#folks threw characters at me to be drawn on the ‘cover’

[batwynn]

Felix Navarro of the Necessary Evils series

(A Patreon request!)

[imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend]

All Things End, Part 4

Fic Summary: William Thurber is left to pick up the pieces of his nightmare. Reader is a sensitive - a psychic - with knowledge of otherworldly things, and has been drawn to help William.

Characters: William Thurber, Sensitive/Psychic!Reader (F)  

Words: 1.9k

WARNINGS: use of religious language, disposing of a gun, mention of killing

Masterlist ~ Part 3

(moodboard images found on Google and Picsart x, x, but the William pic found on IG but I think it's been taken down because I can't find it anymore. Please let me know if you are the creator and would like anything removed)  

You had William’s gun concealed in your bag, but knowing that it was there made it seem like it was burning a hole in the worn leather. Like there would be someone just waiting to ask you what you had in your bag. You needed to get rid of it quickly and discreetly.

You knew there was a small lake nearby, and a slow river that flowed around the town. You’d seen it as you came in, but it was more like a stream. You were going to toss the gun the lake. It would be too easy for someone, maybe even a child, to find the gun by accident in the river. And you didn’t want anyone harmed from what was happening right now. Too many souls had already been lost.

It was still early in the morning, the sun still had a long way to go. Most folk were still inside, enjoying the peace of a new day – a luxury that you and William didn’t have. Hopefully no one would see what you were doing, or would be able to say for certain that it was you that they saw.

You took hurried steps when you were farther away from public eyes and when you came to the lake, you went to the furthest spot away from the path as you could. You looked around for anyone, but didn’t see a soul.

You let out a shaky breath and reached into your bag. You looked around once more before you pulled out William’s gun. You wound your arm behind your head and then threw the pistol as far as you could. You watched it sail in the air before it splashed into the serene water, causing ripples to flow outwards from where it landed.

You held your breath for a moment, listening for any sounds at all, but there was nothing. You blew out your breath, touched up your hair and turned to head back into town.

***

William had let himself shed a few tears after you had left, reminded of everything that had happened when you mentioned that the police had discovered his house. He had killed Rebecca. She had killed James. William buried their bodies, or what was left of them. He had also killed Joe. He thought he would need to kill others. And maybe even-

William went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before he could finish the thought. He stared hard at his reflection. Things were going to be okay. You had come to help him. You seemed to know what you were dealing with. Things were going to be okay. He sighed deeply and picked up a towel to dry his face, then left the washroom.

His horrible sketches still lay scattered on the floor and on the desk. The sketch of you felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. He took it out and tried to flatted out the crumpled page to look at it.

It was a simple sketch, really. But he had captured the curves of your neck, your shoulder peeking out from the covers, your tresses across the pillow, and the daintiness of your eyelashes against your cheek. It captured your beauty with just a few lines. William wondered why he had drawn you... He folded the paper up instead of crumpling it again, and placed it back in the pocket of his trousers.

He collected all of the sketches that he had no memory of creating. He almost threw them out, but decided that there might be some meaning behind them. He put them all in the single desk drawer, so they were out of the way, even though part of his mind told him to burn them in the same way he had burned those paintings. With your help, that was.

But even though you had seen his drawings, they didn’t seem to have had the effect on you that Pickman’s work had on Rebecca or Joe. You had fainted indeed, but you told him it was because of a vision. And he trusted you, for whatever reason, and knew you were telling him the truth.

His body ached when he closed the drawer, and William remembered that he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and the little sleep that he had gotten was slumped over the desk. The bed looked particularly enticing, and he couldn’t resist. He went to the side opposite to where you had slept, and kicked off his shoes and pulled off his jacket. The last time William had slept in his clothes had been in art school, staying up to finish assignments, and he decided he’d be more comfortable without them. He stripped down to his undershirt and underwear, folded his clothes, and lay them on the dresser. He pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed.

William fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, the faint smell of you still wrapped up in the sheets.

***

You picked up some pastries from a bakery and headed back to the building in which you had rented your room. You were nervous to see if William had done as you asked and remained in the room. You wondered if some of this fear stemmed from other people in your life abandoning you...

You unlocked the door and opened it, and were relieved and heart-warmed to see William lying under the covers of the bed.

His face was peaceful, and it made you feel better. You quietly set the pastries down on the desk and noticed that William had cleaned up all of his sketches. You felt a dark energy coming from inside the desk, and opened the drawer to find that William had put all of the sketches in there. You felt like you heard the demons and beasts cackling at you, but no visions took hold of you.

You closed the drawer and sat in the chair by the window. You pulled your journal out of your bag and let the bag rest on the floor. You opened your journal to where you had left your pen. You wrote down everything you remembered from these visions in this journal. You still needed to document what you saw from this morning, so you set to work on that.

***

William felt much better when he woke up. The sun hadn’t filled the room, which he found odd. He turned and saw that you were back and had drawn the curtains to keep the room from getting too bright.

You were sitting with your back to him at the desk. A reverse of what happened when you woke up, William imagined. But you were awake, reading something from a leather-bound book in the light of the desk lamp.

“You’re back.” He said, tone laced with wonder.

You startled a little, and closed your book as you turned back to look at him. “I’m glad you got some sleep.” You gave him a soft smile.

“How long have you been back?” He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

“A few hours.”

“You should have woken me.”

“I wouldn’t dare! You needed the rest.”

He looked down with a smile. “Well, thank you.”

“And I’m sure you’re hungry. I got some pastries. I can make some tea, if you’d like, as well.” You stood up.

“You don’t have to,” William said, looking up at you again.

“I don’t mind.” You were already moving over to the little stove. You filled the kettle in the bathroom and William got out of bed to put his clothes back on.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You said when you came back in. William was almost done, just buttoning up his shirt.

“You didn’t. Anyway, you’ve seen me naked.” He gave you a little smirk.

Your cheeks filled with colour, and William chuckled light-heartedly. “It still doesn’t mean I should invade your privacy.” You said, looking down.

William said your name, and your eyes met his. “You didn’t invade my privacy. I’m sorry that I wasn’t dressed.”

“It’s okay.” There was still a beautiful flush on your face.

“I’m really truly a gentleman, under normal circumstances.”

That earned him a laugh. “I’m sure you are.” You said, setting the kettle on the burner and turning it on.

William sat down at the small table in the corner of the room. You brought over the pastries for him, and then poured him a cup of tea when that was ready, too. William felt warmth spread in his chest at your kindness. Rebecca hadn’t done little things like this him for a long time... understandably, since James was born, their son became her priority. But William felt good... he felt special to be treated this way by you.

You sat down in the other chair and reached over for a Danish. William placed his hand over yours before you could pull it away. You looked up at him in surprise. “Did you want this one?” You asked.

William grinned. “No. I just wanted to say thank you.”

You looked like you were trying to fight a smile. “You’re welcome.” You said softly.

William released your hand, and picked up a croissant for himself. “Truly. I’m sure you’ve put your life on hold, I’m not even sure how far you’ve travelled. You’ve probably left your loved ones behind to help a stranger.”

Your face fell at the last sentiment, your hand pausing halfway to your mouth. You put your Danish down and he watched you swallow thickly. Your eyes looked watery.

“What’s wrong?” William asked, abandoning his food and leaning toward you.

“It’s nothing.” You said, though you were clearly lying.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” William said, heart aching in his chest at your sudden shift in demeanor.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay.” You hastily wiped at a tear that fell down your cheek.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” William pushed gently. “If you like, we can talk about it.”

“It’s my burden.” You said, and a few more tears slid down your cheeks. “I don’t have any family waiting for me. There’s no one for me.”

William’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Surely, there’s-”

You shook your head and stared hard into his eyes, and he stopped speaking. “My family disowned me after I told them about my abilities. They don’t think it’s a gift from God. They think something is wrong with me. I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.”

William’s heart broke for you. That was terrible. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m twenty-five now, William. I’ve been on my own, all alone for nearly a decade.” You sniffled. “My own parents abandoned me. They gave me some cash and left me at a train station. They never want to see me again.”

He wanted to comfort you, but he didn’t know how. He said your name gently. “I’m so sorry.”

You wiped your eyes and straightened your back. You sniffled one last time. “It’s in the past. I know I’m doing God’s work. I’ve helped others. And now I’m here to help you. So, don’t worry about me.” There was a finality in your tone, and William didn’t dare speak.

You picked up your tea and moved back to the desk. You opened your leather journal and William sullenly ate the rest of his food in silence.

~

Author's note: I hope you liked learning a bit about the reader! And I hoped you liked this chapter. I was pretty pumped after getting into this story again and got this chapter out pretty quick, if you ask me! ;)

reblogs give me life and joy so pretty please? 

Taglist:

@hxneywilde @happyhealthyhobbit @kayhi808 @idaofinfinity @quellmythirst @ellooo0ooo @stressed-chaos @marvelmusing @billyrussohaven  

Part 5

[bowieandqueen11]

For the 5.5k Follower Celebration: Congratulations!! Can I please request Jaskier (Netflix The Witcher) please? Thank you so much!

Heart’s On Fire / Jaskier Drabble

Line: Oh Darlin’, my heart’s on fire / For you.

Of course you can my lovely, thank you!! <3

Warning: mentions of injuries and a tiny smidge of strong language!

(I do not own The Witcher or its characters, all credit goes to creators. Song credit goes to Passenger. Gif credit goes to @inber.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Disaster couldn't even begin to cover it.

The hunt had been a catastrophe, and the meagre bags of silver the inn folk had thrown at your feet with snarling thanks was not nearly worth the damage it had wrought. Jaskier was still fumbling swears from where he sat perched on the rock in front of you, trying to reach round and slap your hand away any chance he got. His knees rocked against the ground, his expletives only stopped in their war path by some mumbled rush of song lyrics he threw out to try and distract himself from the pain.

‘Oh- mother of a goat Y/n how many stitches can possibly be left??’ 

‘Well, you did get kicked by a Wyvern, Jaskier. Your complaining isn’t going to magically wish the wound away.’

He trailed off from his tense humming when you replied, his smile dropping into a etched frown as he noticed how still you had become. How your eyes were so far away, looking out into the still depths of the pond, but your hands were still hovering over the bloody gash swiped across your bard’s back.

‘Yn-’

‘This is my fault, you know’, you start again, blinking once as you draw back to yourself. ‘Your life was in danger, and it was my fault. I can’t let you come anymore Dandelion.’

You don’t give the man any time to respond with a quip, instead poking the point of the needle back into the last flap of his skin and closing the wound for good. His hand balls into a fist as he hits his knee, biting down his teeth on his bottom lip until you thought he had drawn blood. 

‘MmmPH son of a whore.’ Despite how forlorn you were feeling, Jaskier’s words managed to draw an unexpected bubble of laughter from the back of your throat. Tenderly teasing your fingertips over his skin, you rub the freckled expanse of his soft shoulder blades in apology. You don’t notice the way he shivers against your touch as you use the last of your clean water to wipe the remaining blood stains from his skin, and then pull his doublet back up over his arms.

Before you even had a chance to roll your few herbal bottles and string back up into your apothecary bag, Jaskier had swung his legs around and nearly knocked you off your mossy log. He grabbed your hands quickly, massaging them between his calloused fingers as he furrowed his eyebrows at you.

‘You must know that I will never part from you. I never could, it would break my heart too much.’ He pretends to swoon, raising the back of his right hand to his forehead. He peeks an eye open, laughing as he notices you snort and roll your eyes, but likewise you refuse to pull away.

‘But seriously, Y/n. I know this life isn’t easy, but I chose it. You didn’t force me to come along with you - I did it because I enjoy your company. Because I’, he swallowed thickly then, and you could feel the start of fear radiate off the usually so jubilant bard. For a second he was silent, only playing with the edges of his fingers as he stared harshly at the ground. For once, he found words would not come easily to him. How could they? There was too much to say. Too much for his jumbled heart to spit out. With songs, perhaps, he could whisk away a melody and draft along some accompanying lines to exaggerate reality. But with his own words, truth had never come so easily.

He glances up behind heavy eyelashes, finding his face light up with a slow twitch of the lips as he sees you sitting stock still. Just watching him, expectantly. You were one of the only people whom he had ever met who had ever truly seen him, realised he was more than just merry entertainment to be used and taken and thrown away at the first experience. You were the first person, in as long as he could remember, that had truly wanted to hear what he had to say.

And now he had the most important thing to say stuck in his throat, he couldn’t do it.

‘I- I lov-’

A growl from the edge of the clearing snatched your attention away from the desperate man as you shush him. Squinting your eyes around the tree line, you leave the Bard behind and instead reach for the sword left abandoned underneath your sack. His hands still burning from your touch, Jaskier sighs as he closes his eyes and shakes his head in an attempt to try to recollect himself. He purses his lips, before standing himself and coming over to join you with yet another smile and joke on his lips.

Another day, perhaps. He could wait for it, as long as his heart didn’t burn him from the inside out first.

[snowbellewells]

Happy Birthday to Stephanie!!!

It’s @thisonesatellite​’s special day!!! And though I wish I were as thrilling and breathtaking a writer as she is in order to create a story gift for her - I’m sadly not.  So instead, I’ve made a Favorite Stories list of her CaptainSwan ff works along with a couple of cover images I hope she will like. (It was meant to be a Top Five, but I couldn’t narrow it down even that far, so it’s a Top Six!)

Thank you Stephanie for your friendship, even from the other side of the world, for you lovely messages, humor and assurance that never fails to make me smile, and of course, your wonderfully written words!  I hope it’s an exceptional birthday for you today!!!

~*~ TOP FIVE FAVORITE @THISONESATELLITE FICS ~*~

1) “break me”

This story began my obsession with Stephanie’s CS tales. I was drawn in from the very first scene, and somehow felt like I’d never read anything quite like it - particularly not as a CS fic. I loved the intensity, the supernatural elments and the spine-tingling danger, the friendships formed as they banded together to fight the evil preying on them, and of course this broken but beautiful version of Killian and Emma both. I could sing specific praises of this story all day, but I don’t want to give too much away if there are folks reading this who haven’t read the fic yet. I’m just so grateful I happened upon it, which led me to all the ones which came after...

2) “it’s our scars that give us character”

Once I had finished “break me”, I was itching to read everything Stephanie had written before. That led me to this lovely five chapter modern au. I loved Emma as a P.I. who had always managed to keep her work separate from her heart...until she ran into a subject who needed someone to care about them (even if it caused her to break all her own rules). Killian breaks my heart all over again in this one too, but I am captivated by how they put one another back together.

3) “Drift”

I can’t help but think this is one of the warmest, most healing, truly beautiful one shots I’ve ever read. I can’t even guess how many times I have returned to enjoy it again. The angst hurts, but the reward when they break through on the other side is completely amazing and worth it. Plus, I can’t resist a good use of the snowed in together trope - ever!

4) “Leaving Las Vegas”

I would say that no other one shot is worthy of the praise I just heaped on “Drift”, but that was before Stephanie wrote “Leaving Las Vegas”.  This is another one shot that I keep returning to over and over again. I just don’t know how she continues to break our Emma and Killian and then lead them to each other to be stitched back together stronger, but she does it SO WELL, and I am completely in love with it each and every time.

5) “we kill the flame” 

It’s funny that this one is even in my list of Stephanie favorites, because I normally shy away from dystopian fiction. Since it was her writing it though, I tried it anyway, and I’m so glad I did. I would have missed out on such an enthralling and inventive take on our beloved characters in a futuristic setting, in situations like I had never seen them before. I loved how Emma was characterized in this story - and how the minor characters were cast and worked in. Things looked so bleak for a while there, and yet that made the ending feel all the more earned. :)

6) “time is all the luck you need”

This little pandemic three shot crept right up on me and completely stole my heart. I love how it may have been chance which threw Killian and Emma together for a work project, but the way they end up beating back the loneliness and helping each other cope is priceless and feels like it must have been meant to be all along. I love their creative virtual conversations, the way Killian reads Emma (and she comes to read him as well), and Max -- of course and especially - MAX!!! (Just read it and you’ll see...;)

(There are so many more lovely gems in @thisonesatellite’s library, and I could sing even more praises, but I had to draw the line somewhere!  Anyway, you can’t go wrong in checking them out.  And Stephanie, again, I hope you have the loveliest of HAPPY BIRTHDAYS!!!)

[stusbunker]

A Gentlemen’s Agreement Epilogue

A Supernatural Denny AU Fan-fiction Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester/ Benny Lafitte

Other characters: Pamela, Jesse, Caesar, Crowley, Balthazar, Meg, Jo, Lee, Lisa, Sam (mentioned), Drea OFC, Robbie and SJ OMCs, Deanna OFC

Word count: 2340

A/N: Enjoy! xoxo Stu

Brunch

    The sun was bright, but the air was crisp. The remnants of the early snowstorm had left soggy lawns and damp sidewalks. Benny pulled up to the restaurant and parked on the curb, smiling over at Dean. He waited patiently. 

    “You sure this is a good idea?” Dean squinted in the midday light.

    “Been dying to meet ya. Figured it’s only fair, I met your folks, you can meet my people too,” Benny said simply. “But I’m not gonna force ya.”

    “I just, I’m not used to being out in public. In numbers,” Dean sputtered.

    Benny raised a single eyebrow at him. “Well, I guess this is your best shot to try it out, dontcha think?”

    “What if they don’t like me? I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your friends,” Dean explained the root of the problem.

    “I like you, they will too. Just relax, be your charming self and if you don’t know what to say, you can just keep eating.” Benny put his hand on Dean’s thigh, squeezing just so.

    Dean growled out a sigh. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

    Like that could make an uncomfortable situation worth it. Benny smirked at Dean’s logic, waiting for his face to soften from grouchy to amiable. Once Dean relaxed, Benny kissed him, just long enough to keep him flustered and climbed out of the truck.

     They approached a large round table midway along the heated patio, where four people were already seated.

A raven haired woman waved them over. “My good Benjamin, did you bring a straight boy to brunch, just for me?!”

“Pammy!” Benny leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Hate to disappoint ya darlin', but ain't nothing straight about this'n."

 “Hey, now! Can’t a guy speak for himself?!” Dean snipped defensively as he sat in the spot beside Benny.

Everyone laughed. Pamela raised her eyebrow in question.

Dean licked his lips and put on the smolder, “Sorry sweetheart, but I’m taken.”

“Wait, this--- THIS is your sassy mechanic?!” Crowley leaned forward, extending his hand, his English brogue gruff and pandering. “Nice to finally meet you, handsome.”

