fucking idiot of course they had reinforcements, stuipid stupid.’

The feathered ends of arrows protrude from his shoulder blades, and his coarse hand presses down on a stab wound that a lucky fae managed to score on him before he took their head off with a cleave of his longsword that was now discarded, lying haphazardly at his non-injured side.

The young boy, a man barely over 20 human years old, had several arrows protruding from his body. A human pincushion. Bell could almost hear the grating laugh of whatever damned magical being found them.

Elf, fae, dragonborn, and any other fucking magic-made asshole would kill them on the spot, especially after seeing Bell’s gold and green uniform.

“General, it has been my honor…” The shuddering gasps from the bleeding boy next to him broke Bell away from his thoughts.

The unlucky man had caught far too many arrows to survive, and it didn’t help that a fae spear had run through his shoulder, but Bell had to be strong even if it just gave the soldier comfort before the boy passed.

“Don't say that, soldier. You’ll live to fight another day. Our king needs soldiers like you.”

The boy had taken several arrows meant for Bell. The general hated when people threw themselves in front of danger for him. He had seen many battles and had won more than he had lost. 

The soldier coughed blood, dripping from his nose and slipping down his face to drip onto his green uniform.

“And what about you, sir? The king needs you more than he needs the rest of us.” He coughed more blood flowing from his nose and now his mouth.

Bell slides up the tree more, extending the arm not holding his bleeding side and placing his hand on the other's shoulder, a silent command not to push himself too far when he needed rest. 

But the soldier pressed on, “Sir, you have the best command of runes that has been seen in centuries, and it has been my honor to serve by your side.” The soldier's words were soft and grateful, but Bell tightened his grip on the other's shoulder.

“Stop. Don't give up now…what is your name, soldier?” Bell asks solemnly, pushing the soldier back against the rough tree bark, eyes raking over the soldier's wounds, inspecting all of them skillfully, adding pressure to the large gashes, and trying to pinpoint where the arrowheads were embedded in his comrade's skin.

“Eric, sir, my name is Eric.” The rough response and small coughs thrumming from Eric's throat made Bell's heart thump wildly. Eric had too many wounds and was losing blood too quickly; he would be dead in a few minutes.

Bell had to act fast. He couldn’t save the other lives lost on the battlefield today, but maybe their god would forgive him for saving Eric's life. 

Before the battle, he had seen Eric several times before in passing. At the feast tent and in other areas, but every time he saw the young man, he was helping someone, either the injured soldiers who were now possibly either imprisoned or dead. 

Bell released Eric's shoulder and roughly shoved up his sleeve, revealing the intricate rune tattoos that swirled around his arms, curling before breaking off into the patterns that harness the magic that humans were not born with, unlike the other species that roamed the world who were ‘gifted’ magic by the gods. 

Bell’s hand brushed against the grass for a few fickle seconds, the magic resonating and clinging to his skin like a lover. As Bell raised his hand away from the forest floor, the patch of grass turned grey and ashen, lifeless. 

The magic swirls around his hands in small light green orbs that leave behind a shimmering, smoke-like trail as they spin and twirl around his hand. 

Eric’s eyes widened slightly in awe, and Bell brought his magic-filled hand to Eric's chest, watching as the magic absorbed into him, the shallow cuts and bleeding from his major wounds stopping and healing over slightly.

Eric took a breathy sigh of relief, and a small smile spread across his face. “Thank you, General. Even if I die in the next few days, at least I can write to my wife.” Eric's smile was as bright as the sun, and Bell could see the joyful memories swirling in the young man’s mind.

Bell smirked softly at Eric's wide smile, awe-filled eyes, and heartwarming words. “I told you we’d—” Bell's words are cut off by the sound of an arrow swishing through the air and the wet splatter of blood flicking across his face.

His eyes flicker up as he blinks rapidly, eyes widening at seeing an arrow sticking out from Eric's eye socket, blood flowing freely down his uniform, a waterfall of carnage.

Instinctively, Bell’s hand raced down towards the earth to gather more magic from the land; his actions were cut short as the cold steel of a longsword pressed against his throat, tilting his head up as rage coursed through his veins. He saw that the being holding the sword was a fucking fae.

Bell felt his heart plummet in his chest, his eyes racing over the small meadow that the oak tree stood in the middle of.A fae scouting party had found them. And Eric... he was dead. 

