#it's fine. it's my torch to carry

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

The Dragon and the Dragon-less

Pairing: Aemond x Strong niece reader

Summary: The night Aemond had lost his eye, his sweet niece was the only one to provide him any sense of comfort. Many years later, when she returns to Kings Landing with her family, what should become of the two? ;)

Warnings: bad ship terminology (idk boats y'all sorry), Rhaenyra being kind of a bad mom (love her tho), Targcest/incest, softer Aemond, smut in the dragon pits, this one is kind of long haha

AN: Hey y'all! Since my first fic seemed to be received so well (thanks so much to everyone for that:) I decided to write another one! I'm staying on the Aemond train since I've never left it since day one haha. Let me know tho if there are any requests!

PS: I haven't gone through and totally edited this so don't mind the spelling or grammar issues if there are any!!

It had been awful, you remembered hearing the screaming and shouting from your chambers. The screeching having woken you up from a rather pleasant dream about eating cake–

In nothing but your night clothes, and a quilt draped around your shoulders, you padded down the chilly hallways of Dragonstone. 

“ – it was my sons who were attacked!” You hear your mother yell. Concerned you took a few more steps forward, finally able to make out the scene before you. Your mother and your brothers to one side, while Alicent and her boys on the other, the fire raging in the hearth between them. 

Your wide lilac eyes meet those of your stepfather, Prince Daemon, he reaches a hand out towards you as if to say “Come here”. Your feet did not move, rooted to the spot, eyes glancing around the room once more. You see something you hadn’t noticed before, Aemond, in the corner of the room, surrounded by maesters. A hand over his eye, thick, sticky fluid oozing from between his small fingers. Gasping, your own hands fly to cover your lips, perhaps to muffle the noise, or maybe to tame the scream building in your throat. Aemond’s healthy eye meets yours, pain, sadness but most of all fury over taking his features. 

Just then your mother turns to meet you, her gaze worried and frantic, “My sweet girl! You should return to your chambers this is no sight for you dearest,” her hand, also bloody you notice, rests above her heart.

“Mother, w-what has happened? Aemond, h-he, is he alright–” You begin to question, Daemon takes a step towards you and you take one forward into the room. Your concerned gaze flits over to Aemond once more. Despite the fire in the hearth, the chill of the room has set into your bones, causing you to pull the quilt tighter around your shoulders. 

“Come now byka zaldrīzes (little dragon) let us return you to your quarters. Aemond will be fine,” Your father attempts to comfort you. Maybe you are too tired to argue, or too shocked, your mind still attempting to comprehend what has happened. But you let your father guide you back to your chambers, the quilt trailing behind you like a cloak. 

With a lullaby and a pat on the head, Daemon bids you good night once more. Closing the door softly behind him, his heavy footsteps receding off into the distance, presumably back to your mother and brothers. It feels like hours as you stare at the ceiling, listening, straining your ears for even just a morsel of information. But the halls beyond your door remain as silent as the grave. The chill in your bones is stubborn, making you shiver. Sitting up and swinging your feet over the side of the bed, you wrap the quilt around your shoulders once again. As silently as possible, you open the door, the hall is empty save for the torches lining the walls. You’re bathed in the fiery orange glow as you step fully into the hall. 

You’re not quite sure where your feet carry you until you turn the corner and are met with Ser Criston Cole. His tall stature taking up the door frame of the young prince's room, his gold cloak behind him like an inverse shadow. It’s not until you come to stand in front of him that he addresses you. 

“Princess, you should not be here. You should return to your chambers,” He looks down his nose at you. Your knuckles turn white from the tight grip you have on the quilt.

“Please, Ser, I must see the Prince. What has happened to him? I must know if he is alright–” 

“Your brothers have maimed him. Who’s to say you aren’t here to do the same? Perhaps your whore of a –” The door behind him creaks a bit, one of the maesters appears in its place. Bloodied rags and a needle are held in his hands. He sighs “The prince says she may pass Ser Cole,”

With one last look of annoyance and a warning mumbled under his breath, the knight lets you pass. The room is dark, lit only by a few candles on the bedside table. Aemond’s hunched form lays on the bed, the blankets up to his chin. As you make your way closer you can see the true horror of what has happened this evening. Where his eye once was, now lays only marred flesh, red and angry, the stitches pull at the swollen skin. You gasp, shocked, a sick feeling settling into the pit of your stomach.

“Ugly isn’t it?” Aemond asks you, bitterness lacing his voice. As he speaks you make your way to his side, sitting lightly on the bed, next to his hip. Your small hand searching for his under the covers, to comfort him, or maybe to warm your own. 

“H-how did this happen? Who could possibly have–”

“Your brothers. Lucerys stole my eye. But an eye for a dragon is a fair price to pay is it not niece?” A proud, sad smile graces his features. While your brothers had dragons since they were but babes, you were not as lucky. Syrax had not laid a full nest, and your mother had decided it was best to give your brothers the two eggs. All the while you have remained dragonless. 

“Vhagar is now mine, and on the morrow, we shall leave this wretched place. And I will fly on dragon back to the Red Keep.” His singular lilac eye meets yours. “I promise you, sweet niece, one day I shall take you for a ride on dragon back. Show you the freedom that comes with it,” His previously bloodied fingers intertwined with yours. 

“I would like that very much uncle,” Looking down at your joined hands, a small smile of your own matching his. 

— — — — — — —

The waters of the sea lap against the side of the ship, the slap against the wood echoing around you. Overpowered only by the screeching of your family's dragons above you. Alone, you ride on this ship, well alone save for the ship hands and captain assigned by your father. Still, at the age of nine and ten, you remain dragonless, made to travel to the Red Keep by boat.

Your brothers claim to Driftmark had come into question, prompting the visit back to your old home. You hadn’t been back here since–

Your mother and father had determined it best to keep the family at Dragonstone after Aemond lost his eye. Although you had always suspected part of the reasoning for that was your mothers fear of retribution from Alicent for what your brother had done. Perhaps it was a long time coming though, your brothers as well as Aegon had picked on Aemond ruthlessly for years prior to that night. You had been spared only by the simple facts that you were a little girl, and just weren’t in there presence as much. Despite your pleas to join in the yard for training you had been denied, and turned towards the library instead to study “things more befit for your station” as your mother had put it.

“We shall dock shortly Princess,” the ship captain’s voice drifted to you from behind the wheel. You stood on the platform with him, looking beyond the masthead, you see Syrax and Caraxes land in the dragon pits. You sigh, it looks like you’ll arrive alone at the Red Keep, not expecting your mother to wait for you. Her and Daemon needed to prepare for the events of tomorrow. 

Arriving at the Keep felt haunting, the lack of a welcome only contributing to that fact. Once docked, you were met by a singular carriage and it’s driver. The captain had assured you that your belongings were to be delivered to your chambers shortly. For all your fathers faults he did have good trust and faith in those he employed. The ship’s captain had been with your families since you were a girl. He and yourself not unfamiliar with these lonesome journeys. 

The gates of the Red Keep came into view as you rolled over the bumpy roads of Kings Landing. Gold Cloaks lined the gate’s walls, closing the massive gate doors behind you, shutting you in, locking you within the castle grounds. The carriage comes to a jumpy halt, the driver offering you his hand as you disembark your ride. Your fingers slip into his as your boots squelch in the mud below you, the clanging of swords and metal meet your ears. 

“Nephews, have you come to train?” A voice says, one you could not recognize. From across the yard you see your brothers, you wave to them, hoping to catch their eye. Luke turns his head towards you, a small smile playing at his lips. Noticing this, the source of the voice follows his gaze, a singular lilac eye meeting yours.

“Niece, how you have grown–” Aemond’s lone eye takes in your figure. My how you’ve grown indeed. Last time he had seen you you barely came up to his chin, your silver locks a messs contained in small braids. The flush that never seemed to leave your cheeks remained however. You had grown taller, still standing shorter than himself, which he finds excites him a bit. More than it should perhaps. You had grown into yourself in a way that was very pleasing to his eye, your face fuller and lovely. Your curves soft and plush, inviting him to touch and caress them. 

“Uncle,” you offer him a small curtsey. You can hear Jace scoff, as if annoyed by the action. Wanting yo say more, but not knowing what, you continue to look at one another. Your own eyes take in your uncle, he had grown taller, much taller. His muscles lean and corded beneath his tunic. His silver hair almost as long as yours, is pulled back slightly in a braid. Some hanging free, escaping their confines during his sparring. His eye was now covered in an eyepatch, made of black leather, the tops and bottoms of the scar still visible even with it on. 

The arrival of another carriage turns your gaze to the left, where you yourself had arrived only moments ago. Vaemond Valaryon steps out of the carriage and into the yard, sparing a glance at the Prince and your brothers. A look of disgust crosses his face as he lays his eyes on Luke. 

— — — — — — —

The meeting to question Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark is long and dull, at least in the beginning. Mustering his limited remaining strength your grandsire had sat the thrown. Disputing Otto and Alicent in their claims. He looks horrible you think. His skin looks to be gray and sloughing off of his bones. The Stranger would be coming for him soon. It is not until Vaemond brings into question your brother’s parentage once again, that the apprehensive peace shatters. 

“And she is a–”

“Say it,” your father’s hand that rests on the hilt of Dark Sister tightens, knuckles whitening. 

“ – a WHORE!” In one swift blow, Daemon sends Vaemond’s head rolling across the floor of the throne room. Blood trailed behind the appendage like a snail’s trail. The room is filled with gasps and short screams. Your own eyes widened looking at the head on the stone floor before you. By no means are you unfamiliar with your father's violent nature, and nor should the rest of the court. 

“Let him keep his tongue,” Daemon wipes the blood off of his blade, stepping back, sheathing the sword once more. 

As if some kind of magic pulls you, you lift your eyes from Vaemonds severed head and meet those of your uncle. A smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, he looks to be well entertained by the violent display. Caught in your staring, Aemond’s gaze rises to meet your own, his smirk widening into a more sadistic smile. 

“Now, for the final order of business. A more pleasant way to end this affair,” the king says, his mellow voice carrying across the stone-lined room. “I am blessed by the Gods to have such a large family, but it appears that the Gods hope to bless us some more,” It was becoming increasingly more clear that Alicent’s love for The Seven has bled not just into the castle but its people as well.  You think maybe it gives the king something comforting in his final days. 

“My son, Aemond, a fine warrior and scholar,” Aemond stands rigid and straight, uncomfortable with the new attention from his father. “And my granddaughter, if your mother had not already claimed the title of Realms Delight then it would be most certainly passed to you.” Your cheeks flush a bright pink, warmth rising to the tips of your ears. 

“This family has been divided for quite some time, I tend to rectify that. Aemond, my son, and my granddaughter the princess, shall be married,” The reactions around the room are mixed, some people applaud, some cover their shock with their hands. Wide, prying eyes jump between you and Aemond. You dare a look in his direction, he is still staring, the smile gone from his face now. Confusion, shock, anger? You cannot tell but it is not sweet, and it is not kind.

A wave of confidence washes over you as you step forward, “What is the meaning of this? Why have I not had any indication of this until now?!” You feel your mother’s hand grasp your elbow, urging you to stand beside her, silently. “It is the wish of your grandsire, byka zaldrīzes (little dragon). He is dying, do not fight him,” Your head whips aside, meeting her eyes, eyes filled with sadness. Did she know of this? Did she approve of this? Your father would not meet your eyes, nor your brothers, Jace toeing at an invisible stone on the floor. Did they all know, except for you? 

You tear your elbow from your mother’s grasp, she opens her mouth to speak once more, but your back is already turned. Your feet lead you towards the grand door. You had to leave, you needed to be anywhere else but here. Your chest tightens, your breathing ragged. Not with sadness or grief, no, but with anger and fury. You feel as though you could breathe fire as the dragons do. An angered scream tears past your lips, reverberating off of the stone walls of the Red Keep. 

— — — — — — —

You had decided it best to skip the family feast. And a good thing too, unbeknownst to you it had gone horribly. Lucerys mocking Aemond over the roasted pig, Aemond's “final tribute” to his Strong nephews. No, instead you had taken your dinner in the library, back amongst your beloved books. The sun had set an hour or two ago now, the torches along the halls lit. You didn’t know how late it was, you had been much too absorbed in your novel Lady Coryanne Wylde, A Cautionary Tale for Young Girls. 

The wax on the candles had burned low, and your wine had turned cold. It was time to retire. Taking the book with you, you began to make your way toward your chambers, your old chambers. The last time you had slept there you had been but a girl. As you turn the corner you are met with a hard wall of warm, corded muscle. Your book tumbling to the ground. A pair of strong hands plant themselves on your shoulders, to steady you. 

“Careful niece, someone might think you are up to no good, wandering the corridors, at night–alone” The smile from earlier returns to his lips, and just then, he notices the book on the floor. His smile becoming impossibly wider, you don’t think you’ve ever really seen Aemond smile, not like this anyway. It’s nice, you think to yourself.

“What’s this dear niece,” he bends down to pick up the novel, his slim fingers sifting through the pages, his eyebrows lifting. “Well, well, who would have thought–”

“Give that back!” You reach to snatch it from him, like a child, but he just holds it higher over his head. “Tell you what, I made a promise to you. Do you remember?” Of course, you remembered, you still thought about it sometimes, but all hope of fulfilling it had left you.

“Yes–” it came out more hoarse than you had intended. Your hand frozen, outstretched, Aemond still held the book over his head. 

“Come with me to meet Vhagar, for a ride,” he leaned closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “Come taste the freedom of the skies with me niece.” He had tucked the book behind his back. Aemond wasn’t a man who typically waited for an answer, nor was he one who liked when people disagreed with him. He’d throw you over his shoulder if he must. Even though his hatred for your family ran deep, he could never seem to hate you. You had endeared yourself to him time and time again as children, but the night he lost his eye. The night you visited him, the only one not angry, the only one not repulsed by his face. He knew then that he could never hate you, no matter how hard he’d tried. 

Words had suddenly failed you, your tongue dry. You simply nodded instead. In response, Aemond straightened to his full, imposing height, and turning without a word, he began his stride down the hall, towards the dragon pits. You followed him, but neither of you spoke, the halls of the Red Keep filled with an odd sort of comfortable silence. His hair had grown longer, much longer, and he walked with a sense of confidence that hadn’t been there before. 

The night air was chill, a slight breeze blew through your hair, tousling the strands. You were glad you had worn a gown with longer sleeves, it must be chilly up in the clouds. Aemond was sporting his riding clothes, the leather over his tunic reaching his wrists. He looked good, really good, you thought to yourself. The flush from earlier returning to your cheeks, as well as the warmth in the tips of your ears. 

Aemond comes to a stop before the pits, waiting for you, the book still behind his back, taunting you. You suppose that was his insurance policy in case you had said no to joining him. You can only imagine your father's reaction to seeing you read such debauchery. You were his sweet little girl after all…

“Come now niece, no harm shall come to you while I am near,” He held his hand out to you, and you slipped your fingers between his. His hands are much smoother than the ship captains from earlier, you thought. His hand was warm, the blood of the dragon coursing through his veins. The sound of beating wings from up above drew you out of your daze. A dark shadow crossed over the pair of you, coming to land only several passes in front of you. Vhagar stood proud and strong, if not slightly tired. Her form was weathered by time and battle. It’s a blessing from the Gods that she can still take to the skies as she does. 

Aemond drew you nearer to her, your hand still held tightly in his, like all those years ago. “Give her a pat, she won’t bite, not unless I tell her to,” He chuckled a bit at his own joke, your eyes widening slightly, making him laugh all the more. “No need to be frightened, she’s quite gentle actually,” He guided your hand up to the beast's snout, his fingers had moved to circle your wrists, making the action easier. Your hand lay splayed out before you against Vhagar’s scales, her skin impossibly hot. The hand on your wrists moves to cover your own on the dragon. From behind you, Aemonds other hand rests on your waist lightly, like a whisper on the wind. Mayhaps this marriage won’t be too bad after all? Your anger from earlier was not directed at him you realize, but rather at the other members of your family. You were never pleased when things were kept from you when you were lied to. You like his hand there, you like it a lot, it provides you a sense of comfort and security as you stand before this large beast. You wonder how his calloused hands would feel elsewhere…

Aemond retracts his hand, yours following closely behind, you can still feel the heat of Vhagar’s scales on the skin of your palms. You begin to be tugged backward in the direction of Vhagar’s saddle. Aemond motions for you to begin climbing the ropes that lead to the mount, he follows behind you; prepared to catch you should the need arise. The saddle is less like a saddle and more like a small chariot on top of the dragon. It comfortably seats the two of you, and could even squeeze in a third. 

Aemond positions you in front of him, his legs caging yours, his arms reaching around the front of you to grasp onto the reigns. “Are you ready?” The question is whispered to you, his lips brushing your ear once more as he speaks. You rather like this position, the warmth radiating off of his body will surely keep you warm above the clouds. 

“Yes, yes I think I am,” Your own hands come up to rest atop his, surely just to steady yourself, and not at all because you were becoming increasingly more desperate to touch or be touched by the man behind you. 

“Sōvēs Vhagar!” Aemond pulls back and yells into the night air, sparring your delicate eardrums. The beast below you growls and jolts into action. She takes a few long strides before beginning to beat her wings, as she takes off into the crisp night air. 

Eyes glued shut you think you yell out a little yelp of initial fear and surprise. Aemond’s legs press tighter down on your own as if to reassure you that you are safe with him and his dragon. As Vhagar evens out her flying, coasting just above the clouds, you dare to open your eyes. Behind you, Aemond cannot stop the smile from spreading across his lips, he cannot see your face but he hopes it is a happy one. He’ll take you out flying every day that you are married if it will make you happy. He would burn the world down if it meant he could keep you safe and happy. To make you his. 

Truthfully he wasn’t all that surprised by his father’s announcement of your betrothal. As a boy, even before the incident, he had asked his mother and grandsire, Otto, what lords would court you, and if any would be good enough for a princess. It wasn’t until after he lost his eye that he first breached the subject of marriage to his mother. He’d told her he deserved it, that after all the pain he had gone through, it was only fair for him to spend his life beside someone whom he cared so deeply for. At the time his mother had just given him a kiss on the forehead saying “Perhaps one day, we shall see,” A sad smile had crossed her face then.

He’d given up on the hope of marrying for love after that. The ladies of court found him elusive and repulsive, opting to flirt with his brother, despite his marriage to Helaena. A few moons ago, Aegon had made a jest at Aemond’s expense, something about being tied to a Strong for all eternity. He had ignored it, deeming it nothing more than one of his brother's drunken comments. However, after the events of today, it seems he was not jesting after all.

Aemond is broken out of his thoughts by a lovely, bubbly sound. You’re laughing, your arms spread wide, fingers splayed out letting the wind rush through them. He immediately goes to grasp your waist, his legs still caged around yours, steading you, anchoring you to him and the saddle. 

“What the sweet Hells are you doing?! Put your hands back on the reigns!” He exclaims. You giggle some more, the wind drying your teeth as you smile. 

“I cannot uncle! You were right, this is marvelous! I feel as though I could rule the world from up here!” He had never seen anyone as dazzling as you were in this moment. Vhagar gave a slight jolt as she began to descend back downwards, causing you to jump forward a bit, hands grasping the reigns once more.

“I told you – “ He murmurs against your hair, placing a small kiss on your head. After another moment Aemond begins to guide Vhagar back towards the dragon pits. There’s a strain in his trousers he can ignore no longer. Years of pent-up desire and want boiling over. Ever the gentleman, he assists you in descending the beast. This time he goes first, his hand in yours as he helps you with the final jump down. 

“That was incredible, uncle that was truly –” Aemond uses his grip on your hand to tug you forward, clutching you to his chest, his lips meeting yours. You gasp into his mouth, surprised by the boldness of his actions. Before you are given the opportunity to reciprocate, he pulls away, a slight frown on his face.

“My apologies, I should not have–” 

“Yes, you should have actually. Why did you stop, I was quite enjoying myself,” You pull on the collar of his tunic, tugging his chapped lips back down to yours. Aemond uses his taller stature to guide you back up against a pillar within the pits. The two of you made only out of sight by half of a pillar, and Vhagar’s sleeping form. 

“And what if I were to take you, right here? Right now? Like a scene from your debaucherous novel,” He exclaims, his lips moving, forming a trail from your jaw down to your collarbone. Surely leaving marks, and love bites as he goes. Oh if only his brother could see him now, he thinks that perhaps Aegon would congratulate him on finally “getting it wet”. 

His grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you impossibly closer to him. He was everywhere, all of your senses were overwhelmed by him. The smell of the oils used to wash his hair filled your nostrils, the smokiness from Vhagar had made a home in the threads of his clothes. You’re nearly positive that you must smell similar, you’ll need to get your gown cleaned certainly. 

Your hands began to fumble with the belt of his trousers, your fingers making clumsy work of the buckle. Aemond pulls away only for a moment to assist you, then he begins to work on the strings of your corset. His movements were desperate and quick, neither of you having the patience to wait much longer. All the while his lips never left your skin. You feel him smile against your skin as Vhagar makes a slight noise of annoyance at your escapades. Somehow between your messy kisses, your skirts had been rucked up to your hips, Aemond’s deft fingers making contact with your small clothes. 

