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rise-my-angel · 6 months

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Heart of the Great Wolf

Shadows of their Hatred

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn)

Length: 7.5k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, child illness, scars and deformities, mentions of miscarriage, discussions of menstruation, insecurities, mild disturbing imagery

Notes: Takes place congruently to the second story section of Scattered Memories of the Starks, but does not require that one to be read to understand this as that section is from Jons separate pov. This is just a little detour flashback in the readers life which sparked my interest to write. Adjacent Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

It was already set in stone, there was no other way to put it you knew. The raven which came had laid out what it was he was coming for and without a shadow of a doubt your father was never going to debate or refuse such a decision. Laying it all out for you to hear when he pulled you into the room of the painted table alone, what was going to happen and if you were honest, you were a little proud of yourself for surprising him.

You did not debate or argue either, you understood why he was choosing this. There was no shying away that your mother in particular had struggled with your attitude for some time now. Arguably of course your septa had struggled with it the most, but you had long since ceased to care about combating with her verbally. Your father on the other hand?

Only a fool would pick a fight with Stannis Baratheon, and you were not that fool. Instead here you stood in front of the mirror on your cabinet trying to debate what kind of acceptable did your dress look. Face scrunching up once more you almost turned right around and tossed it back onto your bed before choosing another.

Sighing deeply, you wished you had just one person here who would be able to tell you if you were overthinking it. Your mother would simply tell you to stop fussing and get moving already, the only other one who would be around to say anything was Allard but you would not trust him with such a thing, he would mislead you for his own amusement you knew.

It shouldn't matter this much to you, but it was not just King Robert coming, it was the Queen too. And you were supposed to be making a good impression on the Queen your father said.

By the time you stood out by the back gate entrance to the castle, you were busy adjusting the wrappings around Shireen as your mother kept her wrapped to her front. The greyscale had stayed on the side of her face it effected and it seemed it would always be part of her. Somewhat covering her more over the head, you instead now of worrying what you looked like, you worried a new thing.

Would they judge Shireen for it? Think her contagious or ill? Part of the company was your own blood, surely they had mercy which some may not otherwise. The stern voice of your father was what finally turned your fussing away from her and towards him leaving the castle doors with a call of your name. “Tonight is important for you. First impressions with the Queen can only be done once, so you will be putting your best behaviour on tonight.”

Nodding dutifully, you moved swiftly to stand beside him, your mother and Shireen on his other. Your voice low but ridding itself of the temptation to say something clever. “You have my word, father.”

Quick on the draw he was, flatly retorting back, “Your word will mean something only after you've proven you can tuck away the attitude for a single night.” Your head whipped up to the side with a glare narrowing on your face when he met it right back with a raised eyebrow. Well, didn't your father always seem one step ahead of you.

Huffing out dramatically only for him to hear, you spoke back just as dry. “Don't invite Renly here next time then.”

Your father did not reply, you having him on such a comment that time. All of you standing still and calm as the sounds of approaching horses begun to fill the air. You had not seen your King Uncle since you were a very young girl, from what you remembered he was far closer to Renly then he was Stannis in demeanour. Meaning the good behaviour wished of you by your father no doubt would be tempted by your uncles with joy. If only to irk Stannis specifically from his brothers.

Horsemen came riding through the gates, the sigils flying high in the hands of men carrying them showed the both similarities and yet the great differences between the two Houses. First your eye caught was a deep red. The golden lion attached standing on its hind legs as it looked to roar as imposing as it could be. But on the side much more eye catching was the same which flew high in the winds of you home.

The same sigil which had taken over that of the three headed dragon occupying this island for hundreds of years. You recalled little of the days when the Targaryean sigil was still all over your home, but much of its memory was stained behind what could not be hidden. Yet the grimness it was felt did not match the golden yellow of the Baratheons. A crown atop the sigil and too on its hind legs was perched a stag. The magnitude showing off its size despite the animal it was. A trick, the mighty fury of the Baratheons stronger then the image such a stag could look in comparison to the lion.

Those riding in after all in order had your sharp eyes watching close just as your father did beside you. The white cloaks came in after, blowing in the wind it rose against attached to golden armour. Drenched in a luxury unlike anything the men of your own household guard wore. Behind the helms you could not identify either of the two men riding first in through the gate, but one still had your eyes narrowing.

Looking without blinking, whomever it was behind the helm had found something interesting in your standing presence. By the time you looked away, they had yet to stop their unnerving stare. The carriage following was not often used here. Your mother not often making her way into the villages on the other side of the darker woods between here and there, but you, your father and others would always ride horses rather then be ferried as such.

No doubt you thought, the Queen and Prince would be inside. If the stories boasted about the beauty of the Queen, Cersei Lannister spoke even half truth, such a carriage was no doubt abysmal to the sort of fine craftsmanship which Lannister gold could provide to match. But it was what was here, and it too, had been repainted and re carved to rid itself of the black and the three headed dragons all over it.

The next you recognized, was one you had seen not terribly long ago. The past few years you felt as if you spent more time on ships then in one place. On a ship to visit Storms End when winter had hit, and you needed to wait until the storms blew over to return home. Three moons that took, and you were on a ship home. Then three moons after that when it was over, you were one more on another ship to White Harbour. Half a year you were in the North before parting early to once again, get on a ship to make it home in time to see your sister born. Now you were about to get on a ship again, it never ended your travels did.

But it was in Storms End which you spent those three months enjoying your time with the youngest of the Baratheon brothers. Renly was only eight years older then you, and treated you far more like a brother does a sister then an uncle does a niece. He was the easiest to know of them, but your nerves of putting a good face on had diminished your ability to return his easy nod of greeting to you.

Finally clearing the way, there he was. Two Kingsguard beside him, riding up and all in the company suddenly felt the air turn as serious as ever. Your father, always a man of duty and respect kneeled first, then you as all the rest followed afterwards. The sound of wind blowing and footsteps the only thing in your senses other then the ground before you. Dark boots appearing to your fathers front and a hand beckoning all to stand.

He looked different then you remembered. King Robert. A girl of three when you met him first, but he was as tall, and lean and feirce as you thought a King should be. You had understood why the songs sung such fury for his strength and power in those days but that did not quite match the man who stood before you now. Larger, but not in a good way. As if the nine years had taken their tole and not quite a warrior stood before you.

The green eyes below the scowl which matched his brother in front of him, matching the brother behind him, and matching you short and small beside all so vividly sharing the same blood there was no denying the relation, size not withstanding. But in that tense quiet, your father would always wait for him to be spoken to first in such a scenario.

The King looked from him, around to others, then to you with that same scowl and a question following a small tilt of his head. Turning back to your father, his voice was just as you recalled at least. Powerful and coming deep from the gut nodding towards you. “You teaching her how to forget what smiling is, or what?”

Your father did not laugh, but was well aware that the longer the silence went on the more your smirk threatened to break. The King raising an eyebrow at you only for a grin to break out, managing to at least hide the laugh. He though, did it for you. Laughing mighty and loud as he spared no more time, calling your name fondly and enveloping you in a hug as you replied with your own matching warmth. “Your grace.”

A hand patting his brother on the arm before your mother gave a polite curtsy as yours. Leaning more to see your sister, once more with a held back breath did all wait for what would be said. Asking with a calmness, “And what name did we give the new little one here?” Your mother answering with something held back almost in worry you detected, that it was Shireen. Robert though, reached out running a gloved hand over the top of her head. “More than glad to see she pulled through.”

If you could've let out a bigger exhale of relief, your lungs would've left with it.

Descending the steps of the carriage, hand holding a small blonde haired boy did you finally see her for the first time. In truth, it was intimidating already. All knew you were to impress the Queen tonight and you did not see how a girl like you could do that. Her hair was as long as yours, but the same matching blonde of her son. Her dress rich and vibrant, even with the bump of a baby underneath did she look as if she got up in the morning this beautiful.

Coming to her husbands side did the greetings match the same. A bow and kiss on the hand she offered your father as you and your mother both curtsied to follow. Her eyes spent little time on your mother and sister, instead flickering to you. In the corner of your vision, one of the Kingsguard removed his helm, and you realized the eyes watching you before just as she did now. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Queens twin brother watched you as curious as she did before parting ways.

The only relief coming when Renly had approached you as crowds begun to dissipate in preparation for the evening to come. Much like Robert, Renly gave an easy hug all the same but with far more energy. Nearly crouching down to your eye level he smiled, “And here I thought I wouldn't need to bend to see you so much. Tell me my dear niece, have you grown a single inch since I last saw you?”

Your scowl towards him only made him laugh as he stood tall again. Turning you in place and pushing you further into the courtyard towards the castle as he looked up and around. “I should've brought you to Storm's End more often had I known this was where Stannis was locking you up in.”

Quick on the tongue your politeness had left with ease. “I'm not locked in here, Renly.”

He gave a jesting look of doubt to you, as he motioned to someone behind you as he spoke. “No? So if I go see your chambers now, it won't look like your stuck in a dungeon?” Yes it was dark and grim, but so was your chambers in Winterfell. You saw nothing wrong with the rooms you lived in. Trying to turn though to see what he was motioning to, Renly kept you looking forward with a playful disapproval. “Now, now, don't spoil the surprise just yet.”

Head jolting back a bit you asked, “What surprise?”

Somewhat ignoring you, Renly instead changed questions. “Is there someone who can escort my friends here to your chambers, before it gets ruined out here?” Your head tilted before nodded. Turing to your right, you shouted a little bit to where you could see him speaking to Matthos.

“Allard,” Crossing the way, he came up easily as he gave a small bow to Renly as you continued. “Could you show..whoever my Uncle is hiding behind me to my room?”

“At once little lady. Come, lads. It's a needlessly complicated walk on your own.”

Renly seemed to keep you occupied for a little bit out here. Narrowing your eyes to see better you gestured over to where the Queen was with her son. “Is the Prince shy? I haven't even met my cousin yet.”

Nearly whistling, Renly guided you even further away more towards the castle finally. “I'd go on hoping you don't meet him if I were you. A repulsive little creature Joffery is.”

Your mouth fell open as your face twisted into a high disapproval. “Renly, that's quite rude.” He only laughed, pulling you to his side telling you that one day you would figure it out. Whatever that meant. Once the path followed that to the corridor your chambers were in you heard no one around, and thus your surprise was once again lacking in your head of what it could be. “It's the next one.”

Passing Shireens room, your door was left open. Renly motioned for you to go in first, and thus far looking around you saw nothing new. Your desk, books, shelves all the same. Paper and ink all laid out in precise organization with subsequent letters you were to answer being sat out before each page as if to ensure you knew who to prioritize first. “Not much personality you have in here.”

Rolling your eyes you wandered into the middle, still seeing nothing and beginning to wonder if he was putting you up. “I don't need much, you know. I mostly sleep in here or read. Normally I'm with Shireen or father, so I don't quite have much reason to-”

Finally looking to the corner where your bed was by the wall, your curtains blowing in the afternoon wind as the sounds of the waves and sea still filled the air, your sheets though were covered with something new. Turning with a raised eyebrow in question, Renly silently motioned for you to go look on your own.

Slow steps you took, but it was no mistake once you got to it. Your hands ran over the material to find the softest silk you'd ever touched. Picking it up, it was delicate but beautiful. A dress of gold, elaborate and fanciful in ways your dresses never were. The stitching hidden in the design like antlers of stags as it was made just right for your size. Coming up to your right, Renly hovered with a smile you did not see. Your own eyes wide in awe with a whisper, “Is this for me?”

“It is.” There was a pride in his voice, and for once not one that was also smug. “I had it made to fit your measurements perfect. The silk brought all the way from Qarth.” Repeating the word Qarth in wonder, you ran over what looked like places around your arms and back skin would show only to find it was an even finer stitching of lace, the length draping along the floor like pooling water. “You'll be with the family in Kings Landing, which means you'll properly be one of us now. You should look like it. And this is only the first, once you're settled we can start having things made for you properly just like this.”

Your voice barley a whisper as you felt your heart light inside you. “I've never owned something this beautiful before..”

Chuckling, he pulled you more into his side fondly. “Well, we'll have to change that wont we?”

It felt even better on then it did in your hands. Even in what should have been a more stuffy air in the great hall turned dining area for a feast did you feel cool in the golden silk. Made for this feast, Renly echoed what your father had told you. Make a good impression to the Queen and you would need a fine dress to start that.

Grateful at least, you did not need to sit with the adults. Your father and mother with the King and Queen at the head table, but others sat with you lower down from them as music played. Filling things with life and livelihood as you ate. Terribly grateful you were that your septa was not here to lecture you as with your main supper did you add a blueberry tart to your plate. Renly got along easy with the others here, and you counted yourself with the luck of seven blessings that there was no awkwardness between your uncle and who you sat with of the Seaworths.

Laughing with Matthos, you could see from the corner of your eye your father now up and about speaking to Robert. It was when your eyes caught your fathers, did his gaze flicker up above you and in the same instance did a woman appear to your side. “Her grace the Queen requests a meeting, my lady.”

Nodding to her, your eyes met your fathers once more and you nearly gave him a slight narrowing glare that he had left as far from her side as possible as quick. She is your aunt he told you, but that also seemed to mean playing nice with her fell onto you and not him whatsoever. Perhaps, it was only you who could see the jesting mock in the slight way he raised an eyebrow at you. Few could recognize your fathers humour outside of you.

Approaching the main table, there now only sat your mother and the Queen as you once more curtsied as perfect as you had practiced.”My Queen.”

The smile on her face you could not quite detect what it meant, not in such a young age but it certainly was not the same as the one on your mother next to her. Hers normally what you would look as, stern but serious as she was quiet but still, you had your duty tonight. Queen Cersei's hair was done up in an elaborate style you had never seen before, but was quite common from what you could tell of the other southron women which accompanied their journey. Affirming your name you gave a nod as she smiled brighter. “What a lovely dove you are. Tell me, how old are you?”

Stand tall, make eye contact, keep a proper smile at all times and answer with one as well. All the steps you repeated in your head as you answered. “Twelve, your grace.”

Her eyes widened a little with an amusement to follow. Looking you over more curiously, she added with the same lightness a comment you had not quite understood. “Pardon me, but that does come at a surprise. You look rather mature for such an age.” With a laugh, she leaned more towards you from across the table. “I imagine once the rest of you fills out, we will have quite a bountiful round of suitors requesting a visit to the capitol, won't we?”

Once more, you had not really understood what she meant. Nor did you recognize the way your mothers eyes flickered towards her and back, with something of a worry in them. But she stayed silent, knowing letting you play this part tonight was what was necessary. A gentle breath of a laugh left as your head dropped humble to whatever compliment was hidden in her riddles. “Perhaps I will have to wait and see if my height agrees with such an idea first.”

A shake of her head, eyes narrowing in her own jest. “I have no doubt in that. What is a Baratheon if they do not grow to be tall and furious one day?” She changed subjects rapidly but with a passing ease, almost you wondered if she was testing how well you could keep up with her. “Your uncle went to great lengths to have such a beautiful dress made for you, I can only image what more fine beauty we will be able to find on you with the finest seamstresses in the country.”