“Well, well. If it isn't a little world blight.” The fae’s hissed words dripped with mocking hatred, but that did nothing to stop the burning rage in his gut.

“I dare you to say that again, you fucking tree humper.” He cursed the veins in his forehead, pulsing at being called that gods-be-damned slur. He had heard it many times before from prisoners to messengers.

The slur’s origins are a blur in the history texts, but it's pretty self-explanatory: ‘world blight’ to every other magical species, humans were just that, a blight to the world and to magic, the hellish species born from the disgraced god that they worship.

But it stung even more when he knew he was vulnerable and being held at sword-point by a fucking giant pixie.

The fae’s golden and white armor assaulted Bell's eyes as the sun shone down on them. The fae had coppery red hair and hazel eyes that looked like clay and well-tanned skin. 

‘Pampered pricks’ bell curses mentally as the fae presses the blade harder against Bell’s neck as they tilt their head, hazel eyes flickering, Bell’s bloodstained features and uniform before the Fae’s eyes widen in realization, and a wide, triumphant grin spreads across their face.

“We had heard rumors of the great General Bell's presence in this battle. But we had thought you fled after your defeat.” Bell leaned back against the bark of the tree, the Faes sword following his movements. He had to think fast. 

“I ain't no general, you fae scum.” The lie slipped past his lips as easily as blood spilled from a wound, but the scouting fae only chuckled, shaking their head slightly. Don’t try to fool me, general; your soldiers' last words gave you away. Now, what were they? Ah yes, ‘Thank you, general. Even if I die in the next few days, at least I can write to my wife.’ The way that you humans profess your loyalties so easily makes me sick.”

The fae laughed cruelly, and rage could not describe one hundredth of the hate he felt towards the fae, not even just this singular fae but all of the fae species; they were cruel, pampered, disrespectful, arrogant, stuck-up, tree-fondling hippies. May Anderim claim their souls harshly. 

The fae’s free hand reached for a light blue satchel connected to their white leather belt, fishing around for something in the patch. Bell took this opportunity to reach his hand under his leg, fingers brushing against a small daisy. 

But before he could channel the daisies life force with his runes, another thinner blade was pressed against his throat. This time it was a different fae, a tall woman who towered over her counterpart. She was wearing similar golden and white armor, but underneath the plate armor she wore a thin golden chainmail. 

Her hair was a light, almost white blonde, her eyes a piercing purple. The sword that she wielded could be compared to a fucking needle; the blade was thin and circular but still sharp. It was probably some bullshit fae magic or some shit like that; the handle covers most of her hand. 

“Do not think of it; raise your hand slowly.” She hisses, her tone bearing no argument. Bell reluctantly did as he was told and raised his hand up from under his thigh, slowly raising it as the female fae looked over at the other scout who had managed to fish out a ring of thick rope. 

‘Ah shit’ was Bell's last thought before his hands were firmly tied together behind his back, and he was roughly pulled up to his feet. The action made his vision swim as the two fae dragged him through the meadow back towards the battlefield. Bell kicked and tugged but was subdued time and time again.

Before he knew it, the smell of death and decay wafted into his nostrils; the pungent smell emanating from the bodies strung across the battlefield made Bell gag at the smell, but before he knew it, they were passing through the field towards a neighboring meadow not unlike the one he and Eric had both laid in just a few minutes ago, except this one was covered in the cream tents of the fae army, but another set of tents caught Bell's attention, making his breath catch in his throat. 

In the center of the meadow, four large, pure white tents stood tall and imposing. This meant only one thing: the fae king was here. 

‘Shit shit shit’ Bell cursed silently as he dug his heel into the ground, only to be dragged forward, his knees hitting the ground, but the two Fae holding him didn't care; they just continued to drag him until he found his footing again.

As Bell is dragged towards the center of the meadow, he hears the cheers and triumph celebrations of the fae soldiers. The smell of smoke and cooking meat makes Bell's stomach rumble, but he bites his lip and keeps his eyes forward, even as select groups of fae soldiers sit outside of the cream tents and others sit at small campfires looking his way. He starts to hear the murmurs.

“Human!” a fae soldier hissed as he peeled the skin off of a potato, tossing it carelessly into a boiling pot.