“You’re rather wet dear niece. Do I rile you up so huh? I wonder how wet you’ll be with my cock inside your sweet cunt,” He says that last bit almost more so to himself rather than you. In response, a small whimper escapes your lips. Aemond looks up to meet your eyes. A certain twinkle reflects at you from his. 

“Another night I shall spend hours ravishing you, but I need to be inside you, now.” He gives his cock a few strokes, preparing himself. Your eyes widen at the sight, his shaft long and thick, his head red and leaking arousal. It was, invigorating, knowing that you could illicit such a response from him. With a delicate kiss to your lips and one final look of permission, Aemond sheathes himself inside you. Your warm walls squeeze him perfectly, welcoming him in. Gods he could stay right here like this forever. 

“ – move. Aemond Gods move please,” You begged him, your walls had adjusted to him. Feeling wonderful and full. He began slow, his thrusts taking on a rhythmic flow. Aemond tucks his face into the crook of your neck, smelling your hair, his grunts and groans in your ear. You drag your nails down his clothed back, perhaps next time you’ll be able to fully leave your marks on his skin. Thank the Gods Vhagar had decided to remain put, it would ruin your honor should anyone find you like this; even though your virtue was promised to him already.

“Fuck– I don’t know if I’ll be able to last much longer ñuha jorrāeliarzy (my beloved). You are just too perfect–” He cuts himself off with a grunt.

“Finish then, let go Aemond, let got for me please, I–” You beg him, you need it just as much as he does.

“Not before you ñuha jorrāeliarzy (my beloved).” Aemond moves down to circle your clit, sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. The pace of his thrusts picked up, your hands remained looped around his neck, anchoring yourself to him.

“Aemond, oh Aemond, Gods I’m gonna–” The words that left your mouth made hardly any sense. The words and phrases twist and turn into a bizarre hymn to your betrothed. 

“Cum, cum for me Jorrāelagon (love), give yourself over to me–” Aemond begged you. His lips biting and nipping at the flesh of your neck. On his command, a wave of pleasure washes over you, like the seas crashing into the shores of Driftmark. You remember drifting off to sleep as a girl to the lullaby of the sea. Aemond’s own release follows closely after your own. Still nestled inside of you, he rests his forehead against yours, sighing contentedly. 

“You know, when I was a boy, I had asked my mother to ask Rhaenyra for your hand. I had begged her actually,” He chuckles a bit at his anecdote.

“Did you?” You laugh along with him, less at the story and more so at the ridiculousness of your current situation. You feel him nod, his forehead brushing against yours as he does so. 

“Well,” you say in response, “ I had always wanted a dragon of my own. I had begged my mother actually”, you imitate Aemond’s words, giggling a bit as you do, “but now I need not ask any longer. For I have my very own dragon right here.” You place a kiss on his nose as you say this.

“Well my love, no longer shall you be dragonless, not as long as I am around anyways,” Aemond reassures you. He supposed he had two dragons now as well, with Vhagar he would burn the world down, but you gave him a reason to do so. With fire and blood he would protect you, love you, for that is the way of the dragon, that is the way of Prince Aemond Targaryen, your beloved betrothed. 

Tag List:

@ helaenaluvr  @ anukulee

[luveline]

i was thinking about roommate!spencer going home after a week off working on a case and finding reader sleeping on the couch waiting for him to get home

Spencer cringes as his nails scratch the paint around the doorknob. He’s a tepid mixture of tired and sad, demotivated from another bad case, the subway home, the too many steps to the apartment. He hopes the BAU has better pay after his probation is over. He’d get a new apartment, fix up his shitty old car, maybe even get a haircut. 

For now, it’s just him, his tired feet, the threadbare couch, and you. 

You’re snoring with your face crushed to the armrest, hand tucked under your chest. You’ve started sitting and ended twisted to one side. Your back will ache when you wake up, but you’re blissfully unaware of it while you sleep. Spencer has half a mind to let you sleep undisturbed. 

He steps over your book of crosswords on the floor and the pencil waiting beside it, bending over to pat your arm. When that doesn’t rouse you, he grabs your shoulder, about to shake you awake when you sigh in your sleep, a simple, sugary sound that sends heat to his cheeks instantaneously. You’re often innocuously lovely, at least in his eyes. 

Spencer frowns and goes to make you a glass of sweet tea to wake up to. He’s secretly hoping you’ll wake up before he returns, but you’re still snoring, your face crushed, pressure on your neck. 

He wonders if you sleep on the couch often. He’s never caught you sleeping in the living room when he’s home, but this is the third time now he’s texted you that he’s coming back and walked in to find you waiting…

Are you waiting for him? 

Spencer can profile you. It doesn’t feel right, he tries not to be invasive, but he can work this out. It’s his job. 

First, the text you sent that read, Can’t wait for you to come home, I’m making chicken noodle soup for us 

Neither indicative nor exclusionary of his theory. You could mean can’t wait as the metaphor it tends to be. 

Your crossword book. Upon further inspection, he realises the pages are bent on one side, and the tent of it has landed where your hand curls toward your chest. Alright, it fell. You stayed up until you were so tired you dropped your book. 

But… you could’ve been watching TV. He turns to analyse the TV set. The standby light turns orange when it’s been left on for eight hours at a time, and you and Spencer are kind of broke, so you don’t leave anything running on purpose. You’ve never fallen asleep watching TV while he was home— 

All these reasons. 

He could just ask. He turns back to you with lips already parted, prepared to try again to wake you and slip it in casually, Shit, you weren’t waiting for me, were you? 

You’re already awake. 

Tired, you smile at him like you’re not surprised he’s kneeling at the foot of your seat. Like you’re glad he’s home. “Spencer,” you say, voice etched with the last dregs of sleep as you turn onto your side completely, giving a little wince at the stretch. 

“Hey, you okay? Why are you sleeping on the couch again?” 

You roll your eyes for what he’s not sure and reach down blindly for the crossword book by his knee, your fingertips brushing his thigh and leaving lightness in their wake. “I'm glad you’re home. Need your help, m’stuck on my puzzle.” 

“That’s what you’re sleeping here for?” 

“What?” Your eyes slip closed and then flutter open. “Mm, no, was just waiting for you to get home. How was Santa Monica?” 

Spencer has to force himself to answer around the pretzel of nerves tied in his throat, because it’s what he’d wanted, but he wasn’t ready. “It was great! I mean– I mean, it was awful, and three people died and–” He breathes in wrong. “It was fine.” 

You curl your book on the right page, blinking heavily at an unsolved row. “Oh, good. Um. Okay, ‘to carry a torch for someone’. Eight letters, not obsessed. Doesn’t fit.” 

Spencer traces the soft shudder of your lashes where they’re desperate to kiss the skin below your eye. “Besotted,” he says quietly. 

You gasp happily. “Besotted. Perfect! I missed you, genius, you always know the answer.”

He hands you your fallen pencil. “I missed you, too.” 

[crescenthistory]

steady me, guide me, love me

Pairing: Barty Crouch Junior x Reader

Summary: After yet another fight, you have a serious talk with Junior about being careful, and he allows himself to be vulnerable with you.

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: not proofread, references to duels, blood and bruised knuckles, hurt/comfort, reader is anxious and stressed for barty, talks of dying, reader is not matching barty's freak but it's because she loves him and wants him to take a breather, barty and reader have an emotional disagreement but i would not classify it as a "fight", kissingggggg, like one innuendo

Notes: this was originally going to be an entirely different fic and not at all this emotional, but then barty had a mind of his own and took over my writing. so i am simply not to blame

***

The torches lining the Slytherin common room flickered in the dim light of the early evening. A faint breeze swept through the castle, carrying the scent of damp stone and the promise of rain. The common room was unusually quiet for a Friday night – students scattered in clusters, engrossed in studying or murmuring in low tones about the latest drama from their shared classes.

Barty was not among them. 

You sat on one of the far couches, attempting to focus on your homework but mostly letting your mind wander. It wasn’t unusual for Barty to disappear, but you hadn’t seen him for hours now, and the knot of anxiety in your stomach tightened as time ticked by. You knew him too well. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t good.

The door to the common room burst open with a loud thud, shaking the portraits on the walls. The students nearby jumped, startled, while your heart only jumped in recognition. Barty, his hair windswept, his tie undone, and his eyes gleaming with that feral, maniacal delight he wore like armour, strode in like he owned the place.

Trailing behind him, a faint scent of burnt fabric and… was that blood?

Your stomach clenched, and you shot up from the couch, abandoning your parchment as you hurried toward him. 

“Barty–” you began, but before you could even reach him, Barty’s voice rang out, sharp as ever.

“That was brilliant!” he declared, a wicked grin splitting his face. The students in the room shot wary glances at him before quickly looking away, clearly unwilling to be caught up in whatever this is.

You stopped in front of him, hands crossed over your chest, trying to keep your voice steady despite the surge of concern rising in your throat. “What did you do?”

His eyes flicked over to you, and for a brief moment, something in them softened, only for a moment – Barty wasn’t one to linger on emotions that exposed him.

“Oh, hi, dollface,” he drawled, closing the distance between you in two strides. He leaned down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear, the smell of singed air and danger still clinging to him. “You should’ve seen it. That prat, Avery, dared to insult us–”

“Barty, what did you do?” you repeated, your voice firmer this time. You gripped his arm, pulling him slightly away from the curious eyes in the room, off to the side.

His smirk widened, unbothered. “We duelled. A proper one. Out by the forest. Let’s just say…” He waved a hand dismissively, as if the details didn’t matter. “He won’t be insulting anyone for a while. Got a good lesson in fear.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. There was a faint smear of blood near the collar of his shirt – not his, you hoped – and his knuckles were bruised, like they’d been cracked against someone’s jaw. Clearly not just a magical duel. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, wanting to ensure he was good before you rip into him for putting himself in harm’s way again.

He half-scoffed at you, waving any concern off. “I’m here, ain’t I? I’m fine, Avery’s not the worst I’ve seen.”

“Barty, you can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, eyes darting toward the others in the common room. You lowered your voice even more. “You can’t keep getting into fights just because someone runs their mouth.”

“Can’t?” he repeated, his expression twisting into a mocking smile, though you could see some uncertainty in his eyes. “You know damn well I can, baby. I will. If some filthy coward thinks he can throw my name – our name – in the dirt, I’ll break him.”

“You’ll get yourself expelled, is what you’ll do,” you shot back, frustration bubbling up inside you. “Or worse – someone’s going to get seriously hurt. You can’t just throw yourself into these things because– because–”

“Because what?” Barty interrupted, his voice sharper than he usually was with you. His eyes bore into yours, demanding something you weren’t sure you could give him. “Because I care too much? Because I won’t let anyone talk down to us?”

There it was again, that us he always slipped in when talking about you and him. It made you stutter in more ways than one.

You sighed, staring at him for a minute. Your heart ached. You loved that Barty cared, albeit too much sometimes, but his obsession with proving himself, with protecting what he thought was his, was going to destroy him. You could see the cracks forming already.

“Come with me,” you said quietly, pulling on his arm again. This was not a conversation to be had here, not with a dozen of already too curious eyes watching. You needed to get him away, alone, where he could let down his guard fully and you could hopefully talk some sense into him.

His gaze flickered around the room, but he didn't put up a fight, he never did with you about these things. “Fine,” he muttered, letting you guide him out of the common room.

The hallways of Hogwarts were mostly deserted at this hour. The faint echo of your footsteps bounced off the stone walls as you led him down the stairs to a more secluded corner near the dungeons, where the stone was colder and the shadows thicker. Barty, as always, followed with a mix of curiosity and defiance in his eyes, the corners of his mouth still turned up in that maddening half-smile.

Once you were out of earshot from any stragglers, you stopped and turned to him. 

“Let me see,” you said, reaching for his hand.

Barty raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pull away as you gently lifted his bruised knuckles toward the dim light of a torch. The skin was split in a couple of places, dried blood smeared along his fingers. You swallowed the knot of worry in your throat, your thumb brushing against the cuts.

“What did he say?” you asked quietly.

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters to me,” you insisted, not looking up from his hand.

He sighed, his free hand coming up to run through his dishevelled hair. “Something about my father. About how I’m ‘just like him,’ bound to be a disappointment. Then he said something about you. Called you…” He trailed off, anger clearly still knocked fully out of him. “Well, I don’t think I need to repeat that.”

Your stomach twisted. Avery was known for being a bully, but dragging you into it, using Barty’s relationship with you as some kind of twisted insult, was beyond cruel. Not to mention, beyond stupid.

No wonder Barty had reacted the way he did.

You stopped your inspection of his hand, instead interlacing your fingers with his as you leaned back against the cold stone wall. “You can’t keep doing this, Barty,” you repeated, your voice softer now, the fight draining out of you. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand, really I do. But you can’t just… lose yourself every time someone says something cruel.”

He stepped closer, his intense gaze locking onto yours. “I’m not losing myself,” he said, his voice low, the words a steady pulse of loyalty. “I’m doing what’s necessary. What no one else will do. I’m keeping us safe.”

You shook your head, blinking back the frustration building in your chest. “And what if next time, it’s not just a duel? What if next time you really hurt someone and get in serious trouble for once? Or, gods forbid, they hurt you?”

Barty laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “They can try. But they’ll have to be a hell of a lot smarter than Avery.”

“That’s not the point!” you snapped, pushing off the wall and closing the space between you. You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers tangling in the fabric. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day, and I can’t–” Your voice cracked, the weight of your worry pressing down on you. “I can’t stand it.”

His smile faltered, and you saw the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. It was brief, but it was there, like a flash of lightning in a storm, gone before you could fully grasp it. 

His hands moved to your wrists, gently prying your fingers away from his shirt, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he held your hands in his against his chest, his thumb brushing against your skin in slow circles, grounding you in the moment.

“You worry too much,” he murmured, his voice softer now, as though the fight in him had dulled with the weight of your concern. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You think you do, but you don’t,” you whispered back, your voice almost breaking. “You think throwing yourself into danger is some kind of answer, that it’ll make you feel something, or prove something– either to them, or to yourself. I don’t know, but one day, Barty, it’s going to be too much, and you–”

You cut yourself off, biting down on your lip to keep your voice from shaking. You weren’t sure how to finish that sentence. Thoughts often consumed you of a world where Barty’s recklessness finally caught up to him, your own unhealthy way of coping with your feelings for him. He had his fists, you had your thoughts, and you both had your spirals. The thought of losing him scared you more than anything else.

His fingers tightened around yours, and his eyes flicked madly between yours and your lip you realised had quivered ever so slightly. For a moment, you thought he might agree, that he might actually take what you were saying to heart, but then that familiar smirk curled back up on his lips, and his mask slid into place again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with that edge of defiance you knew so well. “Not unless you’re coming with me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding against your ribcage. The way he said it, like it was so simple, like the idea of you not being by his side was unthinkable, made your chest tighten. But it didn’t erase the fear that gnawed at your insides, the knowledge that Barty didn’t care about consequences in the same way you did. He only knew how to burn, and he didn’t care if he burned out in the process.

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. “You can’t keep fighting for me, Barty. I don’t need–”

“Don’t,” he cut you off. His eyes flashed, something dangerous sparking behind them. “Don’t tell me I can’t fight for you. Don’t tell me to sit back and let people say whatever the hell they want. You are mine to protect, love, whether you like it or not.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. There it was again — that raw, possessive streak that ran through Barty like a current, so powerful it was almost overwhelming. The way he looked at you, like you were the one thing in the world that made sense to him, the one thing he could claim as his own, made your heart race. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like this– something that hinted at what you both knew was there between you.

He never said “I love you,” never asked for anything, but this– this was his way of showing it. He’d destroy anything, anyone, who threatened what was his.

“I am,” you relented softly. “But I usually don’t need protecting. Not like this.”

Barty’s jaw clenched, and he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, the scent of smoke still clinging to him.

“Maybe not,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “But I need to protect you. Please understand.”

You froze at that, blinking up at him. His eyes were locked onto yours, and for once, there was no smirk, no playful deflection. Just raw, unfiltered passion. You could see the truth of it there, in the way his fingers held yours so tightly, like he was afraid to let go. 

In his eyes, you understood this part of him more closely. This was the only thing that made him feel like he was in control, like he had some kind of power over the chaos in his life. His father’s expectations, the pressure to be perfect, the constant disappointment looming over him. It all faded when he was with you. With you, he wasn’t a failure. He was needed because he was yours.

Heat rose in your cheeks, the air between you thick with unspoken words, unspoken feelings. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, sending shivers up your arm. You closed your eyes, trying to find the words, but they stuck in your throat. 

“Barty,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I… I do understand. But for the same reason, I need you to be safe.”

He swallowed and nodded briefly, his hair falling into his eyes, and consequently yours, black and green strands filling your vision. You laughed a bit, tension clearing for half a second, as you freed one of your hands to push his hair away. You let your hand trail down to ghost across his cheek and jaw.

“Stop treating yourself like you don’t matter,” you whispered.

Whatever remnants of a self-assured smile he had clung to were wiped from his face. He just stared at you, his eyes wide, like he didn’t know what to say. Slowly, as if he was unaware his body was moving, his shoulders slumped, and he leaned further into you, allowing the wall you were leaned against to keep you both upright.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Yet you could read his lips – a soft do I? – and you let your hand hold his jaw more securely, as you whispered, “You do, Barty. You do. To me.”

Barty didn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched, his eyes staring down at the stone floor as if it held the answers to everything. For a moment, you thought he might pull away again, retreat behind that mask of bravado and chaos that he wore so well, but then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, and the raw pain in his eyes nearly took your breath away.

“You really are all I have,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If I lose you because of some tosser–”

“You won’t,” you cut him off, flattening your other hand over his heart, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “You won’t lose me, Barty. I’m not going anywhere. And neither will you, because I’m not letting you. Wreak havoc as much as you please, but I beg you to be careful.”

Barty’s eyes softened, and he mustered a small smile for you, the one you loved the most. “Well, you know I love it when you beg,” he teased, smile widening when you rolled your eyes and joke scoffed at him. You couldn’t hide your grin – exactly what he was aiming for.

“Very funny, Junior, but I do mean it.”

“I know you do,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he leaned into your touch. Then, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it: “I’m sorry.”

Before he could say another word, you shook your head, humming in disagreement. “Don’t apologise, love, not for caring.”

“No, no. Just sorry for worrying you, s’all.” His eyes remained shut, and your heart ached in acknowledgement of how hard that must be for him to say.

“All I need you to do is be a bit more careful in your chaos and mischief, ‘kay?” You moved your face tentatively closer to his, admiring his features when his guard is down.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, opening his eyes to look into yours with a small smile playing across his lips. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and affection. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. “Just… stay with me.”

For a moment, there was silence. The flicker of the torchlight cast long shadows on Barty’s face, highlighting the vulnerability in his eyes, the way his lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to.

His hands were still on your face, warm and grounding, and you leaned into his touch, feeling the heat of him against your skin. Your nose barely brushed his as you did, and you could swear his breath hitched. With so much raw emotion in the air between you, you let your heart dictate your actions, and you closed the small gap between you, kissing him tentatively.

It was far from the first kiss you and Barty shared, but it was much softer than the others. This was not a drunken party kiss, neither of you were aiming for distraction or entertainment. It felt oddly pure as he kissed you back passionately, but slowly, allowing it to hang between you. This was him letting you in, letting himself be intimate and vulnerable.

“I’ll stay with you,” Barty finally whispered once you separated ever so slightly, his voice so low it was barely audible. “Always.”

He said it with such conviction, such raw honesty, that you knew he meant it. The knot of anxiety that had rested strongly in your chest loosened at his words, reassurance and safety washing over you. 

“Then stop fighting like you’ve got nothing left to lose,” you said softly, your fingers tracing along his neck. “Because you have me, and I'm not letting you go.”

“I have you,” he repeated, looking as if he was deep in thought. His hands tightened on your face, expression hardening for a moment. 

“I want you to know that I’m not on some ego power trip, I’m not like that.” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t quite find the right words. “It’s about making sure they know I’m not weak. That we’re not weak. It makes me feel, I don’t know… safer.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, smiling to reassure him. “I know you’re not. You’re… scared, which probably feels even worse. But we are okay, we’re fine.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with something – doubt, maybe, or fear. It was rare to see him uncertain, for a boy who usually lived in absolutes and extremes. You knew how hard it was for him to let anyone see the cracks in his armour, even you, but there was a part of him, the part that clung to you like you were his lifeline, that wanted to believe you. The part you needed to foster.

He let out a shaky breath, nodding slightly again, and for a moment, you both just stood there, the tension between you shifting into something more intimate. His hands slid down from your face to rest on your shoulders, then your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, entirely flush against one another.

“I’m not scared,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. It was like he was speaking to himself more than you.

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “Liar.”

A huff of laughter escaped his lips, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, his tone softening in a way it rarely did with anyone but you. “Can you blame me?”

“I never blame you, love.” You leaned down to rest your head against his shoulder, feeling his breathing move you. He hummed at that, but didn't move to say anything else.

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Barty,” you whispered, playing with his hair. “I just need you to stop tearing yourself apart. I just need you to let me care for you like you care for me.”

His arms tightened around you, and you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was still fighting some internal battle you couldn’t fully understand.