“I could only be so honoured, your grace.”

Her next question though, came out of nowhere it felt. “Tell me, dove, have you bled yet?”

The practiced bright smile on your face hesitated, eyes narrowing into something you did not understand the meaning behind as you looked at her curiously but on the air of suspicious. You did not see the point in asking, nor what interest she would have in it if you had said yes. Maester Cressen had said that you were what some called a summer flower. That most flowers bloom bright and early in spring, but some stay small and underdeveloped until the heat of summer finally hits them and they blossom into something magnificent. That the growing of girls can be somewhat the same, since you had returned from Winterfell the last visit to ask why it seemed like the Stark boys were growing up quickly and you felt like you still weren't. But that had to do with a discussion between you and your Maester. Not the Queen.

Your only response was a slow shake of your head to indicate no, but she once again rapidly switched the subject as if nothing strange had passed you by. “I've heard remarkable things about how bright and intelligent you are, I'm eager to see what proper lady of the court we will be able to turn you into.”

Smile again, stand up straight and once again be considerate and eager you reminded yourself again. “I am looking forward to it greatly, my Queen.”

Turning to spare a glance to your mother, she nodded you over with a tone less abrasive then something in her eyes you still couldn't tell if it was worry or not as she called your name. “If you would be so so kind, I think your sister is long passed time to be in bed.”

Walking over close you leaned over the table and with an ease transferred Shireen into your arms. Giving now a hands free curtsy to the Queen once more, “Your Grace.” Before making your way through the crowded hall towards the doors adjacent to your right. Turning to look at your sister, you shifted one hand to raise up and dance along with her hands reaching for you. A smile shining on your face leaning down to grin more at her, bringing a giggle out of Shireen even more.

Unbeknownst to you, the discussion had not ended with your leave. The Queen had been watching you walk away, as Selyse was watching her. “Your daughter will thrive in the capitol. A beautiful girl like her shouldn't be hidden away in a place like this forever.” Selyse's worry flickered from Cersei to watching you walk away none the wiser with Shireen before the guards opened the door to the main corridor and off you disappeared.

Already she had seen the way some of the older boys in the hall had been looking at you in that dress, and she did not like the thought of what sort of thriving the Queen was intending. You were but an innocent girl still, whatever thoughts of beauty any boys were having towards you were far too soon, but she also knew, she would not have a choice in that matter once you were gone.

Everything was packed. Chests all by the door to your chambers, and little sat left but the furniture, bedding, and what books and whatnot you did not care to take. Your own figure was sat with your back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of you as one corner of your room sat in a state of disarray. A long cabinet pushed away and some of the carpet pulled back, behind both sat a hollowed out stone where it should've been firm in the floor. But it was what was normally inside the hollow stone which was in your lap.

The wooden box painted a rich blue, the orange foxes all around the best you think of art you'd ever done before. The lid sat to your right where it was first seen the colour inside. Browns and golds a blend together inside as well. The outside and inside painted to remind what their blood was as ran through your veins, so they would never forget either.

Long had it been since you opened this. The night your mother lost Lyonel you had done as you always did. Name, blood, water, sending them to the heavens to find each other. Thus far the only one who had anything you made for them was Shireen, which was currently hung above her small infants bed to see every time she slept. But the others were in here.

You had two things left to do for the ones you were leaving behind and this was the first of that. You would keep them here. They were your brothers, but this would have been their home and they deserve to stay in their home. So you leaned against the wall carving their names into the respective toy you had once made for them, so they too would never forget who they were even if you were not here.

Putting it all back into place, you stood up and made your way to the desk. One last thing. The letters you had not finished were all packed away but two. One was loosely sealed on purpose, as it did not have to travel any kind of far to reach who it was to be for, but the second, still open, made you hesitate.

Picking it up, you felt yourself biting down on your tongue to force back the frustration and nerves rising in you. It had been months now. Not a word. Looking back you could not in any way come up with with what you had said or done that would be bad enough to warrant your best friend deciding he no longer wanted anything to do with you. Robb had written back and forth with you as if nothing was different, but not him.

It made you feel a fool. A child. A stupid girl who had put far too much of your own emotional development on an older boy who it seemed had just grown out of you. You had written him one last letter, the one in your hands trying to find the bravery to ask Maester Cressen to send it for you, but you thought, if he didn't want to speak to you anymore, then you pestering him would only make it worse.

You loved all the Starks, but he was your best friend. He was the one who finally managed to pry open the supremely heavy lock keeping you shy and quiet and showed you how to have fun and enjoy things, and you did it together. But, he would be fifteen soon, and you were still a child. This was the second time you wrote him a letter in the middle of not hearing from him, but the first time you had not yet realized he was ignoring you.

Now you did, and once again you found not the strength to pretend as if he needed a child around him as if begging for attention. Thus you told yourself what you did the last time, grow up. So you waked to the brazier in your room, and let the fire overtake it before sitting it in the middle to burn until the last you could see was his name.

Jon Snow

Before that too also burned.

But you had one letter you did want to give, and luckily for you, it was a mere few seconds of a walk out your door and down the hall to hers. She was asleep, which of course Shireen was. It was late. But you carefully walked to her dresser, one she would not be able to open until she could start walking and placed it gently inside.

Her name was perfectly visibly to read, and you felt excited to think one day she would find it and realize it was from you. Kneeling down to where she slept, you quietly moved down the wooden holds keeping her within the safety of their walls. A hand coming to run along her growing hair as she laid facing you. The side of her face covered in Greyscale hardly visible as it was pressed against the sheets, but you knew even if it was what you saw, she'd still be just as beautiful.

Murmuring quietly as your hand ran over her in a gentle caress not to disrupt her sleep. “I know you won't be able to read it for a few years, but when you do, I'll have sent you even more by then. I'll write you often, and maybe father will let me visit you even before you read them first.” Leaning more so your other arm also rested on the small bed, you whispered even more gentle.

“I won't be with you as much as we may have wanted, but I promise I won't ever let you think I've forgotten about you. You're my sister, Shireen. And I'm going to make sure you always know how much I love you. Even if we're thousands of miles apart.” Your thumb trailing just barley over the soft skin of her small cheek with a smile coming over your lips. “Besides, you'll have your brothers with you. They'll watch over you and keep you safe when I'm not here, alright? And don't let Septa Moelle push you around. We're Baratheons, remember? Ours is the fury, so that's exactly what you show her if she tries and bullies you, understood?”

Still she slept, and you wanted nothing more. You'd be able to sail back here to visit easily for short days at a time, and you were going to ensure this wasn't a goodbye forever.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, you murmured one last time. “Until we see each other again, sweet girl.”

Hands braced against the marble railing, your eyes squinted in the bright sun. You felt overwhelmed being here. Kings Landing was so much bigger then you thought, so many more people living in one place then you ever thought possible when your ship arrived. The Red Keep was just as large and elaborate as your dreary home but it was as it was named. The red stone it was built upon shining beautiful in the sun.

Water of the bay surrounded the grounds where the castle was, as it narrowed out until the lands stretched further and further the more people lived beyond in the city. Ser Davos and Allard had both said that so many people lived here beacuse it was where work could be found and you finally understood what they meant, but too why they'd choose the path they did.

Not just using smuggling as a means of money, but an excuse to leave the dense part of the city they were from you imagined. But from where you stood, it was nothing of the sort. Your new chambers were very bright, open windows and sun everywhere with elaborate designs of vines and flowers across the walls to fill the spaces empty.

Nearly as soon as you had arrived in the grounds of the castle outside, Lord Jon Arryn the Hand of the King, had come to fetch your father for a small council meeting and you set off with Allard and the other guard to be brought to your living apartments. There on your new bed did a small pile of brightly coloured dresses from yellows to oranges and golds to pastel pinks and blues. Not as fancy as the first but certainly far more beautiful then anything you brought with you of your own.

A note sat atop them in writing you recognized as Renly's. “Just something to get you started, dear niece.” You had put on the one of such light blue it appeared almost white in the bright sun you stood in looking to your new home.

Easy it was to set the rest of your things up, your desk sorted just the way you liked and needed to think as your books and writing tools otherwise all scattered around for a moments notice to fetch it. Walking out now into the main living area, it too was bright and open. But as your feet moved quiet, none of the guard noticed you had emerged from your unpacking. All distracted with something or another, you bit your lip as the thought occurred to you.

Your father had said to unpack, but never did he say you could not explore what was to be your new home. Stepping quietly almost in side paces, your eyes narrowed watching that no one was looking before slipping out of the main corridor to the stairs leading down to the main castle. From there, most left you alone.

The dress Renly had given you which you chose to wear blended in well. Of course it looked like many women here wore things to match the weather, arms and shoulders and backs all exposed but that felt far too revealing for you. The material of your new dress was thin and moved light in the breeze, but covered all of you below the neck aside from your hands, of course.

But still, you fit in enough that no one questioned your wandering.

One hall then another, the castle was so large and expansive to see. As if its ceilings were made for rain alone, as so many walls sat open to the air and the wind. Your home had what was known as Aegons Garden, but it was hardly more then a maze of tall hedges winding around what little flora could grow there as statues of creatures with sharp teeth and jagged wings poked around each corner. But here, each time you found somewhere new, there was another garden with hundreds of people tending to its every need.

Your head had turned in the direction which led to the throne room, but it also held the small council chambers behind it and you felt not yet ready to be caught by your father for wandering. So you walked instead further down stairwells and turn ways spinning you one direction to another as if now the undergrounds were the maze Aegon the Conqueror left behind. Though you supposed, it was Maegor the Cruel which was the reason this place was built as it was.

Inspired no doubt by the home once their claim of Dragonstone. It was a strange thing to consider the longer you walked the halls, the simple fact that you occupied both of their once homes as they were now all but gone from the world. You could walk the halls of Dragonstone and try to envision any of them in the same place but you found little appreciation in doing so.

It was something unattached, especially the deeper into the twisting halls you went did you find yourself feeling as if you were unwelcome. As if silver hair and eyes of purple were watching you wander in another place of what was once theirs and headed you to go no further. Less were there anyone but your mind and looking all around did you consider that the shiver down your spine was that of a warning.

Then you heard it, a small meow.

Looking down the hall, a small cat with black fur sat by the corner at the end of the corridor. One ear missing as its head tilted at you. Eyes narrowing at it, you walked a step slowly forward until the small wiggle in its behind told you it was ready to run. You did not chase the small cat, but when you followed it down one hall it waited for you at the end of another. The small creature asking you to chase it, leading you somewhere you did not know but you allowed it to play its game.

But it was not merely playing, it guided you. Hand coming to rest around what looked like the metal bars around a gate, you turned the corner thinking it was the small one eared cat you'd see. But it was not small, nor a cat. Nor one thing alone. The hall was like a hidden away dungeon, but for good reason. You heard stories of them, and not a clue what their fate was and yet it looked you right in the eyes with its bones as good as roaring right at you.

Dragon skulls. Many dragon skulls, large and immovable as they sat hidden away collecting dust in the undergrounds and you realized why the bars your hand was on were too a gate. This was a graveyard that no one belonged in. Here lay memories of the horror which led your family to where they ruled now, but in the haunting of death larger then you could imagine.

The Targaryeans were the last dragonriders of the world since the Doom of Valyria, but you stood there in a freezing shock at their size realizing that you truly did not know until now what that meant. Slowly putting one foot in front of the other you walked up to the skull facing you with trepidation as if it would twitch and a roar would fill the air. The ceilings down here were tall but the skull filled the space just fine in its size.

Shaking your hand was reaching up as it brushed over the bone, it was so tall you could stand inside its mouth and still have room for more. A fully grown man could stand inside its mouth and he would still have to reach a hand up to find the top of its mouth. But where some would see wonder, you felt something ill poisoning your veins. These creatures were the destruction beyond counting.

These dragons burned cities to the ground, and its rider commanded it. In tandem dragon and rider worked to such a brutal end, and you felt sick that they considered this place worth that. How many have died to dragons since they came here? How many years did the realm spend after the last dragons death in fear it was not yet over?

Its tooth was of magnificent size, almost your own very height as you ran your fingertips along it. But with that sensation, came the feeling once more. As if every skull had turned to watch you inside this graveyard, and every Targaryean having ridden them watched with disdain. You lived in both their homes after they were gone, defeated by your uncle and you felt as if they could tell you were glad for it.

Looking at the dragon your heart constricted, a bile rising in your throat as your face warmed almost as if tears were to form looking up at its size and realizing what you were to such a creature. You heard the whispers the Targaryeans would speak of your family, and it took every effort in you to not let your muscles shake now.

No escape would be found, even long after you would turn around and leave this place forever.

It was all around you, their lives bleeding into yours. Their buildings, their homes, their memories and their symbols. Once theirs, and now yours. Their stain sunk so deep you could taste the flesh of a dragon on your tongue. Your hand traced once more over the bones of its tooth and if fear was in your blood, anger was in your heart. Were such a creature to come alive, it would waste no time setting you ablaze and its riders would not weep. Everywhere the Targaryeans followed you, and whispered spitting hatred that you were a usurper and a traitor.

You lived in the shadow of their hatred for you.

Once on the surface of your new home, it was later when you found it. Alone and unguarded in the early darkness of the evening. Soon your father must be finished with the small council, and as you waited for him did the throne room reveal itself to you.

A thousand blades, taken from the dead enemies of Aegon the Conqueror, forged in the fiery breath of Balerion the Dread. Sat tall in the space of the Red Keep and over loomed the people. But it was not quite that of the stories. It was low to the ground. In your home of Dragonstone there in the main hall sat a throne carved into a large chunk of black stone and this was no bigger then that, but far more unseemly.

Your mouth silent as you formed the number with each passing twitch of your fingers from one cold blade to the next, keeping count as if to uncover the extent of the Targaryeans stories. There were not even two hundred. Aegon was not a great warrior uniting lands under a throne of the swords of his enemies, he was a liar. All of them were liars. The throne looked as if dragon fire would actually destroy it, melt it down and disappear from the world.

The scowl on your face grew and grew. That was all you had uncovered thus far. That the Targaryeans were nothing but liars. If they were such a great people unlike the lesser then which they ruled over, then you would not stand here in the darkness of their throne room running your hand over the blades of the Iron Throne without death coming your way for being there.

Renly had once told you that there was not a single shred of anything left within the Dragon Pit, and all you could think as you stood there was that without their dragons they had nothing. They were as down in the dirt as you were, but even then, the smallfolk had stormed the Dragon Pit because they too did not wish to be forced away by them any longer.

Every bit of it you hated, the ghosts of their destruction. It led to you standing here and now, but at what cost? Was your life now worth the millions stolen with fire and blood? Never, nothing was worth that. Not you, not any man, not even the Iron Throne. This was to be your home now, but every bit of it you felt the Targaryeans watching you with hatred that you stood where they felt only they deserved to stand.

By the time footsteps were heard, your hand left the throne even though you stood beside it as curious as you were unsettled. Faces you'd long learn to be used too, some recognizing you right away with polite greeting as your father watched in silence at your tense demeanour. By the time he beckoned you to follow him, you could only wonder if you were alone with this weight.

