#char: aye aye

[ebonynightwriter]

waava month (2023) // day 15 · divided

There's no need for violence. I know there must be a way to work out a compromise.

[characcoon]

Oh elf tree Scar save me....

[azucarera-art]

2 distinguished gentlemen 🐍🎩🎩👊🏽💥

[abrahamvanhelsings]

honestly the npcs in acii are so important to me bc you can punch a guy off a building so he drops to his death and some woman with an italian accent will go 'ah!! well he probably had it coming'. meanwhile five seconds later you crawl up a wall like a monkey and some guy proclaims you a drunk and tells you you're going to break your neck and when you reach the rooftop there's a gaggle of thieves commending you for your skill. you start a fight and everyone stops to watch and cheer you on then calls you an italian slur when you loot the bodies. most italian game ever made.

[ririemimo]

Where do you get youre inspiration to draw from?? Also gib drawing advice  😭

I get inspiration for literally anything 🥹 and as for an advice, it’s sometimes best observe how an artist does their work, like how they color, do line art etc. then try to follow that, soon you’ll find your own thing and then your own style (if you’re still looking for it). Basically just observe and do and repeat!

[pronouncingitwang]

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

[emystic]

Would we ever know what's behind Koloina's hoodie?

Anonymous sent a letter for Koloina: Would we ever know what's behind Koloina's hoodie?

I doubt there will be normal circumstances where she would be without her covering, as she very adamant about hiding her true looks even if she consider the other person a friend. The only thing she will not hide is her hair and it let it poke out, because it's one thing she was granted back when she risen back for some reason; her long, curly hair.

However though she would hide everything herself, I can say that under her wrappings and clothes shows her body is covered is charred and covered in damaged or dead leathery, dried up skin. When she reveals her hands, they have incredibly long, spiny claws and reveals the burn damage of her hands leathery is not as damaged as her body or face. She cannot hide her lemur tail at times but usually hopes others see it as part of her cloths, and her ears look similar to a bat or aye aye usually are covered.

[lxclerc]

𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐭 — 𝐚𝐚𝟐𝟑

summary… the leclerc twins have a reputation of messing with drivers and they’ve got their eyes set on poor alex albon request… yes. pls let me sleep laura faceclaim… char argyrou pairing… alex albon x leclerc!reader

note… because laura graduated and got her driver’s license, i caved @coffeehurricanes

note again… this was surprisingly really fun to write as someone with my own annoying twin brother so it ended up longer than i meant it to which means this will have a part 2

part 1 | part 2

masterlist

yn_leclerc

liked by lorenzotl and others

yn_leclerc serving cunt (as always) (with my 3 fav minions)

view all comments…

username yn casually and unknowingly dropping alex thirst traps

⤷ username she knows she’s feeding the alex girlies

charles_leclerc charles erasure

⤷ yn_leclerc you know youre my most fav (you have the most money)

⤷ charles_leclerc gee thanks

alex_albon i thought you’d put slime on my hair

⤷ yn_leclerc i told you i wouldn’t. i was trying to style your hair 🙄🙄🙄

⤷ alex_albon i have 0 trust in you

⤷ username alex is waiting for that mega prank like the rest of us are

⤷ username i’m fully convinced they’d make alex cry worse than lando

⤷ landonorris it was one time and they ruined my limited edition louis vuitton

⤷ yn_leclerc *accidentally*

⤷ charles_leclerc that i paid for

arthur_leclerc hanging out without me now

⤷ yn_leclerc you were too busy crying abt having no seat for next season 🤗

⤷ username one thing about yn is that she’ll always give her brothers the painful unfiltered truth

username ok but not enough people are talking abt shirtless alex

⤷ username no bc picture me this; shirtless alex, they’re alone and she’s fixing his hair

⤷ username …that does sound oddly intimate

⤷ username yall are tripping. she and arthur did the same thing to oscar and max remember, became super close with them then pranked them when they least expected it

⤷ username yes but also it’s been literal months with alex

⤷ username that just means that the prank will be spectacular

arthur_leclerc

liked by alex_albon and others

arthur_leclerc we are in badly need of your prayers for my twin sister, y/n 😓😞🙏

she’s fine. she’s just so insanely down bad for a man that she can’t say it to his face and needs me to follow them around so she can hang out with him bc she can’t look him in the eye.

view all comments…

leclerc_pascale ay, arthur! J'ai eu peur pour ta sœur ! (you had me scared for your sister!)

⤷ arthur_leclerc Tu devrais avoir peur, maman ! Elle pleure cet homme tous les soirs et il ne sait même pas qu'elle l'aime. (you should be scared, mom! she cries over this man every night and he doesn’t even know she likes him)

⤷ yn_leclerc Taisez-vous ! !! fermez votre bouche ! arrêtez de parler ! (shut up!!! keep your mouth shut! stop talking!)

yn_leclerc you’re dead to me 🙂

yn_leclerc 🖕🖕🖕

yn_leclerc j'aurais dû te manger dans le ventre de ta mère (i should have eaten you in the womb)

yn_leclerc you no longer have a sister

⤷ arthur_leclerc Comment faire autrement pour flirter avec **** ? (how else will you flirt with ****?)

⤷ yn_leclerc TAISEZ-VOUS !!! (SHUT UP!!!)

charles_leclerc a man, huh?

⤷ lorenzotl 🤔🤔🤔🤔

⤷ yn_leclerc no ❤️

⤷ username she gives no fucks 😭

username what are brothers for if not to publicly humiliate you?

username she’s so me coded actually

alex_albon prayers 🙏

⤷ arthur_leclerc thanks, mate. we appreciate it

alexandrasaintmleux and if i speak

⤷ yn_leclerc alexandra malena saint mleux don’t you dare

⤷ charles_leclerc you know too???

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux 🤐🤐🤐

username she’s like me bless

username for a M*N??

alex_albon

liked by yn_leclerc and others

alex_albon was just trying to buy midnight snacks and then we got lost

view all comments…

yn_leclerc we didn’t get lost bc i had a map 😁

⤷ alex_albon that you didn’t know how to use

⤷ yn_leclerc you weren’t exactly offering your map reading knowledge either, albono

⤷ alex_albon watching you struggle was adorable

⤷ username HE CALLED HER ADORABLE

⤷ username idc what anyone says, i am an ynalex truther

arthur_leclerc i was there too, guys

⤷ yn_leclerc you complained the entire time

⤷ arthur_leclerc because you woke me up to accompany you guys

charles_leclerc why is there a puddle on the floor?

⤷ yn_leclerc alex dropped one of the ten liters big water bottle

⤷ alex_albon lies. y/n dropped it and i had to say i did because she looked like she’s about to start crying.