“You make it sound so easy,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“It’s not,” you said quietly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along his back. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Barty was silent for a long time, his arms still wrapped around you, his breath slow and steady against your hair. You could feel the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, the years of anger and frustration and fear that he’d carried with him for so long. Then, you felt him press a hard kiss to the crown of your head.

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel like… like I’m not falling apart,” he admitted, his words barely above a whisper. Your heart clenched at his confession, and you lifted your head to look up at him. 

“You’re not falling apart,” you said softly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Not while I’m here, I won’t let you.”

Barty’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite name, and before you could react, his lips were on yours again, soft, tentative, but full of the intensity you had come to expect from him. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the raw desperation in his kiss, the way he was clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

When his lips left yours, his face barely moved, noses still touching and his breath fanning your face. The both of you stood breathing heavily in the quiet hallway, and you came to realise how grateful you should be no one had walked past yet. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for some kind of confirmation that you were still there, that you hadn’t disappeared.

Barty’s lips curled into a small, tired smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a flicker of peace in his eyes.

“I’ll be good. Just… stay with me,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “Always.”

[vexwerewolf]

I’m suddenly getting swathes of Lancer hate across my feed… Has something happened in the fandom? “Union is ______ how could they paint them as even remotely good. They allow _____, and I hate the devs they are ______. The whole thing is just 40k with communist veneer”.

Like am I taking crazy pills…? I thought that all of the problems were literally like right there on the tin “we are a utopia in progress! We will obtain it by any means possible even if it means being everything we say we are not/fighting against. As the player you decide what is right. How much will you ignore for someone else’s idea of utopia?” Like doesn’t it mean all the tools to actually change are there and that is the HOPE aspect of all of this?

(Sorry if this in incoherent grammar is a weak point and I pulled something in my back simply standing up. Now I am sad and crook backed in spasmodic pain)

This isn't an argument I feel super enthusiastic about stepping into, because it gets the most annoying sort of people in your mentions eager to maliciously misrepresent what you say.

However, yeah, there are some pretty terrible readings of Union floating around. I'd invoke "media literacy" because think that a lot of this comes from people not really holistically engaging with the fictional future history of Lancer, but also from a sort of dogmatic purism that requires future societies to be flawless, else they're irredeemable.

It is important to note that ThirdComm is the direct descendant of two highly imperfect societies. FirstComm was formed as a response to the Three Great Traumas of discovering the Massif Vaults (and thus that they were the inheritors of a fallen world), the wars over the Massif Vaults, and the discovery of the lost colonies, all of which collectively showed humanity how close it had come to total extinction.

FirstComm decided that it had a responsibility to ensure that humanity never risked extinction again. It manifested this by trying to colonize every habitable planet it could find, pumping out ship after ship to seed the cosmos with as much human life as it possibly could. This led to problems when it encountered civilizations like the Karrakin Federation and the Aun, who had been carrying humanity's torch just fine by themselves, thank you very much.

SecComm was an Anthrochauvinist fascist state. The book defines it thusly:

We can see a lot of Anthrochauvinist historical romanticism in the mech naming schemes of Harrison Armory, SSC and IPS-N - the fact that Harrison Armory names its mechs after great military leaders of pre-Fall Earth history, IPS-N does the same with naval figures, and SSC uses the names of Earth animals. Even the GMS Everest is named for a mountain on Earth. It's very Cradle-centric.

Anthrochauvinism was, to be clear, largely just an excuse for colonialism and hegemony. Atrocities could easily be justified under by stating that whoever they're being committed against were a threat to the Continuance of Humanity - a term that SecComm got to define.

It's also at this point that we have to zoom in from broad sociopolitical points to address one very specific piece of history: the New Prosperity Agreement. This was signed to prevent the outbreak of a Second Union-Karrakin War, and mandated that the Karrakin Houses would maintain privileged levels of autonomy within Union, and that they would be granted colonial rights to the entire Dawnline Shore. This agreement, struck in 3007u, basically defines much of the current political situation today.

ThirdComm was a final and inevitable reaction to the atrocities, abuses and excesses of SecComm. The unspeakable horrors of Hercynia were the spark, but I need to stress how little Hercynia actually mattered in the larger Revolution - at the start of NRfaW, it's explicitly stated that almost nobody in the galaxy even knows where it is, let alone what happened there. The Revolution was a generalized response to SecComm's tyranny, with no single rallying cry.

The Revolution might also have failed entirely, but for a critical error by Harrison Armory: pissing off the Karrakin Trade Baronies. After getting kicked off Cradle, the Anthrochauvinist Party organised a fleet at Ras Shamra to try and retake Cradle. Simultaneously, however, they were attempting to secure protectorate agreements to steal worlds in the Dawnline Shore out from under the KTB. Putting these two together and making five, the KTB assumed that the fleet was pointed at Karrakis, and started the First Interest War.

The First Interest War initially favoured the KTB. They smashed the fleet above Ras Shamra and simultaneously conquered the moon of Creighton in the Dawnline Shore. However, they underestimated just how ruthless Harrison I was - he "retook" Creighton by relativistic bombardment, and then conquered four of the 12 worlds of the Dawnline Shore with mechanised chassis, a technology the KTB had not adopted and had no counter for.

To prevent further loss of life, Union was eventually forced to broker a peace agreement that saw Harrison I handing himself over to Union justice in return for Harrison Armory's continued sovereignty, and the KTB joining Union as a full member state.

So, with that historical context out of the way, let me get to the second part of this absurd essay I'm writing.

Third Committee Union isn't a civilization that arose from whole cloth. It's shaped by five thousand years of Union history, six thousand years of post-Fall history, and six thousand years of pre-Fall history before that. It is, ultimately, an extremely well-thought-out and well-worldbuilt fictional polity, in that all of its imperfections come from traceable root causes in its history.

Why does ThirdComm permit the abuses of the KTB? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with Harrison Armory and make horrific concessions.

Why does ThirdComm permit the expansionism and cryptochauvinism of the Armory? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with the KTB and make horrific concessions.

Nobody in CentComm likes that Harrison Armory are empire-building expansionists. Nobody in CentComm likes that the KTB has a hereditary nobility and enforces blockades against planets that rebel against it. The problem is that ThirdComm is, in historical terms, still relatively new. They've been around five hundred years, and compared to the 1600 years that SecComm was around and the 2800 years FirstComm existed for, that's not very much.

ThirdComm is attempting to decouple itself from the Cradle-first politics of its predecessor, and to amend the many, many atrocities committed in the name of Humanity. It is not easy to do any of these things. SecComm was defined almost entirely by the fact that if it didn't like what you were doing, it would send in the military as a first response. Every time ThirdComm chooses to do the same, its legitimacy erodes, because the mission of ThirdComm is to prove that diverse, vibrant and compassionate human civilization can exist without devolving into war and bloodshed. ThirdComm always tries diplomacy as a first response because if it doesn't, millions of people could die.

[decayedgloria]

sundress szn pt. 2

pt. 2 ft. scaramouche, sandrone, pantalone, and childe

Summer’s finally come, so you decide to wear something that fit the occasion- much to your lover’s excitement.

tags: nsfw under cut, public/semi public sex in almost all of these, I got carried away during pantalone’s, harbingers x afab! Reader (minus signora this time bc I genuinely cannot think of smth for her rn but I can promise in the future that she may be in one of these.), slight ooc maybe? mdni.

word count: ~2.2k, I wrote these half asleep on a nine hour flight these are not going to be proofread

Scaramouche

This was a good idea. Totally. Sumeru’s just much, much more humid than Snezhnaya, which was something you were willing to get used to. You were absolutely fine. 

How you wished you were right.

Even in the shade of the Grand Bazaar you could still feel the light sheen of sweat begin to form on your skin as you hastily fan yourself, occasionally observing your surroundings for your boyfriend. As a newly-inducted Vahumana student, he was bound to get busy, so it left you with a lot of time on your hands. Too much time. But hey, it got you a new dress so who are you to complain?

It reminded you of when you were both in the Fatui, the Harbinger and his loyal partner, who were too busy to really see each other until he whisked you away to Sumeru. You assumed it would be different this time, but it had dawned on you recently that it would take quite a while to get there (not that it wasn’t deserved, he had a lot to atone for after all.)

But it still disheartened you. You would be lying if you said that it didn’t. You missed his hugs and his presence, no matter how much you annoyed each other you always seemed to find a way to touch each other. And on nights he would be up in the Akademiya studying, leaving you alone in your shared bed, your thoughts wandered to those scarce intimate moments you shared- nights where his chest was pressed against yours, with that stupid smirk on his face as he fucked you silly. Just thinking about those nights made a familiar heat rise in between your legs, making you curse as your cheeks reddened. 

Archons, first the heat, and now this? Scaramouche had better hurry, you felt like you were going to be torched alive at this rate.

Thankfully, you did not need to wait long. Looking into the crowd again, your eyes met with a familiar pair of tired purple ones, much to your delight. You hopped off the bench you sat on and beelined your way to the grouchy purple boy, a smile blossoming on your face as you get closer to him. He doesn’t return the same excitement, content to just catch you in his arms like he always does. You don’t seem to mind, though, as you were too preoccupied with burying your face into his chest.

“Scara…” You whined, pouting your lips. “What took you so long? Do you know how hot it is in here? I almost died.” Expecting a smart retort from him, you were thoroughly surprised at the next words that came out of his mouth.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

There was no malice and spite in his voice, just irritated confusion. Which, in turn, confused you, prompting you to release your position against his chest and stare at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Do you not like it? I got it a while ago.” You hesitantly let go of his embrace, spinning once to let him see the whole dress. It was perfect for a hot day- light and airy, revealing as much skin as possible without spilling everything out. When you turned back to him, his face had gotten redder, but his eyes stayed on you- more specifically, your figure. 

“Aw, what’s got you blushing, Scara?” Your teasing tone was met with a glare, and a pathetic attempt to hide his face by looking away. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So you don’t like my dress?”

“That’s not the problem.” Suddenly, he grabbed your hand and pulled you towards him again, lowering his head so he could murmur into your ear, “I like it too much. Fix it. Now.”

With that, he dragged you to the nearest concealed spot- behind some crates that barely covered the both of you. When you emerged, all that was left of your dress was the tattered skirt that barely hung on to your body as Scaramouche placed his jacket over your top, that same stupid, hot smirk on his face.

Sandrone

Sandrone tried. Really, she did. But she could not help it in the slightest.

The seventh harbinger has a reputation for being a recluse, cooping herself up in her lab toying with her automatons all day. On the rare occasion she did speak to someone, her tone only seemed to indicate annoyance and malice- she didn’t mind since it drove people away. However, things changed the day you were assigned to work under her; suddenly, she didn’t hate the world that much anymore.

Certainly not when you’re dressed like this.

A quick trip to the ruins of Liyue, both as a break and to gather intel, made you a bit… adventurous, with your outfits to say the least. The entire time you had walked around Qiongji Estuary, Sandrone could not help but linger her stare just a little bit longer than usual. Your outfit consisted of a short dress, loosely clinging around your body, but it made you look so alluring in her eyes. A perpetual blush seemed to occupy her face, which you had innocently chalked up to the heat.

As her automatons roam around in search for whatever she had told them to find, Sandrone busied herself under a makeshift tent inspecting what seemed to be an artifact encased in cor lapis, tinkering with the ore as if it were a toy. You were by her side, head on her shoulder, observing your lover with loving eyes. Your subtle touches combined with your warm breathing had already put her on edge, but she continued nonetheless.

However, the last straw came when you stood up a little to grab something on the other side of Sandrone, aptly placing your bosom right in front of her face. So, forgive her for breaking her composure and pulling you back onto the ground, dirtying your dress as she straddles you eagerly while crashing her lips into your own before you could react.

“You’re so fond of distractions…” She said breathlessly, hands all but dying to get your tits out of your dress for her nimble fingers to play with. You moaned in response, a bit taken aback at her suddeness. Looking up at your blushing, desperate girlfriend, you decided to tease her just a little bit.

“I was just trying to help, Sandrone.” Your tone feigned innocence, which only fueled her frustration. She caught your lips with fervor as one hand pinched your nipple, and the other tugged on your hair, all while grinding down on you.

“Shut up and fuck me, please.” 

Pantalone

Pantalone was a man of many talents. One of those talents happens to be spoiling you rotten. Too rotten sometimes. But who were you to complain? The richest man in Teyvat was wrapped around your finger, and you couldn’t help but be a little cheeky and take advantage of that sometimes.

What should’ve been a business trip to Liyue to check the Northland Bank’s activities turned into Pantalone emptying out every boutique in the harbor so you can get a new wardrobe for summer. At one particular store, where there were no other customers besides you and your husband, you had decided to try on some dresses that caught your attention. On one hand, you really did want a few more relaxed additions, but on the other hand, well…

You had emerged from your dressing room not long ago, and yet you were already sat firmly on top of your husband, head in his neck as you try to brace yourself against the waiting room’s couch. Under you, Pantalone only gave you his usual, sly grin as his hands firmly hold you in his lap, keeping you in place as you grind on his ever-growing erection.

“I think this dress looks lovely on you dear.” He whispered, taking in the sight of you writhing on top of him desperately. Chuckling, his hand makes it way all the way to your ass, hiking up the long dress before giving it a smack. You moaned in response, hiding your face in his neck, hands raking over his toned chest.

“You simply look ravishing in it.” He continued his assault on your body, propping you up just a little bit so he had a clear view of your chest, kissing you quickly before delving in between your tits. Archons, he was impatient- he made you impatient. You confess, you did think the dress would get a rise out of him, which was why you picked it first when trying clothes on, but to think he would be this roused by it filled you with a titulating thrill only he was capable of causing.

“Ah- Does the dress make you- ngh… this excited, love?” Despite your teasing words, it was clear that you weren’t the one in control as you rocked your hips to feel even a little bit of relief from the growing ache in between your legs. Pantalone didn’t say anything back, rather he took off his gloves and positioned his fingers over your mouth, commanding you in a husky tone.

“Open up and suck them, darling. I’ll have plenty more for you.”

Childe

“Fuck you mean no?”

“You just aren’t going out like that.” Childe deadpanned, crossing his arms. “It’s a pretty dress for sure though.” The contrasting grin on his freckled face made you want to punch him, though it also illicited some questionable butterflies in your stomach.

Nobody quite knew what you and Childe were. On the surface level, one could assume that you two were just close friends; however, if they took the time to observe how Childe’s touch always lingered for a little too long, or how you stared at him with such bold adoration in your eyes as you smiled at him- it would be quite obvious that there were unspoken feelings for each other somewhere there.

It was quite common for you to visit his office in the Northland Bank like today. You really just wanted to show him the new dress you made for yourself, and figured you could flirt with him a little bit- not that he’d catch the hint. He always did treat you just like a good friend, something that disappointed you a little bit.

Because as it stands, right now, with him towering over you with his arms crossed, a grin on his handsome face- somehow, you’re horny because of this smug bastard. You imagine how good it would be to just smash your lips on his just to shut him up because Archons, is it tempting.

“I’d like to show off what I’ve made for myself,” you huffed at him, pouting. “I’ll go ahead and stroll the streets as I please with or without you then.” You try to turn and leave, expecting him to just laugh and go back to work. However before you could even step towards the door’s direction Childe’s strong hands snaked around your waist, pulling you firmly back.

Without much warning, you fell back into his chest letting out a small yelp. Once you realize the position you were in, you froze- your cheeks heating up an unbearable amount as you try to wriggle away from the (much) stronger man. It only became worse when he placed his lips right on top of your ear, chuckling lowly.

“C’mon… I can’t have all of Liyue see my girl this good.” He remarked lowly, trailing his lips down until they settled on the base of your neck, to which he then placed a gentle kiss. “They might be tempted to steal you away from me, and we can’t have that, can we?.” You’d be lying if you said that didn’t turn you on so fucking much, trying your best to hide it by pulling your legs closer together.

“We aren’t dating though? What do you mean-“ You let out a moan as he started sucking at the same spot, his lips forming a smile as they worked. Your hands flew to his arm on your waist, turning yourself around to meet his gaze. He lifted his head, lips puffy and blue eyes glazed over with lust. 

“Everyone in Liyue knows that we want each other. Why not give in?” He pressed his forehead against yours, lips deliciously close to yours as he placed his hands on your waist. 

“Only if you want to.” Was your sheepish reply, slightly embarassed to be this close to the man you’ve been covering for months. Was it really this easy? Is it just another one of his pranks? You weren’t sure, but at this point you didn’t care much, especially after he launched his lips straight at you in a fervent kiss. His hands lifted you up, haphazardly swiping away everything on his desk and placing you on it while your fingers tangled in his hair.

Both of you fumble with each other’s clothes, but Childe took extra care in taking the sight of your dress halfway off your body, admiring the view. He suddenly brings his hand up to your chest, flicking your nipple. You moan in both surprise and pleasure, burying your face into his bare shoulder.

“Be as loud as you want girlie. I want everyone here to know who’s finally got you.”

pt 2 is finally out yall i can rest

i wrote these on my way to and from london on the plane and i am sick bro i just wanna sleep (jet lag and chugging redbulls prevent me from catching a break tbh)

hope yall enjoy, this did take a little bit longer to make tho so i apologize for that.

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Memento Mori

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: strong language

Important note: At some point in the chapter, the reader provides a way for Daemon to address her. However, I want to emphasise that what she provides him is a title she has earned in the language of her people. Please regard this title the same way when the reader is addressed as Princess or Queen or Niece or whatever. Daemon will not be explicitly given the name of the reader due to obvious reasons :3

Credits for the gif: @dailyhodtgifs

“I don’t have time for stupid riddles and meaningless mind games, woman.” Daemon spoke with a hard tone, switching the torch to his left hand so that his right hand could rest against the Dark Sister. “I will not repeat myself again – show yourself!”

The woman walked towards the steel bars with slow steps, the sound of her bare feet touching the wet stones of the ground made Daemon realise that she did not have any kind of footwear on. All she wore was a plain, silver dress; however, when the light of the torch illuminated her figure completely, Daemon realised that the dress was not that plain at all. The ends of both sleeves and the neckline of the deep v-cut were all adorned with diamonds which made one think as if they had captured the light of the stars from the night sky. 

Her long hair had that same unearthly glow to it, again. “I still find it amusing,” the woman spoke, her soft voice holding Daemon in a warm embrace. “That you can see me, talk to me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Daemon asked, not trying to mask his confusion at all. “You will be giving me some answers, woman: who are you? Why is it amusing that I can see you? And how did you know that I was not here in flesh when I first saw you?”

The woman chuckled as she held the bars with her both hands. “You desire to know quite many, Daemon Targaryen.” She raised an eyebrow at Daemon’s direction. “What will be my gain in all this? Why must I provide you with such information?”

The grip Daemon had on Dark Sister tightened, causing the eyes of the woman to drift to the sword fastened around his hip. “Your gain shall be keeping your life, woman.”

A small laughter left her lips as she took a step backwards, causing Daemon to frown upon her reaction. “You cannot end my life as long as I am here, in this cell.” Her words caused the frown on Daemon’s face to get deeper. “No one can. It is enchanted to keep me alive, without being fed or given water, through any kind of sickness or injury – you ought to try harder.”

“Is the witch keeping you here? Captive?” Daemon asked, the word enchanted had been enough to ring some bells in his memory. He should have known that it was the witch’s doing – they all had been her doings. All the things he had seen – or he had believed to have seen – and more. 

The woman nodded with slow movements. “I assume you have already met her,” she muttered, more to herself. “Explains why you weren’t really here before tonight.”

Daemon shook himself and took up a strong, authoritative tone to put an end to this unnecessary negotiation. “Fine, name your price then!”

“My freedom,” the woman spoke without even thinking twice. “You shall have all the information you desire and in extension, all the support you shall require from me – in exchange for my freedom from this cursed prison.”

“Fine,” Daemon muttered somewhat reluctantly. “Even though I cannot quite tell what usefulness you could possibly posses for me, I will give you your freedom.”

His words caused the woman to stand upright suddenly, showing her full height – she could be even taller than most Targaryen Princesses. Daemon found it utterly difficult to tell who and what she was – the aura she carried with her was with no doubt different than any other human without Valyrian blood. Hence, his guess would be that she was not from around here; however, she too was neither Targaryen nor Velaryon. 

It was almost that she was not from the world as the men of Westeros had known it so far.  

“What will be your question, Daemon Targaryen?”

Daemon didn’t even give himself a moment to think before the words lefts his lips. “Who are you?”

The edge of her lips curled upwards as she came closer to the bars, her face almost resting against them. “In your tongue, in the world as you know it, I do not have a name.” Her answer only caused the confusion inside Daemon to grow. “Your people and the people you rule neither know me nor my kind.”

“So you are no human?” Daemon asked, only to earn a nod from the woman. “What did your people call you?”

“Oh, I have had many names and I too was given many more names but my people preferred referring to me as, Lùthril.” The woman responded, she pronounced her name amongst her people with a different accent, catching Daemon’s attention even further. “Which is not my given name, it is the name my people seemed fit for me.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her. “And what does that mean? In the language of your people?”

Lùthril sent Daemon a cunning smile. “In your tongue, it means enchantress – roughly translated.”

The silver-haired man rolled his eyes in annoyance at her words. “Another enchantress? As if I didn’t have enough of those to deal with.” 

A soft chuckle left Lùthril’s lips. “Trust me, Daemon Targaryen, you have never had to deal with any enchantress of my kind, yet.”