You certainly felt alone.

Not until months had passed in your new life here did that isolation finally leave, but not with someone here and now to keep you company.

But a letter placed for you on your desk in your chambers, by the time you had sat down to open it, you recognized the writing in an instant as a smile came about your face for the first time since you had gotten here.

The shadow of the Targaryeans might hate you, but at least now you were sure that your best friend didn't.

#jon snow x reader #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #jon snow #jon snow x you #jon snow imagine

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thosearentcrimes · 1 year

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The Achaemenid/First Persian Empire is kind of wild. At the time of its greatest conquests it was the largest empire the world had ever seen, by a significant amount. Like any good empire it's a triumph of logistics, of course, but what's unusual is the character of the logistics in question. The kinds of empire we're used to are generally either basically maritime (Roman, Spanish, British, American) or basically horselord (Xiongnu, Parthian, Mongol, American) or Chinese (special case, the general tendency for there to exist a Chinese Empire is impressive in its own right but relatively familiar).

The Achaemenid Empire touched a lot of seas and bodies of water (Indus, Indian Ocean, Persian Gulf, Tigris and Euphrates, Red Sea, Nile, Mediterranean, Aegean and Bosporus, Black Sea, Caspian Sea) and certainly these would have been used to facilitate logistics to some degree (Persian invasions of Greece relied on naval support, for example), but it certainly seems like the fundamental lifeline of their state was their extensive system of roads. The Romans talk a big game about their road system but ultimately the major logistical corridors of the Roman state were maritime and riverine. The Inca Empire was similarly road-based, likewise a hilly/mountainous region, and is also extremely cool, but didn't last nearly as long and was much smaller.

Herodotus says: "There is nothing mortal that is faster than the system that the Persians have devised for sending messages. Apparently, they have horses and men posted at intervals along the route, the same number in total as the overall length in days of the journey, with a fresh horse and rider for every day of travel. Whatever the conditions—it may be snowing, raining, blazing hot, or dark—they never fail to complete their assigned journey in the fastest possible time. The first man passes his instructions on to the second, the second to the third, and so on." A different translation of a section of this passage is famously associated with the US postal service.

Herodotus may be wrong in the details because the actual intervals between adjacent waystations seem to have been on the order of 16-26km, a distance a rider could reach in an hour (and perhaps most relevantly, a pedestrian or army might reach in a day), and as such it's certainly plausible horses were changed more than daily, as is attested in later relay postal networks, but it's easily possible he was right about their incredible speed. A perhaps somewhat generous estimated speed of government messages along this route is ~230km/day, by analogy of the pirradazish to the Pony Express and barid systems. This would make them faster than Roman communications, though certainly we have to recognize that maritime transport is ultimately faster and more convenient for trade in bulk goods and food. All figures taken from H.P. Colburn, "Connectivity and Communication in the Achaemenid Empire" Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 56 (2013).

That's so cool! It's several hundred BCE and they have a complex permanent relay system with stations every couple dozen km, on a system of roads running throughout an empire thousands of km from center to edge. Just for one road, like the Sardis-Susa section that the Greeks usually talk about, that's over a hundred stations, each with a stock of supplies, backup mounts and riders, accommodations, anything else they might need, and Sardis-Susa was just one possible road stretch among many. That's incredible! I wish we knew what the people who made it and ran it thought. What was the life of a gas station attendant waystation operator in the reign of Artaxerxes I like?

It's kind of tragic that the Achaemenid Empire has been marginalized historiographically for so long. Generally it was treated as significant for its invasions and meddling in Greece, for ending the Babylonian captivity, or for providing a ready-made empire for Alexander to take over. It's not nothing, other places and time periods end up with much less of an imprint on our contemporary understanding of the past. We know a lot of cool stuff. But I wish we had more reflections on Persia from within. Most of what we seem to have is reports from Greeks, fragmentary letters and steles, and precious few excavation sites.

#History #Achaemenid Empire

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littlesparklight · 6 days

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Since Priam has a like a million kids, which of his siblings do you think Paris was the closest to? And do you have cute Paris and his siblings headcanons that you want to share? :D

hehe <3

Aside from the obvious one of Hektor (they bonded quickly and very well), Lykaon is another one - using the fact that he let Paris borrow his chest armour for the duel.

The others are Pammon and Polites, plus Dios - I chose a couple of the names out of the list Priam harangues in Book 24. Sure, those are presumably just the ones standing nearest Priam at the time, so that means nothing, and he's lashing out, so his insults also doesn't necessarily mean anything.

But, it's useful, and especially the (repeated/doubled) insulting over dancing (peacetime activity as it is, plus the connection to sex...) makes for a nice connection with Paris. I have only one of the brothers Paris is close to being effeminate (Dios), but that's absolutely partly why they're close to each other.

For headcanons...

Paris is rather popular with the younger kids. Whether they keep being as fond of him as they grow or not (some remain so, certainly!), a lot of them are all attached to his personality and especially his singing/playing. He's also all too happy to perform for them.

He and Laodike aren't necessarily super close, but they vibe very well with each other. They look really similar (both because of the simple fact of beauty and because they, even among their full-blooded siblings, look really similar even when not being part of a set of multiples) and share a similar attitude to physical decoration. Laodike, after Hecuba, was one of the female members who very quickly began to help Paris amass his own make-up/perfumes etc.

Lykaon and Paris aren't close because they share a similar gnc presentation or attitude or anything (unlike with Dios); Lykaon is just fond of Paris' personality, and Paris is drawn to Lykaon's steadiness (he shares it somewhat with Hektor, but he's not as down to earth as their older brother). One of their main shared interests is the horses/animals in general. Lykaon has learned a lot about cattle from Paris lol

Paris and Dios aren't the only effeminate ones in that group of 50 brothers lol but Paris is certainly the one most gnc. (The rest are more what you see otherwise with what seems to be the "effeminate-adjacent" characters; they show no apparent aversion for or "anti-heroic attitude" towards the martial culture, compared to Paris.) They have a loose little group, even if they're not all necessarily close! (Probably 5-7 of them altogether?)

I'm sure there's quite a few in that whole large sibling group that play instruments, so imagine them performing all together <3 Paris is either on lyre or lute, and definitely sings together with a couple sisters.

#asks #greek myth thoughts #paris of troy #trojan family #thank you :D

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bearsbeetsbeskar · 1 year

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Restoring the Roots (Joel Miller x Therapist! reader)

Chapter 2: Contemplation

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Joel Miller x therapist! reader, post outbreak

Rating: none, will be changed to explicit in future chapters (slow burn, eventual smut, age gap), swearing in this chapter

Summary: Life after moving to Jackson looks drastically different for Joel. Survival mode is over and now he and Ellie can finally put down new roots. Ellie adapts easily but Joel finds himself struggling to settle into this new life, in more ways than some. At Ellie and Tommy’s insistence, Joel begrudgingly finds himself in therapy to try and work through his struggles but what he encounters is more than just painful memories and deeply rooted trauma.

A/N: Thank you for the feedback on chapter 1! I am so excited that everyone is excited to see Joel and reader finally interact! Our poor sweet grumpy old man, he just needs some loving and healing!

Joel squinted slightly as he glanced up at the broad, slightly faded letters that read ‘Restorative Reins,’ as he stood in front of the office. He had been standing in front of the building for a good couple minutes, chewing on the inside of his cheek as people strolled past him while he contemplated his fate.

Therapy.

Even as he mulled over the word in his mind his spine stiffened and he clenched his jaw, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Therapy was only for folks with legitimate mental problems, that’s the way he saw it. You spoke to a shrink for your problems, cried into a box of tissues while laying on a couch, and were given some highfalutin advice along with a prescription slip. Either that or you ended up in the cookie bin.

Joel never thought long and hard enough about his mental health. Back in the day, before the outbreak, he could lose himself in a six pack of Lone Star, hit up a few of his buddies for a poker game, or rub one out in the shower to get rid of the tension, if all else failed. If he really wanted to, he could talk to Sarah about certain things on his mind. Needing to speak to someone who was a professional, to open up about your vulnerabilities, let alone seek advice, was a bewildering thought to Joel. Why talk to someone when he is usually able to deal with things on his own?

He hears Tommy’s pleas in his head, his desperation. And Ellie’s words too. The conviction with which they spoke about him getting help and actually taking care of himself. You never know unless you try it.

“Nothin’ to lose,” he mutters to himself.

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and walked up to the door, stepping into the small office. It was pretty cozy, almost too cozy, as if he stepped into someone’s living room. There’s a worn leather couch up against the front window and a loveseat against the wall adjacent to it, with a few blankets and cushions arranged on top, a small coffee table in between them. The walls are a soft sky blue and potted plants cover almost every surface imaginable. Surprisingly there aren’t any motivational posters on the walls, feigning false positivity and encouragement, somewhat reminding him of the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs that Sarah used to have in her bedroom.

One thing Joel does appreciate is the photos speckled across the office walls in various frames and sizes, most of them of animals such horses, dogs, sheep, and landscapes of different scenery. What looks to be an empty receptionist desk is tucked away in the back corner, besides a closed door that presumably leads to other rooms.

He steps further into the office, moving closer to a particular picture of a striking chestnut horse with a white blaze that runs from his forelock down to his nose. Huh. He looks familiar. Taking a step back and appraising all the other shots, Joel realizes these are all animals within the settlement. The horse he recognizes is Callum, one of the horses Joel has actually ridden while out on patrol. The realization softens his gaze, and he relaxes his body a bit, warming up to the fact that this therapist is an animal lover. Maybe not a totally crazy shrink after all, he concludes.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the knob to the back door of the office turning, as it swings open and a young woman strides through into the office.

“Hi there! Sorry to keep you waiting, are you here for a session?” The woman asks with a warm smile.

Any sense of false confidence he thought he had built up, dissipates immediately from Joel’s system as he takes you in.

You’re young. Much younger than what he expected.

Weren’t shrinks older? Middle aged? Like doctors? You couldn’t be more than thirty-five. You also did not look like a professional therapist, what with your flannel button up, jeans that hugged your curves, and combat boots, your hair pulled into a braid. It shouldn’t matter really, business casual was dead and gone, but Joel would be lying if he said he wasn’t very appreciative that you leaned towards the casual side. Either way you definitely didn’t look like a shrink, as his gaze swept up and down your body.

His brain might as well be covered in molasses as he barely recalls the question you asked him.

“Uh, a session?” he repeats, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Yes, a therapy session?” You look at him expectantly, tilting your head slightly at his confusion.

Joel felt his heart stutter as he met your bright eyes. What did you say?

Shit. Right. He cursed himself internally as he shook his head, attempting to clear his throat.

“Uhm, I- no sorry. I uh, I’m not a client. I was told to come by to see uh, what kind of services you offered and get a consultation of sorts. My brother referred me to your office… he thinks I need some uhm, some kinda help.” Joel stammers, as he digs his nails into his palms and looks at the ground.

Fuck, this is stupid. Damn Tommy. He should just apologize, turn around and walk out the door, everything in his body telling him to run.

You raised your eyebrows as a look of recognition spreads across your face and you flash a huge smile at him, introducing yourself.

“Oh yes! You must be Joel right? I spoke to your brother Tommy yesterday. He mentioned that you might be looking for some support?”

Joel was shook. He expected you to give him a disapproving or hesitant look of recognition. Despite only being in Jackson for about a month, news had traveled fast through the commune. Joel knew that many of the residents already knew about him, they had heard the stories. Tommy Miller’s ruthless, cold big brother, who had trekked across the country, while killing more people with his bare hands than he could count. Infected or not infected. He had a reputation. Another one of the reasons he saw no point in sharing his concerns with a total stranger, regardless of whether or not you were a professional. But you still had this warm, attentive expression on your face.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how much he told you, or what exactly he said, my brother likes to put his nose in other peoples’ business sometimes,” he rambled on, running a hand through his hair, “but I guess I wanted to know how it all works. How the therapy works, y’know.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“No problem at all.” You gestured to the couch for him to sit and you sat in the loveseat to the side.

“I suppose I should lay down while I’m pouring my heart out to you huh?” he asked as he hesitantly sunk down into the beat up leather, eyes darting to you nervously.

“Well, if you prefer to, then you certainly can, but it’s not necessary,’ you chuckled. "Sessions look a bit different here at the practice”.

You lean back in the seat and cross your legs, resting your hands in your lap, while appraising his tense figure. After a minute you break the silence, “can I ask, what do you know about therapy?”

Joel exhaled shakily, his heart pounding in his ears. Maybe this was a bad idea. He didn’t want to insult you by sharing what he really thought about therapy (that it was baloney), but he also didn’t want to be judged for having an abysmal perspective of mental health. He sat hunched over on the couch and bounced his right leg, anxiety consuming him.

Seeing him start to mentally backtrack you reassured him. “There’s absolutely no true right or wrong answer by the way. Just tell me what you think of when you picture therapy.” You gave him a soft smile and leaned to the side, resting on the arm of the chair.

“Well uh,” he clears his throat.

Fuck, he just needed to get it out. Joel sighed deeply, running his hand over his face in an attempt to wipe away his embarrassment.

“Honestly, I don’t know much about it, save for what I’ve seen on TV where you lay down on a couch, cry your eyes out to a shrink about your problems and then they hand you a prescription for pills. I’ve known a few people in the past who saw a therapist and they said it helped them ... but I just thought it was a bunch of bullshit truthfully.”

His eyes widen, and he looks at you immediately after realizing what he just admitted.

“Shit - I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that it seems a bit pretentious. That sounds bad too.” He groans. “Shit. I’m sorry, I’m just not good at this,” he says, gesturing haphazardly between you both.

Lord, can the ground open up and swallow him whole already? This is excruciating enough as it is.

Joel looks at you pensively, waiting to see your reaction, waiting to see the shock or disappointment spread across your face at his words. But it doesn’t happen. Your gaze is fixed on him intently, as you watch his facial features, and nod along sympathetically. It’s surprising, and also off putting. He’s never had someone listen to him so attentively and maintain eye contact for so long, without showing any judgment.

After a moment you shake your head and laugh softly.

“It’s okay Joel, everyone has their own definition of what therapy looks like, and what reaching out for support looks like. Like I said, there’s no right or wrong answer. Many people claim to not be good at this,” you respond, while mimicking his gesture between you two, “but if you can believe it, therapy is less about the talking, and more about doing. More about processing and taking the steps to heal.”

He nods as you explain more, sitting deeper and relaxing into the couch as the tension slowly leaves his body.

“In a nutshell, I do provide talk therapy where I sit down with clients like this, and we discuss what they’re dealing with, talk through their concerns, and we come up with strategies together to help them navigate their situations. The sessions are an hour long. Some sessions are to vent and process emotions, others are to follow up on homework or strategies we devised, and others are to simply talk about whatever is on your mind.”

You smirk as he raises his eyebrows when you mention homework, and you raise your hand in defense. “Again it looks different for everyone, there are no concrete rules or methods to follow.”

“The other type of therapy I do is equine assisted therapy,” you explain to him. “It’s an experiential type of therapy, which basically means the client experiences the effects of therapy by physically participating in activities with horses. You learn by doing and observing, not just talking,” you wink at him, reassuring his previous claims.