       Dean gave Benny the side eye and all Benny could do was shrug coyly. Dean shook the man’s hand, trying not to show his discomfort from his lingering glances. Benny made the rest of the introductions, Jesse and Cesar were also a couple, but had been married for a few years. They seemed to be waiting on someone before they ordered. The group sipped their cocktails with a fresh pitcher of Bloody Mary in the center of the kitsch tablecloth.

Benny poured Dean a generous portion of the red drink and slipped seamlessly into the conversation. Dean sucked the palmeto out of an olive and listened casually, not too sure where he fit in this part of Benny’s life.

Twenty minutes later a rail of a guy swaggered in, with oversized aviators and a black linen suit. 

“Oh, thank Christ for booze,” he huffed, grabbing Dean’s glass without even acknowledging Dean was there. The blonde chugged the entire drink, before breaking for air. “I just had the worst hook up of my life, no, well, the year at least. He took me to his mother’s house. She tried to make me breakfast. I was simply mortified. I just left. What could I even do at that point, honestly?!”

Now that his audience had his attention back, the man gawked at Dean. He even pulled down his sunglasses for a better look. “Now who the fuck is this? Is it show and tell?! Because I am not prepared in the least.” 

He casually patted at his hair and eyed Dean from top to toe. Benny chuckled, but Pamela was the one to make the introduction.

“Balthazar, our regular hangover diva. Meet Dean, Benny’s boy toy,” she deadpanned, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh you can’t be serious,” Balthazar lamented, looking from Pam to Benny to Crowley and finally at Dean. “Fuck you southerners and your goddamn accents--- always gets the hotter ones,” he muttered defensively as he threw himself against the armrest of the chair, crossing his legs.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” Cesar ended the dramatics concisely. “Maybe somebody should find our waitress?”

Dean looked at Benny confused. “We’re always here for a while, she doesn’t bother us until we’re actually ready to order. Tend to annoy her otherwise.”

Crowley volunteered as he needed to head to the men’s room anyhow. Five minutes later he arrived with an obviously surly waitress.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Meg’s smokey voice broke through Balthazar's latest story. She centered herself between Cesar and Crowley’s seat and cocked her hip, tongue firmly in cheek as she waited for Dean to take her bait.

“Heya, Meg,” Dean sighed. The inevitable caught up with him after all, they just had to run into someone he knew.

“Oh, this has got to be good, now, pray tell, how do you two know each other?” Crowley probed.

“Oh me and this schmuck? We go way back.” Meg smiled without teeth.

“Is that so?” Benny tested the waters.

“Not like that,” Dean grumbled. “Meg, here, took my little brother Sammy out for a few spins, back in the day. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? It was high school.” Meg let her indifference coat her entire being until curiosity sparked to life in her eyes. “So what are you doing with this crowd, or did they bring you in just to add a new level of torture to my Sunday shifts?”

“Well---.” Dean swallowed, looked at Benny for clarification and got mild amusement instead. “I think you’re stuck with me now.”

“Joy,” Meg bristled before taking their orders, knowing most of the table’s usuals before they even opened their mouths.

News

    Benny rushed into the customer entrance of the shop, the wet October air had kept the service doors closed for the past week. He leaned against the counter, decorated in local business cards and charity fliers, anxiously waiting for someone to talk to. His chest was so tight he worried he’d pass out from excitement. He just needed to see him was all, once he saw Dean it would be easier.

    Lee sauntered in from the service bay, they both had drawn the short straw it seemed.

    “Hey, mind getting Dean for me? It’s important,” Benny asked, unable to keep the burning smile from his face.

    Lee eyed him curiously but nodded and headed back the way he came. He didn’t shout, not really. “Dean-o, your boyfriend’s looking for ya.”

    Dean unfurled himself from the engine he had been tinkering with all morning and glared at Lee.

    “Husband, whatever, seems urgent,” Lee acquiesced. Dean nodded and wiped his hands off on the closest rag. Dean pulled his wedding band out from his undershirt out of habit more than anything. He couldn’t wear it on his hands at work, but he didn’t want to lose it so Benny made him a braided leather necklace once they got back from their honeymoon.

    Dean ignored formality and walked straight into the waiting room. Once he saw the look on Benny’s face he knew what was happening.

    “It’s go time?” He asked, shock and exhilaration sparking his instinct to move.

    “It’s go time, cher. Lisa called me on the way to the hospital. Sam’s driving her from the office. Her water broke about 9:30,” Benny explained, the nervousness slipping into his cadence.

    “Alright, I’m gonna clean up, you want me to drive?” Dean asked, gauging the unsteadiness in his usually stalwart husband.

    “That’s probably best, yeah,” Benny agreed. 

Dean leaned in and kissed him firmly, resting his forehead against Benny’s temple before pulling away.“Hey, we got this, alright? That kid is gonna be so spoiled having you for a daddy, you know that?”

“Look who’s talking, gonna have you wrapped around their finger before they can even crawl,” Benny teased back, inhaling with contentment.

Dean headed back to warn his coworkers that he had a baby on the way and to clean up enough to be allowed into a hospital. Jo followed Dean out into the lobby. Quickly, she hugged Benny before demanding regular updates to the group chat.

“Alright, get out of here, we’ve got you covered for the rest of the week. Let me know and I will put in paternity leave as soon as everyone’s home, okay?” Jo got all professional about things as Dean left.

“Oh, right, shit. Well, I guess I’ll let you know when you can come over and---,” Dean started before Benny pulled him by his elbow.

“We should be goin’” Benny urged. Dean looked at Jo one last time and nodded.

This was it.

   Dean held Benny’s hand the whole way to the hospital, their grip tightening every so often, grounding them both. Because Lisa was a friend and the surrogacy was looser than most circumstances, both Benny and Dean were allowed in the delivery room. They were the best cheerleaders a birth mom could have ever asked for. Seven hours later, one chubby baby girl entered the world screaming to high heaven and splitting her fathers’ hearts open for an entirely new level of love and devotion.

    Mary Andrea Lafitte-Winchester, or Drea for short, was a happy and healthy little girl. And an overprotective big sister to her twin brothers, Samuel Joel and Robert Fergus, who came along four years later.

Sunset

    They’re old men now. Dean is five years retired, while Benny works the register for their sons on the weekends. Both of their hands aren’t what they used to be. But they keep busy. Drea is bringing the kids round tomorrow, it’s the start of summer break and Dean’s been dying to teach her kids to fish.  

    Dean went grey after he turned fifty, but it hasn’t changed since, in color at least. Benny’s beard is as white as Santa Claus and he hides what little hair he has left under a cap. They’re both a little rounder, a little lower to the ground, but they got that way together and neither of them notice it on one another anyhow.

       Every year they visit Jesse and Cesar in Arizona for New Year's. Though they fly more than make the drive these days.

        They still take turns cooking the meals and the movie nights from their early days resurfaced into movie afternoons when their kids moved out. Dean can’t hear for shit anymore and, naturally, Benny makes fun of him for it. But Dean’ll put in his hearing aids if company is over.

 It’s early evening in the beginning of June and the bugs are orchestrating quite the soundtrack to their time on the porch. Dean pours his whiskey. Benny’s already sipping his sweet tea, his medications don’t let him drink much anymore. Jo’ll come by on Sunday, along with SJ and his wife and Robbie. Sam and Jess usually make it to every other dinner or so.

    “Hey there, handsome. Mind if I join you?” Dean teases, once a flirt always a flirt.

    “Not at all, cher. It’s a helluva view,” Benny glances at his husband, watches Dean take in the peaches and pinks kissing the slopes of the fields. They sit like that for an hour, until the dark is too thick to see through. Groaning and creaking they stand in turn. Dean keeps his hand on the small of Benny’s back as they head inside for the night, steadying them both.

    They moved their bedroom to the ground floor after Dean’s heart attack, a lot less worry about making it upstairs that way. After being married forty years, Dean still makes jokes about it being Benny’s place. But it’s always been his home. He kisses Benny goodnight, makes it a little saucy because he can. He’s the first to close his eyes.

    In the morning Benny makes waffles and tofu bacon. Dean pretends he can’t taste the difference, fooling no one. They make out while the sink fills for the dishes, too few to run the machine. Benny gets handsy first and Dean tries to squirm into the upperhand. They’re interrupted by a car pulling in the drive.

    “Busted,” Benny whispers.

    “You’re the one who wanted kids,” Dean grumbles against Benny’s neck, an old, unfounded retort.

    “Yeah, but the grandkids---,” Benny starts.

    “Were made to be spoiled,” Dean finishes and kisses Benny once more. Drea’s yelling at her kids to slow down before her dads even make it outside to greet them. Her eyes, blue as her daddy’s are tired. They don’t envy her the school aged years. Dean bends down as baby Deanna, who’s nearly four, comes crashing into his arms. He pulls her up and holds her tight, reminds him of her mama and he can’t help but get a little weepy over the passing years. 

    “It’s so good to see you, baby girl.” Benny pulls his daughter into a hug before helping with their bags. The older kids don’t come inside until it’s time to eat, climbing through the barn and splashing in the creek until they’re soaked. But Deanna sticks with her Grandpa on a simple stroll, while Pappy and Mama catch up.

    Dean still has the jacket he bought from Benny, though the pants are long gone. He’ll leave it to Robbie when the time comes, when his son finds himself a stud that’s worth settling down for. If that’s what he chooses. 

    For now, Dean lets his granddaughter pick up every rock and stick she finds and examines it to the nth degree. He explains what he can about each one. She’s very curious. He even lets her wipe her chubby little hands on his pants’ leg when she needs to. They get back to the house just in time to start dinner, but before they go inside Dean takes a mental picture of his husband on the porch, their daughter beside him and his granddaughter running past him.

   It is a helluva view after all. 

Tell me what you think?

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Tagging: @flamencodiva​​​ @dolphincliffs​​​ @dontshootmespence​​​​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​​​​ @fangirlxwritesx67​​ @dawnie1988​​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​​​​ @cosicas-cuquis​​​​ @foxyjwls007​​ @tumbler-tidbits​​ @wingedcatninja​​​​ @defenderrosetyler​​​​ @ericaprice2008​  @crashdevlin​​​  @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary​​ @itmighthavebeenintentional​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​ @there-must-be-a-lock​ @tatted-trina6 @lyarr24​

[infernobot]

TEETH?

Teeth?

By InfernoBot

I had just finished recording, and was carrying my dog in from the office, when my mom handed me an envelope. Once I had my sweet pupper nestled into a blanket, I joined her on the couch and slit open my mysterious delivery. Inside was no note, just a brochure to something called ‘Furnal Equinox’ and an accompanying plastic badge bearing the image of a anthropomorphic dog, (maybe it was a wolf), wearing a graduation cap and gown.

As my eyes scanned the glossy pages, my excitement grew; some lovely person had sent me a weekend pass to a furry convention! This was my big chance to make a video detailing my adventures through a mass gathering of one of the internet’s most maligned and misunderstood subcultures. Over the coming weeks, I studied the brochure, read up on the panelists online, noted every question about the furry fandom that popped into my head. My itinerary for the whole weekend was mapped out. 

Super chats and KoFi tips managed to cover the cost of a bottom-barrel airline ticket, and I got a great deal on an Air B&B from a charming indiginous woman named Semide, whose sisters had enrolled in college and left their rooms vacant. She was even kind enough to include meals as part of the deal. The weekend of the con finally rolled around; I threw my things in a bag and I was off to Toronto.

Eighteen hours and three layovers later, I was sitting at my host’s kitchen table with a warm towel draped over the back of my neck, sipping a cup of coffee. It turned out Semide was a naturopathic healer and knew some kickin’ remedies for aches, pains and jet lag. I don’t put much stock in essential oils, but damn if I didn’t wake up feeling fresh and ready to face the day the next morning. The convention was being held on the waterfront about nine blocks from Semide’s place, not too bad for a walk, and I reckoned I could make the trek each day. 

I left late in the morning, well after the con had opened. No sense waiting in line, I figured. It was three blocks from the Westin Harbor Castle, when I saw the first fursuit. 

There was no explaining the rush of exhilaration I felt. This was real. This was happening. I was gradually being surrounded by dozens of people decked out in bright, elaborate costumes. Some that couldn’t afford full suits wore just heads and gloves, giving a ghoulish Frankenstein’s monster appearance to their character. Or the wolf-man caught mid transformation after being bitten by a neon fox in a rainbow pride shirt. The less daring, or particularly destitute, settled for headbands with animal ears and strap-on tails. 

Waiting to cross the last street, I was elbow to elbow with a giant Sonic the Hedgehog and a seven-foot tall purple giraffe sporting a quadruple-XL adult diaper. Something told me before the weekend was over, that particular garment would get filled. Before I could contemplate the logistics further, the light changed and the extremely polite, if curiously dressed herd moved into the street and we sorted into a semblance of a line being steadily processed through the doors into the main convention hall. I was in.

The lead-up to the main event hadn’t prepared me for what lay inside. A teenage girl in a ‘volunteer’ shirt thrust an opaque plastic bag into my hands before Big The Cat shoved me aside and began professing his undying love for her beauty. I stumbled into the row of booths on the main floor, further progress blocked by an electric green armadillo strumming an acoustic guitar with a stuffed fish tucked in the strings. 

This was it, I weaved my way between con-goers and took it all in. Clip-on LED cat ears. A custom-fit fang booth. Stacks of comics focused on humanoid animals. Racks upon racks of faux-leather collars and leashes. The waifu pillows. I pulled my phone from my pocket and approached the nearest open booth.

Time for an interview, I thought.

Eight hours, two energy drinks and a box of granola bars later, I was dead on my feet. There was no way of knowing how many people I’d talked to as the day progressed. Or just how strange my conversations had become. I think I spoke at length with Cool Cat about the merits of various vape pens, despite the fact I don’t smoke. But it hadn’t all been nonsense. 

Before I had degenerated into a gibbering wreck, I had chanced to be standing beside a fountain near the food court and heard a familiar warbling voice behind me. To my great delight, when I turned around I found a young woman with jet black hair, a hawaiian shirt and a black & yellow long-Furby draped over her shoulders; I instantly recognized her as Teya from Strange Aeons. After she’d finished speaking to her friend, I politely tapped her on the arm and introduced myself. She turned out to be super cool, excited to meet another youtube creator, and talked to me for about ten minutes as her girlfriend went off to wait in line for the bathroom. 

While most of our conversation centered around videos and our special boy Greg, my eyes kept getting drawn back to Thursday Plurbonym Boyporridge. His black and yellow checkered belly, his luxurious black fur, those piercing green eyes; it was all so captivating. I couldn’t quit looking at the charm necklace below his little yellow beak spelling out his name; Thursday. Eventually, I complimented her on her videos and her handsome long-son one last time and we parted ways. It had been a pleasant break, but even here, the persistent strains of Insane Clown Posse that permeated the space were grating on my nerves. 

When the time had come for all the furry folk to close up shop and head home, I staggered out into the street with all the lingering con-goers. Despite the initial culture shock, most of the people I’d met had been great. I could stand here, elbow to elbow with ponies, foxskies, giant pomeranians and adorable cat girl maids on the steps of Westin Harbor Castle, and just enjoy the last moments of the sun setting over Toronto. That is until the moment was shattered by an obnoxious voice that sounded more like it belonged outside a Patriots game accompanied by the echo of shattering beer bottles. 

“Now that the party’s over, we can get down to the afterparty at my place; which of you bitches wants to come home with me?”

My head swiveled like a tank turret toward the source of the voice, my face bearing the expression which must have read did this motherfucker just?

A man-child wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt that had been stretched over his prodigious girth, a pair of denim jorts hanging past his knees and sweat-stained socks encased in mandles, slid his oily bulk up behind a group of teenage girls dressed as some kind of anime cat maids. He leaned his acne-studded face in close to them and said, “Since you’re dressed as maids, how about I take you home and make you change my cumm-y bedsheets after a night of passionate love-making.” 

The overly-polite locals may have been in shock, but I knew a neckbeard when I saw one and knew immediately what to do.

“How ‘bout you back the fuck off bro, they’re kids.”

Maybe he wasn’t expecting resistance, but he seemed genuinely taken aback by someone speaking up. Once he got a look at me, he re-adjusted his fedora and stared me down. I admit, I might not look terribly intimidating; bulky, but not muscular, with my hair dyed bright teal and swept to one side. At least I had on a Pink Floyd t-shirt, that felt a little like a layer of protection against his fed-aura. He drew in a snot-choked breath and continued,

“They’re dressed as the maids from Painappuru No Oshiri, they’re harem girls that’re totally thirsty for the main character. Each maid is eager to bend over and present their ripe ruby star-fruit to their master. They’re, like, practically advertising how much they want it in the ass.”

“Why don’t you leave them alone, fuckmuppet?” I retorted. “You look like you're forty and they’re a bunch of teen girls.”

He was not pleased with my argument. The group of cat-maidens had shaken off their surprise and closed ranks. But they weren’t ready when he lunged forward and grabbed at the petticoat of the red cat-maid on the outside, lifting her skirts up to expose the shorts underneath.

“It’s not even a chick, it’s a dude. Chill out.”

A glance at the cosplayer’s face revealed a mask of burning red embarrassment, fear and confusion. Their friends were moving to grab at the neckbeard’s hand, but I was quicker. I swatted his arm like I was chopping down the internet itself and pushed right up in his face. Practically nose-to-nose, I couldn’t avoid the stench of fermented funyuns rolling off his breath.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off of them.”

His chins quivered slightly. 

“Oh, you wanna start something, Rainbow Brite? I bet you like it in the ass, prancy-boy.”

“For a supposedly straight guy, you sure are obsessed with getting your dick in a guy’s butt.”

The flab of his cheeks reddened to match his acne.

“You’re gonna regret that. I’m a man with a very particular set of skills…”

I cut him off; I didn’t have the patience for a real-life copy pasta.

“Is one of your skills getting punched by me? Cause if you keep talking, you’re going to be teaching a master class.”

I could feel that neckbeardy-bravado wavering. Perhaps he could sense the crowd around us had turned against him, moving to shield the cat-maids and staring daggers into his lumpy flesh. With one last snotty huff, he turned and stormed away; the sound of his mandles slapping on the concrete echoed off the face of the convention center. 

A group of several of the more adulty-er people had ringed the victims and were doing their best to calm them down. I shuffled over and started to apologize for the beardo’s behavior, when the red cat-maid began thanking me profusely and asked for a hug. Apparently, this was not the first time their group had been approached at the convention. We stood around chatting for a while, and they promised to check Evangelion when they got home. Once the cat-maids were safely in their Lyft, I waved them goodbye and turned to make my journey home for the night.