With a swift movement, Daemon placed the torch on an iron holder hanging from the wall to his right. Then, he crossed both of his arms in front of his chest, raising an eyebrow as he spoke. “And what would be your kind? You don’t look like any other men from Westros.”

“It is because we are not from Westros, at least not from the way you know these lands.” Lùthril responded, her voice felt like silk against Daemon’s skin when her words reached him, pulling him in a gentle embrace. “I believe the name of my people has been forgotten to yours for generations, perhaps there haven’t been any word to describe us in the common tongue.”

The gaps she left between her words was making Daemon furious, testing his patience but at the same time, he was more intrigued than ever – he found himself wanting to learn everything about her, uncover every last mystery she had to offer. 

“What about the language of my people?” Daemon asked. “Do you have a name in High Valyrian?”

The smile forming on Lùthril’s lips was so beautiful, so pure it could make the rarest, prettiest flowers in the Seven Kingdoms envy its beauty; even the clearest of the rivers could not compete its pureness. Perhaps it was a trick of the enchantress, he did not know, but Daemon felt his heart and soul were being drawn to her, the more he let his eyes devour her unearthly beauty.

“Valyrians used to call us Valargon,” she replied and chuckled upon seeing the sudden change in his expression. “I suppose you are no stranger to the term.”

There was no direct translation of Valargon to the Westrosi common tongue, it meant something in the lines of spirit people but that was not enough to catch the powerful meaning of the word itself. Valargon was used to describe a different race which looked similar to humans but were closer to the gods in every other sense.

“Don’t try to hold me for a fool, woman.” Daemon spoke with a hard tone, the feeling of having wasted his time was slithering slowly back into his mind. “Valargon are nothing more than some fairytale told in Valyria before the land met its doom. State your business now or I will make sure you meet your doom as well!”

Lùthril heaved a sigh as she shook her head in disbelief, the way she showed her King absolutely no respect was about to drive Daemon mad. One voice in his head was whispering him to smash her head to the bars until her pretty face was nothing but a mess of blood and broken bones. However, a different voice was telling him to be patient with her and was secretly yearning to touch her skin.

“Such a disappointment,” she spoke with a low voice which carried the hints of sadness, “that me and my people are nothing but a bedtime story to you. Look into my eyes, Daemon Targaryen. If you look deep enough, you will see the undeniable proof.”

A frown formed on Daemon’s face. “What proof?”

Lùthril motioned Daemon to come closer and his feet obeyed her without even letting him decide. Before he knew it, Daemon stood with his face against the bars separating the enchantress from him, her warm breath licked his skin when she spoke with a low voice. “What do you know about the connection between the Gods – the real Gods – and the Valargon?”

“Not much,” Daemon responded, being able to feel the heat and harmony radiating off of her body had made him drunk in mere seconds, he could not think about anything but her. Anything else wandering his mind few seconds ago was gone. “I barely heard that the Valargon were the last beings to have seen the eternal light from the Land of the Old Gods.”

“That should suffice,” Lùthril muttered, more to herself. “Now, Daemon Targaryen, you shall look deep into my eyes and if you look close enough, you shall see the eternal light for I have spent very many years living under its grace.”

[POV Change]

The moment Daemon Targaryen looked into your eyes to see the remnants of the ancient light, you swiftly reached forwards through the bars, pressing your right thumb against his forehead. Before Daemon could react, his very essence started falling down into the eternal light still captured inside the beauty of your eyes.

You showed him all he needed to see so that he would be ready to trust you in the end. Daemon saw you dancing on the moon-lit-meadows of the Land of the Old Gods, barefoot and adorned in white silk, the eternal light was visible on the shore behind your shoulders. As you danced, you were singing a sweet song in the Language of the Gods, the melody made the grass bloom whenever you hit the right tone.

The next memory was from the Feast of the Gods – right under the eternal light, all the Gods and your kin were gathered around the wooden table, which was adorned with the finest of food known to mankind. The Valargon maidens were serving the wines they have made from the sweetest grapes, celebrating the harmony of life and joy. 

Lastly, you showed Daemon the day your kind left the Land of the Gods on your ships, sailing east through the western waters, never to return to your homeland. The Gods, too, had left the magical lands around that time – after deciding that the era of magic, melody and harmony was over for the first men had set foot on the Earth. 

When men came, the ancient magic left the world, never to return, only to exist in the memories of those lucky enough to have seen it. 

Slowly, you left go off Daemon, freeing him from the clutches of the eternal light. When his soul returned to his body, he stumbled backwards, fighting to find his balance again. It took him a few minutes to comprehend what he had just experienced, all the while you waited quietly and patiently. For you knew that whatever Daemon was to decide next, would shape his destiny greatly.

“You are one fucking enchantress, there I have no doubts,” Daemon spoke with his usual careless and dangerous aura surrounding him; however, you could easily see through his façade – he was desperate to know how you could aid him in his mission, you being perhaps the most powerful being in the Seven Kingdoms at that particular moment. “They were all… true?”

He was referring to the memories he had seen a few moments ago. You nodded at him. “Those were my memories from a long, long time ago.”

Daemon frowned. “There is, though, something I do not understand,” he spoke cautiously. “How did a fucking Valargon ended up in Simon fucking Strong’s dungeons? It doesn’t add up.”

Heaving a sigh, you let your body slide down the right wall until you were sitting on the cold, damp ground – not that it bothered you, you could hardly feel it. “The destiny of the Valargon had to end in flames when the first Targaryen King arrived in Westros on the back of the largest dragon known to mankind.”

“Aegon the Conquerer,” Daemon said quietly, you nodded. “A Targaryen killed all your people, I understand – then why are you alive?”

“We all tried to overcome what was destined for us – the eternal light had to survive to see the end of all days.” A mischievous spark was visible in your eyes for a brief moment. “Thus, we tried to alter the destiny.”

Daemon shook his head in disbelief at your words, even the Rogue Prince himself did not approve of such behaviour. “Only a fool would meddle with the strings of the fate.” Of course, when he understood what you actually meant, the expression on his face changed. “And the said fool is standing in front of me, right, enchantress?”

A bitter smile formed on your lips. “I did it – I managed to change the destiny. However, it came with a terrible price.” Even mentioning those horrifying moments made you shiver in your place, you would give the days of your remaining life to forget everything you had seen on that cursed day. “As you see, all my people are gone and I am held here captive ever since.”

Slowly, without even realising, Daemon found himself sitting on the ground right next to you, on the other side of the bars separating the two of you. “130 long years and you have never tried to escape?” He asked with a rather mocking tone, failing to notice the way you inhaled his scent. “No magic tricks?”

You shook your head, pointing at the bars. “Did you not realise the missing lock or the door? This cell is being held with powerful magic. Only the blood of the man imprisoning me can set me free.” You added. “And coming back to your very first question: the enchantress of Harrenhal uses magic to keep me hidden from the eyes of men. Perhaps she has failed to strengthen her magic at the right time, hence it faded and you were able to see me.”

You heard Daemon cursing at the witch of Harrenhal, apparently she was being called Alys Rivers as of late. “That cunt of a witch has been around here since the Conquest?” You shrugged at his words. “Fucking cunt,” he muttered under his breath before speaking to you again. “What will I gain if I set you free? Can you aid me in winning my battles? Can you pour fear into the hearts of my enemies?”

“I will use my magic to aid you; however, your fate has been decided by the Gods long ago, Daemon Targaryen.” You spoke with a powerful voice as you stood up, from the looks inside Daemon’s purple eyes, you realised that he was, for the first time, seeing you as the mighty Lùthril you were. “It is no longer in my power to change their judgement. If you will, I can guide you through what was written for you in times of hardship and doubt.”

It took Daemon Targaryen a considerable amount of time to arrive at a final decision, through which you waited patiently, giving him the space and the time to make perhaps the most important choice at the crossroads of his destiny. Finally, when he rose to his feet, a Targaryen King stood in front of your eyes, determination radiating off of him.

“What must I do?” Daemon asked, “to set you free?”

As you can notice, my inspiration for the reader has been heavily influenced by Lúthien and Galadriel 💜

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina @sadmonke @avalyaaa @superintenseart

[specialagentlokitty]

House x reader - content

Hi please could I request a House x blind reader ? Where it's just some fluff maybe If not that's okay thank you :) - Anon💜

Sitting on the chair, you had your eyes closed as you listened to everything going on around you.

“Are they sleeping?” Someone whispered.

“I don’t know, wake them up?”

It went quiet for a minute.

“Who is it?” The first person asked.

You didn’t need to be able to see what they were all staring at you, two of them.

You had heard them come in at the same time, their steps slightly different, but there was two of them, a man and a woman.

And if you were right, you would guess it would be Wilson and Cuddy.

House complained a lot, and they were the main two people that he complained to you about, and about you calling him Greg. For some reason he just didn’t want you to say his name he preferred to be called by his last name.

You carried on laying there, listening to them debate whether or not to wake you up, and who you were and why you were there.

You heard the door open and close again, and the familiar sound of his cane on the floor.

“You have a visitor.” Cuddy said.

House looked at you, and he shrugged a little bit, walking over to his desk he grabbed some papers and stood next to you.

“Aren’t you going to wake them up?” Wilson asked.

“Why? They’re not sleeping.”

“Really? They haven’t said a word since we came in.” Cuddy said.

“I heard you.” You replied.

You took your feet of the desk and you opened your eyes, and you reached out, tapping the desk until you found what you were looking for and you grabbed house’s shirt, giving it a small tug.

“You’re sitting in the only chair.”

“Get another chair then idiot.”

He rolled his eyes and dragged another chair and sat down next to you.

“So, why are you here?”

“Because I was bored.”

House hummed a little, leaning back in his chair.

“How’d your appointment go?”

You shrugged a little, leaning back in your chair to stare up at the ceiling.

“Not going to magically regain my sight if that’s what you mean.”

“Right, introductions House?” Wilson asked.

“Right, fine. This is Cuddy and Wilson.”

“I gathered.”

“This is (Y/N).”

“And they are…?” Cuddy asked.

“I don’t know, human?”

You snickered a little and looked in the direction you heard his voice.

“Bold of you to assume I’m that.”

“Oh there’s two of them…” Wilson whispered.

House looking at you, and he titled his head a little bit.

Pulling a small torch out of his pocket, and held your face in his hand and shone it in your eyes and you just sat there waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing.

“How did you appointment go?” He asked.

You sighed a little.

“Well it can’t exactly get any worse can it? I’ve already lost all sight.”

“Right that’s not what I was asking and you know it. What did the doctor say?”

“That I’m blind?”

“We’re really going to do this?”

You grinned a little bit and he shoved your chair to the side and went on his computer.

“What’re you doing house?” Cuddy asked.

“Seeing what (Y/N)s doctor said about their eyes.”

“What’s wrong with their eyes?” Wilson asked.

“I have said numerous times they don’t work, do your ears work?”

“Alright.” Cuddy warned.

Resting back in your chair, you rested your hands on your stomach.

“He says your pupil reflex’s are getting worse.”

“Just as well I don’t need them.”

“Is he running tests?”

“Don’t think so.”

House looked at you.

“He should. God how can people be so incompetent is beyond me, Wilson book a CT for (Y/N).”

“What are you hoping to find?” Wilson asked.

House said nothing and he waved his hand in dismissal.

“We’re talking about this later.” Cuddy said.

“No we’re not, goodbye.”

It went quiet for a moment and you heard the two others leave.

“What is it?” You asked quietly.

“You’re going to need surgery on your left eye.”

“Why?”

“To.. remove it…”

You took a small breath and slowly nodded your head and house sighed.

He stood up and grabbed your hand, so you stood up as well and let him take you to where he wanted to go.

He sat down and tugged you, carefully guiding you down, and you sat on the couch with him, and he pulled your back against his chest.

Wrapped an arm around your waist, he wrapped the around around your collarbone and over your shoulders.

You rested your head under his.

“I had a feeling it would happen.”

“You knew.” He said.

“Yeah. It was a warning I was given years ago, it could happen. I’ve grown to accept it as a possibility.”

House nodded his head, and he kissed your head.

“Greg?”

“That’s weird don’t say that.”

“It’s your name shut up.”

He snickered a little and you slapped his arm.

“I love you.”

“Disgusting.”

You rolled your eyes and slapped his arm again.

House grinned to himself and resting his chin on your head.

“Yeah I guess I love you too.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

You rolled your eyes and closed them, placing your hands on his arm, and he took a deep breath, shuffling to get a little more comfortable.

“I’m taking a nap.”

“Alright so am I.”

You sniffled down as well, and you wrapped his arms around properly and the both of you drifted to sleep on the couch happy and content

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

LUPERCALIA

Pairings: Emperor Geta x Fem!reader Summary: You participate in Lupercalia with your husband. Warnings: 18+ smut. MDNI mention of whipping, nudity. p in v

This is my first fic for my Valentine event!

Valentine Masterlist

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

The torches burned low in the grand halls of the Palatine Palace, their golden glow flickering against the marble columns. Beyond the palace walls, Lupercalia roared through the streets of Rome. Laughter and drunken chants echoed through the Forum, accompanied by the steady pounding of bare feet against stone. The scent of sacrificial blood, burnt offerings, and spiced wine carried on the cold February air.

From the terrace overlooking the city, Emperor Geta stood, his expression unreadable as he observed the chaos below. Half-naked Lupercalia, still streaked with goat’s blood, ran wild, striking young women with thin strips of hide in a ritual meant to bless them with fertility and ease childbirth. The women laughed and shrieked, but they did not run. They stood willingly, arms outstretched, eager for the blessing.

At his side, you watched as well. Your dark eyes, lined with kohl, flickered between the crowd and your husband’s silent disapproval.

"You call it ridiculous," you mused, "but Rome calls it tradition."

Geta exhaled sharply, swirling his Falernian wine in a silver goblet. "Rome also believed that Romulus and Remus suckled at the teat of a she-wolf. Superstition, all of it."

"And yet," you murmured, your gaze turning back to the spectacle below, "you do not forbid it."

He scoffed. "Because Rome would riot if I did."

A cool breeze drifted through the open-air terrace, rustling the golden embroidery on your stola. You turned toward him, your voice softer now. "Would you deny me the same luck?"

His fingers tensed around the goblet. He knew what you meant. A child. An heir.

For all his wealth, for all the power of his name, it was the one thing he had not yet secured. His father, Septimius Severus, had raised two sons to rule Rome, and now Geta ruled alone, His brother's condition so bad he is unable to rule. Which leaves Geta alone, with no child of his own to follow him. He knew how Rome whispered about it. How they whispered about you.

His gaze lingered on you in the torchlight- the high cheekbones, the regal bearing, the way you carried yourself with the grace of a woman who had spent your entire life in the shadow of emperors. He had chosen you not just for your lineage but for your mind, your sharp wit, the way you stood beside him in a world where women were expected to stand behind.

After a moment, he set his goblet down and gestured to a waiting servant. A strip of goat hide, still fresh from the sacrifice, was placed into his open palm.

You knew the custom. You knew what was required.

Wordlessly, you stepped away from the warmth of your cloak, undoing the golden pins that held the fabric in place, letting it slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air was cold against your skin, but you did not flinch. You wore only the fine linen undertunic beneath, light and thin enough that every movement of your body was visible beneath the fabric.

The Lupercalia rite demanded that women be struck bare-skinned, unobstructed by heavy garments. In the streets, Roman women stood unclothed, laughing and reaching for the lashes as if inviting the gods’ favour. Here, in the privacy of the palace, you stood before Geta, the man who ruled an empire, the man who had never needed to prove his power over you.

Geta hesitated. The emperor of Rome, the son of gods, bound by a tradition older than the Republic itself. Then, with a quiet breath, he brought the leather down in a sharp, decisive strike against your thigh.

The first lash was firm but controlled, the sting blooming across your skin in a heat that spread through your limbs. You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling at your sides, but you did not retreat. You had asked for this. You had asked him to honour the gods, to honour you.

The second strike came swiftly after, higher this time, catching the curve of your hip. The fabric of your undertunic did little to dull the sensation; if anything, it heightened it, pressing against the warmth rising beneath your skin. Geta’s eyes darkened as he watched you, the flickering torchlight reflecting the way your breath quickened.

Again, the lash fell. Then again. A steady rhythm, measured, deliberate. It was not punishment- it was ritual. It was devotion. It was an offering, not just to the gods, but to each other.

By the time the final stroke landed, a soft gasp left your lips, and the silence that followed was thick with something unspoken. Geta dropped the leather to the floor between you, his breathing uneven. Slowly, carefully, he reached for you, his fingers brushing against the reddened skin where the lashes had landed.

His voice was quiet. "Does it hurt?"

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. "Would it matter if it did?"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He hated that you were right.

He cupped your hip, his thumb tracing the mark he had left there. "The gods have heard you now."

"And you?" you whispered. "Do you hear me?"

Geta said nothing at first. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he pressed his forehead to yours, his grip tightening as if anchoring himself to you. "I hear you."

"Then listen closely," you murmured, tilting your head to brush your lips against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble that indicates the day's celebrations have begun without him. "I want more than Lupercalia blessings from the gods. I want our blessings, Geta. Our child, our heir."

His hands tensed, gripping your waist harder, as if he could physically hold onto your words, make them tangible. "I know," he breathed, his voice strained. "Believe me, I know."

"But can you give it to me?" You asked, your fingers trailing up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the linen of his tunic. "Can you give us the future we both desire?"

Geta pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light.

You and your dear Emperor have tried, you have tried so so many times to become with child, but after so many failed attempts, you pray that this would work out for you both.

It would be a shame to fail to give your husband a child. It hurt you.

"I am trying," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Every night, every dawn… I pray, I offer sacrifices, I seek omens and portents. But the gods remain silent. They withhold their favour, leaving me with nothing but frustration and despair."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Sometimes I wonder if it's because of me. If I'm not worthy of their blessing. That perhaps I'm cursed, doomed to rule without an heir, without legacy."

Geta's confession hung in the air, heavy with doubt and desperation. He has always been a man of action, of conquests and triumphs, but in this moment, he seemed fragile, vulnerable. Like a king stripped of his armor, exposed and uncertain.

"Shh," you whispered, placing a finger against his lips.

His lips parted slightly at your touch, and for a fleeting instant, you glimpse the lost boy behind the emperor, the son yearning for his mother's love, the husband desperate for his wife's comfort.

"I don't believe that," you said softly, your hand sliding down to cradle his jaw. "The gods adore you, Geta. They've blessed you with power, strength, and a heart capable of great love. If they're withholding something, it's not because of you, but because it's meant for another time."

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, sharing your conviction, your faith in him. "Shall we try again?" you said, leaving a hot trail of kisses down his jewelled neck

A shuddering sigh escaped him as your lips caress his skin, each kiss igniting sparks under his flesh. His grip on your hips tightening, pulling you flush against him, the hard planes of his body a stark contrast to your softer curves.

"Yes," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "Let us try again. Together."

With that, he captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim you, to merge your essence with his own. It's a kiss born of passion, of desperation, of a fierce determination to conceive, to create life amidst the chaos of the imperial court.

As he kissed you, his hands roamed your body, mapping every inch of you, committing your shape to memory.

Your bodies entwined like living vines, twisting and turning until you're pressed against the stone wall, his weight pinning you in place. The heat between you is almost palpable, a living thing that pulses and throbs with every beat of your hearts.

Geta's hands slid beneath your tunic, his calloused palms grazing the sensitive skin of your stomach as he explores the contours of your body. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he's rediscovering you anew with each passing moment.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and urgent. "So perfect. I want to worship every inch of you, to show you how much you mean to me."

And then, with a growl of primal need, he tears away your clothing, baring you to his hungry gaze.

As you stand before him, naked and trembling with anticipation, Geta's eyes drink in the sight of you, his gaze a physical touch that sends shivers down your spine. He reaches out, tracing the curve of your breast with a single finger, watching intently as your nipple hardens under his touch.

"You're exquisite," he whispered, his voice a low purr of admiration. "A goddess among mortals."

With that, he lowered his head, capturing your pert nipple between his lips. He suckles gently at first, then with increasing fervour, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as his hands roam over your body, kneading your flesh, teasing your other nipple into a similar state of arousal.

As he worshipped your breasts, his free hand ventures lower, dipping between your thighs to find the slick heat of your arousal.

Geta groaned into your breast, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through you as he feels the evidence of your desire coating his fingers. He strokes you slowly, deliberately, savouring the feel of your wetness as he continues to lavish attention on your nipples.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "So eager to take my seed, to bear my children."

With that, he released your breast and steps back, his dark eyes blazing with hunger as he strips off his own garments. His body is a work of art, all chiselled muscle and taut skin, adorned with the symbols of his power- the golden Toric around his neck, the intricate tattoos that cover his arms and torso.

As Geta stepped toward you, his massive erection jutting proudly from his groin, you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of him. He towered over you, a dominating presence that fills the room with an aura of raw masculinity.

But despite his intimidating stature, there's a tenderness in his gaze as he looks at you, a vulnerability that speaks to the depth of his feelings for you. In this moment, he's not the ruthless emperor, but a man stripped bare, laying his heart open for you to see.

Without a word, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the ornate bed that dominates one corner of the chamber. The silk sheets were already rumpled, a testament to previous encounters that have left the bed looking invitingly dishevelled.