⤷ charles_leclerc yeah, that sounds like my sister

username alex, don’t trust them or else they’ll make you cry like they did lando

⤷ username we’re looking out for you 😭

georgerussell63 mate, don’t be getting comfortable with those two

⤷ yn_leclerc slander

⤷ arthur_leclerc fake

⤷ georgerussell63 you put a rat in my cereal

⤷ arthur_leclerc *plastic* rat

⤷ georgerussell63 i dropped and cracked my phone

⤷ yn_leclerc sounds like you were being clumsy 💁‍♀️

username george is forever traumatised by that rat

username hear me out 👀

yn_leclerc

liked by alex_albon and others

yn_leclerc thirst trapping bc posting on my close friend that only has him in it isn’t enough apparently

view comments…

username she is so me!!!

username doesn’t matter how famous or pretty you are, you’ll always have an instagram close friends with only him in it

logansargeant i saw your close friends story on ****’s phone a few days ago 🤔🤔

⤷ yn_leclerc why were you looking over his phone you muppet?

⤷ logansargeant i just happened to glance by

⤷ username it’s alex. i’m fucking telling you all. ITS ALEX

⤷ username there’s literally no way it’s not alex

⤷ username it could be oscar

⤷ username bitch since when was o s c a r four letters?

⤷ username jack is four letters. they could be trying to throw us off

⤷ username JUST ACCEPT THAT ITS ALEX

charles_leclerc put a shirt on

⤷ yn_leclerc no ❤️

⤷ charles_leclerc 😡😡😡

⤷ username she’s always so unserious when it comes to charles lmao

arthur_leclerc abt to bleach my eyes brb

⤷ lorenzotl pass it over after

⤷ charles_leclerc pass it here too

⤷ yn_leclerc i could build a castle out of all the bricks they throw at me 💁‍♀️

username those leclerc genes are leclercing

username girl get the hell up 😭😭

charles_leclerc added to his story!

yn_leclerc

liked by alex_albon and others

yn_leclerc in the 1500s off in a foreign land, i was forced to marry another man (he can’t take the hint that i’ve been in love with him for years now)

view all comments…

username whoever he is, please just ask her out already 😭

username girl, i’ve said this before but for the love of god get the hell up!!! you are better than this!

⤷ yn_leclerc i fear i’m not, bff 😔

⤷ username man down 😓

logansargeant i’m telling you rn that he’s as in love with you!

⤷ yn_leclerc did he tell you that 🤨

⤷ logansargeant no but he wouldn’t have put up with for this long if he doesn’t

⤷ yn_leclerc he’s put up with you for an entire year

⤷ logansargeant yes but he’s paid to put up with me

⤷ username this is all the confirmation that i need. it’s alex

username take the goddamn hint already @alex_albon

charles_leclerc WHO IS IT

⤷ lorenzotl it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?

⤷ charles_leclerc okay but whoooooo

⤷ username charles is worse than alex 😭

arthur_leclerc this is getting pathetic. @alex_albon it’s you mate. she likes you, you like her. kiss it out 🙄

⤷ yn_leclerc ARTHURRRRRRRRR

⤷ username arthur 😭😭😭😭😭😭

⤷ charles_leclerc WHAT?

username arthur starting chaos bc hes so tired of listening to y/n mope 😭

username arthur revealing y/n’s crush and publicly embarrassing her (again), charles being shocked not having a single clue and lorenzo not caring as much is peak brother behaviors in ways i cannot explain

username i fucking told yall its alex

landonorris mate dont leave a lady waiting @alex_albon

⤷ oscarpiastri yeahhh

⤷ yn_leclerc both of you shut the hell up before i replace your shampoo with nair

⤷ landonorris how would you even have access to my shampoo-

⤷ oscarpiastri don’t ask mate. she’s done it before to dennis in f3

username paging @alex_albon

username @alex_albon dont fucking fumble a bad bitch like her come on now

alex_albon oh?

⤷ yn_leclerc public announcement that y/n y/m/n leclerc has died in a ditch and cannot be contacted at this hour. or ever.

⤷ alex_albon i know where you live

⤷ yn_leclerc locking the doors and putting salt around the property as we speak

happy birthday and congratulations to my most loved laura. i love and adore you and i can’t wait to watch you be the woman that you’re always been capable of.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

RUN RABBIT, RUN RUN RUN. ( House of the Dragon x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: DARK! King Aegon ii Targaryen x Common Folk! Reader prompt: Aegon has been watching you from years. Now that he is King, he intends to make his intentions clear. key: Y/n = Your name, R/n = Random name, E/C = eye color word count: 1, 000+ words

He was six and ten when he first met you, well more of, he saw you from a distance. You were a pretty little thing⎯well, for some common folk girl, you were pretty. From what he saw from a distance, you worked as a barkeep, cleaning tables and sometimes serving ale or whatever shitty drink they served at that tavern. 

You were pretty, maybe growing more so in a few years, but enough for the other drunks to take notice as well. He didn’t like it. Even though he had never spoken to you, or really interacted with you at all. You were his pretty little barekeep to gawk at.

It took everything in him to not set Sunfyre upon all of them, burning the shitty little tavern up in flames. So then, he could take their charred remains and show what happened when others touched what was his. But, he digressed. For now. 

Slowly sauntering into the tavern, he searches for you in the crowd of common folk, his gaze predatory and determined. Since his coronation as King, he had been busy, far too busy to leave the Red Keep to go to Flea Bottom. All he wished for now was to have a drink and watch you as he had done a dozen times before. He was sure if he was going to speak to you yet. It wasn’t that he did not have the courage to speak to you. 

He was a Targaryen, and now King, he had nothing to feel ashamed of or worried about. But rather he liked the way you squirmed under his gaze. He liked the way you would grow stiff and then blush a soft pink when you realized that it was just him. It was adorable and a good ego boost to know that he could get you all flustered without even needing to speak. 

“All hail the new King!” Some drunk slurs aloud, “From the King of Flea Bottom to the King of the Seven Kingdoms!”

“Aye!” 

“All hail!”

Rolling his eyes at the drunken babbling that filled the tavern, he sits down at his usual table, kicking his feet up on a chair. Drumming his fingers against the table, he looks around for you, growing wary as he doesn’t see you in the tavern. Clenching his jaw tightly as his temper starts to rise, he holds back at lashing out, his mind running a million miles per hour.

“Where the hell is that damn girl?! Y/n!” A barkeep behind the bar rants, “Oi! You, go get Y/n.”

Not even the other barkeep’s knew where you were at. You weren’t here. You were always on time. Why the fuck were you not here? Where the fuck were you at?

Feeling his temper bubbling with each second that he doesn’t see you, the loud slamming of a door fills the tavern, nobody paying any mind to it. Seeing you walk inside all soaked from the rain, he instantly calms down at sight of you. 

Slowly trailing his eyes over your soaked figure, you look ethereal like this. Hair all soaked and clothes sticking to you like a second skin, accentuating  your curves. Feeling a presence beside him, he snaps out of his daze, seeing some other barkeep trying to speak to him.

“Can I⎯” 

“No, no, her. I want her.” He orders, pointing at you. 