“World blight.” Another group of soldiers teased, grinning gleefully at the sight of another human kidnapped. “Isn't that the high general bell?” A young voice spoke up, and the tents fell silent for a few seconds before Fae soldiers, old and young, weak and strong, injured and healers, came rushing out, standing on the outskirts of the tents, staring at Bell wide-eyed, some fearfully, others rageful.

And Bell reveled in it; he couldn’t help but smirk despite his unfortunate situation managing to elicit such a reaction from Fae. It was riveting. 

But the silence didn’t last long before victorious cheers sounded from all around Bell, the realization that they had caught the humans most feared general sinking in. 

Bell was finally brought to the center of the meadow where a giant bonfire raged. Several fae stood around a medium golden throne that looked as if it had been grown from the ground itself, and knowing the magic that these tree humpers possessed, Bell didn’t doubt that it was a possibility, and there on the throne adorned in a blazing white robe, golden chains, and jewels glinting in the bright sunlight was none other than the king of the fae, his royal highness Russell Adler. Whose rich golden hair shimmers around his hair like a halo, but the jarring deep scar etched into the king's cheek drew in on itself the healed skin taut.

Bell was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, his knees scraping against the dirt ground, a grunt escaping his as he twisted his body to try and get up, trying to save whatever self-preservation he had left, but his movements are cut short by a leather boot stomping onto his spine, making his body hit the ground, his chin connecting with the dirt, making his once pristine dark green uniform tattered and stained with dirt and blood from the battle. 

Bell turns his neck to glare up at the female fae whose boot was firmly pressed between his shoulder blades. “Enough,” Adler commands, rising from his golden throne, descending the dais, and walking towards Bell’s fallen form. 

The fae immediately followed his commands, removing her boot from Bell’s shoulder blades as Adler descended the dais. All the fae watching bowed their heads, bending their bodies at their torso. Bell raised his head, glaring up at the king as he shuffled onto his knees, the rope around his ankles preventing him from rising any further. 

“General Bell, I did not think that we would find you here during such an…unimportant battle. I assumed you would be leading the front lines, not defending such an inconspicuous outpost,” Adler spoke, turning to look down at Bell. His voice was smooth and clear; it made Bell feel sick. 

Bell knew the only thing that King Adler wanted more than anything. 

The location of Bell’s king, Perseus. 

Bile rose up in Bell’s throat, disgust and hatred in his gut turning with hatred; he smiled, all teeth and malice. “Yes, well, unlike you mushroom sniffers, we actually find need in securing our outposts, not enslaving the people working in them already.” Bell’s voice is all hatred and malice.

Bell could feel the glares of shock and disgust from the surrounding fae at how he was speaking to their king, and he reveled in it. Knowing that he was getting under their skin, making them feel uncomfortable because they knew his words were true, made Bell's heart soar. 

Adler barely reacts to Bell's words, the only visible reaction being a small quirk at the side of his mouth as if he found Bell…entertaining.

“Take the general to the other captives; it seems he needs some more…convincing.” Adler's taunting words struck a chord in Bell's chest, not that he would admit it, of course. 

As the fae guards approached Bell once more, the human general gathered the saliva in his mouth before letting the spittle fly towards Adler.

The projectile makes its mark on Adler’s cheek, right on top of the scar Perseus gave him during the first war. God Bell loved some good poetic slander.

Before Bell could reveal in his small poetic victory an armored knuckle connecting with his face, a distinct crack echoed through the now quiet meadow, and a fresh gush of blood flowed down Bell's face, joining the dried blood and caked dirt on his uniform.

Bell couldn’t help but laugh at the pain even as the blood dripped into his mouth, the distinct metallic taste making his spine shiver. Adler's voice cuts through Bell's pained laughter as the king wipes the viscous spit off his cheek with his white silk-gloved hand. “Let them starve for a day or two; maybe then the general will learn some manners.” 

Adler's words flew right over Bell's head as he was dragged away towards the outskirts of the meadow, his heart pumping, the blood still gushing from his nose, the pain thrumming constantly, but a dark, bloody teeth smile still persisted on the human general’s face. 

‘Two can play this game, asshole.’ Bell thought triumphantly as he was thrown in a wooden cage, the thick wooden bars of the cage making escape impossible. 