I started back up the street I'd taken this morning, but as I approached the doorway to a grimey building, I became aware of a fully-suited Yogi Bear propositioning a man dressed like Linda-Carter-era Wonder Woman. I was pretty wiped out and didn’t have it in me to process an altercation like this if they noticed me and instead took an abrupt right turn down an alley, intending to zig-zag back to my Air B&B. 

I was nearly out the other side when my ears picked up the slapping of mandles on pavement rushing up behind me. A searing pain burst into existence in my lower back, like someone put a cigarette out on my spine. 

I went down, hard. 

The mylar swag bag I’d been swinging around all day splashed into a puddle off to one side. I was barely able to heave myself over onto my back to get a look at my attacker. It was him. The Neckbeard. He stood over me, grinning, his yellowed teeth visible in the night. The little black box in his hand flickered with a blue spark as he triggered the taser again.

“Heh heh. You like that, princess? I aimed a little high so I wouldn’t damage your sweet ass.”

“Fuck….you….” I gasped out through the pain. My muscles were cramping like someone had dug a burning fork into my lower back and twisted it up like a plate of spaghetti. 

“Heh. You’re the one taking it in the ass, rainbow bitch.” He stepped over me, squatting like a linebacker, bringing the taser close to my face. “Maybe I’ll push this in your eyeball and see if I can make it boil.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement between his legs. Something thin and dark darted up from the shadows, toward his exposed back. He let out a cry of surprise, and shot upright, swinging his arms wildly behind him, grabbing at something. He hopped wildly from foot-to-foot across the alley, the tail hanging from the back of his pants swaying wildly with the movement. I thought it was weird I hadn’t noticed the tail before, especially with how long it was, practically sweeping the ground. The fuzzy black appendage was moving...wrong. It kept curling up and twisting out of his hands as he grasped at it, almost as if it were...alive. 

“Oh Goddamnit!” He screamed. “What the fuck, dude?!” 

He dropped the taser and got a grip on the tail with both hands, tugging on it. A ripping sound echoed through the alley as the seat of his pants tore out. The thing was, the tail wasn’t attached to his pants, it was going in through his pants, nestled between his prodigious posterior cheeks like one of those fetish plugs. As he violently jerked it side-to-side, it was ripping at the fabric of his trousers, the same went for his less-than-tidey whiteys. 

“Get this fucking thing off of me!” He howled. 

He grunted as the tail slipped his fingers and wriggled another foot inside him. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he collapsed back against a green dumpster. Like a man who had gambled on a street taco truck and lost, he bit his knuckle and gripped his abdomen through his stained t-shirt. It might have been a trick of the light, but I swear I could see his belly distend and squirm; the words ‘Friendship Is Magic’ bulging as something rolled under them. 

His mandles dug into the alley grime as he feebly kicked his legs, and I could only watch in disgust as the rest of the fuzzy, black, thing slithered up inside him, forcibly dilating his leather cheerio. It was incredible. I could actually see its progress as it wormed its way through his body. He blubbered something about God and Jesus as his hand clawed frantically at his own belly, before his voice abruptly went silent. 

There was a long, drawn-out wheezing sound, like one of those novelty rubber chickens, as the bulk of the thing moved up his throat. I don’t know how his flesh distended and deformed without bursting, but it reached his mouth and his jaw opened wide. First one small black, fuzzy ear lined with black and yellow plaid popped up, then another, followed by the crown of this thing’s head, pushing his teeth outward like flower petals blooming. 

It rose before me, straight up from his mouth, its black and yellow belly slick, but not stained by his juices. His dislodged teeth clung to its matted fur like an obscene necklace. It swayed slightly in the moonlight, a pair of luminous green eyes fixed on mine, and its beak opened. With the rising inflection of someone asking a question, it uttered one word: 

Teeth?

[mefd19]

Failing Forward PT 2

PT1

Two days out from Port Zoon they paused in the route to hunt and fix a broken wheel. It was good timing, according to Caduceus.

“We should probably make a plan.” Caduceus ladled soup into bowls. Caleb tasted his politely before reaching for the salts. “There are children involved, so we should be extra careful.”

“I think Beau is good with kids,” Jester grinned, “Remember how she was with her brother? It was so sweet, Beau.”

Beau shrugged and tilted her head. “I could help with gathering information I guess. And I mean, I am your first mate, so I’m happy to go in there for you.” 

“Yeah, something tells me the Matron won’t be as receptive to your brand of charm.” Fjord made an apologetic face. “At least from what I know of her she’s very protective of the children, and who she lets near them.”

“Oh!” Veth popped her head up from her bowl. “What if I pretend to be an orphan! I can change my shape and-”

Everyone shook their heads with varying degrees of intensity. 

“The kids aren’t allowed in the business areas,” Fjord explained.

At the same time Caleb said, “It would be incredibly taxing to keep you in character long enough.”

“Listen,” Fjord held up a hand. “I appreciate everyone wanting to help me, but this should be relatively easy. I walk in, I ask about business details as if I’m interested in adopting, find out what Sabien’s interest is. If he’s just trying to pay it forward, so be it and we walk away.”

Caleb set his bowl aside and rubbed his mouth. “You said the Matron is protective?”

“Yes, bless her. One of the good ones, from what I’ve heard. I hope that's true.” There’s a shadow there, under Fjord’s words and behind his eyes. A shadow Caleb recognizes when he looks in the mirror. 

Yasha tilted her head. “Wait, what if Sabien is there? Will he try to kill you again?”

Fjord shook his head. “He’s not in Zoon right now. At least as far as Kotho could tell.”

“So the plan is; you walk into the orphanage and ask about adopting.” Caleb asked.

“Yes, that’s about the long and short of it.”

“And the Matron will be amenable to that?”

For a moment Fjord paused. “Well, alright, maybe she will say no, but-”

“Oh,” Caduceus nodded, “I see what Mister Caleb means.”

“What’s wrong with me asking to adopt a child?” Fjord drew his eyebrows down and spread his hands wide, confused. “I was an orphan myself once, it makes sense I would come back to help another.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Caleb held a hand out. “Nothing at all. It’s very in character. I just think it might be better if you had a partner. Two parents are better than one, are better than none.”

“That’s very good Caleb,” Caduceus smiled and nodded. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find any important information too.”

“Wait,” Caleb stilled, eyes going a bit wide. “I didn’t mean-”

“Suddenly I’m marrying Caleb?!” Fjord yelped, looking between Caleb and Caduceus. “Hold on just a-”

“-figured someone else would-”

“Ok ok ok!” Jester held her hands up. “We get it! Jeez. You guys don’t like each other enough to go undercover together, fine.”

Without missing a beat they both instantly started talking again.

“That’s not what I meant Caleb, I didn’t-”

“-wasn’t trying to push myself into the middle of-”

“-obviously you’re the most qualified because-”

Yasha whistled, low and drawn out. “Anyone else think they’re being weird about this?”

“Definitely.” Beau raised an eyebrow. “You two do make the most sense though, so maybe stow the panic for a second. Fjord’s got the know-how, and he talks good. Caleb talks good when he has to and he can find damn near anything that’s written down.”

“Plus he can pass messages with me,” Veth twirled the copper wire between her fingers before vanishing it back into her dress. “And it makes sense they would be at an orphanage. Newlyweds looking to start their family.”

“You can even use some of your real history in your cover!” Jester grinned and clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh how sweet, a teacher falling for his student!”

Beau grinned as she caught on. “That’s great Jess! Caleb was a teacher in, I don’t know, maybe Alfield? And Fjord went to learn magic after he got burned out working the docks.”

“And they’re coming back here to escape the war.” Caduceus nodded. “Nice and simple, I like it.”

“Great,” Fjord snapped. His cheeks were darker green than normal and he was avoiding looking at Caleb. “Now that you have my life re-written to suit your fantasy-”

“I’m sorry, Fjord.”

Caleb’s voice was so quiet, his face turned away, that it was surprising Fjord heard him at all. But he stopped and looked at the ground between his feet.

Caleb is good at something, after all. 

Fucking up.

---

Caleb’s spell components were exactly as he left them. He ran his fingers over the strange assortment of things, counting and recounting, looking for any sign that they would not perform. Satisfied, he began tucking them away again, updating his internal list of things he should purchase when the opportunity arose. Each small pouch was filled, patted. The drawstring was drawn tight, bringing the smaller compartments together and cinching the top.

“All set?”

Despite what Fjord liked to claim, Caleb did not spontaneously levitate. He was startled, because he thought his traveling companions were polite, and polite people do not sneak up and startle their friends. 

When Fjord stopped cackling to himself he leaned against the back of the cart Caleb was seated in. “Jester said you had some paperwork for us?”

“Yes.” Caleb had to lean to pull his bag out from under himself, muttering under his breath about sneaky green folk making his life harder. “Here, sign this one, make sure it looks alright.”

Fjord took the paper and his hand brushed against Caleb’s for a moment, eyes already flicking over the paper's contents. Caleb clenched his fingers and swallowed.

“This is uncharacteristically brazen of you, Caleb.”

His head whipped up to look at Fjord, eyes wide and throat tight. Did he think- did he know that-

But Fjord’s eyes were soft and teasing, and he tilted the paper at Caleb. “Also wholly unromantic. A marriage proposal by thrusting a certificate for me to sign? My dear we are going to have to work on your acts of love.”

“Oh.” Caleb’s mind was blank. “Er…”

Fjord rolled his eyes and turned back to the paper. “Relax, Caleb, I’m joking.” Then he frowned and tapped near the bottom. “What’s this about?”

Caleb leaned forward and peeked over the edge of the sheaf. “Those are our names, Fjord.”

In response Fjord threw him a look. “Yes, thank you master wizard. Except you took my last name.”

Looking up at Fjord’s face Caleb realized he made a mistake. Or maybe two. But one was definitely thinking it was a good idea to lean into Fjord’s space to look at the paper. He was too close to Fjord, who was looking down at him intensely. It made it hard to focus.

“Is that a problem?” He managed. Fjord’s eyes tightened and he chewed his lip for a moment. 

“I mean…” Fjord thought for a moment. “I suppose it isn’t. Not really? But also, I don’t think we should use my real name. I mean, something Sabien would recognize. Or could be traced back to us later.”

Of course. “Of course. I should have thought of that.” 

Fjord slid down so he was at Caleb’s eye level, resting on the back step of the cart. “Well, I don’t mind taking the name Widogast, but you’ve been using it for a while now haven’t you? That might be getting recognizable too.”

Caleb suddenly thought Fjord Ermendrud unbidden and inhaled sharply. “Probably,” he got out. “We could pick something new?”

“Hmm.” Fjord squinted out, across the fields. “Likely something Zemnian.”

“Why Zemnian?” Caleb frowned at Fjord. Did he think he needed to conform or something? Fjord had a habit of feeling inadequate, he didn’t even reveal his last name out of shame for months. Caleb had thought taking ‘Stone’ for his name would be appreciated, and now Fjord was turning things around on him. Again.

“Well my dear,” Fjord flourished a hand, cluing Caleb in that he was putting on airs. “We planned on staying in the Empire before this dreadful war started. Of course I would take a proper Zemnian name to help me fit in, so I wouldn’t draw so much attention to my beloved.”

“Hmm,” Caleb scratched his chin idly. “I appreciate that you were willing to give up your love of the ocean to be with me. But I think I was secretly thrilled to leave. We probably fought quite a bit about who got to be the martyr.”

Fjord barked out another laugh and Caduceus paused in walking by to turn and watch them. “Too true. But still- when we married we planned to stay in the Empire. A Zemnian name?”

“Gebirge?” Caleb tried. “Caleb and Fjord Gebirge? Or if you would rather have some alliteration, perhaps Felsen?”

“I like Felsen,” Caduceus said with a smile. He walked over to peer at the paper. “Fjord Felsen. Rolls off the tongue.”

After a moment in thought Fjord nodded. “It does sound rather Zemnian.”

“Here,” Caleb flipped through his papers and pulled out another, unsigned. “Let me just-” as he scribbled his new signature. Caleb Felsen

He blew on the ink for a moment, narrowed his eyes as he scanned the rest of the page, and handed it to Fjord. “Your turn.”

This time Caleb tried to keep their hands from touching, but the quill was small and delicate. Fjord’s hand covered his entirely as he slipped the instrument from his fingers. 

Fjord Felsen

“Wonderful,” Caleb pulled the paper away and rolled it up. “Now you are bound to me, my condolences.”

At that Fjord grinned again and rubbed his palm. “Does Felsen mean anything or is it an old Zemnian name?”

“Stone, rock.”

Caduceus’ laugh was loud, startled out of him, and Fjord narrowed his eyes at Caleb. “You sneak.”

Caleb ducked his head, cheeks slightly flushed. Entirely too pleased with himself.

[doomedandstoned]

Chattanooga’s Dope Skum Drop Gritty First Spin

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Stompin' southern stoner riffs and great big beats collide with punkish vocals in 'Tanasi' (2021). It's the debut EP from Chattanooga's DOPE SKUM. These guys know it's about to get hot as we transition from winter to spring and on into summer, too. Oh those muggy days in Tennessee! What I miss most about spending time in the Deep South are the cicada at sunset, the smell of honeysuckle during evening strolls, and those damned thunderstorms -- the kind that loom large and loud and'll put the fear of Zeus right in ya.

So new that they're not yet in the oft-referenced Encyclopaedia Metallum, Dope Skum attracted my attention earlier this month when we met on Instagram -- a platform I avoided for years, but have finally come to embrace, if for no better reason than these kinds of spontaneous encounters. They're another child born of the Great Lockdown, a two-piecer with Cody Landress-Gibson on guitar and voice and James Silber on drums. Like many of the duos we've visited recently in this humble rag, Dope Skum bring impressive heft that could easily fool the common bystander into believing they're dang near twice the size.

Cody Landress-Gibson of Dope Skum

Drawn together by their affinity for punk rock and the heaviest of metal, Dope Skum have a distinctive, if eccentric sound that kinda reminds me of Portland's LáGoon, at least in the crooning department. If you look at the history of sludge metal, bands of this kind typically start out as lo-fi punk or thrash and just get slower, meaner, deeper, and heavier over time (I'm thinking of an outfit just one state over, NC's Buzzov*en).

Dope Skum describe their sound as "nastier than an old timer's moonshine mash," which made me wince. Standing on a "rock-solid foundation of sludgy stoner metal with a notable punky inflection" the band is influenced by the likes of Weedeater, Iron Monkey, Eyehategod, and Toke. This is rude, crude, raucous terrain we're entering, people. And I'm sure the guys are just itching like an ankle full of chiggers to take the act to the stage, if they haven't gotten busted for an illegal house show by now.

James Silber of Dope Skum

'Tanasi' (2021) is their 5-track debut, and while trying to look up the meaning of the word -- temporarily mistaking it for the Japanese "Tansai" (which I thought might be a reference to some to some "lightly colored" strain of weed) -- it finally hit me that Tanasi might be referring how folks generations deep in Chattanooga pronounce Tennessee, with characteristic Southern drawl. As if the state-shaped logo on the album cover wasn't clue enough. Truth be told, Tanasi is actually the Native American/Cherokee word that Tennessee is derived from.

Dope Skum are only happy to let the unique character of their surroundings and its fascinating, tangled history leak into the songcraft too, which the guys quip, "recalls simplistic fiddle tunes of yore." They go on describe their first opus to us:

Exuding a gritty DIY ethos and an anti-establishment attitude, 'Tanasi' is deliberately rough around the edges, and doesn’t play by any particular set of rules. There is no ulterior motive, no grand artistic vision. Dope Skum simply play engaging music that appeals to their interests and their roots.

I can definitely get behind that. If you like riffs that can really rumble, honest lyrics delivered with vocals that sting like an onary hornet's nest, and rhythms that swing wide and heavy with stomping Southern swagger, you'll be saying Tanasi in no time! "We wanted to try and create something that was southern, punky, and sludgy," the band concludes. "I think we accomplished that."

Look for the EP to drop this weekend in digital format. I'm sure if you guys dig it, 'twill find its way to a suitable label for a physical release in the near future. I'm currently stuck on a loop between "Anxiety" and "Chickamauga" as my tracks of choice. Doomed & Stoned is pleased to give you a first listen to Dope Skum's Tanasi and let you find a few favs of your own.

Give ear...

Tanasi EP by Dope Skum

Dope Skum Take Us On Tour Of 'Tanasi'

How did Dope Skum become a thing and what tools did you use to create 'Tanasi' (2021)?

Dope Skum started in late-2020 with myself, Cody Landress-Gibson, on guitar and James Silber on drums. Our gear really isn't anything to write home about. On the EP, I played a Harley Benton DC Junior with a single P90 pickup running through a Rat ProCo, Orange Fur Coat Fuzz, and EarthQuaker Devices Ghost Echo at times into a Marshall MG50CFX. James plays a Yamaha drum set with PA Meinl Classics cymbals. It's pretty "working class" gear, nothing too fancy.

What's the story behind the new record?

James and I started jamming and both had a pretty solid idea of the sound we were going for. We wanted something in the same vein as Weedeater, but maintain the ability to throw in elements of different influences we have. I had already written some riffs, and we threw them together to what became the EP. We recorded, mixed, and mastered everything ourselves at my house/garage in Chattanooga.

We'd love a guided tour through the new EP. Can you give us insight into the themes explored in these five monster tracks?

Feast of Snakes: The title was inspired by a Harry Crews novel, but the song doesn't pull from the novel at all. It's essentially an anti-authoritarian song. Politicians, kings, people in power tend to be snakes in the grass. There are also some religious metaphors used, as well, throughout the song.

Anxiety: The idea behind this one lyrically and musically was to try and put that emotion/feeling into a musical context. It's why the lyrics don't start until the second time into the verse riff. You're waiting, and you know you need to act, but something is just holding you back -- you just feel kind of stuck.

Chickamauga: This one is all instrumental. I had written the main riff that is throughout the song one night and brought it to James at a practice. We really didn't know where to go with it, so for the EP we recorded it live and just let whatever came up get included on the EP. I named it "Chickamauga" after the second bloodiest battle in the Civil War that took place just south of Chattanooga. With the build-up in the song, it's kind of like a soldier waiting for the battle to take place, then the chaos, then silence either from surviving the melee or dying. It's probably one of the tracks that will stick out the most because it doesn't really fit the "genre."

The Levee: I wrote this song with the thought of losing someone you love, the death of a close partner or family member. That one person you feel like you can't live without. I also love the riffs in this song. They groove well and the ending riff is super fun to play.