Watching as you dried yourself off with a rag, he smirks at how your linen underskirt was practically sheer. He wondered, if he spilled his seed in you, would a bastard grow in your belly? Would then he be able to whisk you away to the Red Keep, far far away from the drunks and fools that surrounded you both? After all, you would be so grateful for him to do such a thing. You, some lowborn common folk girl, getting the luxury of carrying his child in your belly. 

“Bring me her. I will take nothing but what she brings to me.” He orders.

Feeling a familiar pair of predatory eyes on you, you slowly turn around to see the now King, watching you. He sat at the same table as always, in the center where he and those silvery locks could be gawked at. Furrowing your brows in confusion, you watch as R/n walks away from the table, rolling her eyes hard with a scowl. Cocking her head to Aegon, you didn’t even have to ask to understand that he had rejected her. 

Wiping your hands dry with the rag, your eyes locked onto Aegon’s, e/c meeting predatory violet eyes. Shivering at the gaze, R/n motions for you to go to him with a cock of her head, her iration clear as day at not getting any coin from him. Mustering up your courage, you walk over to him, coming face-to-face for the first time ever. He was a lot more handsome up close. Alluring violet eyes, silvery white Targaryen hair and pouty lips. 

“Do you wish to make your King happy?” He asked, his voice rough and low.

“I do, your grace.” You nod, “ How can I be of service to you?”

“I can think of many ways.”

Growing tense at the lewd comment, you shift in place, unsure if he was jesting with you or if he was being serious. You have never spoken to him up to this point, just watching from afar or in passing. You could not tell. Chewing on your bottom lip a little nervously, he places a hand on your waist, letting out a full belly laugh. Weakly nodding unsure, he slowly trails his hand down to your hip, not quite inappropriate but not appropriate at the same time. 

“Can I get you some ale, your grace?” You ask, attempting to change the subject.

“No.”

“Or mayhaps some bread from the kitchen?” You try again, “I am sure we can find something for you if that is what you desire.”

“No.”

Blushing under his intense gaze, he slowly stands up from his seat, looking like a predator stalking its prey. Tilting your head up as he towers over you, you resist the urge to cower, not wanting him to see your fear. In your time working here you learned men tended to like seeing women cower, it was like a game to them. Softly gulping as he digs his nails into your hip, a voice in the back of your head tells you to run away, that he was dangerous. But, your legs would not let you move. 

“Your grace?” You whisper, your voice weak. 

“Then you will not scream, cry, or protest as I take you back to the Red Keep.” He whispers, “I would hate to have to kill you when I have just gotten you within my grasp. Now walk, my little rabbit.”

----

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[eilidh-eternal]

You learn the truth

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist | Ao3 |

| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Fenella has a thick accent | off-screen death of non-major characters | sorta horror-esque metaphors for emotions/feelings (drowning, rotting, the usual) | your desire is a living thing and it's eating away at you | reader is, once again, Going Through It |

Thank you @gemmahale for reading this monstrosity and helping me fine-tune it <3

“Sergeant. How copy?” 

Simon looms over Johnny in the team room, sidled up to a sagging couch that’s seen better days, and when he lifts his derelict gaze from the battle-worn photo in his hands he’s met with pinched brows, sloped granite, and folded arms. Worry, in the staid manner he’s come to expect from Simon.

“Solid, Lt,” he answers dutifully, devoid of his usual ebullience, and with a tenor forged from damascus and flint. 

Simon rounds with a languid gait to the opposite cushion, stained with something dark, iron-rich and oxidizing in the loose weave, and lowers himself down beside him. Holds out a gloved hand. Johnny obeys his silent command and relinquishes what might just be the most valuable thing he owns. Deposits it gingerly in his waiting palm.

“How’s she doin’?” he asks, smoothing out a crease in the portrait.

“Started school this past year. Whole head taller than last ye saw her. Still carries that damn bear ‘round the house, too.” Takes his tea the same as Simon, according to Isobel.

“Better that than the bloody mask.” 

“Aye. Better, that,” he agrees, and a ragged breath saws out of his lungs when he sinks back into the sun-bleached nylon.

“And your pet?” Simon passes the photo back and Johnny tucks it reverently back into his breast pocket, folded neatly and pressed close to his heart—where it belongs.

“Isnae ‘mine’,” he drawls, somnolence roughening his voice despite the afternoon sun pouring in through the concrete window. “Stubborn thing, too. Hasnae been answerin’ her phone.”

“That what’s got you mithered?”

“Worried,” Johnny corrects, and Simon folds his hands across his midsection, settling back alongside him with a throaty grunt and the echo of artillery fire in his bones, popping and cracking beneath the weight of his battle-worn body.

“All the same, innit?”

“Not with her. Not when she…” He toys with a clip on a canvas belt loop, rough fingers tracing the burnished amalgam of iron and carbon, and for a moment, he feels your skin. Metallic beneath his touch, chilled by the wind, precious and perfect in his hands. “You an’ her are cut from the same cloth. Dinnae care much for sharin’.” Even when you should.

You keep him up at night, itinerant thoughts always finding their way through the morass of post-operative lassitude back to you. Wondering what you fill your days with. If you still linger by the window in the placid hours of the morning with a steaming, ceramic mug warming your hands, marking the passage of time by the melting of the ice. If the final snow of spring has laced the wild cherry trees along the row with pearl-drop blossoms and an almond sillage. If you’ve seen the picture he managed to take from the ramp mid-flight, on transport to Laswell’s station, mareel lea of clouds undulating beneath a star-flecked velarium. 

Thinking about all the things he said, and the things he didn’t, before he left. Burning with the memory of you, pressed flush against him; soft and warm and safe in the lambent halo of his arms. You felt like his in that moment, and he lies awake, breathing in char and soot from the moreish conflagration ravaging his chest, staining his throat a fuliginous shade of black with each serrated exhale.

He might have told Simon—if the big bastard weren’t rattling the ballistic glass in his sleep. 

You’re standing in the pasta aisle, staring at the selection of boxed macaroni, and you’re drifting further and further into an endless, atramentous night.

Funny, you think, when the sun and stars live next door. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. None of it was supposed to be this way. Stars don't fall from the sky. But meteors do. And now… now you have to crawl out of the crater at the bottom of a pitiless ocean, navigate the upheaval of silt and abysmal detritus, and search for the surface without the gilded hand of the sun to guide you.

You should have stayed away.

Isobel would choose the box with the cartoonish bear. Johnny would make a joke about bears liking porridge, not cheesy noodles. You toss it in your basket with the rest of your ready meals, soggy cardboard already weeping condensation, and battle the undertow to the queue at the till. 

You should have left them alone.

“Beautiful day, today is.” They don't know that the stars have gone nova. That the ossified remains of the Earth creak and settle in the brumal gloaming, caliginous and desolate. They can’t hear you, pounding on the ice, desperate for apricity in a nuclear winter. 

Now you’re the one who’s alone.