But through it all, Bell still smiled; that is, until a small voice spoke up from the corner of the cage. “General bell!?” The small voice squeaked before it was quickly hushed. Bell's head turns swiftly towards the noise, his hands and feet still tied behind his back. 

Bell drew a sharp breath at what he saw; strewn around the cage were injured soldiers, but that wasn't what drew Bell's attention; curled up in the far corner of the cage was a small clique of women.

And a dozen children, all of whom couldn’t be above the ages of 8.

Realization crashed down onto him as the children looked at him in awe and the soldiers looked at him solemnly; guilt spread through Bell's body like a wildfire when he just realized that he damned these people, these innocent children, to starve in this cage because of his hubris. 

A small, unnoticeable tear falls down his cheek.

Next->

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Thursday: Baby Croc Chaos

(For context, the first time the boys were allowed outside, someone took a shot at Croc, because you don't see that every day. It ended up injuring his leg. Jak attacked the man, and Damas was called to break up the fight. Despite being presumed too young for Arena trials and not having cleared the necessary obstacle training course, Damas gives permission for Jak to demand a duel on Croc's behalf. Normally this would be done by the guardian or parent of the injured child, but it's clear that the boys have no parents. Obviously, Jak won.)

Most expected the angry shapeshifter from the Arena to start making more frequent appearances after the battle trial. He had his first amulet -- earlier than most orphans in the youth barracks got them -- and his gate pass now, making him eligible for the work roster. He could start finding artifacts of his own now, and earn enough to support the creatures he called his siblings. With the ferocity he'd shown in the ring, it had been assumed that he'd jump at the chance to carve out a place for himself in Spargus.

And yet the king had sent word that they were to be returned to C-Ward in the tower the moment the Arena settled. And no one had seen them since.

Perhaps it was a confinement of sorts. The king had been fairly displeased to find the foundling boy and Tarn in the holding cells after the market brawl. He'd been even angrier when he learned the context of it.

Those who had been in the market that day, and had witnessed the scaly spirit-child thing, suggested that Lord Damas was simply being cautious. As strange as "Croc" was -- even disturbing to some -- it was a child, unmistakably. There'd been no call for Tarn to fire at it -- and firing willy-nilly in the market was a good way to get a shell to the head anyway.

The matter came up during the city's weekly review of the wall defenses. Hutch, head of the city architects' guild, handed over the blueprints for his wall turret proposal and glanced to the far edge of the throne room. Strangely, the shapeshifter was there, sitting amongst the date palms with the talking animal and the spirit infant.

What a time to be alive that such a sentence could even be thought-!

Had Damas summoned the boy? For what purpose?

Hutch saw the orange creature point to one of the trees, and the boy moved as fast as lightning. He slapped a palm to the trunk as if trying to crush something, then took a small spray bottle from the mustelid.

Ah, the king had put them to work removing pests from the trees. Fifteen of the palms filled the room in large planters, and the architect pitied the foundlings for the unenviable task of applying pesticides to them all. Maybe they were being punished for something.

The king scanned the blueprints carefully before passing them to the director of finance.

"This design is compact enough that adding it to the wall wouldn't put a burden on the city's budget. However, I am concerned about the amount of eco an automated turret would consume. What do you plan to run it on?"

"S- solar...power...actually," Hutch answered sheepishly. "I've just realized my proposal for solar panels is still sitting on my desk."

Lottie, the finance director, looked at him dryly. "Probably would've helped to start with that one."

The architect flushed slightly. "It's been a busy week," he protested, "The monks have been at me for old archived blueprints of Tributary!"

Then he wearily asked, "Should I go home and get the other proposal, sire?"

Damas didn't answer right away, which was unlike him.

Instead, his eyes were fixed on the trio of inhu'men orphans working in the artificial grove. (What were they? Hutch didn't think they were actually spirits, but darned if he'd ever seen a Lurker with so little hair!)

After a moment, the king seemed to shake himself.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said quickly. "Just...explain it to Lottie when we adjourn for noon rest."

Unexpectedly, that week's patrol leader for the gate wall spoke up.

"They get noon rest too, right, sir?"

Evidently the presence of the shapeshifter and siblings had concerned him as well. Odolan shifted uncomfortably, whether because of the boys or because of -- apparently -- calling out the king himself.