Mountain Cur: The final track on the EP is essentially about a lone wolf or stray dog that roams the mountains and hills. The intention was to use it as a metaphor for loneliness. This dog is all alone and has no one. He's committing these acts of violence as cry out for help and companionship. Don't know if it comes across this way, but that was the intention! Also, at the beginning is audio from a scene in Lawless (2012), which is a film about the Bondurant brothers who were outlaws moonshiners in rural Virginia in the '20s during Prohibition.

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[reader-fics]

Ward (Part One)

Requested by Anon

Warnings: minor character death

Summary: Imagine being the ward of a powerful Queen who was invited to peace talks with Camelot’s new king, Arthur, after Uther’s death. After an attack by a magic user, you find your destiny on a dramatically different path.

A/N: I have been working on this FOREVER and it ended up stretching so long that I split it up into a few parts. Never fear! I’ll post them soon. A/N written in the year of our lord 2020: hey y’all! It’s been a WHILE. I was feeling a little nostalgic and logged back into tumblr for the first time in a Long time to find that this little blog is still around. Holy shit. There were 500 of you when I left and now there’s more than 1k? That blows my mind. Anyway, I found this in my drafts and I never posted it. I can’t say I write with too much frequency anymore, but you never know what’ll happen. Much love XO -B

The day the herald arrived with the news of King Uther’s death you could have sang for joy. Not that you actually did, of course, as that would have been highly insensitive and also improper. As the queen’s ward you were expected to behave with a certain decorum at all times. You weren’t quite at the status of a princess, so you weren’t immune to legal hazards by all means, but common folk wouldn’t dare to challenge your authority either way. Needless to say, you were still excited.

As soon as the herald had delivered his message, plans were drawn up for a grand caravan to Camelot in order to cement new peace treaties with the new king, son of the old. You’d heard wonderful things about the boy, but only hoped he wouldn’t share the same views has his father. Magic was tolerated in your aunt’s kingdom, which made the horrid stories you’d heard about Uther persecuting those with magic all the more awful.

You had expected to stay home and look after the affairs of the court while your aunt was away, being queen and doing important royal things. You had no true power, but Lysa trusted you to get things done all the same. When your aunt informed you to instruct the servants to pack a trunk of your clothes and belongings, you were rightfully confused.

“Aunt Lysa, I don’t understand. Why must I come too?” You asked her, holding the servants from leaving with a gentle gesture of your hand. Lysa sighed and smiled tiredly at you.

“One day you’ll take my place as queen, Y/N. I cannot bear children–frankly, I have no desire to–and you are the only one I could bear to give my kingdom to.”

“But isn’t your cousin supposed to be your heir? Not me, surely!”

“I won’t let my dear cousin Albert within a mile of this crown if I can help it. No, I have had you proclaimed as my heir since your mother passed. I simply never told you because I did not want that burden upon you. As my ward you would receive the same education and knowledge of running a kingdom, so why change your title?” Aunt Lysa’s crow’s feet crinkled as she smiled again.

Your heart nearly stopped. Sure, all your life you knew that you had to grow into your responsibility to lead your aunt’s kingdom, but you’d always assumed that your role would be more behind-the-scenes. You’d assumed you were to be an advisor, standing silently among the wings and disappearing into the background. You’d never imagined having to bear the weight of your Aunt’s crown.

“Me?” You sobbed. “But, auntie–”

“Hush,” she soothed, wrapping her arms around your shoulders in a warm hug, “as of yet I am still young enough. You won’t have to take my place for years to come.”

“For years and years.” You nodded firmly, resting your head on her shoulder.

“While we’re in Camelot, my love, you just remember one thing.” She warned as she stroked your hair.

“What’s that?” You asked.

“No magic.” She said seriously, her voice taking on a somber tone. You nodded sadly. Your education as the queen’s ward had covered everything from maths and sciences, to interrelationships between kingdoms, and, yes, magic too. You weren’t very good at it, but you often found it convenient to light candles with only a wave of your hand.

How stern could a king be to forbid such time-saving devices?

—

Aunt Lysa wasted no time in preparing travel plans for herself and you in order to reach Camelot as soon as possible. She’d assumed that many other kingdoms would be trying to do the same and renew their treaties as well, so the earlier the better. She sent the herald back on his way to make sure Camelot’s new King knew you were coming.

Your trunk had been packed and loaded onto the carriage and you and your aunt disembarked. It was a comfortable journey to Camelot; only a few days in the slow bumbling carriage. It was capable in a day or so on horseback. You soon grew accustomed to the lazy rocking and jostling of the carriage. You and your aunt spent most of the trip in silence; you figured that she had a lot on her mind and thought it best not to disturb her.

As soon as you arrived, you threw back the curtains to look out the window, admiring Camelot’s citadel and it’s tall spires caressing the clouds. Much of the court was outside to celebrate your arrival. You looked to your aunt and found that she was at ease, relaxed into her chair. Right before she was to step out of the carriage and greet the people, she pulled her crown out from her bag and placed it carefully atop her curls. You always marveled at how she was very nearly a completely different person with her crown on than without. You were able to watch the transformation right in front of your eyes.

She stepped out of the carriage and you heard a smattering of cheers, and perhaps a trumpet or two. You lingered in the carriage as you knew your job was not to be seen nor heard. Tugging lightly at a loose thread on the curtain, you watched out the window as Camelot’s king, a young fair-haired man you recalled being named Arthur, kissed her hand. He was very graceful and poised for one you knew was an adept warrior. You were just musing on how fighting was actually a very graceful skill when you heard your aunt’s voice floating over towards you.

“Let me introduce my ward and heir, Y/N…” she told the king, gesturing back towards the carriage. You jumped up, terribly surprised, treading momentarily on your gown and cursing under your breath.

“Hello.” You said breathlessly as your toes hit the ground. Aunt Lysa shot you a chastising look as you forgot your decorum. “Your highness.” You added hastily.

Arthur reached to kiss your hand as well and you blushed. How did your aunt do this? All of the propriety and rules made you want to rip your fancy dress off and waltz off onto the woods somewhere and become a hermit. You’d heard rather fond stories of one who lived completely isolated from all human contact.

That sounded divine.

You could feel the eyes of the court boring holes into you, and you kept your eyes demurely on the floor. Quick! Say something witty!

“Thank you for welcoming us to your lovely home–kingdom!” You sputtered, wincing as it came out. That was awkward. Arthur seemed to be watching you with a mixture of curiosity and pity. Your face flushed and you refocused your gaze onto the toes of your boots. They were slightly scuffed, as one might expect from actually walking and running in shoes, rather than sitting still all day like your aunt had hoped you would.

After more formal introductions and a whole lot of dignified compliments, a servant led you to your chambers. He said to merely notify the guard outside in the hall of you needed anything at all. You smiled and thanked him, turning on your heel to explore your rooms. They were very comfortably furnished and you were surprised to find that your belongings had already been brought up.

The elegantly plush four poster bed called to you. Oh, how you longed to dive into the soft blankets and pillows and ignore the world outside! You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, running your hands over the soft comforter. Later. Yes, you would sleep later.

A knock on the door disturbed you from your thoughts. It was just a serving girl, who let herself in quietly. She was carrying an armful of goods, which she quickly deposited on the table.

“Good day, my lady.” She smiled politely. “The Queen Lysa has sent me to prepare you for the feast tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary–”

“The queen has insisted.” She smiled apologetically, almost as if she knew you were going to say that. “Sit.” She commanded gently, and you moved to the chair that she’d set out.

The serving girl was certainly experienced in her ways. It didn’t take very long at all before you hair was tied back in an elegant and sweeping updo, your face was painted with all sorts of sweet-smelling cosmetics, and you were nearly ready to put on your gown.

The serving girl seemed to produce one out of thin air. You had never seen it before, but it was certainly gorgeous and fit you well. From what you could surmise, it seemed like it was a gift from King Arthur. How he’d known your measurements was beyond you. Once you were laced in and nearly couldn’t breath, you were dismissed to go and find your aunt.

You ran into her in the hallway. She was dressed very much the same as you, just in a different color. Without saying a word, she smiled and took your arm with an air of motherly comfort she always seemed to exude around you. Arm in arm, you entered the ballroom to waves of applause. Your breath was nearly ripped from your chest.

You’d never seen so much splendor and magnificence together in one room. Richly decorated tapestries draped the walls, shining tiles on the floors. The people, too, were spectacularly dressed, whirling around and preening like birds of paradise. The buzz of laughter and gossip filled the room like a haze on a humid summer afternoon, languid and sticky. Lysa’s fuss all made sense now. You fit right in among them with your jeweled hair and flowing gown.

When Arthur swept in to the hall, his red cape swinging mightily behind him, a silence dropped into every mouth. He smiled at your Aunt, once more welcoming her and thanking her for coming. Your eyes wandered around the room, your mind traveling with it.

Arthur continued speaking for what felt like eons, but not a single word registered in your mind. When the audience began applauding, you did too, mimicking their excitement. It was simply all too overwhelming. Lysa’s kingdom was a small one; you rarely found yourself surrounded by such a large and diverse group of people. It was all so interesting.

Lysa was seated at Arthur’s right hand. You, along with much of the rest of the upper court, took the table to the side where you could overlook both the royals there and the rest of the ballroom. Unfortunately, the gentleman next to you was far too chatty for your liking, talking your ear off and taking your hand in his when he mentioned his lack of wife. You politely excused yourself from the table, saying you needed some air.

That was definitely true.

Upon your return, you were relieved to see that said gentleman was entertaining some poor man on his other side with stories of what you could only guess to be battle glory. Based off of his portly figure and sunken-in features, they must have been ancient stories. You giggled a little to yourself and took your seat quickly to make sure not to disturb him from his story.

The night dragged on and you picked at the food on your plate. It was all delicious and expertly served, of course, but you simply had no desire to eat it. Being in a strange place so far from home made you uncomfortable, and your appetite was affected.

Taking your fork and nudging a piece of potato around your plate, allowing your mind to wander far and wide. You entertained yourself with thoughts of returning home. You pondered what you’d do first. Perhaps you’d head down to the stables and go riding into the meadows and thickets, with nothing but the breeze as your guide and fortune as your master. The thought of being in the warm open air rather than this drafty ballroom entranced you greatly. You could nearly feel the sun on your face and the winds whipping your hair around as a plaything.

Abrupt screaming broke you from your daydream. You looked up to see a hooded, shadowy figure scream something in a sharp, guttural tongue and gesture its hands towards your aunt. She recoiled as if struck by a sword. Her chair was flung backwards and she was thrown like a ragdoll across the ballroom. Your heart nearly stopped and you jumped to your feet, pushing a table out of the way to make it to her side.

“Aunt Lysa!” You screeched, trying to fling yourself forward to protect her, to save her, to cover her frail body with your own. Strong arms held you back, corded around your waist and entrapping your arms by your side. You thrashed against them; Aunt Lysa needed you! Your eyes blurred with tears and your throat burned from the ragged sobs that escaped your lips.

The same arms that held you back slowly drew you backwards. You turned to see a black haired servant pulling you away from the fray without taking his eyes off of your aunt. His eyes glinted golden in the firelight. Armored guards surrounded your aunt and hurried her away. You screamed after them. Lysa shouldn’t be taken anywhere without you! You needed her! How were you supposed to do anything without her there? The once peaceful banquet hall had turned into a madhouse. Servants and guests alike raced about, seemingly searching for safety and comfort.

In the chaos, you trod again on the hem of your gown and tripped, legs becoming tangled in the layers of fabric. Your head cracked sharply along a table and the world faded out, pain blossoming until it had taken over and become everything. Physical pain, yes, but also emotional pain. Aunt Lysa was… Was…

Find Part Two here!

[txladyj-blog]

Chapter 7 - This Time Around

a Daryl Dixon x OFC collaboration written by @xmistressmistrustx​

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character

Tags: Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Awkwardness, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Crush, Fluff and Humor, Angst and Humor, Mild Smut, Strong Language, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Some Canon Scenes and Dialogue

Chapters 15/?

Lucky wasn’t something that Jess considered herself to be. Her life hadn’t been unlucky per se, but if it wasn’t for her determined approach to life, strokes of bad luck would have dragged her down altogether. It had taken the end of the world before it dawned on her that maybe it wasn’t responsible for things that went wrong, it was merely that she’d been unable to see life’s small wins, the glimmers of goodness and positivity that shone through when she was too busy occupying herself with the darkness.

She didn’t know if it was luck that had led her to where she was in the city or if it was down to her own methodical and logical approach of planning and protecting herself. She had managed to part drag, part walk Merle back to her apartment, administer enough painkillers to knock out an Ox and forage for enough food to keep them both going for a comfortable number of weeks. Merle did nothing but sleep for the first four days after Jess had painstakingly sewn his stump up and she was glad for it. She needed the peace after fretting he would die on her in the night and feast on the plump flesh of her legs, turning her into one of the mindless monsters that now roamed the streets. She checked on him religiously and returned from every supply run with caution, her knife drawn and a loud knock at the door before she committed to entering.

Jess was smart, it was no small feat to gather medical supplies and weapons along with setting up for a life of self-sustainability and loneliness, but armed with enough self-belief and her weapons from the Faire, she worked her way around the buildings, using the rooftops as her pathways and dead soldiers and police officers as sources of body armor. She gathered herb cuttings from the balconies of other apartments, seeds for vegetables from a gardening store, buckets, tarp and plastic containers to collect water from precipitation and enough wood to carve arrows for her bow. She spent a large portion of her time in her new living space reading books from the library and trying to retain as much information about survival, self-defense, weapons, basic DIY and tools and hacks from books on doomsday prepping as possible. For Jess, knowledge was most definitely power after being thrust into the apocalypse with next to no useful skills.

After 8 days, her unexpected lodger finally woke from his blurred, meds induced slumber and tried to move around the room. Jess jumped to his aid but he quickly waved her off, the two of them having never spoke more than a few words to one another unless they had no other option. Despite their lack of communication, Jess was sure there was a kind of mutual respect forming between them. Merle had protested very little at everything she’d done for him, accepted her help, her food, her desire to keep him in one place until he recovered enough and he tried to explain as much as he could about how he'd ended up sawing off his own hand. He also never made it a secret that as soon as he was well enough, he would be out of her hair and heading back to the camp to find Daryl. Upon finishing up the stitches on his arm, he had thanked her sincerely and told her she had balls for a little, fat kid. She’d accepted the backhanded compliment with a surprising ease and had to admit that she was impressed by his resilience.

“Gotta stretch my damn legs.” He grumbled as he wandered aimlessly around the room, picking up books and throwing them down again with his one remaining hand. He studied her weapons, neatly hung on hooks on the wall, her body armor and boots on a coat stand near the door and squinted at the planters that filled the balcony outside. She had left the door open, needing to air the room out and spare herself the agony of breathing in Merle’s thunderous flatulence while he slept. Another one of his redeeming features, she figured. She watched as he swiped up his leather vest and struggled to slip it on over his shoulders without bumping his stump. Jess stood up from her spot on the sofa surrounded by books and took hold of the back of his vest, holding it out so he was able to thread his arm through with ease. He shot her an irritated look but she decided not to react, knowing that accepting help was probably not something he was used to.

When he sat back down on the opposite couch, she grabbed two tumblers and poured him a whiskey before filling her own glass. His eyes widened when he noted the bottle. A Nice, expensive whiskey. The likes that he would have stolen rather than bought from a store back in the day.

“It’s what you came to the city for, right? Booze?” She queried as she passed him the drink.

He accepted gratefully and held the glass up, taking in the deep color of the liquid and the long-missed smell.

“That’s right.” He grinned before knocking the drink back in one go. “Best painkiller out there.”

Jess scoffed and sipped her own drink. She’d never been much of a drinker, especially not hard liquor, but since she’d been in the city, she found herself able to understand a little more of why Merle sought out something mind altering. It was an escape, one in which she needed sometimes, just maybe not as often as someone like Merle Dixon. She lifted a leg and shoved the bottle across the table towards him with her sock-covered toes, signaling for him to have as much as he wanted.

“Get trashed if you want, better you do it here than out there.” She shrugged.

Not about to argue, he quickly poured himself another helping and this time, took his time working though it. Jess could feel his eyes baring into her soul as she skimmed the words on a page of a book she’d opened in her lap. She glanced up and stared right back at him, no longer afraid or intimidated by the old redneck with the cuss-laden vocabulary. If she could haul herself through the woods and get herself into a safe and seemingly maintainable situation in the middle of a walker ridden city, she could deal with Merle.

“That shit about my brother that barbie doll read from ya little diary that day…” He mentioned.

Here we go. She thought.

 “…It true?”

Jess slapped the book shut and threw it onto the couch next to her as she lay back and huffed, sending strands of her dark hair billowing into the air above her.  

“Been dying to ask me about that, haven’t you?” She sighed.

“Was on the top of my list of priorities, after not dyin’, of course.” He grinned, swirling his drink around in the glass in front of him.  

She was never a liar. Lies always spiraled into something complicated and regretful. Lies were responsible for many failed friendships and she concluded that even now, at the end of days, lies were still as poisonous as ever. But she also wasn’t about to tell Merle the complete truth about her true feelings for Daryl.

“I like him. But I think I was confusing a connection as friends with something more. I was wrong.”

A throaty chuckle emerged from his throat and for a moment, he winced in pain as if the juddering movement of his body had aggravated the life-changing wound on his arm.

“Shame. Kid could use some action. He’s wound tighter than a monkey’s nut.” He quipped. “Can’t recall the last time he got laid. Not that he’d tell me. Always was quieter than a damn mouse about shit.”

Not feeling the need to join him in the direction he wanted to steer the conversation, she just shook her head and smiled at him.

“Barbie, she uh-she tried it with him first, y’know. He turned her down. I was second fiddle but that’s alright with me. Pussy presents itself on a plate n’ who am I to say no?” He said, levelling his gaze at her and carefully observing her reaction. Giving nothing away, she kept her face as nonchalant as possible while her insides churned at the thought of Sarah trying something with Daryl.

“She hit on Daryl, huh?” She asked casually.

“True as i'm sittin' here now. He said no. Might be ‘cause he aint got a scooby what the hell he’s doin’ with the females. Or maybe he was holdin’ out for ya.”

The thought alone made Jess laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was outrageous to even consider it now she knew what she knew. Now she’d heard how he really felt.

“Pretty sure he never saw me like that. He made it clear he didn’t give a shit about me” She expressed, finishing her whiskey and contemplating another when Merle snatched the bottle from the table and re-filled his glass. At the rate he was drinking, he’d have the whole bottle down in an hour. Nevertheless, she held out her glass and nodded to it. He dutifully re-filled it and she sat back again.