“It is,” you lie, and the effluvium of ozone burns your lungs. Cauterizes the hemorrhaging, pulpy mess you call a heart, languishing in the frangible cage of your ribs.

Free divers can hold their breath for 10 minutes at a time. You wonder how long you’ll last trapped beneath a frozen mantle.

It snowed again, the morning Johnny left—pillowed the earth in anticipation of your fall—but several weeks of sleet and freezing rain has turned the pavement into a patchwork of slush and ice that mimics the glacial floes in your veins. Your wellies don’t have the same grip as proper snow boots. Crampons are better suited for the climb ahead. Neither are very practical for a quick trip to Tesco, though. Would look quite odd, standing on ice cleats in the pasta aisle.

The same can’t be said of the car park. With your canvas tote clutched close to your side, you pick your way through fissures of lingering snow. Opt for trickling streams of runoff rather than attempting to balance on the slick pavement. It’s slow going. Tedious. The lingering wind of last week's squall whips at your exposed skin. Lashes and bites, pumping a gelid venom into your veins, and the blackening, gangrenous bits of your mangled heart feel numb. Numb enough that you don’t immediately recognize the car parked next to yours. Twin sets of eyes, stratified ice, rich with moraine, watching from the windows. You don’t realize how the world suddenly feels too bright, staring up through a polynya, until you glimpse an aureate complexion and charcoal hair, silver-streaked with ash and tied up in a loose pony, emerging from the driver's seat.

Fenella MacTavish is a star in her own right. Has a gravity to her that demands to be felt and heard. The pull of your name on her lips drags you through the hole in the ice and dangles you there. Bait for something bigger. Hungrier. And she does it all with a friendly face, a cordon of coronal light woven into a beaming smile—aimed at the fallstreak hole that’s been punched through your sternum. 

“Ye’re a fair way from home, lass.” The divisional line of the Baltic and North Sea, from the feel of it. Or maybe somewhere off the coast of Shetland. It doesn’t really matter. Dread still percolates down your spine and you blink against the sudden shock of the sun emerging from the clouds, lurid rays burrowing into your retinas.

“Better prices for produce on this side of town,” you hedge, and she looks pointedly at the sharp protrusions of box corners against canvas, faultline of her brow erupting with skepticism. 

“Thought Tesco’s all have the same prices, more or less,” she reasons, and you watch the way she leans against the D pillar, arms folded and braced against a hiemal wind that tousles loose strands of hair about her face. A similar image of Johnny from several weeks ago effervesces to the surface of your memory and you shove it down. Drown it in the brine that spumes on roiling white caps. 

You answer with an indolent shrug and make to step around her, slipping your hand in a fleece-lined coat pocket in search of your keys, but like the other MacTavishes you’ve come to know, Fenella has a propensity for prying questions.

“Have ye heard from Joh—”

“No,” you say before she can speak his name, gloved fingers curling around the worn canvas strap across your shoulder like it’s a lifeline. Trying to pull yourself away from the hole in the ice, procellous waves lapping hungrily at your feet where she dangles you from artfully strung words. It’s not technically a lie. Even if there’s a novel's worth of texts from him that have gone unopened and unanswered. “I have—”

“Come have dinner wi’ us,” she volleys back. Guts the wretched desiderium curled at the back of your throat, backed into a corner and hissing at anything that comes near. Coaxes the dolorous, indignant want festering in your chest into the light. 

You want Johnny and his ribald jokes. Want him to look at you the way he looks at Isobel when they walk together. To hold your hand inside the pocket of his coat when you both forget your gloves on the way to pick her up from school. Remind you to leave work at the door. Shut your laptop and close the manuscript. Give yourself a break and come watch some mind rotting show with him and Isobel on the couch. Curl up in a tartan blanket, woven with his family's colors, and pretend you aren't falling asleep with your cheek pressed to his shoulder. Want to bake with Isobel and chase Johnny from the kitchen. Read to her on the nights he’s away, out at the pub on Main with friends from work. Be there, sleeping on the couch with Isobel, waiting for him to come home from assignment.

You want, and the teratoid it’s become circles with the porbeagles. Has teeth and a consciousness all it’s own, shredding through sinewy trepidation and tearing through every layer of adamantine flesh that you wear like armor. Stripping you down to the bone and sucking on the treacly marrow.

There’s no reason why you can’t. Johnny’s said as much. Made it patently clear when he all but tucked you into his jacket with him and let the warmth of sun-chapped lips bleed into your algid skin that night on your stoop. But there’s a picture in the livingroom of the townhouse next to yours that clamors each time you pass it. A ghost, bound to this plane by molecules of ink on photo paper, materializing at your back and whispering words of doubt from the umbrage. Telling you to leave. They aren’t yours to have. 

You feel rime creeping up your legs, briny sea spray turning denim stiff in the darkening carpark. The sun is sinking, varicolored sky unfurling against the plumage of clouds and an austere snowscape, and it casts shadows across the city, long as the list of reasons you shouldn’t.  

“Tomorrow night,” she presses, “roads ‘round here get a tad dodgy after dark wi’ the ice an’ all.” Her eyes drift to the ice surrounding your feet. Stare for a moment, like there are memories trapped there. 

You’ve found your keys. Found them several minutes ago, and have been toying with pressing the panic button. Manufacturing some way out of this conversation. Your toes are numb, too. Whether it’s from standing in a river of runoff or Fenella’s snare, swaying precariously and staring down into the gaping maw of repressed desire, you don’t know. But you do know that you can’t stay here. Can’t keep staring at this woman who looks like Johnny and pretend you don’t want to know everything about her. Him. Them. That you don’t want to go to dinner with her and Isobel because you miss them.

“Tomorrow,” you begin, “I have a meeting. Have to stay late.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” she counters. “Bell stays up late to watch Still Game wi’ me. Sure she wouldnae mind waitin’ an hour tae have a friend join us fer some stovies.” You can see Isobel in the car behind her, twisted around in her car seat to watch the two of you, and your heart lurches in your chest. Gnashes and snarls at the web of lies you’ve woven around it, glittering trip wires disguised as a safety net.

Don’t get too close. Don’t get attached. They’re not yours. This will never be your family.

‘Go!’ it wails, and her eyes beg you to stay.

When you finally find your footing again, you take a step towards your car. “I’ll think about it.” Move carefully between cracks in the ice. “See if I can get the meeting moved up. Isobel should keep to her schedule.” Keep your eyes up. Don’t look at the monster she’s dragged out of you.

Fenella nods like you’ve agreed. Either chooses to ignore your feeble attempt at a polite refusal or twists your words into reluctant acceptance as she fishes her phone from her vest. Hums as she taps away at the screen, and you feel the echo of it when your own phone vibrates in your pocket beside your keys.

“We’ll see ye tomorrow night, then.” She smiles, wide and machiavellian, before she severs the snare and watches you plummet. Slips into the warmth of her car as you plunge through the hole in the ice and it freezes over once more. Chum in the water.