"Shouldn't they be in the barracks during meetings?" Odolan pressed.

"No," answered the king. He sounded almost disinterested, as if the matter barely merited comment. "They have a room here. They just don't stay in it."

Now his other advisors began to shift and frown between each other. The only people who should've been living in the tower were the ruler of Spargus and his personal guards, a detachment of medics and patients in the warriors' Convalescence Ward, and the staff of the water treatment and kitchen facilities. Underage foundlings -- almost always rescues or defectors from Marauders, not exiles -- went to the youth barracks. They had to make connections with their age mates, to form Squads! It was a well-established part of Spargan culture by now. Why in the world would their king deny the new foundlings that? Was it because of their appearance?

Odolan looked deeply uncomfortable as he asked, "Is- is this because of how the boy killed Tarn? He was well within his rights to do so."

"Mhm. That's partially why." Damas didn't look up. He scratched notes quickly into a pad of recycled paper. "Here, Hutch. Look this over and tell me if it's sound."

He handed him a rough diagram of the front wall with alternate turret locations, then twirled the pencil between his fingers.

"Er...mostly, sire. But that junction there is above several wall residences."

"Ah, right. Scratch that one then." Damas took the pad back and drew a line through the box meant to represent a turret.

"Actually- here. Draw me those solar panels you're on about. Show me where you'd put them before you discuss it with Lottie."

When he finally glanced up, he saw that half the guild heads and advisors were still casting confused or curious glances over at the boys in the grove. The children were eavesdropping, of course. The chores had been implemented in an attempt to mitigate that somewhat, but with the amount of scarring and eco healing marks in their bones, Damas suspected they'd learned to listen carefully no matter how busy they looked. He couldn't explain to his council why he indulged Jak’s refusal to go back outside until Croc's nightmares stopped. Or admit that his own curiosity was keeping him from sending them to a barracks RA to sort out. It may have been -- he had trouble admitting it, even to himself, without pain -- the age of the youngest. He was no older than Mar had been when he was taken. He was small, and helpless, and the youth barracks were for teenagers, not toddlers. Separating Jak from his younger sibling just seemed cruel. And too much like how he'd lost Mar.

With a long-suffering look, Damas asked dryly, "Does anyone else have concerns about the gremlin gang they'd like to voice so that we can focus on the task at hand?"

Taking it as an invitation rather than sarcasm, -- she'd never been good at detecting sarcasm, in her defense -- Lottie remarked, "Who's going to look after the wee creatures when the lad enters his first Squad?"

Damas waved that off immediately. "They're not ready for Squads. Not in the least."

"Not ready for Squads?" Hutch muttered to Odolan, not quiet enough to go unheard, "How can a foundling not be ready for basic training?"

At that moment, the nature spirit thing came scampering out of the palms with an excited trill. Scuttling along before him was a very panicked scorpion -- no doubt it had been sleeping in the soil brought up for the planters. The scaly toddler crouched, tail lashing, then pounced. He held it it up by the tail, proudly showing the small arachnid to the adults, then his brothers.

"Good catch, Croc!" Jak ducked out of the palms. "Let me see it."

He ignored the presence of the council and crouched to examine the absolutely furious scorpion.

"Cool. Never seen one this small before. Check out the carapace-"

"Urr?"

"Hard shell. Body."

"Urr!"

"It ain't a juvenile. That means this sucker's got some pretty major poison in that stinger."

Damas opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again and shook his head. Perhaps eventually the council would learn what he had: it was completely and utterly useless to try to interrupt Jak when he was excited about something.

Carefully, Croc set the scorpion down and pinned it in place with his foot claws. With chubby fingers and the SparSign common to infants and toddlers, he asked, "I eat dat spicy bug?"

"Yeah sure, just not the tail."

Instant panic amongst the adults.

Damas launched out of the throne.

"Oh for the love of- Croc! No! Do not eat raw scorp-"

Too late.

The wide, wide mouth opened, and with a noticeable crunch, the scorpion met its end. While the adults stared in wide-eyed expressions ranging from disbelief to bravely stifling explosive laughter, Jak relieved Croc of the stinger.

"We'll put this with the other ones."

Jak finally looked up and stared impassively at Damas, still ignoring the council.

"What?"

"He's an infant, Jak! You don't know he can eat scorpions safely," Damas sighed.