“One thing I know about my baby brother? He’s always been real off with folks. Don’t trust nobody. No friends, no nothin. But he spent all the hours god gave him with you at that camp. When he found out you’d skedaddled in the small hours, he lost his shit.” He explained with a knowing look on his face which Jess tried to ignore.

“He did, huh?” She mumbled

“Almost shot blondie in the face with a bolt. Got up on his soap box n’ told the whole group what she’s been getting’ up to. Damn good job I don’t blush easy.” He smirked. “He’s lookin’ for ya.”

Jess shook her head again and reached into her pocket, retrieving a packet of cigarettes and throwing them into his lap across the coffee table that divided them. Merle looked down at them in disbelief.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m a good host.” She quipped.

She’d picked up cigarettes and whiskey for him while sweeping a store for food. She had everything she wanted and needed so far save for a few comforts like ice cream and electricity. So, she figured giving Merle something he would be thankful to have once he woke up was only fair.

“He just feels guilty.” She muttered, dismissing his observation of his younger brother.

“Maybe.” He shrugged as he ripped the pack open, propped a smoke between his lips and rummaged in his jeans for his lighter. He paused before he lit the end, peering at her over the cigarette. She offered him a small nod and picked up a heavy glass ashtray from the floor and positioned it in the center of the table, gestures that told him she was fine with him smoking in her apartment and were met with an even more surprised expression. He sparked up, sat back and waved the small, white stick around as he spoke.

“Ahh I don’t wanna talk about no sentimental stuff, but the kid liked ya.”

“No, he didn’t.” Jess retorted straight away.

A flash of exasperation flickered across his face and he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Argue all ya want. I practically raised that boy. He’s a little odd but I ain’t never seen him flip his lid like that about some skirt. Should go back n’ find him. Or, let him find you. ‘Cause he will. Could find a flea in a hay bale, my brother.”

It was non-negotiable to her. Daryl had made it clear how he felt and she wasn’t about to go back to a place where she was constantly ridiculed and humiliated with no one to step in and defend her. Jess took a gulp of the liquor and winced at the warmth that radiated from her stomach. Whiskey really wouldn’t have been her drink of choice. She wished she’d picked up some rum, or spent the time bothering to find some Sam Adams.

“I’m not going back there. I know you’ll go and find him and you owe me no loyalty, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him where I am” She requested.

Merle’s eyes dropped to his glass and then back up to Jess’s waiting face, over and over as he thought over the prospect of withholding important information that Daryl would want to know. Jess knew she was asking a lot of him, but the thought of being found and forced to face what had happened before she’d left, along with the heartbreaking confession from Daryl to Merle about her meaning nothing to him was too much for her to handle. She wanted a new start, alone, with no reliance or ties to anyone. Merle was still glaring at her intermittently but she paid it no mind, figuring she would get her answer soon enough and if she didn’t like it, she would be forced to move on and find somewhere else to live.

“Saved my life.” He mentioned. “Got me booze and smokes. Sewed up my arm. Hell, I’m pretty sure ya had me doped up on some pretty shit hot pain meds these last few days too. I may be from the wrong side of the tracks but I ain't no dumbass, sweet cheeks. know when I owe somebody.”

It had never even crossed her mind when she stood in the dark store, gawping down at a bloodied, mutilated and half-dead Merle, that she should just walk away and let him die or kill him herself. Instinct kicked in and she reacted in a calmer, more together way than she had ever done previously, knowing that she had to get him out of there and away from any danger. There was simply no other option. It occurred to her as she was sitting there opposite him that she had already come a long way, she was no longer as scared. She was more accepting of her situation, more tactical and shrewder. Now, more able to survive alone than ever before, simply because she had given herself no other choice. She stifled a small smile when she studied him, looking over his heavily bandaged arm and his bloodstained shirt. She made a mental note to make sure he did some physical therapy and got a new shirt before she let him go anywhere.

“I can’t believe you cut off your hand, you fucking psycho.” She said.

“It was that or be Walker jerky.” He replied.

The two of them giggled and Merle finished his smoke and glass of alcohol while Jess got up and started to prepare him something to eat from the piles of tinned food she’d hoarded. Now, she was providing for two of them for the time being and she’d felt it necessary to stock up. She’d hauled him out from near death, so she wasn’t about to starve the man that had been surprisingly pleasant to her, going against everything she’d expected of him. Maybe, just maybe, there was the same element in Daryl after all. But that no longer mattered to her.

That night, while her houseguest snored noisily on the couch in an alcohol induced coma, Jess settled on her bed and opened her journal. 

Merle has turned out to be much more personable than I ever imagined. Maybe that’s because I saved his ass. Or, maybe it’s because underneath it all, he’s actually OK as long as you know how to deal with him. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I trust him. But right now, I have the upper hand and he is relying on me to get him well enough to leave and go and find Daryl.

Daryl. It’s not like I don’t think about him. I do. I do miss him. Or, rather, I miss the person I thought he was and I remind myself of what I heard that night. I should have known better, it’s not the first time I developed a crush on somebody that was way out of my league. It’s my frequent reminder not to get attached to anyone, not to feel anything for other people or it will be me that suffers. There are only a few survivors left and I have to look out for myself. It’s been five weeks and I’ve not seen another living soul apart from the alcoholic redneck that sleeps on my couch and stinks to high heaven.

Besides this, I have set up quite the fortress here, I think I could live here for a long time. That’s if Merle doesn’t tell Daryl where I am. I’ll be forced to move if he does. I don’t want to be found. Just leave me be. This way, I may get physically hurt but I can deal with that, I’m studying books to deal with every possible outcome. But I just can’t handle more emotional turmoil. As much as I miss him.

I managed to get a punchbag from one of the other apartments in the building along with some weights. I intend to train and improve my stamina, heaven knows when I’m going to have to run and keep running, so I intend to be ready for anything. The herbs are taking and the bell peppers I planted on the roof are well on their way. So far, I’m doing well. I just can’t figure out how to get rid of the Walker behind the grate in the elevator shaft on the first floor. But he’s not a problem right now. His cage keeps him contained and some days I even wonder if he can hear me when I sit on the steps and tell him about my day.

Maybe I am going crazy. 

 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Daryl had been looking for Sophia for hours. Days actually, but on this one particular occasion, in the blistering sun atop of a nervous horse that had bolted at the sound of a Walker and sent him tumbling down a hill into a watery area below, he was sure he’d had better days and was seriously rethinking his belief in Sophia still being alive. But still he pressed on, even injured at the bottom of a ravine, his eyes fluttered open in the stark light of the sun and his body thrummed with pain, but he managed to get up, treat his wounds and carry on.

God damn horse.

Where he got his strength and determination, he wasn’t sure but he could only really credit his terrible home life and childhood for instilling a kind of armor around him. A protective wall that he never let anyone pass. Surviving was second nature to him; he simply didn’t know any other way to be. Sophia was a child, alone in the walker-filled woods and Daryl couldn’t help but think of the time when he had found himself lost, back in the days when Walkers were something one only saw in a horror movie. He was merely a child and was missing for eleven days. Little did his father know, Daryl eventually found his own way home, wandered into the kitchen and fixed himself a sandwich like nothing had happened. It was Daryl’s way, even back then, he relied on no one by himself and as the years passed, he still lived by the same rule; just get on with it.

Of course, nothing was ever easy anymore and his departure from the ravine was trickier than he’d planned. Reaching the top by literally dragging his bleeding body through the mud and shoving away hallucinations of his brother, ridiculing him for not making any effort to find him. He had to keep telling himself it was down to him hitting his head and not insanity creeping in. Slumped onto the flat woodland ground, he was never more grateful to see even terrain before. He glanced down at the state of his body, a broken bolt in his side from the fall sent spikes of pain through his veins that turned his stomach and blurred his vision. His head thudded back onto the mud as he took a minute to compose himself and figure out how he was going to get to his feet with his side impaled by a piece of wood.

“So, you can teach me not to die but you can’t quite manage it yourself, huh?”

Jess’s voice made his eyes snap open and he frantically scanned the area around him, seeing nothing but trees until she stepped out from behind a tree, her pretty smile broad and her clothes clean.

“Jess?” He croaked.

“Time to get up, sleepy head.” She instructed, crossing her arms. Daryl noticed her woolen sweater looked brand new, her hair was shiny and well-conditioned, her skin was clean.

“I-I tried to find you.” He rasped, sitting up and sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth when the pain rampaged through his nerves.

“Took a bolt to the side for the girl, but you just gave up on me.” She pointed out.

Daryl’s sweaty brow furrowed when he peered up at her as the sun shot out from behind her, silhouetting her in the light until she was gone. He quickly checked over his shoulders and rubbed at his face.

“Jess?”

Nothing. She wasn’t really there. Nothing more than a mirage, a figment of his imagination and most likely a result of a hard knock to the head. Seeing her again made his heart hurt regardless of if she was real or not. He missed her and the burden of ceasing to look for her after finding her note was now weighing even heavier on his shoulders. His hands fell to his sides, clawing up clumps of dirt as he drew in a deep breath and pushed through the pain of getting to his feet.

  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Carol rapped softly on the door before turning the handle and quietly gliding inside. The tray in her hand contained soup and water that she’d prepared after hearing that Daryl was refusing food and just wanted to get patched up and back out into the woods. Carol hadn’t ever felt gratitude like it, nor had she ever been so surprised at one person’s sheer selflessness. Her child had been missing for days and Daryl had worked tirelessly, relentlessly and without any decent rest in order to find her. She didn’t know if he was harboring some kind of guilt over Jess and his brother, but as long as he was using it to find her little girl, she couldn’t complain. That was until now, until he’d almost died in the process.

The room was dim, the drapes drawn and the surfaces dusty from neglect. Daryl lay facing away from her, his side sporting a large square of gauze and bandages. Every part of his exposed skin was covered in scars, Carol could see that some of them were new, from the past day. But some, the largest ones were at least a decade old and her chest constricted with thoughts of the violence that she had known and how it could cause such trophies of trauma upon a person’s skin.

Placing the tray on the nightstand, she leaned over him and tenderly kissed the side of his head. Initially, he recoiled but she knew why and waited until he relaxed and let her offer her small token of appreciation and affection. He rolled over slightly, able to catch her eye for a moment and seeing them filled with worry. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“I couldn’t go look for Merle.” He whispered. “Gave up on Jess. Can’t find Sophia neither. Fuckin’ useless.”

Having known him only a few months, it was enough for her to come to the conclusion that Daryl was not like other people. On the outside, he was hostile but inside, he was sensitive, shouldering blame for deaths and caring so deeply about others that it ate away at him when they lost someone. But Daryl never spoke about it, preferring instead to internalize it all and simmer away, alone at the edge of the camp while glaring at the others and trying to understand how they could be so open and free with their emotions. Daryl never uttered a word about his feelings. That was, unless it was to Carol.

He couldn’t figure out exactly when it was that they’d become close but he suspected that his loss of Jess and Merle and Carol’s husband being turned by Walkers had somehow brought them together. He knew she was a broken soul, just as he was but neither of them needed to discuss it. Out of everyone, Carol was the one that seemed to understand him the most without even trying.

“No, Daryl. You did more for my little girl today than her daddy did in her entire life.” She promised.

He continued to look at her, saying nothing but speaking volumes with his expression. He was tired, almost defeated and knew that she would manage to say something to quell the exhausting guilt in his heart.

“And Jess… she didn’t want to be found.” She added.

Daryl resumed his previous position, fluffing up the pillows under his head and settling down.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“Like Andrea shot me.” He grunted.

An unfortunate accident it may have been, but Andrea’s trigger-happy attitude from the RV that evening had left Daryl in the dirt with a bullet graze to his temple and in his delirious state, he was unable to fathom exactly what had happened. Carol thought it was no wonder Andrea had mistaken him for a Walker after he’d staggered from the trees, covered in dirt and mud, snarling at everyone with a crazed look in his eye. A split-second decision was all it took and as luck had it, Andrea was still a bad shot with a rifle.

“You need to recover before you go back out there. I know you; you’ll want to push it. You almost got yourself killed. Took a bolt and a bullet today, all for Sophia. I can’t even begin to thank you.” She confessed.

“Don’t want no thanks.” He dismissed “I didn’t do nothin’ that Rick or Shane wouldn’t have done.”

Carol scoffed from behind him, rendering his last sentence as complete rubbish.

“I don’t see them lying in a bed with a hole in their sides. You’re every bit as good as them. Every bit.” She affirmed.

A silence from him told her it was her time to depart, pushing Daryl too much was likely to result in him lashing out, especially when she considered his current state of mind along with the fact that he was physically exhausted. She got to her feet and tapped the glass on the tray, the ringing of her nails on the glass reminding him that she wanted him to eat and drink something. In the doorway, she paused when she heard him speak again.

“Sophia, she's out there, I know it. I found her doll” He murmured.

“Maybe. Maybe Jess is too.” She suggested. “You can admit it, y’know”

He rolled onto his back, craning his neck to see her stood half in, half out of the room with her arms wrapped around herself.

“Admit what?”

“That you miss her. I know you two were good friends.” It was a hazardous approach for Carol to take due to her knowledge of his reluctance to talk about Jess. Every time someone mentioned her name his temper flared and he wasted no time in reminding everyone that she was probably dead and that they shouldn’t bother talking about her anymore. Carol knew it was a defense mechanism and in true Daryl form, his rage expelled itself in a series of abusive and offensive remarks.

“Ain’t gotta admit shit. Leave me alone.” He grunted.

“OK, but just eat something. Please. Or you won’t have the strength to get out of bed, let alone pick up that crossbow.”

With that, she left the room and closed the door behind her. A few hours sleep and some kind of sustenance would undoubtedly help his mood a little, but she wasn’t betting on him becoming a ray of sunshine anytime soon. She knew he had a better version of himself inside, but the loss of his friend and brother had began to chip away at it, eroding it day by day and she worried that eventually, there would be nothing left.

  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A month had passed and Jess was sitting on the steps of the stairwell in her apartment block. She now had free reign of the entire building, every dwelling now empty and safe thanks to her tireless efforts to secure the building and ensure she had enough space to keep any supplies she might need. Her days had become routine, but she liked it that way. The mornings consisted of rising from her bed at sunrise and heading up to the next floor, where she had turned an elderly couples’ home into a gym. An hour’s rigorous exercise a day and a limited diet had seen her weight drop drastically over the four weeks she had been in residence and she was now confident she could run a life-saving distance without stopping at least. Late mornings were spent tending to the growing vegetables and herbs and checking the main street below for any swellings in the number of Walkers. If there was, she would make her way across the rooftops to the other side of town, where she would set off firecrackers or make enough noise to wake the dead all over again in order to draw them away and set them on a different path that didn’t include gathering outside her new home. In the afternoons, she scavenged and spent some time carving arrows on the steps with Ben- The Walker trapped in the elevator shaft. He wore a janitor’s uniform with his name embroidered on one side. She waffled on as if they were two best friends in a bar, telling him about her day and even regaling him with tales from comic cons and her opinions on the best beers in Texas. The evenings consisted of rooftop target practice and tedious conversations with Merle while she aided him with his physical therapy. He complained non-stop, telling her that he didn’t believe in all her ‘therapy shit’ and that he would be just fine without it. Eventually, he yielded and allowed her to help him with the advice of yet more books from the library.

Ben swayed back and forth as she held up an arrow for him to see, although she wasn’t quite sure if he could really see anything. More that he just seemed to know she was there with whatever part of his brain was still active enough to make him walk and want to eat people.

“I’m getting pretty good at this.” She mused with a smile. Ben reached through the elevator grate, his purple fingers with snapped nails grasping at her hand holding the arrow. She quickly snatched it away and slid the arrow into her quiver before standing up and throwing it over one shoulder. Her daily supply run had taken longer than usual after she ran into some unsavory undead in a camping store while trying to bring back more gas canisters. She had returned with her prize but decided to take some time to herself to carve some arrows before she had to endure Merle’s uncomfortable stare and chain smoking.

“Later, dude.” She said to Ben over her shoulder as she stomped up the steps to her front door. She stopped when she noticed the note pinned to the wood.

‘Gone to find my brother. Took some food and meds. Thanks, Sugar tits. M.’