Staring at Fenella’s address on your phone screen effects a sinking feeling in your stomach. Drags you down to that abyss again, only this time, you aren’t alone. You weren’t alone before—not really. You’d just denied the truth of what was clawing its way through your chest. Couldn’t face what its existence means.

You stare until the screen goes dark, and then stare some more, until the oven timer chimes and you wade through your kitchen to silence it. Produce a hot pad from an adjacent drawer to pull a cardboard tray of lasagne from the rack, and nearly drop it when the chiming starts again. 

Your phone vibrates on the table behind you, Johnny’s name lit up across the screen. Calling.

‘Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.’

The awful thing in your chest shudders in answer.

Every muscle in your body tenses. Aches to open the line. Grab it with both hands and pull. Drag yourself from the depths of your self inflicted misery and bathe in the ardent warmth of his smile. You want to talk to him. Want to hear that gravel rich timbre and your name rolling off the escarpment of his tongue.

But should you?

Should you even try to be something you aren’t? Something you never thought you could be. Would want to be. Should you—?

“Bonnie? Ye there?”

Oh, fuck…

“Yeah… I’m here,” you breathe, and it’s not salt water but kerosene that fills your lungs. Burns with self-loathing and penitence as it commingles with ozone. “Johnny, I—” Your voice pitches, teeters on the precipice of trepidation and want, and crumbles away with the marl.

You’ve been ignoring him. Ignoring how you feel. Absconding yourself in your abnegation and rotting on the ocean floor, too afraid to swim. To look for the light. Afraid of falling even further. 

And all of that want comes pouring out of you now. Out of the hole punched through your chest when he left. In a briny deluge down the berm of your cheeks when he shushes you. From puncture wounds, perfect impressions of serrated teeth, sunk to the bone. Not letting go.

“I know, sweet girl. I know,” he soothes, palliating and emollient, but the breath you take scrapes against your throat, coarse with sand and silt. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Johnny.” You thought it would hurt, admitting it. That the jaws would clamp down and you would scream and kick and fight. You were so heavy, full to the brim with want, that you mistook it for that leaden, sinking feeling. Thought it was drowning you.

“Bell said she saw ye today. That ye’re goin’ to visit her tomorrow?” There’s hope in his voice, nestled in the colluvium that tumbles from his lips and settles at your feet.

“Yeah,” you decide then and there. “I am.”

The MacTavish home isn’t what you thought it would be, limewashed stone tucked at the end of a winding, gravel lane, cradled by the tussock and sedge of a heathland and perched on the slope of a shallow vale. Double paned windows cast a genial glow onto the drifts around it, tenuous peaks capped in flakes of gold, and a scintillant lamp floods the walkway, salted cobble, free of the ice your tires struggled to navigate on the narrow streets of Old Kilpatrick. The door is a bathic blue, nearly the same depth as the lacuna between stars on a moonless night, and a boar-head knocker greets you, impeccably polished silver despite its exposure to the elements. Your hand halts halfway to the ring that dangles from gleaming ivory tusks and hangs surprised between yourself and the refulgent star across the threshold. Everything about Fenella and her home is bright.

She ushers you inside, pulling you by a handful of billowing cashmere into the foyer, and promptly defoliates you of the flailing garment and congruent scarf wound around your neck, taking your bag and hanging it from a brass hook beside your coat. “Bell, come an’ look who’s here!” she calls down the passageway, and a brontide reverberates through the hardwood and soles of your shoes. A storm rattling the foliage of a coppice in the thick of Summer. 

Isobel shrieks, effusive in the manner of her excitement, when she rounds the corner from the doorway to the left and catches sight of you, teddy forgotten and swiftly discarded in favor of launching herself down the wide hall. You rock back when she connects with your leg, sinking her hands into layers of chiffon, pleated at your waist and cascading to the buckles of your flats around your ankles.

“Ye made it!” She wears a t-shirt many sizes too big, sleeves billowing around her and the hem rolled and tucked up inside with a knot that presses against your shin. The cracked, peeling numerals 141 are barely visible, on her left side just below her breastbone, and her surname is printed just below, peaks and plateau of the M and T rising above the cloud of your skirt bunched up in her arms. Her hair is loose, curls tumbling just over her shoulders in an unruly race to the wide crew-collar of her shirt, and the smile she beams up at you is blinding. Disorienting. Burrowing into your brain in search of a home. Looking for its carbon copy, etched in a memory of Johnny, sitting on a wooden chair in a kitchen that mirrors yours.

A timer chimes, echoing off smooth plaster painted with a whisper of green, sage and seafoam, and an eclectic collection of frames maps a rich family history from the front door down the length of the passageway,

“That’ll be dinner,” Fenella announces, a hand coming to rest between your shoulders and another delving into her granddaughter's curls. “Bell, show ‘er where tae wash up.” She herds you both forward, and your stomach knots with budding nerves.

“Can I help with anything? Setting the table?” you offer, attempt to make yourself useful, and she tuts her disapproval.

“Nae, jus’ wash up wi’ Bell. Dinner’ll be on the table when yer done.” She slips by the two of you, disappearing down the passageway and to the right while Isobel fits her hand into yours and leads you through the door she came from.

There’s a sideboard adjacent to the washroom, and while Isobel scrubs the days mire from her nails you cast your attention to the portraiture above it. Echoes of a convivial home, filled with family during the holidays, outings in the city, and school portraits. Johnny’s service portrait hangs front and center above a shadow box, pin board nearly full with brassy medals and gaudy ribbons. Years younger and clean shaven, he looks boyish and bright-eyed, even with the army drab and neutral expression. But there's a familiar tilt to his mouth, permanently skewed in an inveterate smile, and a whisper of laughter in the gentle slope of his shoulders, not yet filled out with the corded muscle that’s become so familiar. Several inches to the right and many years later, he appears as you know him now. Dark shadow of stubble, interrupted by the stitchwork that created the twisting scar on his chin, and— 

The bulk of his body is curled around a young woman, dark cloud of curls concealing her face, buried in the hollow space beneath his jaw, but the swell of her belly is obvious in her profile. Isobel’s mum. 

“Yer turn!” Isobel lilts from behind you, but you remain rooted to the polished hardwood, staring at a ghost, and wait for the rebuttal.

They aren’t yours. This isn’t your family. 

Budding nerves blossom in the loamy pit of your stomach, creeping along spiculated vines towards the moldering gaps between your ribs, and your heart stutters in its crumbling cage alongside the starving, pacing creature you call want. 

Forget them. Leave.

You wait, and wait, and wait—and it never comes. The ink doesn't wail, the frames don’t rattle, and there is no voice whispering over your shoulder.

There is a darling girl, tugging at the fabric of your skirt and the mess of snarled threads around your heart, picking apart the tangled web you’ve been lost in, and she guides you through the fray to the washroom basin.

“Ah spoke wi’ Johnny this morn’,” Fenella begins, reaching across the table to wipe at the broth dribbling down Isobel’s chin. “Said ye finally had a chance tae talk.”