As Geta layed you down on the plush bed, the cool silk a soothing contrast to the feverish heat of your skin, you can't help but admire the way he moves with deliberate purpose. Every step, every gesture, exudes confidence and control, the hallmarks of a man who is used to getting what he wants.

He followed you onto the bed, his large frame crowding yours as he settles between your legs. The weight of him is comforting, reassuring, as if he's shielding you from the world outside these four walls.

"Geta…" you breathe, reaching up to stroke his face, your fingertips tracing the strong lines of his jaw. "Make love to me. Fill me with your seed and let the gods decide our fate."

Your words seem to ignite something within him, a spark of primal desire that consumes them both.

With a guttural growl, Geta claims your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plunging deep to stake his claim. His hands roam your body, gripping and kneading, as if trying to brand you with his touch.

Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake. His teeth graze your collarbone before moving lower to the swell of your breasts.

He took a nipple into his mouth once more, suckling hard as his fingers pinch and roll the other, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through you. All the while, his hips grind against yours, the thick length of his cock rubbing maddeningly against your slick folds.

"Please," you whimpered, arching into him, desperate for more.

Geta released your breast with a wet pop, his chest heaving with exertion and desire. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he positions himself at your entrance.

"I'll give you everything," he vowed, his voice rough with need. "Everything you crave, everything you need."

With that, he thrusted forward, sheathing himself inside you in one powerful stroke. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your body stretching to accommodate his girth. But the pain is short-lived, replaced by a wave of pleasure as he begins to move, his hips snapping against yours in a relentless rhythm.

Geta set a punishing pace, driving into you again and again, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep within you. The bed creaks and shakes beneath you, the sound of slapping flesh filling the room as he takes you with primal abandon.

As Geta pounded into you, the force of his thrusts causing the bed to rock violently, you cling to him desperately, your nails digging into his back as you're driven higher and higher on the crest of ecstasy.

The sensation of being filled so completely, of having your deepest depths claimed and conquered, is overwhelming. Each stroke seems to reach further inside you, stroking the very core of your being, until you feel like you might shatter apart at any moment.

"More!" you screamed, your voice lost in the cacophony of grunts and moans that fill the room. "Give me more!"

Geta responded with a feral snarl, his movements becoming even more brutal, more frenzied. He leans down to capture your lips in a savage kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives you mercilessly towards the brink of climax.

Geta's kiss turned possessive, claiming your mouth as surely as his body claims yours. His tongue delves deep, tangling with yours in a dance of dominance and desire. The taste of you is intoxicating, fueling his own rising frenzy.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he pistons into you with unrelenting intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously, threatening to give way under the force of their coupling.

Suddenly, Geta breaks the kiss, his head thrown back in a roar of triumph as he feels your inner muscles clenching around him.

"Yes!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Take it! Take my cum!"

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spills his essence deep within you.

As Geta's hot seed floods your womb, you feel yourself convulsing around him, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves of intense pleasure. Your body trembles and writhes beneath him, overwhelmed by the force of your release.

For long moments, you remain locked together, your hearts pounding in tandem as the aftershocks ripple through you. Geta's forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged as he tries to calm his racing pulse.

Eventually, he pulled out of you, his spent cock slipping free with a wet sound. A trickle of his cum escapes your stretched opening, dripping down your thigh. You lie there, panting and sated, feeling the warmth of his seed inside you.

Geta gathered you close, cradling you against his chest as he stroked your hair. "The Gods have to hear that,"

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

A few days later, you find yourself in the presence of a doctor, carefully examining you.

You finally bared a child, an Heir. All thanks to Lupercalia

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Ice cream for two

Jason x fem!reader

warning : fluff, kinda flirting, mutual feelings, Jaoson is just a sweet shy horny guy, ice cream as an allusion to many things ;)

Summary : What could be better and more delicious than ice cream on a hot summer's day? They wanted to make ice cream for the participants themselves, but with a broken old ice cream maker, nagging teenagers and two leaders who paid more attention to each other than to their tasks, it seemed that a number of things could go wrong.

info : So I'm slowly coming back after my exams, I'm trying to resume my regular upload schedule, request and I hope you continue to enjoy Jason. Thank you for all teh support and have fune readin ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the summer, there was nothing better than having a cool drink, whether it was a glass of fresh water, a sweet, delicious lemonade or, in any case, a tasty ice cream.

From vanilla to strawberry to chocolate and raspberry, every flavor could be transformed into ice cream and enjoyed in the cool.... this was true for almost everyone in the small town, except for the summer camp, which, under the heat, was just like everyone else.

Because even if the forest and the trees surrounding them provided shade, it was not as cool as a delicious ice cream.

The teenagers and group leaders had sought refuge in the dining hut, where there was the only working fan and at least something like a breeze.

,,Can we get an ice cream here too?” Jason heard the younger boy's whining voice in the main area at the table, and they were trying hard not to move unnecessarily.

One thing the bearded man could understand was that since waking up, they seemed to have been fried under the sun.

Swimming in the lake was cool, but sooner or later they would become fish before they could even do anything.

Turning away from the door, he gave the younger ones an apologetic glance and turned back to his colleague, who had been trying to get the ice machine to work for an hour. ,,No luck?” he asked cautiously, looking at the machine lying on the floor.

Her head had disappeared under the machine with a torch and wrench, and the rest of her body moved from time to time to get at parts of the machine.

,,No, Jason, that thing is at least twenty years old... don't want to destroy your dreams, but if that thing starts up, the ice cream will be radioactive,” she said, coming back out from under the machine.

He helped her up with his hand and resisted the urge to wipe a bit of dust off her body or to touch her again, they were here for ice cream, not for overflowing hormones.

The radioactive ice cream maker in question was from the early days of the fight, back then, it was probably the most modern and newest device, but now, despite being cleaned and tried to be improved, it was more of a scrap heap than anything else.

But they had the ingredients here and the fridge didn't have enough capacity to hold everything. ,,It'll be fine, just give it a try, and if not, well, there's fruit puree and milk” he tried with a smile and went to the bags of fruit and cans of milk, which were tipped into the cool metal tub.

Unable to stop herself from smiling, she watched the blond man as he went about his work like a busy little bee.

No matter how nervous he was, the harder he tried, the less he seemed to see her, her feelings and the love she felt for him. It was almost as if he was blind to her advances...but that could always be changed.

After the machine had started and the ingredients had been cooled and processed into ice cream, it was time to wait a little.

She sent Jason to the storeroom to get the ice cream cones so that they could serve the ice cream better.

He hadn't thought about anything, of course he would get everything for her, would do anything for her, not only because he liked her, they were watchmen for the kids.

How she says my name so sweetly, he thought to himself as he carried the box of waffles into the kitchen and was puzzled to see that the kitchen had become more of an ice bath.

The old ice cream maker seemed to have done its best to form a uniform mass from the ingredients.

This also seemed to have worked for the first minute he was gone, but now the relatively solid mass had turned into a liquid avalanche of sweetness.

A bright, sticky, sweet liquid that should have been vanilla had just spilled all over his crush.

,,Are you okay? Do you need a doctor? Did the machine attack you?” he asked in panic and put the box down to rush to her, almost slipping on the mass that had spread everywhere and she had to support him slightly so that they both didn't go down.

But his panic met her amusement; she seemed to find all of this extremely funny, unlike him, whose mind seemed to be thinking other things again.

When he saw the individual drops running down her, she began to remind him of something else as she licked her lips and sighed.

With her fingers she wiped away the substance and licked it off to roughly get rid of some of the sticky ice.

Such an innocuous situation, his mind kept thinking further, in a direction that made him look away...he had helplessly fallen for her. But was it the same for her? Was she just playing with him? Or was she honest?

,,Attack is a good word for it. As soon as you left, the thing went berserk,” she explained, pointing to the on and off button, which was visibly fused and thus caused the machine to also run out of control.

At least they now knew that they had to get a new machine for next year, because what was left of the kitchen was a pile of scrap metal.

,,Well, we-we could serve smoothies,” he stammered, slowly detaching himself from her as he looked into the tub and saw that it was not quite solid but also not completely liquid.

Her smirk was music to his ears as she walked past him to the sink, where she turned on the tap and splashed cool water onto her face to get rid of the attempted ice.

His bright eyes lay on her, saw exactly how the whitish substance was washed away, how the 'erotic disappeared from the whole at first and then came back when her top was wetter than before.

The outline of her bra, the ice cream, her eyes and the smile on her lips seemed to come from his own dreams, which were often rather suggestive.

Maybe he was dreaming? He was ashamed, ashamed that he felt like a teenager, he was 24 and a grown man... but she was just so beautiful.

The way she treated him, full of kindness and cheerfulness, never nagging him and joining him in his 'group activities' or helping him with repairs, she was just perfect.

Their eyes met, a wink and giggle as she pointed to his hand, wonderingly following her gaze, he saw that he had leaned his hand directly into a sticky puddle.

,,I think after feeding the kids, we both need a shower,” she said invitingly, giving him that sweet look once more before disappearing from the kitchen to tell the teenagers that it smoothies instead of ice cream.

That didn't matter to them, the main thing was to cool down a bit, and the two team leaders also allowed themselves a cooling down as they both disappeared in the direction of the showers...separately, of course.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@starry-night-life1 , @yearsbecomingcool , @bruhlpng , @wolverrrain , @myromanempire81 , @simonsrealwife , @marsinthespace

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Bad Latin

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: E Word Count: 3285

Summary: The night the guards raid the tavern in search of Archer and his Ethian pack, Jane accepts the rude man's offer (and Susannah's advice), fleeing out the side door. If they're caught, they'll have to be convincing. Good thing Jane's lust is no act.

They stare at one another through the treads of the staircase, Jane and Susannah. The man—the rude, attractive man secreted in here with her—tugs Jane back by her upper arm and Susannah lurches forward. Jane recalls a turned ankle, a day years ago when Susannah came to her sheepishly, limping after she’d put her foot wrong dismounting from a horse. It’s the same motion.

And then Susannah is leaning on the steps, candlelit face growing shadowy as she peers into Jane’s darkened alcove. Jane wrenches free of the man’s uncertain grip; who is he to hold her back? She thrusts her hands between the treads to grip Susannah’s fiercely.

“Come with me,” she blurts. Seeing Susannah now, alive and apparently unhurt, is almost as startling as watching her transfigure into a hawk and take flight. Jane’s concern for her friend’s life is far greater than the confusing sense of betrayal she experienced the moment she learned Susannah is Ethian, so she repeats her plea, “Come. Please, Susannah.”

Susannah’s expression of surprise at the sight of Jane deadens and she shakes her head.

The guards continue their rampage, smacking tankards off tables and smiles off the faces of the tavern’s unprepared patrons. The man at Jane’s back clearly decides the guards are coming a little too near, because he places an urgent hand on her waist and attempts to draw her deeper into the shadows. Jane shoves him off without looking in his direction. Her eyes are fixed on Susannah’s face, and she sees her glance between the two of them. Her expression briefly re-enlivens with the ghost of former times. There’s a faint smirk.

“Go on,” she says. “For me.”

Jane sighs impatiently. She is not going to abandon Susannah in order to mess around with that man. The thought of such a thing—of feelings that might make a woman like Esther find it impossible to keep to her own bed even with an inflamed vagina—may have been on Jane’s mind before, but guards and Ethians and the accompanying uproar make that all a bit complicated.

But there’s something more in Susannah’s eyes than a dare for Jane to go off and fuck a stranger. She means survive, Jane realizes. She means be smart and adaptable. While these aren’t exactly weaknesses for Jane, it’s true that her attempts at spontaneity usually fail. Her and Susannah’s short-lived escape proved that. Projects like her book of medicines testify to the opposite: with time, effort, and careful study, Jane is capable of incredible discoveries and achievements. Then again, it took so very little time for the whole thing to burn to ashes. Maybe meticulousness isn’t her strong suit either.

As Jane’s thoughts flow frantically, Susannah untangles their fingers.

“Get out of here,” she says. And, probably because Jane’s eyes continue to beg, she adds, “I’ll be fine,” before shoving away from the steps. She’s just glanced away from Jane when a guard claps his hand on her shoulder, spinning Susannah towards him for questioning.

Jane staggers back with a gasp caught somewhere in her throat. This time, when the man catches hold of her, taking up the hand Susannah so lately released, Jane doesn’t push him away. She matches his grip. When he throws the door open, she flees with him into the night.

There are more guards out here, guards carrying torches they swish around corners, scanning every likely hiding place.

“Can you run?” the man asks her, which is so insulting a question that Jane can only answer it with a look of disdain.

Wordlessly, they wait for the same thing, and when it comes—an opening where the path between their position and the woods clears—they sprint together across the hardpacked dirt, stumbling into the trees.

They crash through the undergrowth, but the ground is uneven and, away from the tavern, the light quickly fades. Their passage is clumsy enough to ensure they’ll be easily tracked, should they be pursued. And how far can they get, really? In darkness, with nothing, not even each other’s name?

The man seems to be coming to the same conclusion; he turns to Jane wearing a look of determination.

“We should hide in plain sight,” he suggests. More than suggests—he speaks the words like an edict (tosser). Lucky for him, Jane has already weighed the options and is ready to agree.

He keeps staring at her, dark eyes annoyingly compelling and distracting. As if there weren’t enough on her mind.

“Do you understand?” he checks.

Solemnly, she nods. She blinks to focus her thoughts. She remembers Susannah taking to the sky when escape over land became unviable.

“We have to climb a tree,” she says. Thick, sturdy branches. Concealing foliage. The perfect hiding place.

The man’s expression distorts as he openly scoffs at her.

“No,” he says. “It means kissing.”

“Kissing?”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“And then some, if we’re to be convincing as two people who wandered away from the tavern before all the excitement and became too caught up in one another to hear the commotion.”

The way he glances at her mouth makes it clear he will not find this a difficult role to play. With this look, and the dark, and the relative isolation, Jane is thinking, Why not? What harm? It seems as good a plan as any for waiting out the guards’ terrorization of the tavern, when she’ll be able to ditch this man and go looking for any trace of Susannah, any hint that tells Jane she is safe, or where Jane might find her. When she does, they’ll greet each other properly, then smile conspiratorially over the memory of that man in that tavern, and Jane will divulge her tale of sexual exploration and empowerment—

Until the man absolutely ruins it, snapping her out of her reunion fantasy with the words, “Wonderful. Get on your knees.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jane grits out. Her fists clench, and either because of that or the fire in her eyes, the man pauses in the middle of unbuckling his belt.

She feels just as affronted as she knows she must look—at his easy assumption, at the memory of the shape of the stable boy’s head beneath Susannah’s skirts back home.

Gallingly, the man seems to be able to read her mind. He spreads his hands defensively, even stomps his heel in what could be the reflexive way he summons attention (she is reminded of his lithe mounting of a tavern table). Or it’s simply petulance.

“I can’t very well get on mine,” he argues. “A woman caught receiving the sort of pleasure I could give would be highly suspicious. An unsuspicious woman gets on her knees.”

With a flick of his wrists, he points at the ground with both hands.

Before Jane can dispute his self-serving statements (which she would have to do blushing, helplessly curious), there is the crackle of sticks being trodden upon, underbrush brushed aside by the thudding passage of a person in heavy boots. A person who moves without hesitation, as though searching the forest around the tavern for fleeing Ethians. A guard.

Jane meets the man’s eyes with alarm. It’s clear he shares it. For perhaps the first time in her life, she takes a conscious step backward. Actually, a literal step backward, until her back is pressed against a wide trunk. The man steps forward, bows his face to hers. She expects him to move quickly, claim her mouth with rough, thoughtless passion. His unhurried intention surprises her.

In the chilling air, Jane feels their warm, mingled breath on her face. It’s as if there are bubbles in her blood, fizzing, making her light. Again, his eyes are on her mouth. She feels her own lids lower as her cheeks flush with desire. Their lips just meet in a first, teasing graze when the guard stomps into their hiding place.

Jane’s companion leans away from her with genuine reluctance, shifting his gaze to the intruder.

The scowling guard swiftly takes them in and gets right to it: “What’re you two doing?”

“What does it look like?” the man replies, his tone so lacking in sarcasm that the question comes across even more condescending. So, Jane thinks, he’s rude to everyone. She hopes it won’t cost them their lives, regretting that she threw her lot in with his by following him through the door.

“You know an Archer?” the guard demands, ignoring the response.

“Afraid I’m more familiar with knives.”

“You meet anyone unusual at the tavern tonight?”

“We weren’t even in the tavern.”

The guard narrows his eyes. This response disturbs his stream of questions. Hands down at her sides, Jane clutches nervously at tree bark.

“Really,” the guard says, the word hard and accusing, “because we’ve been interrogating people who say there was a poet who disappeared in the confusion.”

“Ah! He was drunk.” The man nods in apparent comprehension.

“Not his confusion, our confusion.”

“If you’re that confused, maybe you shouldn’t be interrogating people.”

Before this piece of wit can infuriate the guard, Jane interrupts.

“The general confusion,” she interprets. Her hands now itch to throttle the man, so she grips harder at the gritty bark. “We quite understand.”

But she is entirely ignored. Story of her fucking life.

“The poet was speaking Latin.” The guard squints distrustfully at the man. “Do you speak Latin?”

“Believe me,” Jane says brightly, “he cannot speak Latin.”

She covers the man’s mouth when he seems poised to try. There’s a mumble as he protests from behind her hand.

“What was that?” the guard asks sharply.

Jane beams. “I didn’t say anything.”

The man—bane of her existence that he has rapidly become—licks her palm and she instinctively lets go of his face.

“I said,” he says, “I’m better with tongues.” He has the nerve to shoot Jane a sultry, significant look. Her body has the nerve to respond to it. She feels the blooming heat, the racing heart. Almost instantly, the air between them is clouded by lust.

The guard breaks the spell with the blunt repetition of “Tongues?”

The man redirects his attention with obvious frustration.

“Speaking in tongues,” he clarifies. “Rather than Latin.”

“Though he rarely does as he’s enough of an idiot in English,” Jane jumps in helpfully.

The guard studies them with unguarded hostility.

“Anyone who’s being uncooperative will be dunked.”

The man swings his head to face Jane again.

“Fancy getting wet?”

Before she can quit trying to manage his unpredictable responses and take her turn at pure, unadulterated, incautious rudeness that could very well end with her drowning, the guard seems to decide he’s wasted enough time on the two of them.

“Never mind,” he says. “She’s no Ethian.” A jerk of his chin indicates Jane. “Such a state of agitation as she’s in now surely would’ve triggered the transformation.”

Jane scoffs at his total contempt for her, but he turns and walks off, back towards the tavern.

“You don’t suspect me of being Ethian?” the object of her combined lust and aggravation calls after him.

Too late, Jane elbows him hard to be quiet, but of course the guard turns.

“No,” he says.

“Might I ask why?”

“Some people’s evil. Some’s just irritating.”

With that succinct sentiment, the guard takes permanent leave of them.

“You’re a fool,” Jane says when they’re alone. Her voice is almost awed at his baffling recklessness. She slumps back against the tree with her arms crossed. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

“You know an Ethian,” he counters, and his point is clear.

“You didn’t turn me in.”

“I still could.” A blatant lie, accompanied by a teasing look that holds no malice. She hates that she smiles. Hates how it encourages him—for he edges back towards her and tilts his chin invitingly. “Buy my silence?”

“How dare you.” Jane aims for severe and gets breathy. “I will not be blackmailed.”

In the time it takes her to blink once, she decides that, between the way he successfully (however foolhardy were his methods) got rid of the guard and the way he looks wrapped in shadows, the man is too alluring to merit her further resistance. Her smile widens as she declares, “I’m doing this for fun.”

His approach may be unexpectedly deliberate, but Jane left finesse back home with her finely chopped and gently ground herbs; in every sense, she throws herself at him, sealing their lips.

Following the force of their collision, the man winds his arms around her waist and returns her ardour. Then this is kissing, she thinks. Nice. The act addresses two urges at once: her lust and her need for him to shut up. It’s actually so nice that the sanctimoniousness of preserving her virginity up to this point falls away with near-physical relief. Why not? she thinks, over and over and over, changing the angle of her head, feeling the tongue that licked her palm steal enticingly behind her lower lip. The heat of his hands on her is a defence against the cooling night, their pressure a promise of the study he would like to make of her. What a change to experience something new that she doesn’t want to run from.

Jane grasps the back of his neck. When she kneads her strong fingers into his skin, he groans. A tingle races up her back because the look on his face when he draws slightly away from her says the noise surprised them both. It’s tempting, as he closes the distance again, nose delicately nudging hers, to take hold of that belt of his and bring his hips forward. Her skirts will flatten to make room. But she knows—from the experience of seeing if not doing—once a man’s member is involved, a woman’s pleasure is too often forgotten. If he’s going to respond like that to her fingers on his neck, stimulation of more private areas could cause the total collapse of his senses. And unless he has enough presence of mind to attend to her satisfaction, she’s not interested in getting senselessly fucked against a tree.

So, before their lips can meet, she gives his chest a shove, propelling him backward. Sweeping her hair aside, Jane crouches. She’s unlacing her boots when she thinks to glance up and check his reaction (she, perhaps, does not have all her wits about her either). He’s looking down at her, grinning expectantly.