“The horse acts as a therapy partner, and you complete different exercises with them, and we process the interactions that occur between you and the horse during the session,” you continue explaining.

Joel tilts his head slightly and considers it. “Huh, that sounds pretty cool actually.”

He’s always loved animals, including horses. There’s just something innately calming about them. When you look them in the eyes, it makes you feel like they can see into your soul. He thought about it, realizing he actually did look forward to going out on patrol on his assigned nights and getting the horses tacked up. Nothing really compared to riding out onto the stretch of green plains, bordered by the massive mountains that painted Jackson's landscape, with the calming lull of their hoofbeats against the dirt. It was probably the only thing he really enjoyed about Jackson, as it gave his mind a break from the turmoil that consumed it most days. Other than scouting for infected or other threats, he could just ramble to his four legged partner about anything and everything, without needing a response.

“It really is!” You grin emphatically at him, as you feel the passion buzzing through your body.

You sit up in your seat and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Horses are herd animals, and by nature they are very intuitive creatures, they act and live in the moment, not the past or the future. Consequently, they are very attuned to nonverbal communication, body language, and they can sense your emotions before you even realize it. They make great therapy partners, not just because of their gentle nature, but they also act as a mirror to our behaviors, and above all, they never judge you,” you babble excitedly, your eyes lit up.

Joel looks at you with wonderment, a fuzzy sort of warmth spreading through his body, as he sees your excitement and passion shine through. Normally it would be off putting to see someone so excited and energetic like this, but it was clear that you loved this job, and you cared deeply about supporting others. It made him fucking melt.

“You make it sound pretty damn good, it doesn’t even sound like therapy,” he chuckled and you nodded in response.

“It really doesn’t honestly. I’ve worked with individuals who have seen so many horrors and experienced unimaginable trauma, and in just a few sessions of working with the horses, they find healing, they find hope, and they look forward to coming in. They say it just feels like having fun with the horses,” you say fondly.

“I didn’t know it could be that impactful, but that’s pretty incredible,” he says in awe. He pauses for a moment as he looks away, then back at you, as he fiddles with his hands, picking at the skin around his nails.

Fuck. Is he really gonna do this? It almost sounded too good to be true.

“So, what would the next step be in the process?” he queries. “Do I need to sign any forms or anything?” He asks, his nerves ramping up as he feels his palms get sweaty.

You give him another dazzling smile that lights up your whole face and Joel swears that he turns to mush on the spot.

“No forms needed for now. Why don’t you come out to the stables and we’ll start with meeting the herd. Does Thursday morning work for you?”

“Yeah that sounds good.” He smiled back.

“How are you feeling after everything we talked about?” You asked, looking at him with those wide bright eyes.

Again with that attentive focus on him. Fuck.

He didn’t know if he would ever get used to that, as he squirmed under your gaze. He paused again for a moment, as he reflected internally. He actually felt pretty fucking good, for once. Surprisingly relaxed. He appreciated your lack of judgment and professional demeanour, your warmth and calm nature putting him at ease. It didn’t help that you were damn gorgeous and compassionate, he really didn’t need that much convincing from you. And he was actually excited at the idea of equine therapy, which didn’t actually seem like therapy.

Damn Tommy and Ellie for being fucking right.

“I actually feel pretty good,” he remarked in disbelief, as a small smile tugged at his lips. “What do I owe ya for this consultation then?”

You beamed at his response. “Consider it a meet and greet Joel,” you said. “Consultations are only usually about 20 to 30 minutes, but seeing as it is your first time seeking therapy, I don’t charge anything.”

He glanced at the clock on the back wall of the office, noticing that you had been talking for damn near an hour.

Shit. Was it really that long?

He opened his mouth to protest but you quickly cut him off. “I’m serious Joel, I won’t let you pay,” with a stern look that slowly morphed into a smirk. “I’ll see you Thursday at the stables, let's say 10 am. Okay?”

“Alright,” he lamented with a boyish grin. You both got up as you walked him towards the door and he turned back to face you.

He looked down at you, taking a deep inhale as he bit his lip. “It was real nice meeting you, and thank you… for the meet and greet,” he smiled, his dimple peeking through his right cheek. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Taglist:

@beskarandblasters, @pr0ximamidnight, @theewokingdead, @atinylittlepain, @prolix-yuy, @swiftispunk, @harriedandharassed, @amywritesthings, @atinylittlepain, @missgurrl, @silkiers, @jasminedragoon, @mayasopinions, @pedgeitopascal, @elegantduckturtle, @sarahhxx03, @Snow30285, @gracie7209, @stevieboyharrington, @kirsteng42, @pedrit0-pascalit0, @loquaciousferret, @axshadows, @a-sh-lyn, @dotcie, @tightjeansjavi, @dreamingofdaddydin, @pedritosdarling, @lhymer1995, @nerdreader, @suzmagine, @like-a-dirty-french-novel, @delicious-collection

#joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x therapist! reader #restoring the roots fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #equine assisted therapy #equine therapy #tlou #the last of us

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thevioletcaptain · 4 months

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WRITING MEME: *steeples fingers* talk to me about a WIP you've got goin' on

This is such an impossible open-ended question for my indecisive brain because I have far too many works in progress and just choosing which one to talk about is hard 😭 But let's give this a try.

Gonna take the roulette approach (opening my WIP folder, closing my eyes, scrolling up and down several times, and then clicking without looking) to save myself from The Initial Struggle.

OKAY. The WIP I landed on is an as-yet-wholly-unpublished DeanCas fic titled One More Chain Does the Maker Make. Whoo!

Here's an assortment of bullet-point notes about it!

The premise: 15.06-adjacent alternate canon fic! Jack kills Chuck before they even know he's been resurrected, and his influence on the world--and on Dean in particular--lifts away. Dean leaves, fearing that Cas won't feel comfortable coming back to the bunker to see Jack if he's still there, and also because he feels the need to be on his own for a while as he figures out who he is without Chuck pulling his strings. He goes no-contact, and ends up working on Jesse & Cesar's ranch, where he eventually realizes that he's gay, and that Chuck's manipulations ran even deeper than he'd thought.

Yeah, that's right -- it's a gay!Dean fic, which I've wanted to write for a while. It's been a really compelling concept to explore, considering everything else I've written has been bi!Dean, and once I started thinking about it from the Chuck-manipulation angle I knew I had to write it.

The title is a lyric from The Maker Makes by Rufus Wainwright, which I didn't realize was written specifically for Brokeback Mountain until right now when I went to find a youtube link.

It's a rare fic for me in that Dean legitimately doesn't already know that he's in love with Cas. He's felt it for a long time, but Chuck has been fucking with him so intensely that it's very much been an allegory of the cave situation. He's been looking at the shadows of his love, but now that the chains are gone, he can look at it directly.

Dean stays on Jesse & Cesar's ranch for several months overall, and when he eventually reaches out to Cas it sets off a long period of writing emails to one another, then texting, then calling. The epistolary section of the fic is HEAVY on the pining and it's been a lot of fun to write.

This fic also features a favorite trope of mine: namely that Dean looks at Cas in his ill-fitting suit and dumpy trenchcoat and sees an absolute brick house stud, while the person he's just been gushing about him to looks and sees Just Some Guy.

Dean! Befriends! A horse!

There's also a subplot with a radio show, but I'll save further details on that for when I eventually post it.

I hope this was at least somewhat interesting! Thanks for the ask <3

If anyone wants to know more about this fic, or another WIP, or something I've posted on Ao3, feel free to send an ask :)

#ozonecologne #replies #cass writes fic #writing meme

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christiansorrell · 1 year

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Play-By-Blog #1: The Isle by Luke Gearing

Welcome to my large-scale play-by-post of The Isle by Luke Gearing! We are playing this adventure with its original system, The Vanilla Game (although this will likely be adjusted somewhat to fit the Play-By-Blog format). This is the first proper entry, but you can check out PBB #0 to get a feel for the ideas behind this play-by-blog concept and at character creation. For now, let's lay some groundwork.

How Play-By-Blog works:

I write up the situation, NPCs, and more, just like a DM.

You vote in the poll to help decide the character's course of action.

I roll the dice, resolve actions, and write them up next week.

So on and so forth for the rest of the adventure!

Notation:

[Text in brackets is out-of-character text!] "Non-italicized quotes denote text from the original adventure!" "Italicized quotations denotes NPC dialogue."

Last week, LOADS of you (over 150 people) voted for our character's class and Magic-User won in a landslide. Using that, I randomly rolled a character (using this Vanilla Game character generator). Let's get to know them a bit before we dive in.

The Player Character: Medon Girdou - Magic Cutpurse

Medon Girdou, a cutpurse turned unlikely wizard, is in a bad way. You don't stage a solo raid on a place like the isle if things are going well. Somewhere back out in the world, there are forces calling for Medon - calling on their debts, calling for their death, or calling them home (when they'd rather be anywhere else). Now, the chance of riches, enough to possibly settle the score, has brought them here to the isle.

[Because Medon is braving The Isle alone, they are coming in at Level 3 to help turn the odds very slightly in their favor. This isn't their first raid.]

[We'll let any background and whatnot build out during play. Feel free to propose your own ideas about what kind of person Medon is and what may have come before but remember, Medon's true character will come out during play and be determined by the actions they take!]

With their katana in one hand, spellbook in the other, and a pocket full of cheese and lead figurines, they step onto...

THE ISLE

"The isle is tiny, a mere 40 acres of forbidding rock and low grasses. Seen from the sea, the monastery buildings stand adjacent to the peak of the isle, lit by a fire atop a tower. The monks never let the fire go out.

"Cliffs rise above the bitter sea, mauled by waves and weather. Fallen stones jut like Frisian horses, big enough to skewer whales. The abbot knows this, because he has seen it."

You've convinced Cioran, a local fisherman, to grant you passage to the island, claiming to be a pilgrim in search of your god. Once a month, he delivers supplies to the monks on the isle out of some sense of obligation you can't quite place. You watched him sit and listen to the sea in the dark of night for hours aboard the boat.

Cioran drops you at a small cove on the island's eastern side [C], wanting to see you on your way before sailing around the island to the main jetty. He's not sure how the monks would take to an unexpected visitor on his boat, even if you are a pilgrim. He'll check this cove again in a month, if you are looking to return to the mainland. His ship slides away quietly around the northern cliffs.

You are alone.

A bloated corpse, fought over by a dozen or so gulls, is bobbing facedown in the water of a small, rocky alcove.

A stone-carved staircase leads up out of the cove, coated in wet, slimy moss fed by the ever-humid conditions. [Saving Throw to not fall down the stairs and take damage: Success!] Taking your time, you manage to safely climb to the top and look out across the rest of the isle.

[You can see out to 3, 4, 5, and 6. 2 and 1 are partially obscured.]

To the north [3], you see a squat formation of man-made stone some 30 or more feet high, scars and bird shit marring the surface.

To the northwest [4], you see a collapsed building of some sort, a loose pile of rubble.

To the southwest [5], you see a scenic view of the western sea atop of an hill topped with an outcropping of rocks.

To the south [6], you see the Monastery, the reason you came to this place. The supposed home to a number of riches, meant to bring glory to a god but that do little more than languish here in obscurity when they could change everything for you, if only you can get to them.

Beyond these places, you can make out a partial view of a sizeable collection of graves to the far north [1] and the upper branches of a large tree to the northwest [2], past the collapsed building.

The choice now, of course, is...

You can now read PBB #2 HERE.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #fantasy #vanilla game #the isle #play by blog #play by post #luke gearing #meatcastle PBB

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hardly-an-escape · 2 years

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uneasy is the head that wears a crown

Square: B4 - Secretly Royal Rating: G Word Count: 1680 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: secretly royal, Ruritanian romance, slightly cracky, call it crack-adjacent, royal Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling throughout history Summary: In which Dream learns something new about Hob's past. Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

“Hob.”

“Mm?”

“A question.”

“Mm.”

“Why do you have a crown?”

They were in Hob’s storage unit – the nice one, the luxurious, secretive climate-controlled one that was paid for by an equally luxurious and secretive Swiss bank account. It was nearly time for him to disappear again, to choose a new name and a new story and a new home, and he was kneeling in front of several banker’s boxes’ worth of documents and financial statements, gathering what he’d need. Not without a tinge of sadness, as always; no matter how many lifetimes he lived, Hob always found it bittersweet to cross that bridge, leave one life behind and start the next.

This time was different, though. This time, Dream would be waiting for him on the other side. This time, whoever Hob Gadling was about to become would not be alone. He would have a partner. A husband.

Hob looked up at that husband now. Dream was holding open a velveteen case, revealing an unprepossessing circle of beaten gold, somewhat tarnished, embellished with rivets and crosses of silver.

“Ah,” he said. “That crown. Well. I have it because it’s mine.”

“And how came you by it?”

“That depends on who you ask,” said Hob, sitting back. Dream settled on the floor beside him, jewel case on his lap, ready for a story. “I was told it was the divine right of kings. But there’s also a strong argument to be made for simple nepotism.”

Dream raised one elegant eyebrow, the universal shorthand for do go on.

“Okay. You remember when we first met,” said Hob, “in the White Horse?”

“1389. How could I forget?”

The smokey interior. The smell of livestock and weak ale. It’s almost as real to Hob now as it was back then, despite the intervening centuries.

“What did you think I was, back then? Who did you think I was?”

“A soldier. A peasant. Perhaps a fool,” said Dream, a fond note to his voice.

“Well. What if I told you that I… was… actually the crown prince of the kingdom of Ruritania?” said Hob in a rush.

“Ruritania,” echoed Dream. “And what, exactly, was the crown prince of said kingdom doing in the White Horse?”

“An excellent question. Today they’d probably call it something like a rumspringa, I suppose,” said Hob. “A couple of years away from my family and my duties. To grow as a person, learn a new language and something about the wider world.”

There was a bit of a pause.

“You are… not joking,” said Dream finally.

“I am not. You haven’t heard of Ruritania? Not that surprising, I suppose,” said Hob. “It was very small, and it didn’t exist for very long, all things considered. But it was technically a kingdom… and I was, technically, heir to the throne.”

“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning.”

So Hob did.

He explained how his great-grandfather had been the ruler of a tiny little duchy nestled between Germany and the Netherlands. How his grandfather, taking advantage of a temporary power vacuum in the region, had declared himself king, and how the burgeoning kingdom was so very tiny that nobody had really cared. How his father had been sent abroad as a young man to experience the world, and sent his son abroad in turn as well.

Young Prince Hrodebert had fallen in with a band of soldiers and made his way to England, in disguise as a common mercenary, relying on his wits and his sword for the first time in his life and having a marvelous time.

“Ah, those were the days. Everything was so exciting, so free,” recalled Hob, somewhat mistily. “And it’s not even that things had been that restrictive back home, you know, we were so small that the pomp and circumstance of court wasn’t all that pompous – hell, I’ve taught in lecture halls that were bigger than our great hall. But it really was different, living out among people. Made me think about the world differently.”

“Do you expect me to believe. That the boastful bandit I met in 1389 was actually a prince in disguise?”