Next Chapter 

[crimscnkiss]

( sophie turner, siphon, she/her & cisfemale ) is that ( night bird ) by ( stevie nicks ) playing? ( AURORA “RORY” CALIGO ) must be nearby!  heard folks say the ( twenty five ) year old ( bookstore clerk  ) was at the thanksgiving fair, ( beating her high score on the wack-a-mole ) when chaos ensued. during the glitch, ( she attacked others to protect herself and her sister ).

ay it’s tess, back at it again with her fourth character ! i’ll keep this part short but i’m sorry for this bio ! it starts out descriptive and flutters into random facts, but enjoy !

born and raised a few towns over from letum falls, the caligo twins got the short end of the stick. their parents --- profound, addicted dark magic users --- weren’t the best a taking care of one kid, let alone two. 

the twins’ grandparents wanted to take custody, remove the girls from such a dark environment, but they were hesitant. the girls didn’t seem to be in danger. just two happy little kids and a hailstorm in the form of parental guidance. 

just to be safe, their grandfather placed a protective spell upon the twins to alert them if the twins were ever in immediate danger. good fuckin’ thing too, because just before the girl’s fifth birthday that that bell rang like hell. 

crashing into the caligo family home, nana and papa walked into a horror scene. the twins were left without their magic, and if they had stepped in a second sooner, they could’ve lost their lives, too. their parents, with their deceptive and sadistic minds, had conjured up a plan to steal the twins’ magic, sacrifice them for more, and hit the road. that plan was stopped in it’s tracks.

once the girls were put into the safety of their grandparents care, their parents left to roam the world and escape the wrath of nana. while it would’ve been best to end the trouble there, nana just didn’t have the heart to end it. so, their parents are still off, free in the world, waiting. 

as a child, rory was as girly as could be, just enjoying the vibrant clothes her grandmother showered them with. they were dressed just the same, every day. at first, it was cute, but as the years went on the twins just didn’t feel it anymore. 

as more and more frilly clothing circled through the twins, aurora started to collect a box of the forbidden cloth within her closet. she couldn’t just throw them away, she couldn’t push herself to hurt nana.

 and right before middle something just kinda,,, clicked ? she started going off on her own, pulling her sister closer as they both tried to find themselves. while they both went their own way, creating separate, unique styles, they still managed to stay clung together through it

she tried out for a lot of sports teams as a child but didn’t stick with most of them. she was incredible at soccer but quit the team freshman year, she didn’t want to waste her time at practice when she could be working on her witchcraft and enjoying life

high school was a trying time, she went through millions of friendships and only really stayed close with a few people. but, it gave her plenty of free time to work on her magic and perfect as many spells as possible.

while she was a club and sport fanatic in middle school, that died in her high school years. she strayed away from organized socializing and worked on her mandatory classes, finding herself a bit more drawn to the library than anywhere else

the twins tried to move out at 18, ready to get on with their own lives and see whats waiting out there, but papa got sick and... well that plan died quick

as the years passed papa slowly went down hill and modern medicine was no help to his shriveling frame. so, spell book after spell book was brought from the basement and the women of the caligo family spent weeks searching for the magic cure. finally, just as he was ready to say his goodbyes, nana sprung from the table and threw the book down before the twins. holding out her hands, she offered the girls rivers of magic. this wouldn’t just take one witch. 

three long hours passed, reading and rereading the incantation, failed attempts, a few too many bathroom breaks, but soon enough papa was back up and runnin’, a smile on his face and love in his heart ready to last for another decade or so. whatever he had left, he was gonna use it til’ he couldn’t.

once they were sure papa was fine and nana was okay, the girls finally got their own place at 21, taking along their beloved “cat”, nyx

the twins have drifted apart some, but they’re still close and value eachother’s time --- as well as their own time apart

aurora’s favorite color is purple, has been since the dawn of time, but she wears black a bit too much. 

she’s in love with stevie nicks and would absolutely die for the woman, has every album on cd and blasts it all night long (or with headphones on if the girls are asleep)

likes to drive and often is gone for hours in her car, jammin out and cruisin

she spends her mornings at the bookstore and nights hanging around letum skate catching up with her sister

a true free spirit but the girl has rage bottled up, a deep-seeded hatred for her parents and what they did to her and nova. it’s the reason she stays in letum— her hate for her parents fuels the love she has for nova and her grandparents

she had plans on becoming a teacher, but when she took the job at the bookstore her love for magic grew even deeper, if possible. suddenly, she was surrounded by a sea of knowledge in such a superstitious town. she read any and every book she could find on twin witches or siphons, any book about magic was flipped cover to cover. every inch of the supernatural section has been scanned and recorded by the crimson beauty

she attended the thanksgiving fair, and while she doesn’t remember much, it still haunts her. she attacked others, using her reserve magic in her locket to send citizens flying through the air. bits and pieces blur together but she wishes she didn’t remember a thing

 she never thought she’d use her power to harm others --- that’s her parents. that’s their influence running through her veins, but she justify’s her action by the safety of her sister. she would never admit it, but she’d murder a man in cold blood if it meant keeping her sister out of harms way

aesthetics : soft glows within the trees, the cool touch of metal, flowers frosted at the sight of spring, fresh daisies in the morning, floral button ups and black jeans, sunglasses perched atop furrowed brows

wanted connections :

regulars at the bookstore : rory spends most of her mornings at the bookstore, up and going for the morning’s opening, and smiling as she locks the doors. she has a love for books and is more than willing to chat for hours over a good story, or even slide a recommendation across the counter. “ if ya like it, come in tomorrow and pay. if not, that one’s on me “

enemies : while rory was finding herself, she wasn’t the nicest person to be around. and since she was finding herself through most of middle and high school, there’s bound to be an enemy somewhere. possibly a soccer rival who’s mad that they never got to play one on one, see who’s truly the better player, or even someone she’s truly hurt in some way. i’m down for anything !

someone she’s siphoned : this would have to be a magical being, or even a cursed human, human in possession of a magical object, yadda yadda yadda ya get the point. but the when and why is the true question ! imma leave this vague but i’d love to plot !

exes/crushes/flings : the romantic and sexual works. aurora here swings all ways and isn’t unfamiliar with pleasure or even those stomach-turnin’ crushes. this could be recent, from high school, a fling at a bar on her 21st ! again, vague, but there are sooooooo many ways to play this !

those are just off the top of my head but if you’d like to plot for one of these, or brainstorm, hit me up !

[fightsbck]

   *  ARRIVAL OF A BARATHEON BASTARD       VS. A LANNISTER PRINCE.

content: so this. this started out purely as a joke. i just wanted to make a a very quick and witty comparison and it. it turned out into a full-blown thing. in any case, i’ve talked about this briefly before but!!    I LOST THE POST,  so.   here is me winging this meta / discussion again,   and hoping that it’ll make sense.   again,   this is in no way of disrespecting any other character(s);   just a full opinion written that you’re free to agree / disagree.

warning:  if you haven’t watched ep 1 of season 8?   spoilers.

introduction.

so, as i’ve said: this started out purely as me attempting a joke. when i first saw gendry’s appearance in, what i will dub as: The Arrival 2.0, my first immediate thought was: this is a prince. of course, i’m biased. i like this character. so, i’d want him to take a high position that we’ve learnt to idolise. but it’s not that simple. in reality, gendry is written as a lowborn and, if we’re being realistic, princely probably isn’t the right word nor occupation that can agree with him. regardless, that was my fight thought.  here is an edited screencap for visual aid:

but then i went away to pull out the first episode of got to get a screencap of joffrey in a similar pose. i was baffled by two things: (1) was the re-discovery that we are all seeing this in both the northerner’s point of view but, most important? from arya’s. i might come back to this point later? but we’ll see. continuing, another shocking factor was (2) joffrey, himself. here is another edited screencap for visual aid:

what had baffled me so much was that,    i was wrong.    gendry didn’t look at all like a prince when he’s compared to joffrey.    joffrey looks like a prince:   he has the golden hair,  the right horse,   the right shirt etc.   gendry,  in comparison,   looks rugged and worn-down.   the only thing that’s salvaging him from completely looking like a truly lowborn commoner was that he was relatively clean-looking.  otherwise,  his usual look are him covered in ashes and soot.

gendry doesn’t look like a prince. but maybe that’s the point.

so,  once i’ve established that my joke won’t be funny after all because i was dead off-the-mark with this assumption,  i’ve started to sit down and think:  you know what.   it makes sense.  i think gendry is supposed to look the way he does:   a common folk,   a working man.  aka anything but a royal.   this is ironic,  because i think joffrey,  in return,  is supposed to look like a royal  —  though, in reality, he’s no right in claiming the title considering he was a lannister bastard, himself.   gendry may be a lowborn,  but at the very least,  his claim is stronger in regards to blood. traditionally, of course, that won’t fly. but, let’s save that conversation for later.

appearance alone.

comparatively, joffrey looks divine.   his hair is yellow and thick, and he’s surrounded by the guards that are dutiful to keep him safe,  and his horse is even different-in-colour from the others.   there’s a lot of work just in this scene to pop joffrey up as the prince among the rest.  we, as the audience,  though maybe not immediately drawn,  can somewhat subconsciously conclude that  hey,  this kid must be someone among these marching men of many.

gendry is... not like that at all. yes, again, i repeat, he looks clean. but ... he doesn’t look expensive, you get what i mean? his hair is cut short, suggesting ruggedness. he looks like he’s just been working in the smith and davos was telling him last-minute that they have to go out and go to winterfell. he threw a cloak on his shoulder — which! by the way! looks sagged, while joffrey’s were meant to make him look bold and thick, but the thing is, gendry looks comfortable, which plays a lot in the bastard vs. prince thing because gendry’s whole lifestyle probably pertains more to comfort than to conform himself to any westeros’ fashion standard — and was up on a horse and just, riding to his next destination.

gendry also blends with the crowd, and yet, somehow, he stands out anyway. one could argue that it’s mostly because we see it from arya’s point of view, and she was looking up to the men on horses which was why gendry appeared more grand in our eyes — if compare to joffrey, who, upon first look, we view him with the standard eye-level view: so everything that makes him stand out was literally what he wears and how his guards were stationed around him, but. 

let’s dwell further.

colour scheme and foreshadowing.

‘cause it’s honestly my fucking favourite thing,  but !! this is more of just me emphasising on the foreshadowing that they’ve done. because it’s. incredible. with that, imma get rid of my edited things and pull out some hues from the original screencap of the show.

first, we’ve got joffrey.

so as i’ve said: joffrey is expensively dressed. he’s got the thick coat just like robert’s, he’s got the gloves, and he’s got the beautiful steed that he mounted. and then there were the colours. joffrey’s whole aesthetics are elegance (black) and violence, anger, danger (red, which, now that we’re reading deeper into it, should come off as a warning, huh?) as well as the touch of yellow / gold to represent the riches.

joffrey is everything a royal lannister is, and the tv-show flaunts it.

in the meantime, here’s gendry:

like i said. he’s all rugged and rough-looking, and even his colours are portraying it. gendry’s general tone have always been with earth signs. he is the green of the tree, the brown of the mud: he is stability and home personified. because yes, he may lack the riches, but gendry has always been someone — in this case, arya, specifically, and then later jon with the whole westeros suicide squad — could depend on. 

and the best thing is? he carries the very colours of what the baratheon, i think, should be. stags in the wild: strong and intimidating creatures with its large antlers that could kill (which means they possesses a level of dangerousness that people should be aware of; in this case, gendry with his strength that the show has let us see glimpses of again and again), but they’re peaceful. they’re calamity. they’re reliable.

further scenes. feat. the hound!

it is also interesting to note that, following their first glimpse, both of the characters went on to different side of the spectrums. joffrey (if you count his encounter with sansa next as the second scene, instead of him just Smirking at sansa as the second one) shows arrogance and - him, just basically standing there, in full leisure. he is in no rush. he does not work. he’s nothing to do. joffrey, after all, is the prince.

gendry’s second scene is him reprimanding the people who are handling dragonglass to be careful. to be honest, i do admit, it’s just an establishing shot. (for non-film nor media students, it’s just a quick shot to establish or made known to the audience what we’re watching: in this case, we’re discovering that hey, the dragonglass is a lot, and it’s safely arrived and gendry, obviously, will probably smith a lot) however, it’s a shot of gendry working.

he’s worried about what’s to come, he’s seen death in the face, he knows his duty, knows why he’s brought there, and he’s taking it pretty damn seriously. you can also parallel it with how joffrey’s encounter with arya later when arya had his sword and nymeria attacked him (though it won’t be a strong parallel) but essentially: in the face of danger, joffrey slunk away. gendry got right back up (fitting, really, since he actually literally fell the last time we saw him in s7 in the snow) and started to do something about it.

(it’s also!! cool to think that joffrey’s next scene consists of him taunting the hound. while gendry’s is him aiding the hound with the axe that he asked for. even when the hound mocked him, gendry didn’t rebuke by saying anything mean before arya could interrupt them.)

tl;dr. conclusion.

joffrey is a prince, though it is funny to reflect, later, that he is undeserving of the title for his cruel and cowardly nature. and that, of course, he is illegitimate to the throne by his blood. gendry is an unrecognised bastard. in my interpretation, he doesn’t even go by waters as a last name. and yet, his character is strong and dependable. maybe not princely, no, because gendry is nothing like the diplomat sansa or tyrion is. but, i think, he represents everything a prince should be.

and that’s that.

please don’t reblog.

[royal-writer]

It’s only a nightmare

i want to wake up

-

A final squeak echoed from the last step on the spiral staircase. Essätha shivered involuntarily from the icy cold sensation it left in her bones. Her insides quivered, breathing in the musky stale odors of the home. No breeze. No fresh air to fill lungs. Only floating specks in the air, and the disturbance of loud breathing from those in front of and behind her that made the space seem too loud.

Just as the rest of the old palazzo, this area was covered in a thin layer of dust. She noted the impression of new footsteps imprinted on the long runner carpet from the party’s series of shoes and feet as they looked around the impressive room. Large in size only however; it lacked and true character aside from paintings and a chandelier that sat high in the towering architecture of the ceiling. Lowering it daily likely proved a terrible chore when people had last resided here, in order to light the many candles.

“This place gives a La Belle et La Bête vibe, don’t you think?” Adela remarked with a strained laugh.

Essätha gave a snort in answer. Fairytale rubbish; there were much better reads to be had. The only redeeming quality of the novel had been the honest and true developing quality of the prince and Beauty’s love.

“Let’s hope no Beast comes out, begging for a virgin’s love,” Penimra all but purred, earning a swift disapproving glance from the pink Tiefling.

“That’s not what he asked for,” Essie tartly informed the high elf. “He told the merchant he wished for one of his daughters to suffer in his place, and he would let him go. He had no memory that the wicked one cursed him to his beastly form; he didn’t remember the fairy changed his shape at all until he could get a beautiful virgin to consent to marry him.”

“Well he’d be in poor luck,” Pen offered in a snotty tone, placing his hands on his wide hips. “The only beauty here has been bedded so many times-”

“Disgusting,” Ravamora muttered in revulsion.

“That’s not need-to-know information,” Sulhadur muttered, although there was no sign of surprise in his expression.

“Oh dear godsss,” Essätha groaned, stepping around some of the others. “A virgin doesn’t necessarily imply to sexual experiences, Pen. It could mean simply a free woman. Typically it means unmarried, but in a broader sense, it could just refer to one who is not owned as such like property; has no boss, no lover, no leader.”

Sulking, the warlock hunched his shoulders over with a dreadful sigh. “The world screwed the virginity out of me from the start.”

“Now now, Penimra, that’s no way to talk,” Abernathy soothed, stepping over to wrap one of his thick arms around the sullen elf’s shoulders.

A pity party? Now? Releasing a frustrated noise in her hand as she smothered her face, Essätha slid past the converging mass of her companions. It was like they couldn’t enter a manor to reclaim at all without something bad happening.

Pri’cha; having lit the way with a candle in their claw for the less-fortunate visual abilities, turned their gaze upon her as she approached. Eerie light refracted on the shine of their exo-skeleton from the wick’s flame; making a cascading aura of gold seem to shine around Pelor’s little follower.

It made her a convenient beacon for Amon, who seemed just as irate as she, as he shifted his jaw and worked his gaze over the room.

“Niss Essätha? Why would a Beast-nan be cursed by a fae folk?”

“It’s only a bedtime story, Pri’cha,” Essie soothed with a crooked smile of amusement. “The prince was cursed to appear like a bipedal animal because he refused to marry a wicked fairy; an unholy wench whose care he was left in because his mother left to wage war and defend the kingdom.”

Appalled, the small bug parted their mandibles in astonishment. “The fairy caretaker tried to seduce the prince?”

She shrugged. “It’s a strange book, to say the least.”

While the cleric struggled to comprehend and unravel the deranged message in the novel, Essie turned her eyes upon the nobleman. He took to one knee, inspecting the floorboards with a critical eye.

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head, and began to rise. The bottom of his cloak swirled dust around him; covering the bottom of his clothes in smears of filth.

“No,” he stated with unease. “The only other footprints that appear to be in this room are from small creatures; mice, lizards perhaps.”

“You don’t think the manor would be booby-trapped, do you…?” she ventured, tapping her boot against a space in front of her. The floorboards squeaked quietly beneath the test of her weight.

Amon grunted. “Doubtful. If anything else resides here, though…”

“Magic booby-traps,” Pri’cha whispered in almost awed reverence, stepping between them.

They exchanged barely-restrained laughter, to the Thri-Kreen’s confused staring from one to the other.

“Are you suggesting there’s some, or do you sense something?” Essätha inquired, trying to restrain her giggling.

The bug gave a shake of their head, wiping dirt that had collected on their pristine form off. “I feel nothing,” they solemnly stated. “There appears to be no magic in this area.”

Bobbing her head with understanding, Essätha stepped forward to investigate more of the surrounding area. There was a large throw carpet in the middle of the room; a pattern that seemed to emerge into some shape she couldn’t identify beneath the dirt and smears and smudges of footprints and discoloration. Frowning, she turned her attention elsewhere.

Peering at the panels of the wall, her eyes scanned each painting. Landscapes only; the farthest being an image of the villa it appeared. She looked to the doors; three on either side. Two had been left open. The middle on the left hand side, and the furthest on the right. Each appeared to lead to a bedroom, but it was hard to see inside at current angle.

While Amon circled the rug with Pri’cha’s candle aid, Essie crept over to the closest room open on the left. Her mind tuned out the noise from behind her. Bickering indecision; novel discussion, the definition of virgin, all of it. Her tongue darted out nervously over her lips, tasting the still air and the lingering odor of damp wood in it.

It was a simple bedroom. Clearly no master room. A bed; queen sized at least, with a veil of stained curtains much of it to block out the sun. Likewise, the window was covered; thick drapery shrouding out the light and shuttering the outdoors. There was no sound of songbirds or crickets; no chirp of critters or breeze to be heard moving outside. Silence. Disturbing, uneasy silence.

She stepped closer, examining the dresser and built-in closet in the wall. A nightstand stood on either side of the bed. There appeared to be a picture frame on the floor, with shards of glass scattered by the bedside. Nothing otherwise stood out as a personal object or memento. No paintings aside from more landscapes of valleys and hills, and no trinkets or children’s toys to differentiate the tastes or age of its previous owner.

Drawn to the only available clue, Essätha slipped inside the doorway.

The room felt suffocating. A lightheadedness swam over her as she breathed in the stifling air, and sank down to her knees to pick up the frame. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. A shard of glass sank into her palm, drawing a line of red as she flipped it over.

Beneath the muffled ringing in her ears, the door slammed shut.

Oblivious, head throbbing, she turned it over to stare upon the image. A girl, young, sitting upon the lap of what one could presume to be the mother. Their hair color the same, their outfits quite similar. The child’s eyes were blank; purely white, with no iris, no pupil.

The longer she stared, the more horrifying it became. The shape of the woman appeared to erode; a sinister shape taking her image. Morphing, twisting, a skeletal shape that was not quite human.

The picture frame fell from her hands, and what glass still clung to the frame broke off to shatter loudly across the floor.

Awaken as though from a spell, Essätha sucked in a breathe and whipped her head around.

A scream tore from her throat.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Amon was the first to react; brandishing his sword as the sound of the door hurtled into the frame with enough force to shake the wall and send a wave of dust flying to the floor. His eyes jerked first to where Pri’cha was; still at his side as he’d been examining the carpet, and then to where the rest of where his colleagues stood gathered with mixes of similar confusion at the startling noise.

His heartrate; so steady even at the abrupt noise, suddenly jumped.

Where was Essätha?

Charging the door, with stunned companions a few steps behind in their sluggish shock, the nobleman grabbed for the knob and threw his weight into the door.

It did not budge. The handle did not turn. It felt cold to the touch, even wearing his leather gloves.

“Essätha?!”

His voice tore through him; raw and frantic.

A scream. An unholy scream; blood curdling and filled with terror.