“Oh, I’m not staying down here,” she explains. “Just don’t want to get dirt on your back.”

He doesn’t seem unhappy to have his expectations overturned, waiting while Jane lobs her boots aside. When she stands, he sinks, and she understands the look he gave her because it is quite something to see the knife-hurling, guard-abusing, tavern bard on his knees at her stocking feet. Lightly, he touches her ankle. Jane swallows and raises her foot to his shoulder, lightheaded when she presses down a little and he tenses to take the pressure, eyes locked on hers. His hand strokes up her calf, guiding her leg forward, and by the time he’s gripping the underside of her thigh, her foot indeed rests against his back.

With a wink and no further ado, he ducks under her skirts. Jane’s heart pounds, gallops, over the mystery of where his next touch might fall. It comes as his lips trailing up her thigh—light, over her stocking, but impossibly arousing with the barrier of her skirts between them, watched from above by naked stars.

Will it be worth not trying to stick with Susannah? Worth slinking away in the night rather than attempting to stand up for the people too drunk or belligerent to run from the guards? Stop it, Jane tells herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Survive so you can treat sickness and disease in the future. Survive so you can help people then.

The man’s mouth inches up to the crook of her hip, and then to another place no man has ever touched, certainly not with his lips. The tongue that licked her palm and teased inside her mouth delves into the cleft of her and Jane releases a shuddering cry. He bragged about the pleasure he could give her like this, did he not? What a tremendously arrogant thing to boast—and how tremendously elated she is to discover it wasn’t unfounded.

Gripping her thigh, he pulls her close and thrusts his face between her legs, his head completing a slow nod with every pass he gives her with his tongue. A mix of his saliva and her slick release soon seems to coat everything, everything that matters, everything he traces again and again while Jane trembles on one foot, her other leg clamped around him. She can hear the sounds he’s making, the muffled sounds of his own pleasure. She has a manic craving to clutch his hair (those lush, dark curls), but fears it would be too intimate. Instead, she grabs the back of his head through her skirts—for balance, for leverage, inexactly positioning him to rock herself across his tongue.

Apparently unwilling to submit entirely to her control, he makes her feel the edge of his teeth. Which only makes her emit a ragged moan. She doesn’t hear words, but his lips move and reshape themselves against her, and she wonders if she’s being spoken against, spoken into. She wonders—absently, as even these strange caresses of his mouth heighten her pleasure—if it’s Latin.

The back of Jane’s head is thrashing back and forth against the tree, her hair snagging on the bark, when the man takes her nude hips firmly in his grasp and laps at her mercilessly. His tongue burrows inside her, undulating there, before withdrawing so he can close his lips around the nub with which she has played on nights she had herself convinced a man would be of no use to her. Well. It appears that, like the winter a fleeting but highly contagious illness descended upon Bradgate House, she is not immune.

Jane’s back arches, her head scraping against the tree, as she cries out to the heavens. The blissful sensations begin where his mouth touches and streak through her like the shooting stars her dazed vision may only be imagining. It’s possible that she shivers into starlight herself. Her hips hitch and hitch against his face as her hands cradle the swathed base of his skull. This happens involuntarily and she doesn’t try to stop it.

When stars quit falling and the feeling ebbs and her hips finally slow, she’s gasping, feeling loose and tired like she’s been swimming or knocked over the head. With his help, her leg slides limply from the man’s shoulder. He emerges from beneath her skirts lingeringly wiping his mouth. He looks proud of himself. In Jane’s estimation, he should be.

Though the light cast by the tavern is very dim, it’s enough that the swelling in his breeches does not go unobserved once he stands before her. She stares at him for a minute in contemplation, but no, not her problem.

“Thanks,” Jane says simply, stepping back into her boots.

The man exhales a noise of disbelief.

“Thanks?” he echoes, hands on his hips.

Not wanting to give him false hope, she lifts her feet one at a time to tie her laces rather than crouching again. It nearly unbalances her to shrug while her fingers work, but she manages before planting her boots on the forest floor once more.

“Veni, vidi, vici,” she says. She cocks her head flirtatiously and adds, “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

[delicatebarness]

winters widow | chapter iv

Summary: The journey to the capital brings tests that bring our lord and lady closer which results in Lord James giving her his word.

Warning: Arranged Marriage. Storm/Severe Weather. Emotional Distress.

Word Count: 1096

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A/N: These two have my heart. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Winter’s Widow: @lanabuckybarnes | @sapphirebarnes | @sebastians-love | @mrsnikstan | @learisa | @railmesebstan | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @barnesxstan | @ghalouha | @mrsstuckyboo | @g-nobody

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick

On the sixth day of the journey, Lord James, the bannermen, and yourself neared the borders of the neighboring land. Suddenly, a storm swept across the plains, rain lashing down and turning the ground into a quagmire. 

Tents were hastily pitched as everyone sought shelter from the downpour. Huddled under a small canopy with Lord James and a few of his closest advisors, the tension in the air was thick as the storm raged. Illuminating the worried looks of the soldiers and servants, the lightning split the sky, and thunder drummed. 

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness in the discomfort of the situation as you weathered the storm with Lord James. 

“I don’t like the look of this weather,” one of the advisors muttered, their gaze fixed on the sheets of rain outside. 

“It will pass,” Lord James reassured before turning to you, speaking with a hint of concern. “Are you holding up alright, Lady Romanoff?” 

Despite the unease settling in your stomach, you offered a reassuring smile as you nodded. “I’m fine, my lord. It’s just a bit of rain.” 

He glanced down at you, a flicker of something passed through his eyes before he placed another layer of pelt around your shoulders. “Stay wrapped. We’ll resume the journey as soon as it lets up.” 

As the storm continued, raging around you, you felt Lord James’ presence closer to you. His breath was warm against your ear. “Have no fear,” he spoke firmly, his voice steady. “This storm is no stranger. I was born amidst such tempests.” 

Resonating deeply within you, his words carried a weight of resilience. Looking at him in the dim light from the flickering torches, you swore you saw a glimpse of the man behind the titles. His expression softened slightly as he met your gaze. 

“You’ve faced many trials,” you acknowledged, your voice audible to only Lord James over the howling wind.

A faint smile touched his lips. “And, I have survived them all.” 

Hours passed in comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional clap of thunder. Leaving behind a soggy landscape, the storm began to subside. Albeit at a slow pace, the decision was made to press on with cautious optimism due to the muddied roads.

Still guarded, the aftermath of the storm mirrored the newfound shift in your relationship with Lord James as you rode alongside him again. 

~

The sun hung high in the skin, a golden hue over the hills as your entourage continued the journey south. Riding alongside Lord James, Honeybreeze and Alpine trotted gracefully in tandem. The days grew warmer, and a gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of wildflowers through the air. 

Glancing over at Lord James, you noticed his jaw set in determination as his eyes scanned the horizon. His focus mirrored his reputation as the White Wolf. Clearing his throat, he jolted you out of your trance.

Realizing your eyes were locked onto his side profile, you averted your gaze and offered a sheepish smile. “My apologies, my lord,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced over at you briefly, amusement in his eyes before he returned his focus ahead, “No harm done, Lady Romanoff,” there was a hint of a smile in his reply. “Just keep your attention on the road ahead as we enter more contested lands.” 

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. Turning your focus back to the road stretching ahead, the landscape shifted around you. 

“Tell me about your sisters,” Lord James prompted, his voice carrying above the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt. 

You faced him, a curious expression on your face. He caught you off guard with his inquiry, but you welcomed the opportunity to share a piece of your world with him.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you began telling him about your sisters. Lord James listened intently, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he took in the details of your sisters’ strengths and characters. Bridging the gap between you both, the conversation flowed easily between you. 

~

As the weeks wore on, the relentless pace began to take its toll as the sun was high overhead. There was a growing weariness in your limbs. Honeybreeze’s usually smooth gait seemed to jar your bones. 

Ever vigilant, Lord James noticed your discomfort. Concern flickering in his gaze as he looked at you, the furrow between his brows deepened. “Lady Romanoff,” he began in a gentle tone. “You appear fatigued. Perhaps riding in the carriage would be best.” 

Shaking your head, you forced a smile. “Just a bit tired, my lord. I’m fine, I can remain here, with Honeybreeze and yourself.” 

His gaze didn’t waver. “I appreciate your desire to ride,” he admitted. “But, I worry about your safety, I would feel more at ease if you traveled in the carriage for a while.” 

You hesitated, his genuine concern tore into your steadfast decision. Your gaze moved down to Honeybreeze. Just say you were about to respond, Lord James continued, his voice gentle yet persuasive. 

“I promise you,” he continued. “I will keep Honeybreeze close to me. She will receive the best care and attention. You have my word… my lady.” 

Resonating with sincerity, his words made it difficult to refute his earnest pleas. Gazing into his eyes, you saw a depth of concern in the ocean color, touching you deeply– a concern that went beyond his obligation.

You relented with a small nod after a moment of internal struggle. “As you wish, my lord,” you acquiesced quietly. “I shall travel by carriage for a while.” 

Relief flickered across Lord James’ features. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, offering an appreciative smile. “Your decision will serve us both well.” 

As you dismounted Honeybreeze, he signaled for the carriage to be prepared. You gave Honeybreeze a reassuring pat before climbing into the waiting vehicle.

Through the window, you watched cautiously as Lord James took the reins of Honeybreeze. He gently guided her alongside Alpine, true to his word, he kept her close. 

You settled onto the cushioned seat, a surprising sense of relief as it offered a respite from the constant jostling. 

As the procession moved forward, the gentle sway of the carriage lulled you into a state of relaxation. Resting your head against the window, you noticed occasional glances from Lord James toward the carriage.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself a moment of rest. You were comforted by the knowledge that your lord– your future husband, was looking out and protecting both you and Honeybreeze.

---

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[chipsbarista]

Not Ruined, Not Lost (Bagginshield Ficlet)

Words: 712 Prompt: "I ruin everything I touch..." - "Not me."

The great halls of Erebor were long quiet now. No echoes of war, no celebrations, no music. Thorin sat on the stone steps beneath his throne, crown sitting on his lap, where he traced the etchings with his finger slowly. The golden glow of the torches flickered slowly, casting an ever changing dancing of shadows on Thorin’s face.

Bilbo watched him from the doorway. His heart ached for Thorin. And so he stepped into the pathway that led to him. 

“Thorin,” His voice carried through the stone walls, even as he had said it softly. Thorin didn’t look up.

“You shouldn’t be here, burglar.” Thorin’s voice was gruff.

“I’m exactly where I should be,” Bilbo replied stubbornly, coming closer and closer to him. “And I’ll keep saying it for as long as you need to hear it.”

And so Bilbo reaches him. He plops down in front of Thorin.

“You’re placing me on a pedestal.” Thorin looks up finally. And the look he gives Bilbo breaks his heart. “I’m afraid I’ll shatter it and my fall will be that much higher.”

“You’re wrong, Thorin,” Bilbo said firmly, hands springing upwards to cup Thorin’s cheek. “I don’t put you on a pedestal. I see you, every fault, every flaw. And I continue to see you, the way you continuously fight your sickness of the mind. You are strong, Thorin.”

“I ruin everything I touch,” Thorin shook his head and moved away from Bilbo’s hand. “My home, my family, my people-”

“Not me,” And so Bilbo grabs Thorin’s face again, with both hands, making him look straight into Bilbo’s eyes. He needs Thorin to understand he means this. “Never me. You could never ruin me, Thorin.”

“I am not the king you think I am,” Thorin lets out in a whisper.

“That is not true,” Bilbo’s voice cracks, and it is then he realizes the desperation in his voice. “We’re both broken, more than we’d like to admit, but even broken things have their place. They can be mended and made beautiful again.”

Thorin closes his eyes, “I’m tired, Bilbo.”

“Then let me carry you.” 

A pause.

There is a small smile plastered on Thorin's face now, “As if you could.”

Bilbo’s heart lightens a bit at the sight, “Oh, I could. I may be smaller than you but I am far sturdier than you give me credit for, Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin huffed a quiet laugh. Thorin’s eyes open again, deep blue things, full of emotion.

“You carry enough already, Bilbo.” Thorin murmurs, voice dropping lower. “I have burdened you, have kept you here when you should be with your armchair and books, planting your trees-”

“Do not say those words. They are far too similar to the ones you said when you- When I thought I’d- Please-”

Bilbo could formulate the words fine, but they’d get stuck in his throat the moment he tried to voice them. So he stopped. So he took a deep breath, calmed himself, and brushed a small finger across Thorin’s cheek.

“Stop it. Stop pushing me away,” Bilbo’s heart hurts so much, he thinks he might’ve been stabbed. “I am here because I want to be, you hear me? I will not leave you. Not again. You cannot make me go.”

Thorin flinches at the words. “Why?” That small smile long now, replaced by tear filled eyes that made Bilbo want to scream. “Why do you fight for me even when I’ve failed you in every way?”

“Because I love you, you stubborn fool!” Bilbo bursts, when he didn’t mean to. Tears freely rolling down his eyes now. “Because even at your worst, even when the gold took you from me, I saw you. I saw you. I will not let you slip into the shadows when there is still light in you.”

Thorin’s breath hitched. “Bilbo…”

“I don’t care what you’ve done or what you think you’ve broken. You’re not ruined. Not to me.” Bilbo says, hands shaking. And then Thorin’s hand is atop his, even as Bilbo’s is still cupin his face.

For a moment, Thorin said nothing. And then, with a shuddering breath he pulls Bilbo’s hand down, leaning forward, resting their foreheads together, “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s not up to you to decide.”

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Yandere Coworker (part 4)

Tw: Afab/fem reader, Cyprus being a sexual predator in the office, fear of reporting about it to HR, Cyprus being a dick and just manhandling you

I do not like this stinky man but i want to get out of my comfort zone in writing. It was so hard to not make him motherly, but i persevered and made Cyprus , cyprus

I wonder if this guy is actually appealing or he's just like peggable

Masterlists, part 1, part 5

There was a knock at your door. You groggily got up and wiped your eyes, you're squinting to avoid having too much light going in.

You opened the door to none other than Cyprus. He's wearing the same jacket, but a black shirt underneath today.

He looked at you incredulously. "Christ, it's two in the afternoon. You just woke up?"

You said yes and you would want to go back to sleep as soon as possible. You asked if he needed something from you.

"I need you to get out of bed! You can't just waste your three-day weekend like this, doll." He invited himself into your room, shutting the door behind him.

Its pitch black with your total light blocking blinds. He couldn't see anything, so he had to use the torch of his phone. Only to see you looking back at him tiredly, back hunched and bags under your eyes for days.

Cyprus used his thumb to gently pull your lower eyelid down and to examine your eyes. They're bloodshot and dry, you must have scrolled on your phone all night to compensate for your lack of control yesterday.

You asked if he could come back tomorrow. Or not at all. You wanted to sleep, you barely get them on work days.

There was pity in his eyes as he watched you blink strangely. "You can't keep living like this."

You said yes, you can. You have been doing this for years and you turned out fine. Again, you asked him if he could leave you in peace until Monday.

He ran his fingers through his hair and groaned in frustration. "Fine." He said, storming out of your room without saying goodbye.

To your surprise, he stuck to his word. He hasn't come by ever since, not even on Sunday. You did receive texts from him, though. His contact was saved as "My Man <3" despite not remembering even giving Cyprus your number. He must have unlocked your phone using your fingerprint and stole it for himself.

You refused to open those texts or answer his calls. You simply switched to silent mode and dozed off for two whole days.

Monday rolls around. You had to drag yourself to the bathroom and freshen up. Dress nicely for work and prepare without your bag, you forgot to ask Cyprus for it back.

You were moving automatically, using muscle memory and none of that critical thinking.

You screamed in shock when you opened the door to see Cyprus smoking there. He winced at the sharp increase in volume.

"Quiet down, it's too early for that, princess." He spoke in a softer voice.

You asked what he was doing here while locking your door.

"Picking my girl up. Come on, we're going to be late." You shuddered when he brought your hand to the small of your back, seemingly touching lower and lower since the last time you met him.

__

It felt like a walk of shame. Cyprus insisted on carrying your suitcase. Those who knew of your boyfriend would ogle at you and him. Some would boldly ask about the relationship between the two of you. And in Cyprus fashion, he would reply with something polite, but telling them it was none of their business.

Punching in at 9AM sharp, there were multiple heads turned when he set your items on your desk for you.

He was unaffected by the attention, as if he was used to it and there's nothing to fret about. You on the other hand, is fucking distressed. They're going to flock to you the second Cyprus leaves for his cubicle, knowing that they wouldn't get anything out of the man.

"Your bag is still at my place." He whispered as the office was deathly quiet for once. No doubt, it was to eavesdrop on what he has to say to you and vice versa.

You know what that smirk meant. You wouldn't be seeing your favourite handbag for a while unless you come over to his apartment tonight. You nodded, in silent understanding.

A couple of gasps sounded when Cyprus bent down to give you a kiss on the cheek. Your blood ran cold, but despite that, you stretched your neck out to see who expressed such emotions. Everyone pretended not to look, but their wide eyed, slack jaw, hand-covering-mouth expressions told you otherwise.

You asked if he really needed to do that here.

"Duh. How else are they going to know you're mine?" He chuckled lowly and ruffled your hair. Cyprus left your cubicle to return to his.

It didn't take long for the first interviewer to come along. The one nearest to your desk, wheeled their office chair to your personal space.

You sighed and covered your face, knowing that he wanted to know the juicy bits.

Another one came by, pretending to hand you some reports, but it's really just to extract some details.

Then another straight up arrived without a shame in the world. Asking bluntly about your love life with him, not even caring to be discrete.

You looked around for Jane, the monster manager. She's the lesser evil for now, if she saw this gathering happening around you, he would have shrieked for everyone to get back to work. But she was nowhere to be seen.

You tried to mind your business, giving vague and non incriminating answers to every question. But they kept pressing on, more and more started to flock towards you, chattering amongst themselves and cracking jokes. Without your boss, the office became a casual space for your colleagues to socialize without putting actual work into the company.

They're all blocking your sight, you didn't realize that Cyprus is marching up to your cubicle.

"Don't you all have work to do?" Cyprus's scowl and sharp tone caused everyone to jolt momentarily before scattering away. Once he's satisfied that they left his precious girlfriend alone, he walked away.

You sighed upon seeing that they're still throwing discrete glances at you and Cyprus.

A cup of your favourite warm beverage might help, so you stood up as quietly as possible. Trying not to alert anyone, you went into the shared kitchen. To your relief, it was empty save for you.

As usual, you grabbed your favourite cup, a sachet of your drink and began preparing it. All things were going smoothly until you heard footsteps behind you.

You knew it's Cyprus. He's standing so close behind you, that your back is pressing against his chest.

You asked him what he was doing.

"I'm just getting my mug." He opened the top cabinet and took longer than usual to retrieve the porcelain vessel. You frowned, being sandwiched between his muscular frame and the counter. A sinewy hand held onto your arm as he rummaged through the shelf.

You had half a mind to splash him with hot water. But that would probably cause you more problems than solutions.

Finally, he separated himself from you, but he was making his coffee right next to you. Cyprus waited for the machine to drip dark liquid gold, he has a hand on your shoulder at all times. He must really, really like physical contact.

You stirred your drink with a teaspoon while he picked his completed cup up.

"See you around, pretty girl." You let out a yelp when he patted your rear.

He laughed when he saw you jerk your hips forward in response to that unwanted touch.

You watch him head back to his cubicle with balled fists. This isn't right, you never saw him as anything more than a coworker.

You wanted to go to the HR and try to get him fired for sexual harassment. But you had no proof, as the CCTV cameras were faulty and the company didn't care enough to replace them. Your department was the only one that isn't slacking off, so why bother? There were no witnesses and he knows where you live. You do not want to be the receiving end of his mean punch.

You felt defeated, trapped and upset. But there really isn't anything you can do except to try and gather evidence from now on.

Or maybe get yourself transferred to another section.

You shook your head and went back to work.

__

"Baby."

You snapped out of your trance of scanning for numbers and figures on your blinding screen.

He's leaning against your cubicle with a hand in his pocket, you think he's concealing a pack of cigarettes.

"It's lunchtime. Stop working." He bent down and teased you by blowing into your ear. You swatted him away, but he only snickered at you.

You asked him what he wanted from you.

"Well. You." He adjusted his glasses as he stood back up straight. "Let me take you out to lunch."

You said you're not hungry.

He gave you a knowing look as your stomach decided to roar in defiance. You felt your face heat up at that.

"Come on. Get up, doll." He beckoned you to follow him as he stepped away.

You said you don't want to. You're staying in the office. He rolled his eyes and walked away, muttering about how you're royalty, needing him to go the extra mile for you.

You had no idea what that meant. So you continued working away.

You ignored all the attempts of your coworkers' nosy attempts to pry into your life between you and Cyprus. As much as it was tempting to tell them that you actually didn't consent to this relationship and he's a massive creep, you knew it would come back and bite you. So you just gave them neutral answers or not say anything at all.

It went on like this for the next half hour or so, until they parted ways for something. Rather, someone.

"Here." Cyprus set a takeaway container on your table. "Still warm."

He has his own box of food with him.

The women and men swoon over this gesture of kindness, but immediately composed themselves and coughed into their fists when Cyprus turned around to shoot them a glare.