“Sounds like something out of a fairy tale, doesn’t it?” Hob grinned. “But… yeah? Is that so hard to accept?”

“It is not that it is hard to accept. Merely surprising. But if I have learned anything in the past two centuries,” said Dream, “it is that the limits of human ingenuity are nearly infinite.”

“That’s certainly true enough.”

Hob continued his tale, of a prince’s last year of freedom and his return to country and duty; of, later, a father’s death, and a coronation, and a settling into the small measure of power a small kingdom allowed. How he’d tried to be a good king, as good as he knew how to be; how he’d done his best to apply his experiences among the more common folk. He had been, if not beloved, at least well-regarded.

And then – how the whispers had started. The rumors; the murmurs in quiet corners. That the king didn’t seem to be aging – had you noticed? Not a new grey hair on him since he came back from his travels. How people had started to suggest, ever so quietly, that Prince Hrodebert had, perhaps, made a deal with some English demon, or otherwise, somehow, come back wrong.

“So, yeah. Ended up filling my pockets from the treasury and scarpering from my own bloody kingdom in the middle of the night. I think my cousin Irminhart took the throne after I left – or was it Irminheri? Fat lot of good it did him, either way. The whole kingdom didn’t last much longer.”

“And you? What did you do?” asked Dream, uninterested in the fates of European micronations.

“Well, I realized pretty quickly that they’d had a point, about the not aging thing. That was when I remembered this posh, poncy fella I’d met in a pub in London who’d said something about never dying. So I made my way back to England, maybe ten years after the turn of the century, and met him again, and here we are.”

“Hmm.”

Hob tsked, leaned over, and ran the backs of his knuckles gently down the line of Dream’s jaw.

“Oh, now, I know that hmm. What is it, love?”

“I am perturbed. To think that I have been unaware of such an important part of your past,” admitted Dream. “And perhaps… upset. That you have not shared it with me before now.”

“Important? I suppose it was,” said Hob thoughtfully. “It’s funny, you’d think after almost 700 years it’d be easier to tell what was important – but I think it’s harder. Who’s to say that ruling Ruritania was more important than… I dunno, than working for Caxton? Than what I learned after being in the slave trade?”

He settled back against the shelf behind him and picked up Dream’s hand, idly lacing their fingers together.

“I guess eventually I figured out that it’s all important. At different times, for different reasons. And of course if everything’s important, then nothing is important,” he laughed. “But that’s beautiful too, I think.”

He brought Dream’s hand to his mouth and dropped a kiss on his pale knuckles.

“I hope you’re not too cross that I didn’t tell you. Honestly, by the time we met again in 1489, I’d almost forgotten all about it myself,” he said. “The world was so full of brilliant new things, the stodgy old kingdom of my father and grandfather was just… boring.”

“Still,” said Dream. “You might have mentioned you were of royal blood. To brag. If nothing else.”

“And bargained my throne away to a fairy, maybe? Not on your life. You forget, darling, just how woefully uninformed I was at that point. For all I knew, my immortality was contingent on me being a simple English peasant. And I wasn’t about to endanger that,” Hob winked, “not when my meetings with such a handsome stranger could have been on the line.”

“You stray from your tale. The crown?” said Dream pointedly.

“Yes,” said Hob. “My crown.”

The crown, he explained, had vanished into antiquity for centuries. After the ill-fated cousin had cast his lot with the wrong side in one of the interminable European skirmishes of the 15th century, Ruritania had been absorbed into a series of small Germanic principalities, and her peoples and her resources, including the royal treasures, had been totted up and divided amongst new rulers.

“I found the crown again in 1890 or ‘91, somewhere thereabouts,” said Hob. “I think it was a museum in Berlin, or maybe it was Bremen – but I recognized it as soon as I saw it. It took a sizeable donation to convince them to part with it, but I was pretty good at the ‘wealthy and eccentric English gent’ bit by then. They thought I was crazy, it was worthless as a piece of history – no provenance, no way to authenticate it. But I just… had to have it.”

He’d been in a bit of a nostalgic phase, back then, very reflective on the past. On what had made him the man he was, on his missteps and mistakes.

“Because of me? Our parting, a few years prior?”

“Partly, yes. But it’s also good, for a man to take that kind of stock of himself every once in a while.”

“Did you consider giving up your crown to be a mistake?”

“No,” said Hob instantly. “No, never. Even apart from the immortality, it has never occurred to me that I would have preferred to live out my life as the king of Ruritania.”

“I am strangely glad to hear that.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. It does not… fit. With who I know you to be.”

“Or maybe you’re just jealous,” said Hob teasingly.

He wound an arm around Dream’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Maybe,” he murmured in his husband’s ear, “the Prince of Stories is a little miffed that technically, he’s the the one who married up.”

green = complete, orange = WIP

#dreamling bingo #my writing #the sandman #dreamling #holy crap I actually finished and posted something #this is a momentous day #as usual I am not happy with this but like...... is anyone ever happy with their writing? sounds fake #I don't know why the graphic looks so tiny and crappy :/

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moorishflower · 1 year

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WIP word search game!

Okay! I was tagged by @dsudis!

My words are: blue, deep, walk, sky, down, heal

blue: (from the unnamed Hallmark-Adjacent sequel)

If Morpheus is honest with himself – and he has been attempting, within the last three months, to be more honest with himself – the moment that he considered Robert Gadling a viable husband was the very instant he had seen him bathed in the lights of Trafalgar Square, in a dozen different shades of blue and white and soft golden from the surrounding buildings and with his hair pulled back into a bun, as though he had done so out of habit just before he had left his flat.

deep: (from an unnamed vampire!Dream WIP that's been languishing until I get into vampires again)

His stranger turns to look at him, and it pulls his face into deep shadow. Hob can only see the white curve of his throat, a tempting peek of collarbone. His face is obscured in darkness, with only those two bright points of witchlight to mark where his gaze falls. “I have had many names,” he says. Each word is slow and purposeful, as if it is being pulled from a sleeptalker. “Morpheus. Oneiros. Draculea. More, still. I was called the shaper of forms, once. Voivode, and Lord, and King. My true name is older.”

heal: (from an Edgin/Xenk canon divergence AU set 4 years prior to the movie)

"I can heal myself," the paladin says placidly, and then makes absolutely no effort to do so while Ed pours a thin stream of icy water over the slash on his cheek. It's not as bad once all the blood's cleared away -- he can't see clear through to teeth at least -- and that only leaves him with addressing the actual problem, which is the shoulder injury. Ed stares at the guy's pauldrons, wondering where in the Nine Hells he even starts.

walk: (from a yet-unposted bit of Little Histories)

"I am ambivalent about the nature of food served from a truck," Dream says. He still feels somewhat slow and muddled, but the walk is pleasant. Humans need movement, Hob has informed him. It is part of the development of their infants, and most enjoy it well after their childhood, as well. There is something pleasant about utilising his muscles; in the moment, he wonders why it had been so hard to rouse himself yesterday.

sky: (from the same Edgin/Xenk fic)

The opportunity comes just as the sun is beginning to get dangerously low in the sky and the nightlife of Luskan -- skullduggery, alleyway knifing, pickpocketing and the like -- is kicking into high gear, when a man on a horse as white as the driven snow turns away from the Southern Gate and keeps right on riding towards Mirabar.

down: (unnamed Johanna/Lucifer fic)

The demon darts forward, too bloody fast for a woman who's spent most of the evening getting fantastically drunk after ousting a fucking poltergeist from an attic, and knocks the crucifix from her hands. Jo responds by yanking out the vial of holy water she keeps in her bra and dumping it directly down the demon's cleavage. She suspects she only manages this because the demon was too distracted by trying to figure out why she was fumbling in her bra to begin with, but that's to her benefit, so she counts it as a win.

And I will taaaaag... @avelera (show me the secret drafts of Joke's On You!!!), @landwriter, @softest-punk, @beatnikfreakiswriting and anyone else who'd like to play <3

Your words are: invite, bleed, lonely, glance, small, curve

#wip ask meme

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theragamuffininitiative · 1 year

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Yeehawgust Day Three (but late)

Prompt: Wanted Poster

[bad brain days this week but a good day today and anyways here is a much delayed addition to this lil challenge, featuring evidence of how much I hate third person omniscient while still uncertain what other perspective to use for this story]

A Man Called Garrison, but that's not his real name

"Traces, Old and New"

At midday, they crested a small rise in the prairie, where before them the land fell away into a series of low hills and smooth valleys winding down to a coursing river which branched off into silver streams. These each then wound away toward the southern horizon or disappeared into narrow, rocky gullies. Trees were more regular here and a mass of tall cottonwoods and spreading oaks partially hid a small town. The town stood quiet in that afternoon haze, its occupants resting from the heat or far off on distant fields and ranges and likely taking a meal in the shade of trees or outcroppings of rock while their cattle grazed on the long prairie grasses.

Garrison turned the head of his big sorrel toward the town and they rode down into it, each thinking to himself how glad he was for a break in the monotony of endless rides across endless grasses toward an unknown, indistinguishable destination.

Hardly a soul stirred in the town, and Garrison headed directly to the small post office that stood adjacent to one of the town’s three stores. The town was called Lead Hill, and was the only stop for post for miles. Anywhere a post office stood, Garrison would go to check and see if there was any mail for him, or any news to be had that might help direct his path. He had established the method of this long ago and it worked out more often than not.

“Afternoon,” he said to the postman.

“How do,” the man replied with a gruff voice but not unfriendly tone. He cleared his throat and came forward to meet Garrison. “What can I do for you, stranger?”

“I’d like to see if any mail has come for me.”

The man’s eyebrows went up and he laughed. “I’ve never seen you here before, what might your name be, son?”

“It would be addressed to Garrison.”

At this, the man’s expression changed from amused surprise to a deeper perplexity. “Well now,” he said, and went shuffling off to a shelf along the back wall which housed a number of boxes labeled in a system likely only known to himself and completely unfamiliar to Garrison. “I was figuring I would throw these out, or send them back with the post when it came through next, but I held off on account of being somewhat familiar with that name and being a mite curiouser than a man perhaps ought to be in my work.” He produced two envelopes, folded and battered, but sealed, and handed them to Garrison. “You’re him, then.” This last was a statement of observation, and not a question, but Garrison felt obliged to answer anyway.

“I am, and I’m obliged to you for hanging onto these for me.”

The postman nodded, watching Garrison with a searching expression.

Garrison walked to a corner where a wooden bench was placed and seated himself to open the letters, which he sat reading for some minutes, his lips moving slightly on occasion as his eyes passed over the words.

After some further consideration, the postman spoke again. “You’ll be interested to see this too, I figure.” Garrison looked up from his letters and saw the man pull a fresh poster from a small stack of similar papers. This he handed to Garrison.

It was a wanted poster, with the description of an outlaw accused of cattle rustling and horse theft, and a posted reward for information that led to his capture or death. The man’s name was Peter Pettibone and Garrison read the description two more times, committing it to memory and sorting it in his mind with other memories like a card player searching for a winning hand. “Thank you,” he said simply to the postman, who nodded, and watched as Garrison gathered the poster and his two letters, and left.

Outside, Jack had gone to resupply their saddlebags and given the horses a quiet drink, but not so deep a drought as to worry their stomachs when the ride continued.

“What’s that?” he called as Garrison came back to him. “More love letters?” His grin was wide and insolent, though his eyes never quite lost their guileless sparkle. “How do you get them to come ahead of you, anyhow?”

“A matter of determination and chance, mostly,” Garrison said. He didn’t comment on whether they were love letters. “They’re sent to the last place I said I was headed to, and then sent on to the next stop on the postal route after a time.” He showed one envelope to Jack, displaying the directions to forward scrawled in a thick, looping hand.

Garrison opened his saddlebag to slip the letters and wanted poster inside, and a breeze lifted the flap and a single paper that had become dislodged along the trail now caught that little wind and flipped out, spinning to the ground where Jack caught it under his boot and then leaned down to retrieve it.

He paused with his hand on the paper, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He was looking down on a crude drawing of a man with dark hair and a scraggly beard. The drawing, Jack had never seen before, but the man, he well knew.

This was Phillip Rankin, the cruel man who had made Jack’s life among the Johnsville Boys nothing but misery until the day Garrison rode in and calmly demanded Rankin’s alibi for his part in the murder of Garrison’s father. Rankin had struck Jack twice that day in his anger and his fear of Garrison and, both times, Garrison had stepped to Jack’s aid. Later, it was Jack’s shouted warning to Garrison that resulted in Rankin meeting his death rather than the other way around. It was these moments, this cruel man, that had irrevocably entwined Jack’s life with that of the outlaw hunter. He was happy with Garrison as his friend, yet he still shuddered to see that familiar face looking up at him through the eyes and hands of some unknown artist, the subject now a ghost.

Garrison took the paper from Jack and considered it. “It’s not much of a likeness, but I almost knew he was one of them the first time I saw this. When he threw you from that porch, I was sure. The same kind of man who would bully a kid just because he could is the same sort of coward who would hang a marshal after first shooting him and burning his town.”

Like he was on other occasions when Garrison spoke of the events that spurred him on his long, relentless quest, Jack felt the urge to offer some sort of apology. After all, he may not have ridden with Rankin when he and others unknown to Jack had sacked an entire town, but he had ridden with Rankin on other occasions after, and Jack wasn’t sure the line between the two was so clear.

Silently, Garrison handed Jack the other paper he had brought with him from his visit to the Lead Hill post office.

“What’s this?” Jack asked. He looked the wanted poster over and his eyes grew big. “Is he one of them?”

“I don’t know,” Garrison admitted. “Like with Rankin, I suspect I won’t until I look him in the face. But for that to happen, we have to catch him first. Ready?”

Excitement for the chase, for a lead, for a new direction, filled Jack with new energy and the same was strong in Garrison who went so long between traces as to almost, but not quite, lose hope of fulfilling the promises he had made before God and man to bring the outlaw mob to justice. That hope was kindled now like a new flame in Garrison and he mounted his horse in a quick movement that denied the tiredness of a man who had spent days in that saddle.

Jack mounted his own horse after him. Another wind blew in up from the river valley and Jack had to slap a hand down on top of his hat to keep it from blowing off his head. But he was grinning with eagerness when he echoed back to Garrison, “Ready.”

#yeehawgust 2023 #my writing #my western novel that still doesn't have a proper name #the difficulty of writing a 'sequel' to a public domain work is how much big backstory is in the original #all of which i love and much of which i will probably not revisit eventually #so this is me partially indulging in that a little #one of the next prompts will be more exciting i hope #all i'm writing so far is Very Quiet Filler #-massive shrug- it be that way

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everyonewasabird · 2 years

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Brickclub 5.5.1 “Javert Derailed”

Wilbour/FMA really do this one a disservice with “Javert Off the Track” I think: I don’t know that it’s technically a mistranslation, but it makes the metaphor seem to be about detecting and criminal pursuit, when it is in fact about trains.