“Oh. Yes, we did.” You don’t tell her how Johnny did most of the talking, took your sniveled apologies for avoiding his messages and buried them in the colluvium. Caught you, from a world away, and lowered you gently to the earth when you fell apart in your kitchen. “He sounds well.”

“Aye, he does. Havnae heard ‘im like that since Kirsten died.” She leans back in her chair, half-finished bowl of stew all but forgotten. “Those two… och, they were a right pain in my arse. Where one went the other followed, an’ made twice the trouble for their Mam.” 

The revelation glues to your brain, tenebrous and viscid. 

“Has he told ye about ‘er, his sister?”

“She saw the picture in the passageway,” Isobel chimes in, babbling around a mouthful of roast potato.

Their Mam. The picture in the hall. Johnny’s sister. The ghost next door.

“He’s mentioned her once before.” You drag your spoon through cooling beef and potato, breaking up the congealed, starchy mass, and try to do the same with the memories that tangle themselves together in your head. “He told me about his wife; that she passed two years ago. I— He never said his sister passed as well. I’m so—”

“His wife?” Quicksilver brows fly towards the inky peak of her hairline, bewilderment etched in the incredulous slash of her mouth, lips drawn tight. “Johnny’s ne’er wed, lass.”

Your hand stills but your heart rattles, throwing itself against baleen bars, and the pinpricks of teeth, gnawing at the fallstreak hole in your sternum, threatens to crack your ribs open at the dinner table. “Isobel’s mother—”

“Is his sister,” Fenella finishes for you.

“Then, Johnny… Why didn’t Isobel’s father raise her?” 

Fenella casts a furtive glance in Isobels direction and finds cordierite eyes staring back at her over an empty bowl, gleaming with a startling discernment. “Stay here,” she motions towards you, and plucks Isobel from the chair between you, balancing her on a broad hip. “All done, Bell? Let’s get ye settled in the den, hm? With Ghost?” Isobel clutches at her shirt for balance, dips her chin in agreement, and Fenella takes her from the dining room, leaving you alone with the savage things in your chest.

Sister. Never married. Niece.

It percolates through gray matter. Drips from the roof of your mouth, nauseating and saccharine, and when you swallow you feel the drop in your stomach like an iron weight. Wilted petals and desiccated vines withering. A febrile joy laced with bile bubbling up your throat; sickly cocktail of absolution and compunction. 

There was never a ghost trapped in a picture frame. No headstone inscribed with the MacTavish name and the words ‘Loving Wife and Mother.’ Every poisonous word whispered in your ear came from the devil on your shoulder, sowing demurral and rooting it in reproval, and the roaring in your chest, thundering pulse in your ears, screams yes.

The muted playing of fanfare from the TV cuts through the cacophony in your head, and Fenella’s voice allays the discordance. “She knows more than she lets on.” A sigh filters through her nose with a ‘hum’ and she slides into the chair Isobel occupied previously. “She misses him. Misses him like a wean misses their Da.” Misses him the same as her Mum. Gone somewhere she can’t follow, a place kept secret from her, with no way to know when he’ll be back. If he’ll come back. 

The unpleasant realization of that very real possibility scrapes down your spine, whetted talons screeching against corrugated bone.

“Johnny’s the closest thing Bell’s ever had tae a Da,” she elucidates. “They used tae work together, ‘fore Johnny joined up wi’ the Task Force. Passed selection the same year.”

“She—Kirsten—met him through Johnny?” She nods, smiling, but the curve of her mouth has a mournful edge.

“She did. Johnny brought some lads round for Hogmanay one year. Took his sister out wi’ ‘em tae the pubs. Said she took one look at Aaron MacAndrew handin’ ‘er brother his own arse at darts and knew she’d marry ‘im. Did so, the following year. Hardly made it another ‘fore she told us she was havin’ Bell.” The memory of her daughter brightens Fenella’s eyes. Bottled lightning, bouncing off maldivian blue glass. “We were all excited. ‘Specially Johnny; couldnae wait tae meet his niece. Brought home gifts for Kirsten and the wean from every tour and couldnae go to ASDA wi’out buyin’ another teddy or romper.”

“Did Johnny and Aaron tour together?” She nods solemnly.

“Few weeks after Kirsten had Bell they left. Got their orders a month earlier, an’ Aaron… He didnae let Johnny tell Kirstin ‘til after she had the wean. Didnae want her tae stress. 

“They were tae be gone three months, so Kirsten stayed here an’ I helped wi’ Bell. Went a while ‘fore we heard anythin’ from Johnny. Said things got hairy. Had tae go dark. Stay hidden. We didnae know why ‘til he called again an’ said he was comin’ home early, but naw Aaron. Naw ‘til he was the only one tae come off the plane.”

Laughter trickles in from the den, pooling in the hollow silence that yawns between you and Fenella. “I…” you try, but every word you string together with the next frays around the knot in your throat. 

“She was angry wi’ him for some time. Aaron had died weeks before he called, an’ he kept it from ‘er. Didnae want tae tell her on the phone. Wanted tae be there when she found out.” She shifts her weight in the chair. Leans forward to fold one arm over the other on the table. “Johnny took it hard, too. Losin’ his mate an’ then his sister. None of us saw her for the better part of a year after he died, an’ Johnny took the blame for it. She wouldnae see him. Didnae come ‘round for holidays. He thought if he made ‘imself scarce she might come out her shell, so when he heard from a Captain he used tae serve under, ‘bout the Task Force an’ the longer assignments that came wi’ it… He packed ‘imself up an’ off he went. Was another year ‘fore they finally saw one another. Never knew what was said between the two of ‘em, but they were close as ever afterwards. Right up ‘til she passed.”

“And she listed Johnny as Isobel's next of kin.” Fenella nods, bottled lightning limned with a silvery tide. “I… I’m so sorry. About Kirsten, Aaron, bringing it up— I shouldn’t—”

Despite the tears tracking down her cheeks, Fenella shakes her head. Smiles, and reaches across the table to clasp your hand in hers. “Ye dinna need tae apologize, lass. I should be thankin’ ye, really.” You try to pull away but her hand tightens around yours.

“Thank me? I haven’t—”

“Done anythin’? Lass, ye’ve done more than ye know. He talks about ye. Every time we go tae lunch. It’s ye, an’ Bell, an’ how excited she always is tae see ye. How he thinks she might fancy ye even more than he does. And he smiles. You brought that back.”

And fuck, if that isn’t everything you hoped for. To know that he smiles for you. Because of you. It alchemizes the iron in your stomach to lead, bathed in acid and leeching an acrimonious guilt into your bloodstream.

You ignored him.

Pulled away, just like his sister did.

And Fenella is thanking you. 

Midnight settles over the MacTavish home in a mantle of crushed velvet and embroidered stars. Fenella insisted that you stay after dinner. Spend some time with Isobel in the den.

That was several hours ago.