They excused themselves and said they had somewhere to be. But you think they're just waiting to see what he would do with you, when he thinks no one is paying attention.

"Get up, princess. We're going downstairs, I need to smoke." He grabbed you by the forearm and slightly manhandled you. Cyprus made sure you took your food with you.

He knows all eyes were on him when he pulled you into the stairwell. Cyprus didn't care that he potentially blew his secret hideout that he goes to during lunch. He could always find somewhere else.

All that matters is that he's spending his valuable time with his favourite girl.

[porkcracker]

Hello!!

I just wanna say I really liked your Optimus father figure headcannons and Ratchet grandpa figure headcannons! It was really nice!

I was wondering if you can do a oneshot of those headcannons with a Non-binary reader? I think it'd be really wholesome and nice to see ^^

I was staring at this ask for a very long time and man I wish I had time to answer it quicker, because it hits some buttons. I'm happy you liked my headcanons btw. Still being probably months late, I still hope you enjoy this.

Dad!Optimus & Grandpa!Ratchet & NB!Reader It had been in no way your fault, but nonetheless you still found yourself shrinking into yourself as Optimus looked at you with a disappointed look in his bright blue optics. As the oldest of the humans on base, you had taken to watching over the three younger ones. Which as a result lead to you being equally in trouble, when they got in trouble and like in moments like this had broken something. You had been busy with yourself for a few minutes, so there was no clear way to say who had started it, but by the time yells and screams had drawn your attention they were running around the base, chasing each other with water guns.

To a degree you could understand them, the summer was hot, and even the base could grow uncomfortably warm at the height of the day, but to use water guns? Around a lot of technology? An exasperated sigh had left you, and you had to move to stop them, yelling after them. Alas, too late, an over enthusiastic shot from Miko had missed its intended target of Raf and instead hit Ratchets workstation. You watched with bated breath hoping it would do no damage, relaxing as it seemed to be fine and turning to the equally frozen kids, when there was a crackling noise and just as you turned back around the previously lit display darkened.

As the Bots returned, the children and their guardians were quickly sent on their way to bring said children home, which left you alone with Optimus and Ratchet. Ratchet had not left his damaged station since returning, attempting to fix the damage. Optimus on the other hand had turned to you. Which was what had led to this moment. The big bot wasn't angry, but the disappointment in his optics was far more disheartening in your opinion. Disappointing Optimus never sat right with you at all, not that you had been at this point very often before. No, rather, you were far more commonly sitting on his shoulder and conversing with him.

"(Y/N), I'm very glad that you watch the younger ones when you're alone at base, but if you need help than please do tell me. I would not want you to be overwhelmed by watching three other humans by yourself. I am quite sure, leaving one of the others at base to help you, would be manageable.", his voice was as gentle as always and perhaps the fact that he was seemingly more concerned for you than the damaged equipment and even considered leaving someone at base was worse. With the Deceptions being more experienced fighters and having no qualms, leaving someone to watch would be impractical. While usual Ratchet was at base, he was ready to leave base when necessary, so to stop that would be impractical.

Still you nodded and watched, still hunched into yourself, as Optimus joined Ratchet to look at the damage from the equipment. Coming to a decision, the next day, when the Bots and the kids left base, you made your way towards the workstation and had a closer look at the damage. It was quickly clear why such technically minimal water damage made this much trouble. The cables were sized for humans and while it must have been hard to connect when building the station it had no casing then and no it did, making it even harder for big cybertronian hands to work half hidden small human cables.

It didn't take long to get a torch and a few tools from your back, something you carried with you just in case, since you had started to get along better with Ratchet, often listening to his stories and grumbled life advice. Once back at the workstation, you turned the torch on and climbed into the casing of the workstation and working along the few small cables that needed to be fixed. Fixated on your work, it only registered that Optimus and Ratchet had come over, both not out with the others, when they began to talk, or well you assumed began to talk as you hadn't registered it before.

"It's almost amusing to watch you, how do the humans say it, mother hen them.", the sentence made you slow in your work with curiosity, wondering if they were talking about the other kids, your curiosity mirrored by the confused tone of Optimus. "What do you mean, old friend?" "Hah, it's obvious. (Y/N), you talk like you're their creator.", the way Ratchet said it was not judgemental, rather it seemed genuinely amusing. "I-", Optimus began, but was cut almost off immediately by a yelp. Both bots snapped their helms around, looking around, pinpointing the origin just as you crawled out of the casing of the workstation, your finger bleeding where you had slipped at the answer of the medic.

Before you could even fully get over the hem of the workstation, Ratchet scooped you up and walked off with words of chiding for injuring yourself. As much as Optimus had been caught off-guard by the words of his old friend, reflecting on them proofed them true. But alas, at least he was not the only one, he mused quietly as he watched said old friend fret over your cut with a rare care in his optics.

[almostgenerallyalways]

to absent friends and those at sea

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fem reader Category: angst / fluff Word count: 6,2K CW: language, don't know how the navy works, maybe workplace bullying, this is a 'there's only one bed' fic that got out of control

Summary: Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

2023

“Your flight is about to get canceled.”

You start, thrown by the appearance of Hangman at your side, interrupting your intense scrutiny of the departures board where another forty minutes have just been added to the already considerable delay of your outbound flight to Seattle.

“What are you still doing here?” You eye him suspiciously, adjusting your duffel bag over your shoulder.

“Nice to see you too, Mir.” He smiles, completely unperturbed as always. “I stayed back to hang out with Coyote. Haven’t seen him much since he was transferred. He left this morning.” He pauses for a moment, indifferently examining his fingernails. “You?”

You sigh. “I thought I’d take advantage of being in the Rockies to hike.”

The man next to you smirks. “In other words, you got drenched.”

“More or less.”

Two days ago, Saturday, had been a beautiful, sunny day for a wedding: Every circumstance had been perfect to reunite most of your Top Gun class, gathered with assorted family, friends and colleagues of the happy couple, to watch Halo say yes to her wife.

You’d enjoyed yourself immensely; the majestic scenery of Halo’s remote hometown in the Colorado mountains, the beautiful venue and decorations, and best of all: being with one of your best friends on the happiest day of her life.

Then the next day, as you’d rolled out of bed bright and early, only slightly hungover, you’d opened the curtains of your hotel room to unannounced streaks of rain.

Not put off by a little change in weather, you’d checked if there were any safety warnings for the trail you’d chosen, and set out in spite of the adverse conditions. The experience had been less enjoyable than anticipated: the beautiful views over the Rockies obscured by a thick layer of fog, you’d returned to your room early last night, chilled to the bone, every stitch of clothing you’d been wearing soaked through.

Another announcement pings over the speakers, interrupting your reflections. The status next to your flight number and destination now blinks in bold, red typeface: CANCELED.

“Told you.” Your unwanted companion grins helpfully.

Around you, people are starting to move, expressing their panicked complaints. You groan as you realise you are going to be stuck here overnight: it is almost 8 PM, and with the rain and mist not letting up, there’s no way another flight is leaving this small airport tonight.

“Listen, Mir,” Hangman says, expression more sober now, “My flight to San Diego was canceled, and I just stood in line for two hours to get a room for tonight. You’ll be here for hours if you have to get one.”

He considers you, any trace of mockery gone from his face for once. “You wanna crash with me?”

Pressure starts to build behind your temples, as you quickly consider your options. On the one hand, you are tired and cranky and in desperate need of sleep: having been one of the last guests shutting down the wedding in the late hours of Saturday night, and having spent most of your Sunday hiking up a non-rewarding mountain in the pouring rain, you’d love to avoid spending hours in the line that you see the crowd of weary and pissed-off people scramble to form, leading up to the United desk.

On the other hand: Hangman.

He smiles tentatively, as if he can read your thoughts on your face. He probably can. “It’s a double.”

You close your eyes, feeling like you might live to regret this decision: “Okay. Fine. Thanks.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

Top Gun is a dream and an outright nightmare.

Brought in two weeks after the start of the program to replace someone who was summarily discharged, you’re determined to prove your worth.

When you are first introduced to the men and women (woman, singular, you correct yourself) who are to be your classmates and competition, it’s clear the group dynamics have already been cemented. Some eye you suspiciously, leaning back in their chairs, trying to get a read on the late addition. Some don’t even bother to look.

A blonde pilot in the second row scoffs when the instructor reads a short overview of your scant accomplishments, and another man sitting next to him laughs in response, poorly covering it up with a cough.

It takes everything you have to tough it out. They’re throwing you in the deep end, barely allowing any time or grace to make up for the hours and hours of valuable technical and practical training you’ve missed.

On day eight, though, you execute your first successful stealth manoeuvre, getting the upper hand over one of the instructors. As the details in the move are analysed in front of the class, for the first time, you feel a begrudging respect from some of them.

Not everyone, though. Two seats to your left, Seresin makes a show of studying his cuticles.

* * *

Halo is your lifeline. As the only two women in the class, you gravitate towards each other, finding some respite from the hyper-masculine bullshit of the rest of the group.

Or maybe she’s an angel, as her recently coined callsign suggests.

You’re lounging on the rec room couch with Halo’s feet in your lap, debriefing the day’s hop, when Seresin and two of his usual hangers-on walk in. (Their names are Miller and Wozniak. Halo and you have taken to referring to them as Crabbe and Goyle.)

“Ladies.” He grins, flashing you a smile with no warmth behind it.

A feeling of dread gathers in your stomach.

He casually picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and pretends to inspect it as he comments: “Poor showing out there today. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna play in the big leagues with the boys.”

Halo, laid back on the couch, rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Jake.”

He grins at her and takes a bite, crunching loudly. “You know, Halo, it’s not so much you I’m worried about. But this one-” He gestures at you with the piece of fruit. He has never referred to you by your name. “Is on thin ice, I hear. Heard they’re regretting calling her up.”

At this, Halo sits up, looking like she wants to give him a piece of her mind, but you stop her with a touch to her arm. “Forget it, Callie.”

* * *

You’re breathing heavy, blood rushing in your ears as your body is pushed to its physical limits, your F-18 protesting as you accelerate into a sharp turn curving around a particularly treacherous stretch of the San Jacinto mountains.

Your gamble has paid off, though, as you come out right on top of your prey. You can taste bile in the back of your throat as you lock tone on Fanboy’s jet.

It tastes like victory.

Back on the tarmac, peeling off the top half of your sweat-drenched flight suit, Halo throws her arms around your neck as Fanboy shakes your hand, a bemused smile on his face. “Nice work out there. Never even saw you coming.”

Later, at the Hard Deck, one pilot after another buys you drinks as you finally earn your callsign: Mirage.

* * *

It gets easier from there on out, and it doesn’t.

On the one hand, you don’t feel like you constantly have to defend your place anymore. After you score big in the mountains, Hangman finally has the decency to shut his mouth around you. You’ve found a natural understanding with most of the other pilots – the competition is fierce, but nights at the bar bring everyone back on equal footing.

Yet as the program ramps up to its conclusion, so does the pressure. Some mornings you can’t choke down breakfast, your stomach seized up into a knot of nerves and anticipation.

In week ten, you’re having so much trouble with a simulation that you, your wingman and his backseater get shot down six times in a row. Your arms burn with the hundreds of push-ups you’re grinding into the blistering tarmac, your CO never running out of the torrent of abuse he’s heaping onto your back.

You can’t sleep that night, keep seeing the disappointed look on your wingman’s face as you’d fucked up again and again. Around three in the morning, you give up on sleep and head to the on-base gym.

You crank a treadmill up to high and you run, run, run until your lungs are burning and your mouth tastes like metal. Rivulets of sweat drip down your back, down your face, mingling with tears you didn’t realise you’d been holding back, until finally your legs are screaming at you to stop, and you sit down at the end of another treadmill, your shoulders shaking, cradling your face in your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you know it’s not fully morning yet when a pair of white sneakers appears in your line of vision.

“Mir?”

Of course it had to be him, of all people, seeing you at your worst and most vulnerable.

“Go away.” You manage to grunt.

He doesn’t. Instead, he sits down next to you, hovering at a distance – still too close.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and if you weren’t burning with embarrassment and rage, his hesitant tone might give you pause.

You lift your face from your knees, steeling yourself. You must look ridiculous, you think, a sweaty heap of a girl having a mental breakdown at the bottom of some exercise equipment. You refuse to look at him. “I’m fine.”

He reaches out tentatively, trying to brush away a strand of hair that’s plastered to the side of your face, and you all but jump back: “Goddamn it, Seresin, don’t touch me.”

Finding the strength to push yourself up, you turn to him: “Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t come anywhere near me.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

When Koehler is discharged, Jake Seresin feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him.

They came up together through the Academy, and while Jake isn’t sure he would’ve called him a friend in any other circumstances, at least… At least he was an ally. Familiar. Someone who saw through his cocky bullshit and gave as good as he got.

The chances of both of them getting into Top Gun were astronomically small – and then Koehler immediately went and fucked it up. Jake cannot comprehend it.

He feels off-kilter, his only confidant having made a spectacularly embarrassing exit from the program. He can feel the rest of the class watching him, like sharks who’ve smelled blood in the water, waiting for him to make a deadly mistake too.

But Jake didn’t come here to screw up. He came here to win. So he does the only thing he knows how to do – he ramps it up, builds his walls higher, needles people harder – gets under their skin before they can get under his.

He knows it’s not making him many friends – but it works. People don’t question him. He takes no prisoners, flies like he’s the only one out there, puts himself first always – and is ranked near the top of the class for doing so.

When you’re introduced as Koehler’s replacement, he can’t believe it. It feels like adding salt to the wound, bringing in someone who didn’t even make the cut-off on their own merit. So if you get it a little worse than the others – well.

He sees you struggling, those first weeks, and it only confirms his thinking.

One scorching afternoon, after a long series of dogfights ends in embarrassment for half the class, he’s in the rec room pressing a cold compress to his face, discussing the day’s events with Wozniak: “I mean, did you see her out there? That’s what happens when you pull the B-team off the bench. She’s got no business being here. She’s dragging everyone down.”

Wozniak doesn’t immediately respond, and Jake looks up to find you standing in the doorway, looking caught off guard. You recover after a second, straightening your back, and grab a water from the cooler, studiously not looking at him.

You never look at him, after that.

But he looks at you.

* * *

You have bags under your eyes. The line of your jaw has gotten a little sharper. You get a little quieter, even more so than before.

He notices these things just like he notices the redoubled resolve stiffening your spine.

You start creeping up in the rankings, slowly, point by point, and while he doesn’t like that, he respects it.

After the mountains, where you pull a trick out of the bag that takes him completely by surprise, he lines up to congratulate you. Fanboy takes it on the chin, he’s a good guy, and Jake claps him on the back before turning to you, Halo still at your side. But you won’t look at him, and ignore his outstretched hand.

He supposes he deserves that.

* * *

A few weeks later, he wakes up earlier than usual after a night of fitful sleep, his body still processing the adrenaline from an open-sea simulation the day before. Jake came out on top, though he ditched his wingman to do so. Several others didn’t manage to complete the exercise, a crucial barrier for the last stretch of the thirteen-week program.

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, the light outside his cracked window starting to shift incrementally from pitch black to indigo blue, he decides to head to the gym.

When he steps into the cavernous, air-conditioned room, he immediately senses someone else’s presence, though he can’t see anyone using any of the rows and rows of equipment. It’s not until he rounds into a stretch of treadmills that he spots you, hunched over into your bare knees.

“Mir?” He approaches hesitantly, noting the flushed skin of your back, your hair matted with sweat.

“Go away.” He gets in response, but he can’t, not when you’re sitting there trembling.

“Are you alright?” He asks, even though he can clearly see that you’re not.

You lift your face, surreptitiously swiping at your eyes with your palm. “I’m fine.”

Still not looking at him. Never looking at him.

He reaches out a hand, tentatively; he wants to make this better –

He has to make this better, make you feel–

- but you recoil from him, and he sits there for a long time after you’ve banged the door shut behind you like you couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Sits there for a good long while, with the ghost of your presence.

* * *

Jake wins the trophy.

It’s a raucous night at the Hard Deck and he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. Sure, he doesn’t know where they’re shipping him off next week – but for now, he has won and no one can take that away from him, not the pilots giving him sideways glances at the bar, not his father, no one.

Fanboy bumps his shoulder and hands him what must be his fifth or sixth beer of the night. Over on the jukebox, Son of a Preacher Man starts playing and he glances over to see you throw your arms around Halo’s shoulders, laughing, dancing her around the crowded room a little unsteadily. You look lighter, happier than he’s ever seen you.

He watches for long moment, transfixed, until he realises Mickey is talking to him.

Mickey turns around, trying to follow Jake’s line of sight, and finds you. “Oh, dude.” He turns back, clinks Jake’s beer with his own. “I’m sorry to tell you, I think that ship has sailed, man.”

Right, Jake thinks, taking a long pull of his beer. And why should he care? He’s got what he came to North Island for.

No one can take that away.

* * *

2018

He doesn’t see you again for two years. Two years of him being shipped from base to base, coast to coast and back again, the Navy’s prize pony, getting new orders every few months.

He shows up in Oceana, papers in hand; greets familiar faces at The Admiral’s and trades stories over the sound of classic rock and the clicking of pool cues.

Then he turns around and bumps into – you.

It puts him on the back foot, coming face to face with you unexpectedly. You look like you’re caught off guard, too, but you recover quickly. “Hangman.”

“Mirage.” He smirks, defences slotting into place. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You look a little bit older, sharper in ways, your watchful eyes clearly on guard as he leans against the bartop, giving you a once-over. It’s a tactical mistake, on his part – it only serves to ignite something warm deep inside of him.

“Gonna be here for a while. Think we can kiss and make up?”

You shoot him a withering glance, like you expected better out of him. “In your dreams, Bagman.”

The bartender brings you your drink, and you smile sweetly at him. “Terry, put one of whatever he’s having on my card, will you? Fucking new guy’s gonna need it.”

* * *

And it’s fine, it’s perfectly fine. You work perfectly well together. 

It’s just that –

No matter how much he needles and cajoles, flirts or tries to rile you up, you only ever treat him as –

A colleague. Which is what he is, sure, but –

He doesn’t ever get that part of you, the part that laughs easy with Fanboy or does shots with Bambi, the part of you that bodily holds up Halo after she gets the call that her childhood dog has died, the part of you that sits next to the radio, fists clenched with anticipation when someone is flying a tough hop, the part of you that envelops them into a full body hug after.

The part of you that has your eyes light up when you look at someone, instead of straight through him.

And no matter how many times he tells himself to move on, he never quite stops wanting it.

* * *

2021

Deployed in the South China Sea, he flies one of the more difficult, harebrained missions of his life with you.

He finds you, after, where you’re slumped against a steel wall on deck, your flight suit half off, trying to catch your breath; and hands you a Sprite.

You consider him for a moment before taking the soda. It feels a little like you’re really looking at him for the first time.

“This is my favourite.”

He sits down, not close, exactly, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. You open the can with a hiss, and he exhales: “Nice work back there.”

“You too, Bagman.”

The wind whips across the deck, but you’re sheltered from it by the structure, leaving only the noise.

“Do you know where you’re headed after this?” he asks.

“Back to Bahrain, still got another fourteen months there. You?”

“San Diego.”

You give a little quirk of your mouth. “Lucky.”

“I thought you’d be stateside. I thought you might have…” He holds up his right hand, indicates his ring finger. “That guy in Fallon. Search & Rescue with the dark eyes.”

You take a sip of your drink. “You noticed his eyes?”

Jake shrugs.

You look at the wide expanse of ocean churning beyond the flanks of the carrier. “No. He was… He wanted to settle in Nevada, have kids.” You give him a wry smile that doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Wasn’t ready to give all this up.”

“Ah.” Jake says, his throat a little dry. It feels like the realest conversation he’s ever had with you, and yet, he can’t think what to say.

You sit there for a while, in what feels like something close to companiable silence, until it’s time to debrief.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2023

The receptionist looks up apologetically from her sleek desk. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Seresin. Because of all the delayed passengers, we’re getting a lot of demand for double rooms for families. Is there any way you would take a single? We can offer you complimentary breakfast.”

Jake looks at you hesitantly, shifting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

You rub your temples, doing nothing to alleviate the increasing pounding in your skull. Of course this was going to happen. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

“I can, uh,” You see him looking around for a sofa, but there isn’t one.

You sigh, letting your bag drop onto the plush grey-green carpet. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve shared worse sleeping arrangements.”

These have usually involved a barracks or an aircraft carrier, and between twenty to two hundred of your coworkers, but who’s counting.

“I suppose that’s true.” He replies, staring at the bed.

At least it’s big, you think, and you can’t wait to plop your head down on one of its crisp white pillows. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

* * *

After your shower, you’re in bed, waiting with no small amount of apprehension for Hangman to emerge from his turn in the bathroom.

When he does, in boxers and a t-shirt, his normally slicked-back hair slightly peaky and darkened by the water, he looks younger than he is. He looks a little like he did when you first knew him.

He pulls back the covers and settles against the pillows on his side, the mattress dipping with the weight of him. He’s heavier than he looks – you’re always a little surprised by the lean, solid mass of him. It’s a byproduct, you suppose, of years of studiously not looking at him when you can avoid it.

“I guess that’s goodnight, Mir.”

You look up at him, facing you. The proximity of him is unfamiliar, and a little unnerving.