Which is so weird it has to mean something? Like: I think we can basically guarantee that Javert has never in his life seen a train? At this point, France has only one train line; it’s less than twelve miles long, connects two small towns a little southwest of Lyon, and opened for passengers four months ago. (England was further along in its railway journey, but I doubt Javert’s been there, either.) I’m sure urban French people of 1832 were aware of trains as a burgeoning technology, but that feels like a different relationship than one would have after living among operational railways.

On derailment specifically: It’s possible accidents due to derailment had happened by this point, but the earliest actual derailment I’m seeing on Wikipedia’s list of historical train accidents was a year later than this in New Jersey.

Why on earth are trains our metaphor?

I mean, an obvious answer is that they would have been a very available metaphor to Hugo and his audience by the time this is written, and something that’s incredibly efficient at moving in absurdly prescribed straight lines but fails catastrophically if loses that is genuinely a pretty good metaphor for Javert.

But it also feels sort of related to the ways that Javert is also in part an anachronism? This post (particularly the last reblog) points out how Javert was written partly according to what police were in his era (low-ranking, low-paid, criminal-adjacent, doing essentially grunt-work), but also to a significant extent according to what audiences had come to expect of police by 1860 (at least somewhat educated, somewhat middle-class, somewhat respectable, potentially clever at reasoning and detecting, potentially seeing their work as a calling).

And that makes sense. Hugo’s goal with Javert wasn’t solely to critique the police of the 1820s--why would he, they were extinct--but to critique policing more broadly. Making Javert a mashup of all the available police tropes, including leaning heavily on some of the more admirable ones from later in the century, makes him a much better critique of the modern criminal justice system.

I have no idea whether the modernness of the train metaphor is meant to echo the modernness of the metaphor of Javert himself, but it feels possible to me.

That the engine driver of order, that the mechanic of authority, mounted on the blind iron horse of the straight and narrow, could be thrown by a shaft of light! That the incommutable, the direct, the correct, the geometric, the passive, the perfect, could bend! That there was for the locomotive a road to Damascus!

Here, the train metaphor is coming surprisingly close to Javert’s voice. It’s not in his voice, these aren’t his metaphors (Damascus, the site of the conversion of Paul, doesn’t really feel like his metaphor family any more than trains do), and it’s way more aware of what’s happening than he is. Plus, throughout this chapter, that voice feels like it’s kind of making fun just a little bit of how stupid all his previous assumptions were, and this section feels like no exception.

But it’s close enough to feel like it’s echoing his feeling, and that’s incredibly strange? He doesn’t live in a mechanized world, so it’s fascinating that the best metaphor for him, even halfway within his own thoughts, is one of the most modern machines available to people of the time?

Most of our conversations about modernity in this book have been wildly positive--see Enjolras’s Quel Horizon speech, see Combeferre’s... everything--but it feels like now we’re acknowledging that Javert is also profoundly linked with modernity. All along we’ve seen the ancientness and hideous immutability of disproportionate punishment of crimes. But Javert isn’t linked with the old-fashioned ways of doing things, he’s linked with something much worse: he belongs to the growth of modern policing and the modern police state, a thing far more developed and formidable in Hugo’s time, I believe, than it was in canon era.

#we decided to take a few days for this chapter #today i got as far as... the title #brickclub #lm 5.5.1

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hollowwhisperings · 2 years

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Benjen Nightwatch Theory #3 (crack)

Benjen joined the Night's Watch because he lost a bet (to Lyanna).

the bet was drunkenly made with Lyanna the first time the two dared to get thoroughly sloshed, after Ned left [/abandoned them] to be fostered by Jon Arryn in the Vale.

The stage is set thusly: Ned's away, Father Stark has left Brandon in charge & Brandon, responsible big brother that he is, cackled instead of saving his siblings from themselves.

the siblings, still miffed at Ned (& their Lord Father Rickard) for "ditching them for Southroners", had started making increasingly nonsensical jokes at Ned's expense: "Ned's so serious he'll make all the Southron girls cry just looking at him", "Ned's so cautious, he'll spend half his fostering slowly climbing his way up the mountain and the other half coming down!", "Ned's so stubborn, he'll get stuck in one of those silly Southron collars and poke his head out from it like a daisy instead of cutting himself out!"

(the jokes are also increasingly derogatory to all things "Southron", nevermind that the Vale is much nearer to The North than any other kingdom & is even somewhat adjacent)

just before Lyanna and Benjen pass out from their "revelry" (and wakefulness post-bedtime), Lyanna slurs out, "Ned's so dull, I'll be full with some git's child before he manages to tell a girl he finds her pretty!"

Benjen, still somewhat idolizing of their younger-big brother &/or incredulous at the idea of Lyanna reproducing, refutes his sister with "nah-uh! Ned's not that stupid! He'll get himself dutifully betrothed and dutifully wed before you, Lyanna, and he'll dutifully tell his silly Southron wife she's pretty because it's his husbandly duty! And if he doesn't, I'll join the Night's Watch!"

at this point, both siblings begin giggling furiously about the word "duty" and Brandon "dutifully" drags the younger Starklings to their respective rooms so as to "sleep off" their silliness... and be "dutifully" awakened by their big brother Brandon with buckets of ice water.

years later, still far earlier than Benjen truly expected, Benjen is the lone Stark in Winterfell and welcomes the Lady Catelyn (& the heir-encumbent) to her castle.

at her admittedly meager welcome feast (Benjen had panicked and left the arrangements to Maester Luwin, unsure on what "southron girls" considered seemly & assuming Luwin DID know), Catelyn recounts her wedding day to her brother-in-law. It sounds an equally gloomy affair -

"wait, Lady Catelyn - di Ned, uh, Lord Stark speak with you AT ALL that day? Other than the vows, I mean"

"Well, no-"

"He at least made time to tell his lovely bride that she was, er, lovely... right?"

Catelyn politely evades answering by smiling and "complimenting" Benjen's tastes in decoration (it had been Luwin's and he'd just told the servans to "make it look welcoming"... resulting jn more rugs and furs and candles from the much diminished staff available).

Benjen does not swear aloud but he does recall That One Bet with Lyanna. It's a fond moment of their family before everything turned to horse droppings.

Canon ensues.

Once Ned & "his bastard" are returned safely to Winterfell, Benjen again remembers his bet with Lyanna. Brandon had played "witness" to the event and their Lord Father had chided the younger Starklings thoroughly upon his return home (Brandon having freely volunteered this rulebreaking rather than leave the hungover tweens to suffer quietly).

Benjen relates the drunken bet to Ned and Pointedly Raises An Eyebrow in the direction of the nursery. Ned pales but Benjen shakes his head - he won't tell anyone. He won't slander his own sister nor risk all that remains of her.

Benjen does feel listless without his siblings and, after Ned unconventionally sets up statues for Lyanna & Brandon in the crypts... he asks Ned if he's "told Catelyn she's pretty yet".

Ned blushes and mumbles that he's planning to build a sept for her.

"But have you told the girl - er, lady - you fancy that you find her lovely?"

Ned goes pinker before, very slightly, nodding. He seems to be making an effort to hide in his (own finally properly full) beard.

Benjen sighs and jokes - "Well, guess the only thing left now is me joining the Night's Watch. Can't go breaking a promise with Lya' and Brandon."

Ned, almost triggered into a flashback, replies with "Can't be having that, not at all."

Benjen writes to Castle Black that week: Ned and Benjen keep their respective promises to Lya' quiet, outside the crypts, and part sadly but with an Understanding. Promises are important to Starks, after all.

#ohno it became angst #crack asoiaf theories #valyrianscrolls #benjen stark #stark sibling feels

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llycaons · 1 year

Text

Section Six: Lower your standards

XVI: Just a bit eh: fics that are fine, but that I didn’t like enough to rec in the sections above

XVII: Put on some horse blinders: fics for which I have to list particularly egregious author issues (rape porn, incest)

XVIII: The shame corner for naughty fanfiction: fics with issues within the actual work

XVI. Just a bit eh: fics that are fine, but that I didn’t like enough to rec in the sections above. this isn’t based on quality so much as my personal interest in it. I just find them a bit dull and/or not in-character enough to enjoy as much as the others

An Ache Like This by sofriel

summary: t4t wangxian! fic starts with lwj mourning his mother and follows him through his childhood and young adulthood. it skips through years and arcs and ends at a really tender postcanon get-together scene

work issues: none

author issues: none

love at every s(word f)ight by glitteringmoonlight

summary: a cute little postcanon fic where wwx has secretly developed his core to the point that he can hold his own against lwj, so he sets up a re-creation of their rooftop swordfight. it’s joyful and romantic, but imo a bit bland

work issues: none really, except it’s novel canon so there’s this reference to ‘oh of course I always want to fuck" which. ehh don’t love but it’s not like it ruined the work for me

author issues: emperor/concubine stuff, warprize AU

Gentian Seeds by yuyu_finale

summary: lwj, while traveling post-nightless, stumbles upon his mother’s hometown. it’s sweet; he meets some family. the writing was a bit amateurish tho

work issues: none, but I skimmed the final chapter because I found their wwx annoying so I can’t say for certain

author issues: none

another name for ghosts by seularen

summary: postcanon, a still-estranged jin ling visits wwx at CR, and lwj tries to keep it from being a disaster for everyone involved. I didn’t really like the lwj in this one, because he’s firmly his novel self and I don’t like novel lwj much as a person, but he was well-written and the way the work teased out jl and wwx’s respective issues and traumas was really something. novel canon

work issues: none

author issues: incredibly weird about sex scenes outside of this work. a lot of cnc-adjacent stuff. xiyao also

varied my velocities by fantasiavii

summary: ballet dancer lwj and soccer player wwx. lwj is gnc and works through internalized homophobia exacerbated by other members of the ballet community. emotionally powerful and clearly written out of personal experience, so I both cried and learned a lot about ballet as an art form lwj’s issues here are rather specific to ballet, so he feels somewhat disconnected from his canon character. and wwx isn’t quite ooc, but he’s rather generic and nothing jumps out about him that the reader would recognize as wwx without being told. it read almost as original fiction, and therefore I found the chemistry rather lacking because I didn’t feel like I knew the characters. but it’s a good story nonetheless lwj is a sub in this and it’s actually explored quite thoughtfully and beautifully as an important part of his identity work issues: none author issues: none

back for you by detectorist

summary: I almost didn’t read this because it came off as boring, but I powered through the first section and found a very nice little work and a relationship with some of the most tangible chemistry I’ve found in fic. I also like the lwj and jyl friendship here. short, sweet, and funny

work issues: none

author issues: has written genderbends

You’ve placed all of the smiles in the world in my hands by Must_have_been_the_wind

summary: a very cute work where little a-yuan thinks about how much he loves lwj and his home in CR. fairly simplistic

work issues: none

author issues: none

For a Good Time, Call by ScarlettStorm

summary: honestly I kind of hate this fic and the sequel is in my trash heap but like. here goes. so modern AU wwx has an OnlyFans and lwj (his irl friend who is in love with him) stumbles upon it and immediately, hornily, guiltily subscribes to it, which is exactly as contrived and cringey as it sounds, but it has so many kudos I went “FINE I‘ll read it” and I found a surprisingly funny and easy to read fic grounded in legitimately gripping drama, decent politics (author seems to also be a sex worker), and emotional sincerity. the fashion in this fic is really fun, the interpersonal drama and building tension had me losing my shit, and it has a life and personality all its own. I adore jyl in this one, and jc is extremely funny otherwise the wx itself is empty of true romance and chemistry, the porn (both in-universe and in the fic) is painfully generic, the characters are clearly written by a white person, everyone talks like they were raised in therapy, and the wwx and lwj characterizations are very dull. wq and jc are together, but at least they’re funny about it (wq just constantly criticizes his behavior, which, she should). for a better version of a similar setting, see to dwell inside a body by typefortydeductions. it does have some issues so check the tags, but it’s higher in quality. it also has a full entry in category xviii further down this page reclaimed q slur is used very frequently work issues: while wwx is upset that lwj subscribed without telling him, they still fuck immediately and then only later have a conversation about it, the convo is fairly short and lets lwj off pretty easy. I would have liked to see more of lwj building that trust back up. otherwise there’s no big issues I can point to in this work author issues: somewhat infamous for femme-leaning pansexual yoga pants-wearing nhs, which given that they’re white is really iffy. they’ve also done some really weird things with feminizing wwx (he’s genderfluid and in the second work in this series he says he wants to be a stay-at-home wife??) and they refer to wwx as a f*mboy in the title of another fic, which given that they’re definitely not a trans woman is super shitty. don’t read the rest of this series, it’s absolutely horrible. however, for this work, most of those issues are not present and everyone is treated fairly normally

never love an anchor by tardigradeschool

summary: ah, the classic selkie and fisherman love story. this fic is not super high quality but I found the style and the romance quite lovely, and I was excited to find out what happened. good for a nice time but don’t expect it to have the strongest plot or the most dramatic scenes. ending was a bit weak as well, though sweet

in this fic lwj is kept prisoner by his family away from the sea, suspected of harboring the same mental illness that they thought led his mother to her suicide. they threaten his autonomy throughout the work, and it was quite distressing in some scenes

work issues: none

author issues: xiyao, niyao, 3zun, jl/lsz

XVII. put on some horse blinders: fics written by authors who have also written rape porn or sibling incest. personally I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing. but I know everyone has different tolerance levels so I’m putting them in their own section

I still draw a hard line for authors of adult-child smut or csa porn, so anyone writing that shouldn’t be on any of my pages at all.