The boy shrugged. "He's eaten way worse and been fine."

The orange one scurried out and up onto Jak’s head.

"Bald-faced lie. Eatin' KG gave him the most unholy flatulence and you know it."

Jak pretended not to hear this.

"Besides," he said, sounding cocky, "Dax and me ate scorpions plenty of times when we were little. It didn't hurt us."

This got an...interesting reaction from the Wastelanders. In what environment were young children allowed to catch and eat scorpions regularly? They were supervised, of course, they would have had to be-

"You realize," Daxter said with a hint of bitterness in his voice, "That we wouldn't have had to hunt scorpions if your absentee uncle had actually fed us instead of spending the grocery money on treasure maps every month."

Well then.

As one, the advisors turned to look at Damas. He simply gestured to the boys as if saying "you see?"

Dry as dust, the king asked, "Any other objections to continued adult supervision?"

Odolan shook his head and wondered how the strange orphans had even lived this long.

"I withdraw the question."

[ladymorghul]

I hope that this is not true, but still, Aemond in the trailer disappointed me a little, because if Aegon seemed more versatile, then Aemond with his grin and emotionless face looks strange (?), because it feels like he has nothing on had no effect. Although maybe the shots were specially chosen this way.

i think shots were especially chosen that way. for example, i think they wanted to emphasize in the trailer that aegon has been given this role and he has perked up immediately. now we have snappy, unhinged king aegon. they also added a lot of alicent. for example in the funeral scene they could have showed helaena but they showed alicent.

i think they were careful with the scenes they chose for aemond, as to not give much away. he's gonna be very involved in the story as he returns from storm's end, alicent finds out, b&c happens and then preparation for rook's rest.

it also makes me think that maybe they wanna focus a little bit more on aegon and promote him considering that he will be more active in the first 4 episodes before rr happens and he's so badly injured that aemond has to take the crown.

[uselessmoonlight]

Stranger part 13

Reader is Telemachus' friend, and when he leaves for his "diplomatic mission" he asks her to watch over his mother.

Later, once the king has returned, she stumbles upon an injured Poseidon.

Previous / series masterlist / character sheet / next

Content specs: she/her pronouns used, afab reader, Platonic! Telemachus x reader, Epic!Poseidon x reader, possible OOC!Poseidon, Polites’ daughter! Reader, unrequited love, blood, fighting, nudity, illusion, possibly more?, trying to avoid using y/n, slowburn, suggestive themes, English is not my first language, sorry if it's too much exposition, it's my first fic.

Ónoma literally means name in Greek, at least according to google translate. View this as the y/n of this fic.

“I’m sorry about that.” The God replied.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault.” Ónoma stated, but Perikles was not so certain about that. He didn’t know what island he was on, nor how her mother died. What he did know, was that this girl kept getting more and more interesting. “Let’s switch the topic.” She said, noticing his expression.

“Alright, why aren’t you devoted to Apollo? It’d be a perfect fit.” He asked. “You even have his temper.” He added under his breath.

“He killed my brother. Seven.” Fuck. Bad attempt at changing the topic.

“You know what, I’m just going to shut my mouth.”

“How about I ask some questions, then?” She offered. “That was not one, by the way.”

“I’ll let it slide, go ahead.”

“What were you doing at sea, and don’t give that stupid answer of ‘it’s my job’.” Poseidon had to think for a bit, not wanting to give away his identity with his answer.

“Tracking storms, earthquakes, tidal waves, and that man I told you about. Six.”

“Storms, earthquakes and waves? Were you trying to track Poseidon or something?” She mused.

“Or something.” He muttered.

“Are you devoted to him? Poseidon, I mean.”

Perikles chuckled. “You could say that. Five.”

“Four, you answered the other question, not elaborately, but you still answered.”

Those four would have to wait, as a knock sounded on the door. Ónoma furrowed her eyebrows, she was not expecting any visitors, but then again, people often just showed up. “Irene! How’s mama Ophelia? Come in.” She pulled her friend into an embrace.

“Do you have any more beautiful friends that I should know about?” Poseidon’s voice cut through their greeting.

“No, that’s five you owe me.” Irene looked at Peach quizzically. “I’ll explain, later.” Ónoma responded to her friend’s expression. “How are the new parents?”