Curled in the corner of a chenille couch, you sit with Isobel pressed to your side, head pillowed by the masked bear she clutches in her sleep.

“Someone’s finally tuckered out,” you muse, brushing an errant curl away from her face. “I should head home. Let the two of you rest.” Fenella stands from her chair beside the couch and maneuvers around the coffee table in the dim light of the TV.

“It’s late,” she rebukes. “I’ll naw have ye out at this hour. Stay the night. Ye can take yer rest in Johnny’s old room.” Fenella croons as she peels Isobel out of her cocoon of blankets and hoists her up into the cradle of her arms. “C’mon Bell, let’s show the lass where she’s stayin’ the night.”

“The roads really aren’t that bad, I— I should be able to make the drive just fine,” you insist, but the admonition in the gaze she levels you with quashes any further argument.

You follow, albeit hesitantly, from the den up a narrow flight of stairs, and hope that she can’t hear the tremulous rattling of your breath behind her. She deposits Isobel, teddy and all, in a colorful room, shelves overflowing with picture books and bins piled high with teddies and toys, tucks her snug beneath a hand-sewn quilt and leaves her with a peck on the cheek to guide you into the room across from hers.

She rifles through a chest of drawers, scratched pine and chipped lacquer, stood up against the wall opposite a wrought iron bed, draped in purples and greens that bring thistle to mind. “Ye can wear some of Johnny’s old things. I’d give ye somethin’ of mine but, well… I think ye’d be more comfortable in this.” Tracksuit bottoms and a pullover. She leaves it on the bed as she moves to where you hover near the doorway. “Washroom is just down there, on the right,” she directs, pointing to the far end of the hall. “An’ I’m just across the way if ye need anythin’. See ye at breakfast.”

With you and Isobel settled in your respective rooms, she ambles off to her own, door clicking shut softly behind her, and you’re left staring at Johnny’s clothes. On Johnny’s bed. In the bedroom where he grew up. Wondering how—if at all—you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Scales and Silk

(((A closed RP for @second-wife-playbook)))

Once upon a time...

In the heart of a once-thriving land, then shrouded in fear and ashes, the name Striker was whispered with a mix of dread and hopelessness.

The beast was named so by the unfortunate souls who lived there, shocked and astonished by his speed and precision with which he would strike his target.

No man, woman or child was safe, no animal or house.

The farmers and townsfolk, whose livelihoods have been reduced to cinders, spoke of him as a malevolent force, intent on destruction for destruction's sake.

Striker would descend upon the villages, his fiery breath incinerating crops and homes, his razor-sharp claws snatching livestock from their pens.

The once-bustling fields lied barren, charred remnants of their former selves. No one knew the whereabouts of his lair deep within the forest he fiercely protected, nor did they understand the reasons behind his relentless assault on their world.

To the people, Striker was the embodiment of evil, a dragon whose dark heart reveled in their suffering. Yet, beneath the surface of these tales, the true nature of Striker's wrath and the mysteries of his existence remained hidden, waiting for those brave enough to seek the truth.

————————————————

In the dimly lit tavern of the town of Ravenshire, two weary farmers nursed their mugs of ale, their faces etched with despair.

"Another barn gone last night."

Sighed Harlan, his eyes hollow.

"Striker left nothing but ashes. I don’t know how much more we can take."

Bram, his hands calloused from years of toil, shook his head.

"Aye, Harlan. Lost three cows myself. They were all I had left. How are we supposed to keep going like this?"

"It's as if he has no purpose but to torment us!"

Harlan muttered, taking a long drink.

"Why does he hate us so much? What did we ever do to him?"

Bram clenched his jaw.

"Folks say he’s just pure evil. A beast with a black heart, born to destroy."

"Do you think the King will send more knights in our aid?"

"I doubt it. None of them survived."

The two fell into a heavy silence, the crackling of the tavern fire the only sound between them. Outside, the night stretched on, filled with the ever-present fear of Striker's return.

[thegnomelord]

Ahh I love the food thing that you got asked <3 food can have such a special place in our lives it's so precious

Ya think Hound develop concerning eating habits due to Makarov? Due to the whole stressful situation

I just want someone in the 141 to cook him a meal, filled with love and care, maybe Hound is in the kitchen watching them cook it for his own security.

I just want him to have a nice meal 😔

-🐙

I do feel like Hound would have some food hoarding habits or just distrust about eating something he didn't make himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten drugged through food...

But the 141 making food communally would be a fun idea lol so here's a quick brain fart :D :

You feel out of place. Well, you're always out of place, but you feel especially out of place sitting at the table while Soap and and Gaz busy themselves by the stove, Price humming to himself to the side as he gets the mugs to make tea. Ghost sits next to you grumbling under his breath, both of you in 'time-out' — you hadn't done anything (save for not being trusted around anything sharp), it's Ghost that had gone and microwaved beans in the can. Now Johnny swears up and down the microwave is possessed.

Your eyes flicker between Soap and Gaz, watching them cook you don't even know what. The only British 'cuisine' you know of is the cremated steaks Price would sometimes make you before. . . that. But nothing the two are making smells nearly as bad as the charred hockey pucks Price would feed you and Simon.

"Hey!" Your brought out of your thoughts in time to see Kyle swat away Price's hand with his spatula. "Don't you dare cap! I'm not about to get rained on because of your bad cooking." You hadn't considered Gaz could take charge, too soft in your eyes, but you're surprised by how tight of a ship he runs when he's by the stove.

"Alright, alright." Price huffs while Ghost lets out an amused huff. He's not quite laughing, but you can see the subtle tremor of his shoulders in silent laughter.

That gets Soap to point a spoon in Ghost's direction. "Oh yer one te fockin' giggle. Mr. 'ah cursed the damn microwave with me beans'."

"Sod off." Simon grunts, but there's no edge to his words. Soap tuts, but soon enough starts off rambling about something you're not quite able to follow along to when your eyes once again focus on where their arms are, how they move, paying especially close attention any time they rest them by their sides (even though realistically you doubt they'd try to drug the same food they'd eat).

You still tense when you feel Price's hand on your back, only now noticing that you'd started hunching your back, your shoulders raised closer to your ears. "You're alright, straighten your spine, sweetheart." His voice is calm, his hand warm as he applies gentle pressure on your back until you straighten back out. "There you go, good man." He rumbles, hand going up to ruffle your hair before he pulls away before his touch can turn into stinging pain to your skin.

You blink as a plate full of food is placed in front of you. The food smells good and doesn't look like it had been cremated, made with care you don't deserve. "I. . ." You don't know why but your throat feels clogged, like someone had poured hot tar into your mouth and forced you to swallow, the collar around your throat constricting your breathing even more.

Simon's shoulder bumps into yours, "If you don't eat that I will." The childish threat makes you breathe out a small laugh.

"Aye, the bastard's like Henry the hoover, he'll eat anything." Soap supplies as he sits down opposite of you with his own plate. Though you get the impression he's talking about himself when he stabs a sausage with a fork and almost inhales the entire thing.