*A Lot of Edges Called Perhaps* by hansbekhart

summary: a postcanon getting together work: legitimately one of the best fics I have ever read, and one of my personal favorites. mature and beautifully written and atmospheric and satisfying. they just know each other. their mutual interest in justice is important! I love how neither of them have any patience for the juniors’ overinterest in their relationship - it’s not their business and it’s not a joke. a lovely and satisfying conclusion, close to perfect imo. cql canon

work issues: none, unless you have a problem with reading a whole lot of edging

author issues: it pains me to say this because this fic is so good but the author has written a work tagged ‘noncon somnophilia’ so it’s been kicked down here

*Out of the darkness, into the day by ilip13

summary: a substantial postcanon getting-together work. the way the emotion in this is rendered is stunning, and the characterizations are excellent. realistic as well as appropriately dramatic. I don’t like the beginning so much because it’s really depressing, and they take SO long to get together I was ready to start crying, but the story becomes so joyful and it’s a real pleasure to go from one extreme to the other. it’s right there in the title. cql canon work issues: um their first kiss is a little iffy since one of them is half-asleep but he’s the one who initiates…it didn’t really bother me it was just a bit odd also the notes say things like ‘no spoken consent….their love transcends words’ which is a weird way to phrase it but everything IS consensual they just communicate nonverbally a lot (and consent is verbally explicit in most intimate scenes) author issues: dubcon, cnc, rape fantasy, sex pollen, noncon/noncon somnophilia (in something tagged with ‘noncon dual cultivation’ 🤮)

he comes in colors by ilip13

summary: modern cultivation AU, an lwj-centric work beginning when he lost his mother and following him through the years as he grows up in the still-traditional cloud recesses. it explores his relationship to the rules, his grief, his connection to music, and the powerful synesthesia he shares with his mother. a story about family, identity, maturity, and self-discovery. I like the unique twist on the madam lan situation, and the way that lwj’s musical prodigy was explored.

the characterizations aren’t bad but they’re a little…lackluster? lwj wasn’t as intense and weird as I think of him as. wwx was way more considerate and less mischievous than even in canon, and the romance in here was nice…almost too sweet and low-drama honestly, but I’ll take that over contrived miscommunication any day. lwj is a sub too, and that’s a significant part of the work

work issues: none

author issues: same as above. shame this author is so talented and keeps writing fics that really speak to me because ugh. dubcon, cnc, rape fantasy, sex pollen, noncon/noncon somnophilia

*best laid plans* by ilip13

summary: modern AU wangxian try changing up their roles, to mixed results. great politics about topping/bottoming - this fic said switch RIGHTS. I loved the writing style of this, the romance was so tender and lovely, the drama clipped right along and there was so much communication and maturity. dramatic without being corny or overwrought. love it. either canon but I was feeling cql-verse work issues: none author issues: see above - dubcon, cnc, rape fantasy, sex pollen, ‘noncon dual cultivation’

Let the Crows Fly by eak_a_mouse

summary: sunshot AU where lwj and wwx are taken hostage by the wens after defeating the xuanwu of slaughter, and wwx is coerced into helping the wens develop demonic cultivation techniques. the politics in this are engaging, the characterizations are all excellent, the style and atmosphere were just gripping, the ending was hopeful, and the romance, while understated, was tangibly present in every single scene with them, even if they were apart

firmly cql canon, and I think the author just nailed the atmosphere of the show and the tension of a very young wwx and lwj under duress and trying to keep each other safe

work issues: none

author issues: jc/wwx mpreg smut…also lwj/nmj hookup but they’re both of age at least

*all the depths of us* by northofallmusic (tofsla)

summary: wwx and lwj get together while still solving the mystery postres, a little earlier than in canon. the characterizations and atmosphere are excellent, and I love how the romance and relationship is developed. I am reccing both the main fic and the secondary one. cql canon.

work issues: none

author issues: implied jc/wwx, noncon somnophilia, dubcon, sex pollen, and cnc

*here’s to upright men by isozyme

summary: an incredibly compelling and well-crafted work about nhs, five years after canon, encountering lxc for the first time since guanyin temple. excellent characterizations, darkly humorous, dramatic, and giving us unpredictable and satisfying interactions between characters who really should have had more screentime together. bit sad because jc and wwx haven’t reconciled, but it feels right for them

this is the closest any fic on here will get to sangcheng, and it’s not even really there if you don’t squint. but IF I was into sangcheng, this is the kind of dynamic I could get behind

work issues: none

author issues: jc/wwx smut…also genderbends, xiyao, and niyao but honestly that stuff just seems so trite in comparison

Restraint and Revelation: or, The Necromancer of Yiling by Lirelyn

summary: a story-within-a-story regency AU loosely based off the popularity of gothic romance novels a la northanger abbey. a shallow and vaguely set genre pastiche rather than an actual AU that would place them in regency england (and whitewash them). the writing is impressively austenian, and the emotional journeys the characters canonically go on suit the format beautifully, so everything feels quite well translated. I’ve always fondly headcanoned lwj as being into shlocky romance novels, so this was a treat

work issues: none, which is weird because the tags say ‘3zun if you squint’ but imo there is nothing to imply that jgy was involved with either lxc or mnj. iirc he barely was present in the fic at all so *shrug*

author issues: wwx/lwj/jc and wwx/jc smut 💀 also xxc/sl/xy, niyao, and xiyao. there’s a ton of shit in there just don’t go to their page at all

The Good That Won’t Come Out by raisedbyhyenas

summary: postcanon casefic where lwj and wwx solve a mystery and confront some truths about their past and their relationship. healing, grief, and comfort. I like how much chemistry wwx and lwj have, and lwj is funnier than he is in most fics that claim he’s funny. wwx’s fierce protectiveness and vengeful rage at seeing lwj threatened was nice. novel verse.

work issues: none…it’s sad tho. not for wwx and lwj, but for the victims

author issues: jc/wwx, nhs/jgy, xiyao, genderbends, jl/lsz

*Vagabond by xantissa

summary: postcanon, wwx returns from a year of travels to a mysterious illness plaguing the region. he, lwj, and another investigator work to solve it while he and lwj navigate their feelings. I liked the oc a lot - lwj has a friend! I don’t want to give more detail because the mystery is so compelling and the plot twist was a genuine surprise.

there were a lot of little details that didn’t make sense, but I loved how sweet wwx was with wen ning, and the romance was so satisfying

it’s kind of up to interpretation but there is arguably in-universe homophobia and consent to sex under a false identity

also, one lan has romantic feelings for another one, but based on how it’s treated I really don’t think they’re related

work issues: PM mountain kiss is talked about and it’s not made a big deal of 🙄

author issues: lxc/lwj is the big one, but they’re both of age. also nhs/nzh, niyao, xiyao, 3zun, dubcon

Art in Life by northofallmusic (tofsla)

summary: a three-part introspective series on modern AU wwx reuniting with lwj in france, years after wwx has a breakdown and leaves the classical music scene. atmospheric and satisfying and tender. the chemistry and their dynamic was so natural and lovely. it was gratifying to see an older wwx remark on how much better and calmer he is now, similar to his canon postres peace. I thought it was going to be boring and it wasn’t. no knowledge of art required

work issues: none

author issues: implied jc/wwx, dubcon, sex pollen, noncon somnophilia

*让我留在你身边 // let me stay by your side by howodd5ever

summary: a ‘what if’ scenario for the month in between yi city and the meeting at jinlintai. there’s no big confession, but they do hook up and and it’s really sweet. good sex scenes! they take their time....it’s nice I like it. except a few throwaway lines, the characterizations are really good

work issues: none

author issues: lwj/lxc, 3zun, sl/xxc/xy, dubcon, lsz/ljy

为温暖 // for warmth by howodd5ever

summary: another work in the same series as the above - what if they got together immediately post-sunshot? classic post-war/lost gc angst from wwx, the realization that lwj knows it’s gone, and then they get together. I really like the sex scenes in this series - the work listed above is my favorite but this one might have the best sex scenes

brief mention of wwx’s suicidal ideation/expecting to die after the end of the war in the opening few paragraphs

work issues: none

author issues: same author so I’m grouping them: lwj/lxc, 3zun, sl/xxc/xy, dubcon, lsz/ljy

underneath a starless sky, the wind blows towards the future by ilip13

summary: a dystopian modern urban fantasy take on the yiling laozu. lwj approaches wwx-as-yllz for aid as the gusu lan sect needs more and more help in fending off the tide of resentful energy. matters in the city progress, their relationship develops, and things come to a head as wwx appears to be the one to destroy the city, not save it. a bit corny, and a significant decision lwj makes at the end is quite ooc and thematically inappropriate, but I enjoyed the worldbuilding and the drama in the relationship development. cql characterizations for sure. a solid B+ it says this in the beginning of the work itself, but warning for discussion of non-specific suicide and depression work issues: none author issues: oh, ilip13. dubcon, rape fantasy, cnc, sex pollen

Mostly Figurative Ducks by northofallmusic (tofsla)

summary: a very sweet little fic about wwx and jyl comforting each other throughout the years

work issues: it’s literally too short to even fit anything bad

author issues: insane to write this under the summary of this fic, but this author has written noncon, implied jc/wwx, noncon somnophilia, dubcon, sex pollen, and cnc

XVIII. the shame corner for naughty fanfiction: fics with issues within the actual work. mostly background 3zun, hints of jl/lsz, and some weird gender and/or sex stuff. I put the better ones first and the worst ones after them. still read the author notes and everything but I genuinely think these are good quality besides their issues. funnily enough most of the author issues here are actually less serious than they were in the previous section

*grave goods* by luckymarrow

summary: a modern AU work exploring mortality and grief, set in NYC. wwx is a mortician and lwj is a lawyer advocating for trafficked women and undocumented immigrants. this was a very realistic and kind look at death from both a professional and personal standpoint in ways that I found very cathartic and personally meaningful. the way lwj’s mother was discussed made me really emotional and his arc regarding her came full circle so beautifully towards the end. and a-yuan was REALLY cute, I think they captured him so well. it has a hopeful finale, but it really puts you through the ringer. it did get a little corny towards the end tho. either canon but more novel in the sex scenes check author notes for warnings pertaining to death and grieving, child death, domestic violence, family death, femicide (though not named as such), and suicide

some of the sex scenes are really hardcore bdsm so just keep that in mind but everything is clearly consensual and safe work issues: one of the sex scenes has a hint of cnc? it's like two lines and like I said above it's all clearly consensual and they check in with each other and all author issues: has written genderbends

*paired wings soaring by typefortydeductions

summary: in this modern british AU, lwj (poetry translator) and wwx (artist) move in with lwj’s aging mother (a poet in exile from china) after she has a fall. the tenderness and heart and romance of this was so beautiful, especially with how it tied into wwx’s art pieces

subtle references to domestic violence/abuse re: mama lan situation. nothing is gratuitous or even spelled out explicitly

work issues: there was a short scene of (consensual-after-the-fact) somnophilia and some…weird things in some of the sex scenes. the bdsm was written better than in most fics, and I did like that they focused more on trust, but some of them still skeeved me out.

lxc is with jgy in this, and he does not turn out to be evil or betray him or anything and it ends with 3zun so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

also when wwx proposed to lwj he went down on both knees because he’s a sub 😭 aneeway

author issues: has written cnc, dubcon, genderbends, A/B/O and 3zun

The Shape of Your Love (is Horny) by Vamillepudding

summary: demon influencer wwx meets and then tries to romance a mortal lwj without knowing much about how humans work, despite having lived on earth for years and watching a lot of demon porn about humans. just really silly and off the wall. they nail lwj being a weirdo and this makes him really compatible with non-human wwx. the way they had instant chemistry and fell right into a relationship was so low-drama and sweet.

based on the title you'd think there are weird sex things going on but it's actually rated just T. nhs is great and there's a ton of really funny lan family moments and jc stuff too.

work issues: unfortunately the other main couple is jgy/lxc

author issues: see above - xiyao

*happy not knowing* by plonk

summary: this bold author dared to ask the question: what if lxc was incredibly stupid? what if he didn’t realize his brother was gay? what if he was offensively, hilariously, absurdly oblivious to the fact that wwx and lwj were together in a romantic and sexual sense? while they all lived together in CR? for years? the result is a very funny multi-POV tale lasting five+ years that at the end reached heights of heteronormative nonsense so extreme that it was genuinely hurtful. but I love that lxc is the butt of every joke and mocked at every turn, presented as foolishly oblivious while everyone else knows the truth. I adore qin su in this, and the rest of the story actually goes quite well for everyone compared to canon, so it’s a lot more lighthearted

wq and jc is a background pair (that lxc is equally oblivious to), but they showed up only once or twice and jc doesn’t abandon her clan to death in this AU so I don’t mind too much

if lxc’s inability to see wx’s relationship as romantic is upsetting instead of humorous to you, this may be a fic to skip. the other characters do see and support wx even when lxc doesn’t

work issues: although not treated as important, the line that established wx were sleeping together stated that their first time was when wwx was drunk. wwx refers to himself once as a wife. there’s a scene of somnophilia (sort of?), which I found very uncomfortable even if it was consensual. it also leans into wx having loud and aggressive sex everywhere in CR, and it’s implied they have sex outside where juniors saw them so 😬

author issues: has written genderbends and A/B/O, along with *gestures to the above*

remember how the morning will arrive by remiges

summary: a three-part series focused on lqr, who postcanon continues to grapple with his history of child sexual abuse at the hands of his older brother. this is an intense work, but not graphic or gratuitous, and it has a hopeful ending. it incorporates an interesting and unique backstory for lqr and madam lan, and the way it handles trauma and evokes emotion is incredibly powerful and cathartic despite lqr's very bleak and painful personal backstory, and lqr shares moments of solidarity with other survivors of sexual abuse. the novel-leaning characterizations were overall quite good

work issues: I really liked the first two parts of this series, but the third one disappointed me. lqr stumbles upon a (non-graphic) cnc roleplay scene with wx and, understandably, loses his shit. it's handled about as well as it could be by the characters, lqr is immediately told that what's happening in consensual, and once he has a few days to process he’s like ‘yeah that’s your business it’s fine,’ which felt like a slap in the face. the finale of this series does wrap up the story in a really satisfying way, I just wish the author hasn't been so faithful to the novel wx dynamics and then go a step further by having their fictional survivor of csa validate rape roleplay too

author issues: cnc

kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool

summary: *deep breath* canon divergent parent trap AU where a-yuan had a twin brother, and in the confusion of nightless city, wwx and lwj are both injured in ways that lead them to believe the other AND one of the twins is dead. afterwards, they each raise one twin, lwj in CR and wwx as a rogue cultivator hiding his identity, neither realizing the truth. 16 years later, the twins meet on a night hunt, figure out who they are, and switch places to figure out the story and get their parents together.

the style for this fic was super fun, and I thought the humor, characterizations, and relationship writing were just excellent. jyl is alive, and lxc plays a much different role in wx’s relationship; the darker elements juxtapose the lighter ones quite nicely. while the relationships between all of the 'good guys' lacked the drama and tension of canon, flashback-era wx were just devastatingly romantic and tender, and their post-reunion relationship is very sweet. there’s a surprise f/f ship we see towards the end! the finale gives some quieter characters a chance to shine, though I did find it a bit silly and melodramatic

personally there was way too much kid content compared to wx content, but that's just a preference on my end. if you like the juniors you'll probably enjoy that part more than I did. just see the notes about it, because...

work issues: you know how fucking mad I am that this fic started hinting that jl had a crush on lsz. here they’re closer in age and technically only family friends since wwx isn’t in the picture, but there’s no excuse for ljy to then start crushing on wwx’s kid who switches spots with lsz. like, obvs I still consider it incest but ig in-universe it’s only not incest by the barest of technicalities 🙄

none of the kids actually get together in the fic itself, but it was just SO annoying and gross and then the author had to be like ‘lol they start dating’ in the notes after the last chapter. shut UP!

author issues: see above, but also xiyao, niyao, and 3zun

oh, these are real things by typefortydeductions

summary: the first work of a modern AU where newly-together wwx and lwj deal with wwx’s depersonalization issues and negotiate having sex that ramps up in kinkiness. I really liked all the communication happening and I thought it was a neat translation of wwx’s issues to a non-magical setting

I don’t like the rest of the series as much but here’s a rundown: it follows them as they continue managing their issues, adopt kids, and handle becoming parents. there's some gender stuff that gets weird later bc they really lean into wwx’s breeding kink and make him genderfluid so they call him a wife and mom. the characterizations were...decent.