“Ophelia was gushing about how sweet you were to stop by this morning, Theo’s still a bit useless, thanks for that. They’ve named him Pelagius.” Irene answered her friend. “I’m Irene, by the way, so nice of you to introduce us, Peach.”

“Shit, right, this is-”

“Perikles, pleasure to meet you, Irene.” He interrupted, kissing the girls hand.

“Oh, so now you’re charming? Figures.” Ónoma teased, their little game of questions definitely made her feel more comfortable around the man. “Did they choose they name because of the meaning, or just because they liked it?” She asked her friend.

“Yes, now I’m charming. Four.” Perikles replied first. Peach rolled her eyes at him, but smiled, he was starting to grow on her.

“Yeah, they named him after the sea, because that’s where he was... conceived?” Irene said, laughing awkwardly. “Gods, there’s no way to say that without it sounding weird.”

“Well.” Peach had to pause, as she was giggling too much to talk. “It is a unique thing to name him after.” Now full on laughing. “Gods I hope he doesn’t find out the reason for his name until he’s thirty or something.”

Perikles was laughing along as well.

Irene’s visit had brightened Peach’s mood, but it did not take away her exhaustion. “You should rest today.” She swivelled around to face the man who’d spoken. “You’ve taken care of me these past few days, perhaps I could take care of you today?” He offered. “That did not count as a question, by the way.”

Ónoma was shocked, she’d not expected the offer, he’d not seemed like the type. Perhaps he felt bad for reminding her of her deceased loved ones. “Alright, I guess.” She replied cautiously.

Perikles rose from the bed he’d been resting on. He’d improved a lot physically, for a man who couldn’t walk on his own just two days ago. Almost suspiciously so. She frowned at the revelation. “Where is your trident? You said it was your own weapon you’d been hurt with, where is it?” She asked.

The God froze. “I don’t know.” He mumbled and scratched his head. The look on his face told her he was telling the truth. The trident itself did not hold any magical properties, but it did help him channel his energy, besides, it had been a gift from the cyclopes, his children. This was a problem. “Get some rest, I’ll wake you up for dinner.” He ordered. The way he spoke reminded her of nobility.

As Ónoma rested, Poseidon got to work. He’d neglected his divine duties for the past few days, and the realisation that his trident was missing reminded him of that. He was lucky that the trident had been in the water, for the waves brought it to him when he commanded it. Had it been in the possession of that king he’d have a bit more trouble.

After being reunited with his beloved trident, he was able to focus. Commanding storms, communicating with the Nereids and other sea creatures, setting off an earthquake where the humans had been acting up, he had a busy day ahead of him.

The start of nightfall snapped him out of his duties, he summoned a few fish to him and got to cooking. He’d make his host dinner, he was a man of his word.

The smell of burning woke the girl up. She knew the man’s offer was too good to be true. Perikles was no cook, that much was obvious by the pile of burned and butchered fish in her kitchen. “How about I cook?” She offered. “That was not a question, by the way… actually it’s a demand. Get out of the kitchen before you burn my house down.” The god was startled by the sound of her voice and burned his hand. “Put that burn in the water, I haven’t refreshed the bath’s water, but there is a clean bucket in the bathroom.” She ordered.

“Still feisty, alright, love.” Now it was Ónoma’s turn to freeze, had he slipped up, or was he teasing once more. Her face now burning just as hot as the pan she was handling.

It was the first time both of them sat at the table, before now the man had always sat in bed while eating. Something Peach was not particularly fond of. Ónoma was a bit sad about the waste of food, never taking more than she, or the town, needed from the sea. The man noticed her sombre mood.

“Sorry I messed up dinner.” He said, not actually caring, but wanting to appease her.

“It’s fine, accidents happen.” She replied. “Just don’t like being wasteful is all.”

The God tilted his head and his eyebrow at her. “That’s a good quality to have.” He punished people for not respecting the sea, obviously he’d like her standpoint.

The rest of dinner they ate in silence. Poseidon observing the girl in front of him, who was trying not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. Her face was that of youth, her eyes were of old, the grief and other troubles visible in them. The reminded him of the sea, not because of the colour, but because of the storm inside.

“Would you like to play some music?” He asked.

“Would you like me to, or do you think I want to?” She countered.

“Both.”

Next.

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