"Mhm," You grunt, taking the fork. "I don't doubt it." You stab a piece of black pudding. It tastes earthy, but the small coppery tang of blood sizzles down your nerves, but fuck it tastes good.

"Look at that, is it good?" Kyle chuckles as he watches your facial features shift as you swallow the food, his own face that of pride like he already knows your answer, but you nod your head all the same.

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Hell Pride University 2: Charlie & Vaggie

Charlie: (unlocking the door to her dorm room, her workout clothes are slick with sweat and rain, cheeks flushed, and out of breath) Thanks again for *pant-pant* helping me out with my stamina and *huff-puff* endurance, Vaggie. I appreciate it.

Vaggie: (drops her soaked duffle bag off on the floor) No worries, Char. Thanks for letting me stay over while the storm passes o- (glances at the dorm) -ooooooh....

-The dorm has a queen sized bed, desk, full closet wardrobe, desk, and is twice if not three times larger than the regular dorms. Kitchenette stands in the corner with a personal shower and bathroom. Razzle and Dazzle are passed out in their oversized dog bed that's too big for them both-

Vaggie: ....Charlie.... why is your dorm room so huge?

Charlie: Oh! Uh! (pulls a spare set of sweat pants and hoodie out of her closet and passes it to Vaggie along with a clean towel) You know..... My dad's the dean of the college.

Vaggie: (takes the clothes and towel) .....And.... that gives you a damn near hotel suite for a dorm?

Charlie: (sweating and blushing) Would.... you believe me if I said I was the Hall Director and lived here full-time?

Vaggie: (jaw drops) Don't you need a master's degree for that? .....Wait.... That's a full-time JOB!!!

Charlie: Well... (pokes fingers together) I'm working on my graduate degree... so... my dad may or may not have pulled a few strings to get me the job....

Vaggie: YOU'RE GETTING YOUR MASTERS AND YOU WORK HERE?!?!?!

Charlie: Vaggie, it's not that bad!

Vaggie: I just thought you were late to going to school like me! How old even are you?!

Charlie: (mumbles and looks away bashfully)

Vaggie: What?

Charlie: ......almost thirty.....

Vaggie: THIRTY?!?!?! I'm twenty-four!!!

Charlie: ALMOST!!! ALMOST thirty!!! I still have two months, one week, and three days....

Vaggie: Ay, dios mio! (plasters her head against the dorm door) I'm interested in a woman who could have been my baby sitter....

Charlie: (perks up and eyes sparkle) You're interested in me????

Vaggie: I-I mean... Yeah... But I thought you were MY age!!! YOUNGER even!!! I was starting to feel like a perv because I thought you were eighteen!!!

Charlie: I'm the same person I was dying on the track fifteen minutes ago, Vaggie!

Vaggie: You probably know how to use a VHS player!

Charlie: I mean. I do, but that's beside the point. Also, they're called VCR's.

Vaggie: (flops onto the bed and groans) Clara and Odette are gonna have a field day when they find out.

Charlie: Clara and Odette? Oh! I didn't know you were a Carmine. I had those two come see me in the tutoring center when I worked there as an undergraduate!

Vaggie: ........of course they did.......

[agentrouka-blog]

“I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons.”

I can’t tell if this is dramatic irony from GRRM and he means to subvert it or it’s a statement that may come to fruition ? Targ restoration seems very unlikely but I look at how “no one will ever marry me for love” and the willowy creature line is so obviously dramatic irony but can the same be said for the Dany line? Lot’s of Dany stans think so and obv think it’ll her and Jon’s child…I do find it funny that they’re the same people who claim that Jon’s willowy creature line isn’t ironic at all and that Sansa’s despair over only being chosen for her claim won’t be subverted at all 💀

I think that context here is a key in explaining why the line is begging to be subverted for Sansa, while acting (at best) as false bait in a broader metaphor of doom for Daenerys.

How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?" The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now. "I . . . can scarcely wait to meet him, my lady. But he is still a child, is he not?" (ASOS, Sansa VI)

For Sansa, the line plays on two things: 1) her disillusionment with an innocent but character-defining dream is already complete in the perfect middle of the series. What an excellent moment to set up an ironic hint where her arc will go from there. 2) Easter egg of an as of yet unknown fact: there is another cousin to whom marriage is going to be on the table. "It would be so sweet to see him once again" she later thinks of that not-yet-cousin, "but of course that could never be." Another never. What could possibly ensue down the line? It's pretty blatantly begging to be subverted.

Dany, meanwhile, is thinking this while in the process of fully embracing her dragon identity in the grasslands at the end of the fifth book (happening almost concurrently with the fourth book, so chronologically between the middle and the end). She is exiting her Mhysa-arc, abandoning the maternal role she took on at the end of ASOS, which had quickly entailed locking up her dragons for killing a little girl.

"Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …" Dany could not recall the child's name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. "I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons." Aye, the grass said, but you turned against your children. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

Her children being the dragons.

Dany is torn between these idea of motherhood. Mother to the people, mother to dragons, mother to her own children. But, crucially, this chapter ends with a decision. She avoids examining the thought of her "moonblood", she divests herself of her commitment to Meereen, she summons and mounts Drogon, turns him away from Meereen, hunts on dragonback and gorges on the charred flesh of a horse that died screaming, calmly awaiting Jhaqo's khalasar to find her. She chooses the dragons.

The pregnancy she miscarried in the grasslands during her bout of starvation and dysentery was conceived in Meereen. Fairly soon after she started having sex with Daario and Hizdahr, even. Is it miscarried in the process of choosing to leave Meereen.

“To go forward I must go back,” she said.

She has chosen a new direction, back to her dragon identity, her personal quest. Nothing about this invites the idea of an ironic twist on motherhood being her future after all, which always stands in opposition to the dragons. The imagery is utterly consistent on that front.

In order to thematically reconnect to motherhood for herself, she would have to utterly reject the dragons, and that's going to be both extremely unlikely, and also increasingly meaningless the more she already achieves for herself through them. It's not much of a sacrifice if they have already given her power, devotion, armies, vengeance, the path to Westeros and the means to achieve all her goals. If Hazzea is not enough to convince Dany of what matters more, where is the meaning in being given "a little girl" for herself down the line, after yet more little girls will have died? Thematically, the time to earn this reward passed the moment she chose Drogon.

[virtualcthulu]

non related kinitopet post again but aye roblox pressure ocs comic

(char on right belongs to @fadv4mpz)

[mitraclueless]

what do you mean Satan is getting a new member

What Do You Mean Gehenna Is Getting A New Char

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE NEW DEVIL IS FROM GEHENNA

PB, release Agares and Vassago and my life is yours

I'm so shocked rn, like "Aye, who's this hottie" "Wait he looks like Satan-" "HE'S SATAN'S NEW MEMBER?"

And he's Sitri's rival, great, now I can make rivals to lovers fic with this /hj