I do like the maturity, realism, and emotional honesty in the rest of the series. the bdsm scenes can be really intense because they legit do hardcore sadism and masochism, but because they communicate so thoroughly about it, I didn’t dislike it in the way I dislike most bdsm in fic. but I still skimmed a lot of the sex scenes. and overall I don’t like it enough to rec

work issues: for this first fic, really nothing.

for the rest of the series, lwj is a bit possessive, there’s some emphasis on wwx being skinny/lwj’s big hands, and 3zun is a background couple. xxc/sl/xy is also mentioned as a poly relationship. wwx is not cis in this one (undefined but akin to genderfluid, and occasionally calls himself a girl, wife, and mother) and it gets a little weird? however none of this shows up in the first work.

author issues: same author as above - cnc, dubcon, A/B/O, genderbends

Back to Start || Section Seven

#ficblogging #fic recs #recs-6

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excessivelemon · 1 year

Text

Anyway, here's my WIP about vampires

Chapter 1

I returned to the languishing countryside close to the date of my sixteenth birthday. Prior, I had served a period at a boarding academy in the illustrious and blooming capital. My brother and my father had driven the carriage from the family property to the town's only station to collect me when my train arrived. The morning was thick with clouds and I was fatigued from my unpleasant journey. I could see the carriage parked adjacent to the platform from my window as the steam train rolled to a stop. The two horses, Magdalene and Merriweather, were fidgeting in their idleness. The former was a fiery shade of chestnut that, on days less overcast, shone with hellfire brightness, and the latter was a murky tone of ebony, dark as piano keys. My father had kept those horses three summers now, raising them since foals after the loss of his more faithful stead, Argus. They were still restless in their relative youth, but had thus far proven very dependable beasts indeed. It was they that caught my attention as the train lulled to a stop. Many of the passengers on board the train stayed utterly put, taking only novel interest in the tiny town that would make entirely no impact on their merciful lives.

For me, regrettably, this was home. I reclaimed my luggage from beneath my seat and tiptoed through the now stationary corridor. The porter cracked open the door so that I, and only I, might disembark onto the unremarkable platform. My brother saw me first emerge from the darkness of the train's carriage onto the dreary platform. He, Gene, waved broadly to me, summoning me towards him and where the horses waited. My father was busy fiddling with the champ in Merriweather's mouth which had somehow twisted about. Gene's commotion seized his attention back towards my direction. His welcome was far more demure, the gentlemanly welcome of an unemotive Scotsman.

With the handle of my bag firmly in my fists, I crossed the stark platform towards the location of the carriage, parked as it was where the concrete met the dirt path that streaked its way through town. The small town had yet to invent paved roadways, relying instead on compact dust worn sturdy over the previous decades. The dust whipped up in the summer winds, stinging the eyes of horses and passengers, but in the cool of Autumn it was settled and still. Gene rushed to meet me, his long legs carrying him rapidly in my direction. A hand jutted out, offering to take my luggage from me. I allowed it, trusting him to carry it to the carriage with far more ease than I might. Father said little in reaction to me, though he touched a light palm to my shoulder blade in some gesture of paternal recognition. I allowed for it.

My father and I had always maintained an affectionate distance from one another. Love translating in respect of perimeters. It was my mother who fawned and fussed. She, I noted, had not come to collect me. Nor had my beloved sister, Adelia. I peeked through the carriage on tiptoe to be sure, as Gene cracked ajar the door and hurled my luggage within. Other than my bag and a folded copy of the week's newspaper left limp on the backmost seat, it was utterly empty. I looked to Gene to ask where the others might have been, but hadn't managed more than a gesture before he shook his head in apology. They hadn't come, I derived from his expression. Perhaps they hadn't wanted to.

My relationship with my family was, perhaps it is prudent to illuminate, somewhat strained by the given juncture. I had been born a normal and healthy child, developing along as all plump little girls did. Yet, at a vulnerable age I was struck with a condition that rendered me unable to hear most everything. The loudest of loud sounds, such as the train pulling from the station with a hearty whistle, registered as a foggy somethingness in my ear canals, but formless and indistinguishable. Voices were almost entirely lost to me. My eldest brothers, Charles and Freddy, took to shouting their loudest at me on whatever sparse occasions inspired them to speak with me at all. It frustrated me, for I could hear the tone but not the shapes of the words. It was as meaningless to me as no communication whatsoever.

My mother had become frustrated with my affliction, seeing it as a rupture in her dominion and, thus, our relationship. My father saw no change, for the words he'd spoken to me were so infrequent anyway that I failed to remember the sound of his voice. Only my other two siblings, those most closest to me in age, Gene and Adelia, had strived to form some manner of speaking with me. Adelia had taught me to read and write as she had learned at school. My whole childhood had been characterised by long and prolific notes from my sister, who wrote to me frequently. We had used gumboots as mailboxes, left at the foot of our beds, and would slip letters to each other multiple times a day. Gene, far from the most adept at literacy, had instead carved out a short system of hand gestures to interact with me. Far from any recognisable sign language, it was rather a shorthand of our own that most others globally were incapable of reading through. Gene and Adelia were my most cherished friends, as well as mine own blood, for they were the only two who tried at all to adapt to my inability. My father, however, had recognised my incapacity and strove to save as much spare wealth as he might to send me, five years ago, to an academy in the city that helped educate those such as me.

My attendance had done wonders for my education, but the distance had only worsened the state of affairs between myself and my family. Adelia had written to me, as always, though her letters had become infrequent and brief of late. My mother tried, keeping me to date with the current affairs in the briefest of ways, cushioned with reminders of a motherly obligation to love. Gene hadn't written but more than twice a year – my birthday and at Christmas – though this was characteristic. Rather, instead of my family, I had grown closer to the school's Governess and the other pupils who, like me, found themselves stranded on academy grounds year-round. They were able to use their hands deftly to speak with me, and I them, and in their company I felt like I belonged snugly. This newfound sense of belonging had caused me, sometime earlier, to realise how distant I really had been with my own flesh and blood, largely due to their inability to adapt to me and not because of my incapacity. This frustration had, prior to my return, lately begun boiling into something like resentment. Thus, when Adelia had written and advised me both Charles and Freddy had enlisted to serve in the war overseas, I felt little interest and no remorse whatsoever. What difference did it make to me where they were? It was a few weeks after this revelation that my father wrote his first and only letter to me. His scrawl was jagged and sharp, slanting and difficult to read. I had held it beneath candlelight for some minutes, trying to discern what precisely he had tried to communicate. The letter had come with a paper ticket for a train ride in May, prior to the close of term, and thus I knew the gesture before I could understand the words.

"Come home, 12th May, 8 o'clock train."

That was all he had written of any considerable note. It was couched in the usual platitudes that accompanied correspondence. "Dear" and "Sincerely". No earnest effort at connection of any sort. Nonetheless, I had my orders and mine was to obey. My father held a command over the family he disliked being ruptured. Surely, my brothers had only enlisted in service following his explicit blessing. I had only attended school when he had decreed it. No one dared shift an inch without his permission, for he was the head of the household in all manners. Thus, I returned when I was ordered, and met my family on the road beside the platform as though meeting near strangers. The horses sniffed in my direction, trying to recognise me by scent. I felt entirely out of place. Even the town around me seemed to shift as though trying to make room for me within it, trying to adjust to the unexpected re-emergence of a once lost daughter. The trees and the clouds and the small stone houses all felt to be watching me with great scrutiny, trying to recall who I was. Stretching and yawning and accommodating me once again.

It felt alien to me, peering out of the carriage window. Seeing a world that felt vaguely familiar, though slightly changed. A cherry tree since uprooted from one's front yard. Another's reconstructed brickwork fence. Gravestones tilted sideways in the cemetery where previously had just been a rotten stretch of turf. Had the world really changed so much, or was it just me? Had I failed to move from the pinpoint in time from which I left the town? What I searched for was, therefore, a fragile memory I could almost conjure up, though mostly in the absence of what I had been so sure had been before. What remained the same remained so much the same that I failed to notice it, failed to remember it at all. Just what wasn't there, or what had come to be. I felt disjointed from my hometown, and I tried to count the innumerable days that had passed, that I had missed, wherein all else carried onward in the manner of its fashion as though I had never been at all. How many sunrises crept above the mountains to the east, rendering a dawn silhouette of their supple formation against the glowing horizon, and how many glass bottles of milk on doorsteps had long since soured. Fantasies concocted of the life to which I might otherwise have been privy had my circumstances been those of my sister or my brothers.

Gene tried to talk with me in the back seat. He tapped against my kneecap with his rigid finger. And he, himself, was a marvel likewise. When had he grown so tall? A man now of twenty-two, yet I remembered the young lad who stood in his place when I left. A child with the fledglings of awkward facial hair creeping along his chin, whose arms and legs drooped from his core as though dissembled shreds of ruptured spiderweb. Now a man fully grown, I pondered briefly if he had any plans to enlist in the armed forces as Freddy and Charles had already. Surely he would look dashing in the khaki uniform of the ANZAC servicemen. Perhaps military service would be an endeavour to put his great height to use. I deigned to give him enough of my attention as to catch the end of the sentence he had forged with his hands. It wasn't enough for me to entirely understand. I shook my head and waited for him to repeat himself. He tried again, hands whipping across themselves in a frantic effort to communicate something precious with me.

"Adelia is at home," he said. That had been my natural conclusion when I hadn't seen her in the carriage. That, or else she had a desperate mid-morning need to visit the market. I offered Gene a shrug in return, disinterested in the unimpressive revelation. He wasn't done. He sought my attention once more. "Did she tell you her news?"

News? I tried to cast back. Nothing in her letters of late carried any news of which Gene would find fascinating. Other than the enlistment, and what mild details of the war she had found noteworthy, Adelia's news would hardly been considered such to anyone else. A new frock purchased, or a spool of lace. The mundanity of a woman's life slowly unfolding within the confines permitted her prior to motherhood. Nothing that Gene would take much interest in, surely. I waited, therefore, for him to tell me after all. Crudely, he attempted to craft the shape of a ring around his third-most finger. I glared in curiosity at the shape, struggling at first to comprehend the effort. Had her finger been amputated tragically? Why on earth would she keep such a secret to herself? No, that was wrong. For the more I stared, the more apparent it became. It was a betrothal ring, or else a wedding band. Adelia was intended. And she had failed to tell me as such. With this revelation, I felt myself fragment with unrefined emotion. I was both aflutter with excitement for Adelia – and pervasively curious as to which young man from such slim selection had won her heart – but I was likewise, in equal measure, furious she had not told me herself. My mind scoured back over every letter, all of which I carried bound by twine in my luggage, for even the faintest and most inscrutable hint. I could recount none. She had withheld it from me and depended upon the circumstance of Gene's confession.

Had the town seemed unfamiliar to me prior, it now appeared absolutely inhospitable. Too much life had passed by in my absence. I had missed more than I might ever be capable of recovering. Frustrated, I turned myself against the possibility of any further news, and whatever revelations might emerge therefrom, and fixed my gaze firmly out the window. The town had begun its melting into utter obscurity as our carriage approached the outskirts. Far from a crossing of the Rubicon, the perimeter of town could hardly be clearly drawn. There was in-town and there was out-of-town, but there existed no clear point at which those two states bordered. Yet, I knew we were out-of-town when the cottages became less frequent, when the smell of ripe eucalyptus permeated the mid-morning air, when I spied a kangaroo grazing on an unkempt strip of scrub.

My home was out-of-town, on a plot just broad enough to maintain two horses and a single dairy cow, and a well from which we drew up our own water. It was not a farm by any means, and yet in school I had attained the reputation of being from a farm by means beyond me. My schoolmates had decided I fit the category of farm-girl, despite my adamance my family did not work land for wealth. The distinction was lost on them, or else just poorly tolerated. They noted the heaviness of my gait as firm evidence. City girls, they argued, are light when they step, almost imperceptible, stalking the corridors like spectres. I was informed that I, by contrast, stomped a stomp utilised when crossing muddy plains. Indelicate and pronounced. A terrible stomp that rattled lanterns atop dressers. I resented the characterisation. I wished with everything to be a light, ghostly city-girl. One who could wander cobblestone streets unnoticed, who could wear lace and silk and chiffon frocks without appearing entirely out of character. I wanted to be light and delicate, but the country ran too rich in my blood.

When my father drove the carriage towards the family homestead, I felt its proximity in my bones and my senses both. My blood bubbled in anticipation as we approached. I could smell, as if on the air, the hearth fires that had burned each winter morning. I recalled with sweet nostalgia several disjointed artifacts from my childhood experience. Walnuts cracked upon the tabletop. The sweetness of freshly jarred milk into which I dipped mother's teacakes. My sister's hand in mine and the gap between my brothers front teeth when he grinned. Relics of a childhood I had halted and to which I anticipated a seamless return. Yet, someone had painted the mailbox. Now it stood a rich shade of green, such that it appeared unbecoming against the rusty hues of autumnal bushland. My mother waved from a spot on the veranda as we approached. I noticed, to my surprise, that she had aged profoundly in the few years since I'd last seen her. The rendition of her I carried in my mind, once eternal, stood in contrast to the real her as she became. Her hair had greyed about the ears, its sheen dulled from neglect. Her waist had broadened, her breasts hung lower. Had six years really made such profound an impact? It occurred to me that I had changed, too. I'd grown taller, more feminine in figure. She was seeing me, as I was her, as a memory corrupted. A projection of unmet expectations. The slight unfamiliarity time gifts us with. She was still mother, and had not changed from yesterday, or likely from the day before. In my mind, though, she changed drastically. Her hand helped me climb down from the carriage once we stopped. She snatched me into a kind, rekindling embrace. I smelled stale tea on her beath. Her chest vibrated with words spoken while she held me. I allowed myself to be hugged for a time. Upon freeing me, she asked if I was well. I assured her I was, and I asked after Adelia.

No sooner had I asked the question did Adelia herself emerge from within the family home. She had grown, I noticed, into quite the young lady. Her hair, always wild and ferociously aflame, settled now in a demure bunch at the nape of her neck, an indicator of her maturity. Her white frock reached to her wrists, themselves slender as her childhood plumpness had abated. She would not have been far out of place on the streets of the city I had just myself left. She crossed the distance between us and took my hands into hers. Her eyes were bright as she assured me how happy she was to see me. I cast my eyes down to her hand and spotted the gold engagement ring that hung around her finger. A simple band, perhaps antique, yet becoming on her maiden hand. She held my hand a while, until we were all ordered into the kitchen for tea. Gene took my luggage indoors in my behalf. Mother dragged me towards a pot of tea only recently brewed. Adelia set my hands free once we were in the shade of the corridor. It was there I noticed she had left something behind. A note. I let her walk onwards to the kitchen and I, however, ducked into the outhouse with assurances to be right back. Secure in my isolation, I opened her note and read it in the cracks of sunlight that filtered through the doorway.

"Lulu-May has disappeared," she had written. A simple enough message, yet one that carried a true weight for me. Lulu-May was the girl from the farm next door whom I had played with as a girl. I was surely like to ask after her upon my return, and Adelia had pre-empted that. Her warning taught me not to ask after her. I was desperately curious for the entire narrative, and sensed it would come to me in time. In the meantime, I would have to swallow my fascination. I tore the note into quarters and dropped it into the pit of the lavatory, never to be retrieved. I returned, then, to my family, and the mug of milky tea awaiting me on the tabletop.

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