His blood turned to ice.

Slamming into the door, he grunted as he threw himself bodily into the wood. Again, to no avail.

Too quiet. There was no other sound now on the other side of the door.

Another slam, gripping and twisting the knob uselessly in his hand, but still it did not budge.

He could hardly bare to breathe. The only other time he could recall that he felt this way was years ago. The strain on his chest; the paralysis that wanted to take over, the helpless feeling of panic. Fear so real and so vile it rendered him breathless and shaking. His head spinning, his muscles tense, the entire world but a casualty to his wrath in any pursuit to keep safe the soft glow of light that exuded from his heart’s fondest affection.

The last time he’d been this completely terrified is when no one knew where Marie was. They’d found her, minutes later in their search, asleep in the back of the manor having tired herself playing with the dogs outside.

He’d never been so scared. He was ready to do anything to make sure she was safe. To have some bit of information. Anything. Anything at all to know she was okay.

And that same feeling was surging up in him; a hurricane, a typhoon, an earthquake rocking his foundation and the only drive burning his lungs and bringing the hoarse cry of rage in his tight throat and keeping him focused; keeping his erratic heart from liberating from his chest, was that he had to get through that door. She had to be okay. He would get through, and he would protect her.

He had to. He had to.

Not her, too.

Not her.

Ripping out another husky battlecry, Amon lashed out at the sealing space between the door and the frame with his sword as he lunged into it once again.

The blade stuck into the wood.

“Step back, Amon,” a firm voice commanded of him. Abe’s.

Someone grabbed at him. He struggled, shaking as he was hauled back by Sulhadur’s firm grip. The dragonborn’s golden eyes were pleading, and just as frightened as his as Amon threw his elbow into the Dragonborn’s side to force his release.

“Amon-”

He ignored the red Dragonborn. His eyes darted back to the door, holding his breath as Abernathy swung his mighty axe with a sharp cry of fury.

It stuck, sending shards of wood like shrapnel flinging in every direction.

He wedged the battleaxe free, pulled it over his head, and grunted as it came forward again, smashing apart the doorhandle and with enough momentum to send the door flying open.

Nauseous with dread, Amon threw himself headlong ahead of the party; barely out of the way of the axe as he flung into the room ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her mind couldn’t even comprehend what it was seeing. One second the black figure appeared humanoid, and the next it seemed almost cat-like. Shifting down, distorting upward, it’s face almost appearing canine next. It’s form a fluid mass of inky movement; the only consistency being the shape of its empty, lifeless eye sockets.

A sphere of oozing toxin formed above her hand, and she flung the poisonous magic at the shapeless mass. The sound it made caused her skin to pimple and the hair to rise on the back of her throat. It was a mixed sound between a mournful, crying woman and a wolf’s snarl of anger and hurt.

Half-crying half-laughing, the puzzling figure pounced at her; a muzzle forming from its face.

Teeth sank into the arm she threw up to defend herself, and another wild shriek escaped her. Her legs kicked out as she struggled, drawing a shape in the air with her other hand. The invisible rune and choked hiss of words summoned a skeletal hand, which grabbed at the monster’s throat as a shag of maned brown-red fur began to coat it.

Another roll of pain staggered into her brain as the creature reared back, snarling. She sucked in a breathe; the feeling as though something was spearing her head, pain coming and going randomly, made her twitch and recoil into the nightstand. Blood seeped down her arm, and speckled from her bloody hand upon the floor and the monstrosities canine-humanoid shape.

Her brain reeled, struggling to make sense of it as the furry complexion contorted again. A memory this time. Familiar. Wrapped in happiness; in love; in a carefully stitched pattern of images.

She sought the eyes of her mother’s face. They were green, just like she remembered. But lacking; void of spirit.

The haze of white seemed to wash over them, and consume her. All she could see was white.

Then her face, staring back at her.

Part of the door came flying out; chunks of wood hitting her. Her? She saw herself, detached, flinching from the shards of oak with a hiss.

Before another strike could blow the door open, the vision massed in a shadowy black once more. Faster this time; taking the shape of something it seemed to know well. A raven.

The bird flung itself over to the window. To her shock, it broke the single-pane glass, sending glass flying outward and leaving a collection of feathers stuck to sharp edges as it took to flight.

Lightheaded, Essie’s head fell back into the short table with a thunk. She gasped raggedly for air as a figure rushed the room. Her body tensed; in a whirlwind of motion too fast for the eye, barely making out the fur mantle and dark navy in a mistake for the uneasy figure that had been there moments before.

Lord Amon turned to face her. She scrambled back further.

Real, or not real? Real, or not real?

Her eyes moved upward, searching his face.

His dark eyes were soulful; overflowing with emotion. Terror, relief, worry; they were brimming with life and affection.

Real, her mind decided with its own sigh of relief. Recognition.

“Essätha,” Amon wheezed. His voice lacked depth; hardly had sound. It was a wheeze of a man with little air left inside to utter barely a word.

She tried to sit up more; a streak of crimson left from her hand as she slipped back into her half-laying position. Not that it mattered. The moment she moved, the nobleman took a few short strides across the room, his boots crunching on broken glass until he was beside her. He went to his knees with a bit more care to the surrounding sharp slivers, immediately gathering her against his torso.

The smell of dog and old forests clung to his skin. He seemed to find the will to breathe all at once; sucking in a great force of it as he pulled her closer.

She rested her head into his chest. The sound of his pulse was like a drum in her ear.

With more careful footsteps following in from behind, she managed to peer up from over Amon’s shoulder to see the rest of the company filing in the quaint room with mixed expressions. Fear, concern, and tension in most of them. Most everyone had a weapon at the ready uneasily.

“What happened?” Sulhadur spoke up; seeming to be speaking on everyone’s behalf as they studied the peculiar scene.

Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t find her voice. Swallowing helplessly, Essie leaned into Amon, digging her fingers into the back of his cloak for stability and leaving a stained bloody print of her hand on the fabric.

Abe moved forward gingerly. He met Amon’s gaze as he reflexively tightened his hold upon her, casting a wary glance to the approaching sound before seeing the half-elf-orc. He took a few seconds to examine the wound on her arm; engraved with teethmarks, before tentatively leaning over.

As the paladin laid a hand upon her shoulder, she sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled as her skin began to stitch itself back together.

“I saw a photo laying on the floor and went to fetch it,” she struggled, her voice distant and rough. “When I did I- I saw the image change. It was like a fog came over me. I didn’t know what was happening until I dropped the picture, and turned around to see a… thing standing behind me.”

“What photo?” Abernathy mused, looking around. He spotted the image, and lifted the frame from the floor. “This photo?”

Gasping, Essie swatted at him. “Don’t look at it-”

The frame fell back to the floor. She stared at it, surprised to see a non-animated image. The only thing that was the same as before, was the unsettling empty white area in the little girl’s eyesockets.

“What’s wrong with the picture?” Adela inquired, a shudder visibly moving over her as she leaned in.

“N-Nothing. Now,” Essätha explained, leaning her cheek against the sturdy shape of Amon’s shoulder. “Earlier it- it changed. The mother figure- or older figure, whatever you want to call it- began to take on a different form. You could see her skeletal shape as her skin almost… melted-”

She shivered, going silent as Amon stroked her back comfortingly. Her eyelids fluttered, wanting nothing more than to close and rest, but fearing the horrifying images might return.

“Creepy,” Ravamora observed a bit too nonchalantly for her taste. She shot the wood elf a glaring look.

“How did you get those bite marks?” Abernathy inquired, extending a hand to place carefully against her arm. He ran his fingers over where they had previously been, before he’d healed her.

“The thing standing behind me- about where Pri’cha is now, attacked me when I turned to look at it,” she whispered. The misshappen mass seemed to materialize even in her waking mind’s eye, and her spine grew tense.

Amon stroked her back slowly once more, murmuring something in a language she didn’t understand close to her ear. She couldn’t make sense of it, but the tone was gentle and sweet.

“What did it look like?”

Considering Abernathy’s words, she struggled to convey the oddity: “At first, it looked almost human. Tall. A little bit shorter than Sul? Entirely black, like a shadow. The only identifying feature were its eyes; they were white. Just… white.”

“It almost seemed to polymorph in front of me, but into multiple things at once. At one point it seemed almost cougar, another bear-like, then mouse, then wolf. It settled on the wolfish form. A hybrid? Like a werewolf? But just as it was almost on all fours, and materializing fur, I hit it with an acid blob. It jumped back and screamed. God it was the most unsettling sound I’ve ever heard; like a sobbing woman and numerous screeching animals all at once.”

Another shudder. She took a deep breath, and continued: “Then a pounding headache came over me. It seemed like it was poking at the inside of my skull, and it… Whatever it was, it began to look like… my mother.”

The room fell uneasily silent. Somewhere in the middle of her recollection, Amon had moved to sit- very carefully- amongst the glass with her, and had settled to pull her into his lap. She wrapped her hand into his clothes, taking deep breaths of his cologne to steady her resolve. The sound of his heartbeat had lulled back to its normal pace against her eardrum once again, and the strength of his arms offered a much-needed sense of security to her frail will.

To her dismay, Abe offered her a question before she could finish. “Did the creature begin to look like anyone else you know?”

“Yes, in fact,” she murmured in a dry, cracked voice. “It… took the shape of me. The door then- it shuddered and exploded bits over the room, and the thing turned once more, into a raven before breaking out of the window, right over there.”

She pointed to where the curtains had been displaced, and the foggy unclean glass sprayed out on the windowsill and outside.

Torm’s devote follower grunted with displeasure.

“I hate to say it, but it sounds like you’ve encountered a skin-changer, Essätha.”

A tense pause. “A what?”

“Skin-changer,” Abernathy offered once more. “Cursed people; they are not like were-beasts or other polymorphers. Nor are they like druids. Little is actually known about them, but Skin-changers are said to be once magic-weilding folk who used their magic in perverse and disturbing rituals.”

“Because of this, or perhaps on purpose, these people were changed. They no longer have a permanent form, and instead obtain the ability to change into other creatures at will. However, they can not take the form of an embodiment unless they have seen it.”

“If it changed into the shape of someone you knew, then whatever it was must have an ability to look into a person’s mind; an unproven theory until now,” Abernathy explained, uncomfortably adding on, “If… it has changed into you, Essätha, we need all be alert. There are tales of Skin-changer’s taking the place of the living whose form they can take. Some stories say if you look into the eyes of a Skin-changer, it steals a portion of your soul to aid in its transformations.”

A chill ran over her like an ice bath. Her lungs forgot how to function entirely.

“Abe,” Sul rumbled nervously, gazing over her pale features.

The paladin seemed to realized his error, and cleared his throat. “You’ve nothing to fear, Essätha. We’ll keep an eye on you to make sure nothing tries to replace you with any of us unaware and unguarded.”

That didn’t make her feel any better.

“There’s some blood and feathers still stuck on the window,” Ravamora chimed in. “Maybe we could check it out and use it to track the Skin-changer, somehow?”

“Good idea!” Abernathy agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up to his feet once again.

Essätha could hardly pay them a piece of her concentration. Her soul? That thing could have a piece of her soul?

She pressed her face into Amon’s chest, trembling all over as she breathed in his jerkin in quick little bursts. On the edge. Flickers of the creature; something that clearly should not be, clawing at the back of her mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her form shook, nestled into his ribs and pressing closer like she wanted to climb inside him.

Amon was fine with the idea. He already held close her secrets, her fears, her softness. Swaddled them close, kept them gently near the fire beneath his breast in the beating of his heart. Let them be warmed, there. Let the light keep her fears away, there.

As the spread of the group began to disperse to thoroughly inspect the room, brought a hand to his face. Teeth dug into the leather of his glove, and he tore it off to toss it aside. His hand smothered down her backside as he repeated the gesture with the other, pulling her into his chest even more. One hand to cradle her back, the other to stroke her hair, and push the loose strands tenderly behind her ears with care.

A hiccup of breath pressed into his clothes, and Essie struggled to get closer, check shaking. Her fingers pawed at his coat.

“Hey,” he breathed in a hush, reaching down to take her hands. “Take a deep breathe. Hold it four seconds. Let it out, slowly.”

While he rearranged her position so she could sink into him, her arms placed around his shoulders so she could wrap them around his neck, the stuffy rasp of her breathing poured against him. Her breathing choked with tears she withheld, resting her face into his chest.

After the fourteenth-or-so deep breath, she finally spoke in a small, timid voice: “I want to leave.”

“Of course-”

“Stay with me,” Essätha wheezed against him, burying herself into him. “Please. I need you.”

The nobleman felt a stirring flutter deep in his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered close, caressing her back. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Another choked sound; a broken sob breaking through, and she slumped into the cradling of his arms. Completely vulnerable, shattered, and trusting.

He spoke low in her ear. The words of elvish had such relaxing tones. She may not understand the sweet nothings he promised her; his sword, his shield, his protection, his heart and all his love, but the soothing depth and meaning seem to bring her a sense of calm. Her crying was quickly turned to merely weak snivels in no time. He cared for neither sound; each made his heart hurt in the worst way, but it was an improvement to soul-crushing weeping or the scream he could not shake from his thoughts.

Abernathy approached once again from around the bed.

“We are going to check the other rooms-”

Arms tightened around his neck.

“I’m taking Essätha outside,” Amon reported shortly. He’d had enough of his mad-house, and the poor woman crumbled against him had surely seen enough for the day.

The orcish-elf did not argue, but solemnly nodded with understanding. “We’ll join you shortly.”

Sighing as the paladin turned away to address the others, Amon slipped his legs carefully in. He could feel the tension rise in Essie’s spine once again as she clutched for him; like he was but an apparition, and would vanish if she did not hold too tight with all her might.

“It’s okay,” he comforted her softly. “I’m not letting go of you.”

A muted, wavering sigh pressed into his collarbone. He could only make out a single ‘M’lord’ in whatever she suppressed to say into his clothes, but even just one word from her sweet voice melted any doubt and further strengthened his resolve.

Resting her weight carefully against himself, Amon slipped a hand against her rear for support, and stood. His neck hurt for a moment as she hung for a moment; a dead weight, before he could drag her closer and she looped her legs around his hips for purchase.

Stepping out of the ghastly haunted room, the nobleman murmured endearing affections into her hair, pressing a kiss against the curly waves of black before turning the opposite direction of their peers to head down the stairs.

The grateful shape of her lips trailed his collarbone as she sighed, going placidly lax in his arms.

He wore the most awed smile of devotion a man could ever have, taking one slow step at a time, as they left the wash of the ugly moment behind.

He would keep her safe. No demonized fiend would take her beautiful soul, now or ever.

Not her.

Not his beautiful Essätha.

[thegildedlady]

Let Me In

As she rode back to camp under the cover of night, Ciaragan felt the cold wind and increasing snowfall chap her face raw. Damn this weather, she thought. Who would ever choose to live somewhere it snows? She cracked the reins of her horse to go faster, galloping at high speeds already. It was going to be a stretch to make it back to the main encampment by daybreak, but she had to see him. Her brother had written to her, and that was enough to make her slip away unseen, if only for a little while. She rode for hours and even crossed the small stretch of water separating them just to see him for a moment. Each of them had cried out, in their own ways, for the other. War could wait, in her mind. Nothing would ever keep her from her twin when he needed her. 

The air at night had always been cool in Quel’Thalas, but this was almost freezing. Her heavy woolen cloak billowed in the wind, puffing out at the sides and chilling her to the bone. She rode faster. There was no safety in stopping. Alone, in the dark, she feared she may be spotted by some unsavory character. If anyone found out she had left camp, oh Light she’d be in trouble. She had seen how the Archon ripped apart those who followed Captain Firestorm to their doom, and did not ever want to be on the receiving end of such a lecture. Her horse panted hot breath into the night, trying hard to match the speed she demanded of it. This was no time to rest.

Suddenly, a light appeared on the road. She barreled towards a small band of people, who turned just seconds before seeing her pull on the reins hard, her horse bucking at the abrupt stop. The dust of the path swirled in clouds around them as the Bishop tried to calm the animal. The group had backed up, not wanting to be near it.

“Are you insane?! You nearly ran us over!” Said a man holding a lantern.

Ciaragan looked over the motley crew before her. Refugees, by the looks of them. Two men and a woman, bundled in layers of clothing with weapons at their hips. They wore no tabards, so their affiliation was uncertain. Still, the green glow of their eyes relaxed Ciaragan a bit, sure that they were at least her countrymen.

“I’m sorry,” She huffed from atop her horse. “Are you alright?”

“Barely. You could have killed us, you know that?”

“Perhaps do not walk in the middle of the road, then.”

“Uppity bitch! You nobles think you can treat us common folk however you want, huh?”

“I am not a noble, and you,” She narrowed her eyes at the speaker, “had best watch your tongue.”

The three travelers had begun to circle her now. Weapons were not drawn, but Ciaragan knew a bad situation when she saw one. She gripped the reins tightly.

The woman among the group spoke up. “What’cha got in those bags, lady?”

“Nothing that interests you, I’m afraid.”

The other man scoffed. “Oh yeah? Don’t wanna help us out after you nearly trampled us to death?”

“Stand back or I will not miss this time.”

She felt a hand grab her arm from the side, trying to pull her off the horse. It spooked and ran out from under her into the trees, leaving her to fall on the ground with a hard thud. One of them still had a hold of her, though she tried to jerk away.

“Let go of me!”

“Not a chance, bitch. Search her! Let’s see what you’ve got in those pockets.”

As the man with the lantern approached her, Ciaragan kicked hard and landed her foot square in his face. He reeled back, dropping the light source and letting the forest go dark around them. 

“Why you...”

She heard the unmistakable shing of a blade being drawn, and knew it was time to act fast. Twisting her arm around to grab the man by his shirt, she let loose a blast of holy fire, burning down through layers of skin on contact. He screamed and threw her to the dirt, clutching his chest in pain.

The female bandit charged her, landing a solid kick in the Bishop’s ribcage and jumping on her back as she lay out of breath. She dug her knee into Ciaragan’s spine and pulled her up by the hair, a blade to her throat.

“You should have just gave us what we wanted, stupid bitch. Now your pretty white dress is gonna go red.”

Ciaragan struggled, but her hands were pinned underneath her own body. She thought about crying out for help, but she knew no one would hear her before the blade met her flesh. She watched her own breath come out in a soft, nearly opaque cloud. Time seemed to slow down.

Kill them.

She heard the voice clearly, and knew its origin. 

“How?”

You know how.

“I can’t.”

Yes you can. You are weak. Harness Our strength.

“I won’t.”

Then die.

Ciaragan felt the pierce of metal on flesh. She had to do something.

Tilting her head back even more, she locked eyes with her assailant. She felt herself reach into the bandit’s mind. She unleashed a sear of pain, agony, and unimaginable horror. Black flames licked at the corners of her mind. She showed her a maw of a million teeth, each row sharper than the next. A scream flew from Ciaragan’s mind to hers, ringing louder and louder as it bounced off the walls of her skull. The woman’s eyes welled with tears, but she could not look away. How much time had passed? Neither of them knew. They just stared at each other- the torment occurring unseen by the two onlookers.

“Machelial... what are you doing? Just kill the bitch!”

The woman’s shaking hand finally released, the blade clattering to the ground. She pushed off of Ciaragan and backed away, then turned to run as fast as her legs would carry her into the woods. Ciaragan reached up, touching two fingers gently to where the blade had nicked her throat and pulled back droplets of blood.

The remaining bandits watched as their companion fled for her life, one still clutching his chest and the other hesitating before drawing his own sword. “What did you do to her?” He stepped forward and lifted the Bishop up by her neck.

Ciaragan smiled an ungodly grin.

“Do you really want to know?”

Her hands flew up and grabbed either side of the man’s head. Shadows poured from her palms and engulfed his face, forcing into his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. He was choking on them, drowning from the inside. Ciaragan could feel herself getting stronger, feeding off his terror. She laughed in his face as he died. That laugh became louder, and louder, and more uncontrolled until she was just screaming at him, draining his essence. When he was gone she released him and let his body crumple in a heap on the earth. She gently floated down, her feet barely touching the ground. She turned for the other, but he was already running away. She chased after him.

He didn’t run fast enough.

Machelial sat with her hand over her own mouth, hidden behind the trunk of a great tree. She dared not let out even a whimper, though the fear that still wracked her mind made that difficult. She prayed, for the first time in forever, to anything that would listen so she might make it out of here alive. She had heard Farnus’s screams from the road, and knew he was dead. She would be next, she just knew it. Light, Belore, Elune, anyone. Please-

A branch snapped underfoot. Machelial’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, but she saw no one. Her eyes squinted in the darkness, trying to make out a figure that was not there. Her heart could have burst right out of her chest.

Cold breath hit the back of her neck.

“Found you.”

Her screams cleared the birds from the trees and echoed into the dark night, but no one heard them. And no one would, ever again.

Ciaragan climbed back onto her recovered horse, shushing it lightly to calm the beast. She started back on the road at a steady gallop, only the rushing wind and clops of hooves to keep her company. Her mind was blank.

That was fun, wasn’t it?

“Leave me alone.”

Admit it. You liked it.

“Be quiet.”

The sky was gray now, with daybreak just below the horizon. She saw the glow of camp ahead, soldiers rising from their beds to begin another day of war. She felt an unnatural stillness encircling her. The guilt she may have once felt for what she had done nowhere to be found. It had been replaced by a hunger for power that was all too familiar to the Bael’Nar name. Something had changed within her, but that change would remain hidden deep underneath a hard mask. No one had to know about the night she had. About deserting to see her brother. About being stopped on the road. About what she did to those poor bastards.

But she knew, and that was enough. She knew more than ever before.

@pyrar for mention, a response to the rp we had tonight

[joemuggs]

PERCEPTION OF DOORS

Was reminded by a conversation yesterday about the art of the club door person, and dug this out, which I wrote for the Amsterdam Dance Event annual back in 2014. 

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If you want a clear view of how clubland operates, why not ask its guardians? The men and women who stand at the doors – whether to take money, pick and choose who gets in, or act as enforcers of rules – are the first and last people clubbers will see in their night out, and are uniquely placed to assess what makes the clubbers themselves tick. They are the interface between club, clubber and promoter, and able to provide a (more-or-less) sober overview of what goes on. But frequently, too, they are the filter: they are the one person more than anyone whom by their choices, defines the nature of the crowd on a given night. As such, they are not just list-tickers, cash-till operators or hired muscle, but are a vital cog in the club's cultural machine, a part of the club's personality. And plenty of them are as big a music lovers as the promoters or DJs too. So from London to New York, Glasgow to Pretoria to L.A., we present the past, present and future of these essential sentinels and unsung heroes of the night.

BIG FRANK

Big Frank, aka Faafaga Samuelu, is a true Los Angeles legend. The imposing Samoan-American was a school friend of underground hip hop DJ/producer Kevin “Daddy Kev” Moo, and they threw parties together from Junior High onwards (“I was the muscle, he was the brain,” laughs Frank; “a perfect combination”). But Frank was also a hardcore gangbanger in his late 1980s / early 90s adolescence: “I remember him showing me a sawed-off shotgun in 8th grade while we were riding the bus to school,” says Kev, nonchalantly. Frank served serious jail time in the late 90s, but when he came out, Kev was there, happy to team up again.

Kev founded the legendary Low End Theory – hub of the psychedelic, electronic “L.A. beat scene” that spawned artists like Flying Lotus, Gaslamp Killer and co – in 2006, but by 2011 it had become so popular, hosting the likes of Thom York and Erykah Badu, that their host venue's bouncers were shaking down clubbers for bribes to get in. This was the moment when Frank's demeanour, reputation and willingness to turn up with an AR-15 assault rifle came into their own, and perhaps unsurprisingly the previous security stepped aside without any trouble to make way for him to take over on LET's Wednesday nights.

Since then, LET's reputation as a friendly spot has only grown. “Being the familiar face of the club,” says Frank, “is great fun and oftentimes just lots of funny. And if you're coming to us, you'll be more comfortable if you feel like you know the guy at the door – and a cool farewell at the end of the night helps as well!” Now in his 40s, he is happy to be a cool head, mainly in the background: “I have different reasons for being in the scene still,” he says; “What's still there is the love for music, but now my desire to be in the crowd is gone. The times of getting fucked up and bumping rap at a back yard party is long gone. What makes me happy, though, is the presence of the forty-somethings and even older folks that attend our club. It helps me feel like our push to progress the music is appreciated. As if all this time in the scene produced something that my generation can be proud of – not just slangin' and gang bangin'.”

JR

In South Africa, house music means more to people than almost anywhere else on earth. And Tebogo “JR” Modiba knows this more than most – his laid-back House 22 parties in Pretoria are an oasis of sophistication and unity in a society still riven with violence and harsh divisions. He ended up working the door there by default: “House 22 started an purely by-invite-only underground deep house joint,” he explains; “so as the founder, I had to work the door in order to overlook the invitations myself. Over time, we have opened up to the general public, but we still keep a close eye on disruptive elements who might not understand and appreciate the underground deep house culture.”

Like all the best doormen, though, he's not just there to filter people out. “The door is the most important part of the business,” he insists. “That's where punters, especially first timers, should start experiencing what the atmosphere of the club is like. All of that depends on how the doorman welcomes them and treat them.” In fact, his biggest problems are cops (“those fellas have serious anger issues, especially when they see people having fun while they are working – and they're the biggest tax collectors too, [taking money] to allow you to operate without interrupting your business with constant inspections, or to protect your patrons from being harassed”) and the weather. One time the mainly-outdoor House 22 venue was hit by tennis ball-sized hailstones, causing a near stampede for cover, which JR was able to only just keep from becoming mass panic.

All his efforts lead to a club where passion for music rules – and so it should, when JR's own love for house still drives everything. At the drop of a hat, he will reel off favourite DJs' names– Vinny Da Vinci, Christos, Glen Lewis, Jimpster, Atjazz, Ralf Gum, Andre Lodemann, Andy Compton & The Rurals, Lars Behrenroth, and Louie Vega – and those of beloved festivals that inspire him like Sónar, ADE and Southport Weekender. And you just know there's no bullshit when he says: “I don't think I am ready to live without my house music, the club life and the people I have met and we became one house music family. Not any time soon.”

JAY CLOTH

London gay scene institution Duckie is more than just a club – as “Purveyors of Progressive Working Class Entertainment”, its team have created a multi-headed beast with art events, talks and exhibitions worldwide. But Duckie's soul resides in its bacchanals every Saturday night at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, still presided over by the same team that founded it 19 years ago: producer Simon Casson, radically eclectic DJ duo The London Readers Wifes, compere Amy Lamé and “box office artistes” Father Cloth and Jay Cloth. Jay is extraordinarily proud to be on the door - “Duckie is unlike any other London Club and IS gay culture to me,” he says, though cites inspiration from a motley lineage of misfit clubs past like The Bell, Marvellous, Daisy Chain, Lippy and anything involving cabaret monster David Hoyle (née The Divine David).

“I am very proud that Duckie is a very friendly club,” says Jay, “and the team of 'Cloths' that work the door set the tone by being as welcoming as possible to all.” As anyone who's been to the club knows, though, they may be welcoming, but you have to step up to the mark and contribute to the wild energy. Jay will turn away “stag and hen parties, anyone too obviously drunk, too obviously high, anyone rude, anyone wearing fur” and only welcome celebrity guests “as long as they are willing to pay the same as everyone else – we are very egalitarian.” “What makes me really happy,” he says, “is when the mix of people is so extreme I wouldn't want to be anywhere else on earth.” His only fear is that “around 1am some nights when the Wifes announce they are about to play their favourite record of all time, I worry the floor might give in!”

ANGELO FABARA

Anyone who thinks that garish clubwear and superstar DJ culture started with EDM should look back to early 90s New York – which truly was the best of times, and the worst of times. Clubbing was a performance then, with the self-proclaimed Club Kids creating atmospheres so decadent and sights so eye-popping that it could feel like the last days of Rome. The Limelight was the heart of all of this, and bringing some kind of order to the chaos was Angelo Fabara. Angelo was an out-of-towner, drawn as a teenager to NYC's clubs like moth to flame by the “idea of community foremost, but then the escapism it offers to young people to safely experiment with.”

He was soon part of that community. In high school he went to the Limelight every weekend, but after getting into NYU, this quickly switched to going nightly. As a face on the scene, he says, “eventually was asked to promote some nights which led to my being hired as a junior door / guestlist person under the guidance of the more veteran door people at the Limelight. I worked there for about a year and a half after which I worked at Twilo for another year at the height of rave / club music coming to NYC.” New York can be a scary city, and Angelo had to learn fast how to turn away the crazies who might later follow or lay in wait for someone who had offended them: “I worked out I needed to give them a bigger reason they couldn't come in,” he says, “like 'the venue's at capacity', rather than quipping slights at their character which I may have done when I first started.”

As a doorman, though, he didn't just have to keep the badasses out: he had to help create atmosphere. “I let in anyone I knew was a great dancer,” he says, “or had a great look: people who made the dancefloor flourish or were nice eye candy. You also had to educate people who came to the clubs to make an effort because everyone else was taking the time to look impeccably chic or coming up with a look that just added to the design and visual language of the scene at that time. If you were a suit, I wouldn't let you in, if you came as a group of guys I wouldn't let you in, if you didn't look the part you would have a harder time at the door. Much later in life, I compare it to Walt Disney who always started his stories off by making his characters literally step through a door into a fantasy world, transported to another place. I wanted to be that person that showed you through that door.”

The scene famously turned bad. “A lot of people died from drugs,” recalls Angelo sadly. “Heroin became big in the 90s, and Michael Alig murdered his club kid friend Angel, which ended the reign of Peter Gatien's clubs like USA, Palladium, Limelight, Tunnel which were the best clubs in NYC history, places with a creativity you just don't see nowadays.” Angelo stepped away from the scene, moving into culture reporting with Microsoft's 'Sidewalk' site – but he never lost his love for what had first inspired him as a kid. “I still think about how easily I made friends on the dancefloor and how so many of us are still friends today 22 years later.”

BOB WONG

Glasgow is one of the most beloved, yet notorious, clubbing centres of the world, known for the utter lunacy, in both the good and bad senses, of its crowds. So it's nice to know that its scene has a calm centre in the affable and unflappable Bob Wong, the head of security (“I prefer 'doorman' or 'steward' but that confuses people, so I usually end up saying 'bouncer',” he laughs) at the Glasgow School Of Art – a venue that has hosted everything from the most manaical techno to the heaviest dub to avant garde noise events.

Bob is a true lover of and participant in Glasgow's underground scene – indeed, in researching this article, his was the first name mentioned by every Glaswegian we spoke to. “Scots know how to party!” he says simply as explanation of why he loves the scene. “You can't beat seeing likeminded people – people of all ages, race, colour, sexuality, social background etc etc etc – switch off from their daily grind of the working week and completely lose themselves, intoxicated with their poison of choice, in the music they love and really go for it on the dancefloor.”

This no-nonsense attitude and affection for the crowds runs through everything he does. “I, and the rest of my team are there to ensure the punters have a great night, and more importantly a safe one: safe from themselves and each other when they inevitably get carried away.” And to do this he insists on a friendly culture: “I hated working with macho 'bouncers',” he continues, “who could only brag about how many fights they'd won or how many girls they've slept with – so when I finally became head steward, I made a point of having only people with a similar mindset to mine on the team, and it makes a difference to everyone.”

Has he ever been scared, surrounded by punters when they “inevitably get carried away”? “You're probably expecting a mad story here,” he smiles, “about some kinda riot or a scenario where I've been stabbed or shot at – but no... if I ever get into a situation where I'm in a fight where my life is being seriously threatened then I can honestly say I'll have failed at my job. My scariest moments have to be the occasions where drunken punters have thought it was a great idea to slide down the banister of the stairs from the cloakroom on the top floor of the Artschool – a 4 level building – and have fallen over the edge and down between the flights of stairs... Thankfully no-one ever fell past the next floor but, all the same, hearing the thud and seeing them hit the floor you automatically assume the worst when they go limp and unresponsive! Thankfully and surprisingly there have never been any fatalities in my time (don't jinx it Bob haha!), just a few fractured vertebrae...”

[megsironthrone]

The Storm Rages Again

Anonymous asked: Is there any chance that you’d be able to write a part 3 to storm’s end when brienne finds her- and she & sandor fight like in the show and he’s fatally injured :(

Part 3/5 of “The Wolf’s Storm”, “Storm’s End”

Warnings: Violence, angst

Pairings/Characters: Sandor Clegane x fem!Stark, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne

You heard their voices before you saw them.  Two distinct voices and you thought you recognized one of them. You fought the urge to hide as Sandor appeared next to you. The moment you saw him, you immediately relaxed a little. The owners of the two voices came up the hill and you recognized Podrick Payne, Tyrion Lannister’s squire. “It’s Sandor Clegane. The Hound,” he said simply causing the tall blond knight to look at you.

               "Then you are Y/N Stark.“ Sandor tightened his grip on his sword. He was certainly not going to let this woman get to you. You gave the back of his arm a gentle pat. "And who are you?” you asked curtly. You didn’t trust this woman. “Brienne of Tarth. I made a vow to your mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, that I would protect you and your sisters.” You moved a little closer to Sandor, but he started walking toward Brienne. “You’re paid by the Lannisters. Tell me that sword isn’t Lannister gold,” he indicated to the golden hilt of Brienne’s sword.

               "I am not paid by the Lannisters. I am only to escort Lady Y/N and her sisters to safety.“ You stepped forward as Sandor began telling Brienne that there was no safety for a Stark in Westeros. "Where is Sansa?” you asked her suddenly. Brienne’s face fell. “I do not know, my lady. She escaped King’s Landing in the chaos following Joffrey’s death.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Then Sandor is right. There is no safety for me. My aunt has decided that I am not suited to be in her presence and my only other family is up at the Wall and I am NOT going there,” you told her, leaving no room for argument.

               "Lady Y/N, I must insist you come with me,“ Brienne told you, but Sandor would have none of it. He was going to fight for you if it came to that."There is no safety and if you don’t know that by now, then you’re the wrong person to watch over her,” he said. She looked between the two of you and she smirked. “Is that what you’re doing? Looking after her?” You narrowed your eyes at her and before you registered what was happening, both warriors had swords drawn and Podrick was attempting to keep you out of the fight.

               "You do realize that I am not leaving with the two of you, don’t you Podrick?“ you said as you tried to get around  him yet again. You had to make sure Sandor was alright. "My lady, it would not be wise for you to stay with the Hound,” Podrick tried reasoning with you. “First of all, his name is Sandor! Second, I am so tired of everyone telling me what is wise and what isn’t. I have my reasons for staying with him.” He stood there with his mouth hanging open giving you a chance to get around him and back to where Sandor and Brienne were fighting.

               You hid behind a rock so Podrick wouldn’t see you. You bit your lip as you watched Sandor and Brienne wrestling. The fight seemed to go on forever. In a barrage of kicks, punches and head butts, Brienne somehow managed to get a hold of a rock. You stifled your screams behind your hand as you watched her hit Sandor over and over again with the rock, each move bringing them closer to the edge of the cliff. With one final hit, Sandor fell and rolled to the bottom. You bit down hard enough on your lip to draw blood.

               You desperately wanted to run to Sandor, but you didn’t want to risk being seen by Brienne and Podrick so you stayed still until they moved on. Their cries of your name echoed off the cliffs as you slowly inched your way down to where Sandor was lying almost motionless. Every visible inch of skin was covered in blood and you let out a sob at the sight. “Sandor,” your voice was barely above a whisper. His breathing was ragged and harsh. You got on your knees next to him. “Oh, Sandor.”

               He saw the tears on your face and scoffed before letting out a cough. “Don’t waste your tears, lass. I’m not worth cryin’ over.” That merely made you cry harder. “Sandor, you idiot! Can’t you see that I’m in love with you!” You stopped and blinked, unable to believe that you’d actually said it out loud. “What did ya say?” he rasped out, his voice getting lower with each word. “I said that I love you, Sandor Clegane.”

               "Ya don’t love me, woman. There’s other folks out there that would be dumb enough to love ya and be good ta ya,“ he told you as you shook your head. Sandor knew what he was saying was the truth, but it hurt him to say it. There was no denying that he had feelings for you, but it seemed pointless now. He was dying and he knew it. "You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.” You were checking to see if there were any injuries that you could stop the blood flowing from. As you went to place your hands on a wound, Sandor grabbed your wrist.

               "Just leave it and stop the sniveling,“ he growled out. You gave a little laugh and a sniffle. "I can’t help it. I’m weak, remember?” He wheezed once more and your tears started again. “Dammit, Sandor you can’t do this!” you yelled as you threw your body over his, sobbing uncontrollably. “Didn’t I tell ya ta stop that? Can’t believe I am so… fond of such a crybaby.” You looked up at him with a small smile. “I love you too and you are NOT allowed to die on me. ”

(Scene originally from episode 4.10)

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