You have to close your eyes against it.

“Night, Hangman.”

When you open your eyes again, he considers you for a moment with an expression you can’t place.

“I wanted to talk to you, you know, at the wedding, but you kept disappearing on me.”

You don’t really know what to say in response. “I didn’t realise we had much to say to each other.”

His face shutters, and you feel a little pang of guilt. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

He shifts onto his back. “You looked beautiful. Just wanted to say that.”

You can’t help but be a little taken aback, and it takes you a second to reply, guardedly: “Thanks. You didn’t look too bad yourself.”

But then he never does, does he? Jake Seresin, golden boy, never a hair out of place.

He doesn’t respond, and you burrow into your pillow, determined to let sleep take you over as soon as possible.

* * *

You wake from a fitful sleep to movement beside you. It takes you a second or two to remember where you are, and with whom, before you realise that the man next to you is breathing in wheezy stops and starts, a low, panicked murmur emanating from his throat.

You hesitate for an instant before propping yourself up on your arm, using your free hand to lightly shake his shoulder. “Bagman. Hey. Seresin, wake up.” He’s breathing hard, radiating heat. “Hey. Jake.”

He comes to, slowly, gasping for air, as if emerging from deep below the surface of a rough sea. His skin, where you are holding onto him, is overly hot, the fabric of his t-shirt damp. He scrambles to prop himself up, causing you to pull back your hand, but he grabs your wrist hard before you can fully pull away.

“What,” He manages, the look in his eyes still wild and unfocused, roaming over you. It takes a second, two, three, before realization dawns, and he starts to calm down. His tight grip on your wrist eases slightly.

Despite the low light of the dark room, you see a flush start to creep up the skin of his throat. “Mir. I’m sorry. I was…”

For the first time, you feel something akin to tenderness for him. You try to sweep some of the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, hindered by his continued grasp on your arm. “It’s okay. You’re fine.” You pause, feeling a little awkward. “Could’ve just as well been me.”

At that, he lets go of your wrist, letting himself drop back onto the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, and you let yourself settle back onto your side, watching the steadily slowing rise and fall of his chest.

Just as you wonder whether you should just go back to sleep, let the both of you pretend this never happened, he says, “They’re always the same. Me, trying to save one of you, and failing. It’s getting better, they used to be much more frequent, I’m talking to someone, but…”

“I stop sleeping.” The words are out of your mouth before you realize you’re saying them. “When it gets really bad.” 

You have never shared this broken, faulty part of yourself with anyone, but somehow, looking at the shadowy form of Hangman’s shoulder two inches from your face, it tumbles out.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t function, I fly like a zombie. Sometimes I genuinely worry they’re going to ground me.”

You see his little smirk appear, even in the dark. “I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen you fly badly.”

“Oh, fuck off, Bagman.” You say it without venom, thumping his stomach lightly. “That’s certainly not what you used to say.” On the rebound, he catches your hand, cradling it just below his ribs.

You don’t pull it back.

A few minutes go by in silence, and you just when you start thinking he may have fallen asleep, he says: “Mir.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you ever…?” He exhales a puff of breath. “Will you ever forgive me?”

You fold your arm under your pillow, wary, and consider your answer for a moment. “I forgave you a long time ago.” You pause, scared to say too much. “I just… don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m twenty-three again, always having to prove myself because I’m not good enough.”

You watch his chest rise as he inhales, fall again with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. I can’t excuse it. From the beginning I blamed you for replacing Koehler when it had nothing to do with you.”

His voice drops a little bit. “To be honest, I was scared I wouldn’t make it without him.”

Now it’s your turn to smirk. “The great Hangman Seresin, scared?”

He turns onto his side to face you, his expression solemn. “Seriously, Mir. I was insecure and I covered it up by being a dick. Maybe I still do, to some extent.”

His eyes turn downwards, to the space between your bodies. “But I feel like I’ve been trying to make things right with you for a while.”

You can’t deny this. You’ve always rebuffed any attempt on his part to approach you beyond what was strictly necessary.

“I guess I’m a champion grudge holder.”

He looks back up to meet your eyes, a crooked smile appearing on his face. “Seven years and two entire deployments together, though?”

You scoff, realising how ridiculous this sounds, but you can’t help it – it felt very personal to you. “You don’t know what it was like. I didn’t make the initial cut. By the time I got to San Diego I was two weeks behind everyone, one of only two women, and on top of that you, the class golden boy, hated me being there.”

You pause, inhaling to steady yourself. “I felt like I was under so much pressure, it fucked me up.”

When you meet Hangman’s eyes again, something in his face has softened.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand, the skin of his palm rough.

You take in the sharp lines and smooth planes of his face, hair in disarray from a sweaty, restless sleep. He’s very close, and you don’t know if it’s the weird, suspended-in-time quality of this darkened room, or the weight that’s been lifted off your shoulders through this little exchange, weight you hadn’t even realised was there; but for the first time you feel like you might like Hangman.

Not Hangman, Jake, brass and bravado stripped away, looking at you like you’re something precious, something he’s a little bit afraid of.

It's a lot of things to feel, in the middle of the night, after seven years of cold war.

You clear your throat, but your voice still comes out a little raspier than you intend to: “Alright then, Bagman. Détente?”

Out comes that crooked little quirk of his lips again: “Alright, Mirage. Détente.”

He’s still holding on to your hand, and he pulls it a little closer into his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake wakes up to the frantic buzzing of his phone and reaches for it on the nightstand, the endeavour complicated by your head weighing down his other arm. The crisp first light of day is seeping through a gap in the curtains, framing a picture of you sleeping curled into his chest so pointedly he almost has to assume he’s still asleep.

After a second or two, this assumption is dispelled by a very chipper United rep talking away at him, informing him that he’s booked onto a flight to San Diego at 10:45.

“Okay, uh, that works,” He manages, trying to keep his voice down so that you don’t wake up, but it’s too late: already you’re looking up at him, blinking sleep out of your eyes.

He ends the call, puts the phone down, and after a second’s hesitation, returns his arm to its place around your waist.

He looks down at you, not even sure what he’s asking: Is this okay? Do you still hate me?

Do you realize I’ve wanted this for years?

Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

You shift slightly, and he reflexively tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt. He sees your pupils go wide, and it’s stupid, the jolt he feels at that – it goes straight to his gut.

Then your phone rings, too, and the moment bursts like a soap bubble. You prop yourself up, pulling away from him to answer it.

When you’re done arranging your flight, he can feel the atmosphere has shifted. You don’t look at him when you say: “We should probably start packing up, huh?”

“Mir, wait,” He says, and he knows he sounds a little desperate, but there’s so many things he wants to say, finally, if this is the best chance he’ll get.

“Jake,” you interrupt, and the pleading tone of your voice shuts him up.

Later, on his flight, he’ll think about falling asleep with your hand in his, and his heart will break a little.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halo calls you, ten days into the honeymoon, to exalt Jess, marriage, and Hawaii, in that order.

You’re at home, cooking dinner, a Motown playlist on in the background while she details all the kayaking, wine tasting and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes they’ve been doing. Your heart swells at her happiness. “I’m so glad you guys are having a great time.”

She asks how your hike went, and you end up telling her what happened – the canceled flight, Hangman, all of it.

Halo snorts. “Oh, poor guy. I’m not sure his outsize ego will recover from this.” She pauses to say something to Jess. “Though I’d feel more sorry for him if he hadn’t literally waited for an adverse weather event to try to tell you how he feels.”

You plop down on the couch with your plate of pasta. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Come on, dude. He’s been in love with you for years.”

“Huh.” You say, eloquently.

* * *

You book a ticket to San Diego. You take four days’ leave, and you’re not even sure Jake is there. If he isn’t, you think, clicking to skip the seat selection, you’ll take it as a sign.

Which is stupid. You don’t believe in that kind of thing. Maybe this entire idea is stupid, you consider, as you board your flight at SeaTac.

When you walk into the Hard Deck on Friday night, it feels a little like the first time: You’re nervous, your hands clammy as you run them down your shorts. Penny waves you over and pours you a tequila soda, which you accept gratefully. People you know start noticing your presence, coming up to catch up at the bar.

You’re talking to Fritz, who’s already a little worse for wear, when Jake comes in. He catches sight of you and stops short. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Fritz turns around and clocks him, shooting you a wide grin. “Ah. Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He comes up next to you at the bar, taking the place Fritz vacates. “Hey. No one told me you were gonna be in town.”

He looks good, if a little tired: sun kissed skin and slightly deeper lines in the corners of his eyes when he gives you a smile that feels perfunctory. He’s wearing his khakis, in pristine condition, though he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Penny has already put a beer in front of him, and he takes a long pull on it before really looking at you.

The look in his eyes feels like the confirmation you needed.

“Last minute decision.” You say, inclining your head in the direction of the back exit. “Would you mind if we talked somewhere quieter?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t question it, and he follows you out to the back porch.

It’s a warm night, late summer – the kind you love.

You set your drink down on the railing, suddenly nervous, and turn around, leaning back against the salt-weathered wood to face Jake. The music filters out from the bar, muted by the windows – a moody Tom Waits song.

“I’m sorry.” You start, “For leaving the way I did in Colorado. I think I was overwhelmed, by you, by what I was feeling- I got scared.”

“By what you were feeling,” He says, like he needs to repeat it to be sure.

You nod, willing yourself to be brave this time. “Yeah. I spent seven years keeping up my defences around you and then I wake up once with your arms around me and I’m like oh, fuck and-” You stop yourself, looking out at the calm ocean waves in the distance, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon. “Fuck, I’m not explaining this very well.”

Jake’s face shows the beginning of a smile. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

He steps in closer to you, and your hands go to his waist. You feel a little lightheaded with him so close, but you’re determined to continue. “And I didn’t know what to make of it. You looking at me like that. I told myself it wasn’t real so I could go back to where I was comfortable – not thinking about you.”

He closes the gap between you, an arm around your shoulder, tucking his face into your hair. “I assure you, Mir, that the way I feel about you is very real.”

His voice in your ear feels like a balm, and you tighten your fingers into his shirt, bringing your body flush with his. It’s still overwhelming – how he’s familiar and new at once, the scent of his warm skin and pressed uniform, the feeling of his lips against your temple. “Yeah, well. Not thinking about you wasn’t going very well.”

He lifts you up to sit on the railing, bringing your face level with his, and steadies you with his hands on your waist. “Mir. Did you come out here for me?”

You place your hands on his shoulders, running your thumbs up the sloped curve to his neck, and smile at the visible reaction this has on him. “Yes, Bagman.”

He kisses you then, and it feels like the solution to a problem you hadn’t even realised had been weighing on you – tangling your fingers into his hair, drawing him in closer between your knees. He keeps repeating your name, like he can’t quite believe you, and you keep answering him with more kisses, needing him to know – what?

That you’ve caught up with him. That you’re here now.

You both slow down when you simultaneously become aware that there’s a small crowd on the other side of the windows, gawking at you. You think you see an open-mouthed Mickey, pool cue still in hand. At the moment, you don’t have it in you to care.

“How long are you staying?” Jake murmurs into your neck, his arms around you.

“Monday.” You breathe, resting your chin on the top of his head. “But I’ll be back soon.”

*******

end notes: omg sorry i didn't write anything for so long - life's just been A LOT. i hope you enjoyed it. check out my masterlist <3 title from the royal navy toasts

[that-ari-blogger]

They Who Carry The Torch (The Missing Months)

When writing this post, it struck me how close together the second and third seasons of The Owl House were. As in, I have described them as the missing years and it is not uncommon for them to be implied as being at least a year or two apart. But King’s Tide aired on May 28, 2022, and Thanks To Them aired on October 15 of that same year. That’s less than five months.

For context, the gap between seasons one and two was just under ten months. It really wasn’t that much time at all.

But a lot can happen in five months, especially in the realms of fanfiction. The Owl House’s ending was purposely unsatisfying. We didn’t know we would get a conclusion.

This is a post about one comic artist who stepped up to the plate to try and bridge that gap. The one, the only, @moringmark.

Let me explain.

I think the first question I need to ask is why I am doing this?

Moringmark’s comics are not expressly cannon to The Owl House. They are, by definition, fanart, and I haven’t covered fanart as a full post in any of my other series. So why make the exception?

My answer here is kind of twofold and kind of not.

Firstly, canon is not really a thing. Like all definitions, the word exists to allow for common ground between people, but this one is especially dubious. What is cannon?

You may say that the text itself is the canon, and that is a perfectly fine distinction. But it doesn’t take into account retcons and plotholes and alternate futures. Luckily, The Owl House doesn’t have many of these, but areas where canon is more important, such as comic books, tend to feature them more heavily.

This isn’t a coincidence. There is a direct line between having multiple possibilities and the need to clarify that one is canon.

My hot take is this: Canon is just what the general audience accepts as having happened. The main material is the thing that everyone agrees on, and everything else is fuzzy with increasing or decreasing clarity depending on the media and the audience.

For one example, Harold Pots and the Child that was Maybe a bit Bad is a stage play that was written by the author of its parent series. It is technically canon. But due to a number of factors including the author making a fool of herself online and alienating a significant chunk of her audience and the story not satisfying a general audience, it is not treated as fitting the canon.

Flipping the script, The Owl House fandom exists in a really large capacity online, most notably in this case, on Tumblr. A significant chunk of the fanbase has at least come into contact with Moringmark’s art, and it is not uncommon for the comics to be believed canon unless proven otherwise, which is not an honour ascribed to many fanartists.

In addition, we didn’t know we were getting a season three, so for several months, these comics were the The Owl House.

My other reason is this: I do not run a review blog. I do not have to weigh the worth of a fan artist alongside its inspiration because that is a) not fair considering the size of the teams working on the two and b) not my job.

Instead, I run an analysis blog. I discuss what a text is about and comment on how I got to that conclusion. This is a series about The Owl House, and Moringmark’s comics were The Owl House for a few months, it is important to me that their contributions to the themes of the series be understood.

So, I have collected a few of Moringmark’s posts that were published between the end of season two and the start of season three, and I have some thoughts.

Starting with this one, published Sep 16, 2022.

Moringmark had two main takes on the show that were remarkably accurate, even if their aesthetics were different (I will get to that in a moment).

The first and the one most obvious in this post is the slice of life story of the Hex Squad moving in with the Nocedas for a while.

Moringmark is an incredibly funny writer, so a lot of the time this was leveraged for humour, and that shines through here, but this is more than that.

The designs are different to the original show. Everyone’s hair has grown out a bit with two exceptions to show that time has passed, although not much. And Vee’s human design is tweaked slightly to allow for a visible difference between her and Luz. They still look like sisters, but she is a lot simpler and looks slightly younger, reflecting their dynamic.

I also appreciate her shirt design. “Me.” She is more self actualized here than in her series incarnation. She is no longer playing a part and is fully her own person.

Notably, the Hex Squad all have similar clothing designs. It’s the same shirt in different colours with an emblem on the front. Notably, Willow’s is slightly smaller on her and Gus’ is slightly bigger on him, while Hunter doesn’t wear one at all. They are all Luz’ clothes because none of the squad had their own. The group hasn’t been able of felt the need to get clothes that fit everyone yet.

Subtle storytelling.

Speaking of which, the only two who’s hair hasn’t grown since the series finale are Gus, who’s style has stayed the same, and Hunter’s, who’s decidedly has not.

Hunter is missing his iconic curl thingo that hangs over his face, and judging by his expression in the first panel, it was removed extremely recently. He too is a different person, symbolically ready to move past his trauma.

But then news of Belos is brought up, and his expression changes, and stays that way. Hunter becomes set and focused and determined. Even when in Camila’s car at the end, his eyes are glued to the mirror. He is constantly on the lookout, constantly ready. I’ve seen this trauma response in real life.

I recently watched Xena Warrior Princess, a show that is goofy as all hell, and probably the most nineties television series that ever graced our screens. I mean that both as a compliment and as an… oh boy.

The series is notable in this context for the following exchange:

“See how calm the surface of the water is? That was me once. And then…” (Throws rock in water) “The water ripples and churns. That’s what I became.”

“But if we sit here long enough, it will go back to being still again. It will go back to being calm.”

“But the stone’s still under there. It’s now part of the lake. It might look as it did before, but it’s forever changed.”

Hunter thinks that he can just cut out that part of his life and move on. That’s why he cuts his hair, but its also why he is so focused on getting to Belos. But the events that shaped him are still there, under the surface.

The reason I selected this comic for analysis was its relation to the series’ theme of family. I.e. bad family will leave a mark that you can’t get away from, you can just try to hide it. But good family will try to help you and comfort you and offer you guidance and protection. To make that point, in comes Camila and her car.

Going back a bit to the subtle storytelling. The kids’ reactions to the news of Belos are the centerpieces of the fourth panel. It’s slightly smaller than its predecessor, which has a tiny zooming effect, but everyone has a distinct emotion. Luz and Amity look to each other, Vee gives a worried expression, and Gus and Willow immediately clock Hunter’s tone shift.

But Camila also responds. Not much, just a glance and an eyebrow raise, but enough to show she noticed.

Thematically, the fact that Camila’s offer to help the crew take on Belos happens off screen infers that it wasn’t up for debate. She was fully ready to throw hands with this man from the minute she saw his impact on the children she had taken under her wing.

Which leaves an opportunity for humour. The Owl House is a satirical comedy, and Moringmark gets that. He undercuts the cool moment of the crew walking down the road, but then makes it clear that the catharsis of this isn’t going away.

That’s really it. Catharsis. Moringmark writes comedy and drama in remarkably similar ways, and while the above post is a clear example of it, I need to bring up this comic, which delves into that parental theme for a different kind of emotion.

Notice what I said earlier about Vee and her self-actualization. It doesn’t get as much of a spotlight as Hunter, but this is also someone deeply scarred by Belos, and yet she seems a lot more healthy than him. Maybe because she has had time and exposure to a better parent figure than Belos. Maybe because she has had time to sit by the lake and watch the ripples die down.

Look how Moringmark achieves pacing here. You know the tense situation; you don't need words to hear the bounce and ring of that amulet. Even the cut to the two's faces amplifies this mood. Its shape heightens the perspective while the blank background cuts away from everything else, so you don't get distracted.

Next up, we have the story back on the Boiling Isles. Moringmark went for a Mad-Max style road trip story type of thing, and there is so much here to choose from.

I was tempted to go with this comic because it has the bus in it, and I love the bus. But I think the most emblematic of this part of the story was this:

Published on July 19, 2022, this comic is notable for a few things.

The little details in this comic stand out to me on a storytelling level. How the trappers are the Collector’s henchmen, and how the renegades are using necklaces similar to King’s to avoid notice from the Collector. That’s a really cool idea.

But I had to include this comic for its portrayal of the Collector and of Boscha.

You would think that this isn’t too different from how the Collector is usually characterized. They are doing the exact same thing as they did in King’s Tide.

Obviously, this is different by dint of how Skara’s reaction to hitting a solid surface at the speed of sound will probably be different to Belos’. But it’s also important to note that this version of the Collector works by the rules of the game.

This is a cosmic entity that has rules, and therefore is something that can be worked around. They have a soft spot for those who try to follow the rules, balanced out by an utter disregard for mortal life. This version of the Collector is terrifying specifically because we have seen him try this before and succeed. We know how this ends, the Collector’s character is a twist.

Speaking of which, we also know how Boscha will act. She is mean, as has been established by the comic in its first few panels. We learn that she doesn’t seem to care that Skara is injured. This is not someone we expect a character arc out of.

But then we get a moment of clarity. We get Boscha risking her life Skara. We get a moment of redemption for Boscha.

And I’m going to level with you. I like this far more than For the Future. Consider this foreshadowing, as I have a fanfic in the works that is based in this version of the story. That is, what might have happened had this or something similar to this been the canon.

I will remind you that this was the canon when it was written, as much as anything else. We didn’t have another option. This was The Owl House.

A lesser concept in the original series was that of redemption and relationships. Amity is redeemed through the compassion that Luz shows for her. Not even love at this point, but friendship that blossoms into romantic attraction.

Similarly, Alador is redeemed through his love for his daughter. Lilith is redeemed through her love for her sister. Mattholomule and Hunter are redeemed through their friendships with Gus and Luz respectively. Etc.

This comic just continues those themes into showing Boscha redeem herself through her friendship with Skara.

It is worth pointing out that this isn’t a full heel turn. Boscha isn’t ready to admit anything or stop being mean, but it is a start. He heart is in the right place, even if her brain is not.

This is why Moringmark is canon, at least to me. These versions are fun as AUs, but when they were released, they were as good of a continuation as we were going to get. They understood the themes and the message of the story, as well as its tone, and in a way, they carried the torch.

And they are still going. As of writing this, Moringmark has delved into future and past timelines. They have written three full series about Luz and co.’s children, Boscha and Skara’s romance during the events of the series, and an AU evil Luz.

This is what The Owl House is right now, and it’s what series like this are. I brought up Xena Warrior Princess earlier, and that story still has fanfiction and fanart made of it, a quarter of a century after it finished. Stories exist in the collective consciousness, and while we can trace the lineage of The Owlhouse through the shows that inspired it and that it will go on to inspire, Moringmark is emblematic of the fan community as a whole who keep the flame burning.

The Owl House series has finished, but its story lives on. Not just through Moringmark, but through every other fan who so much as makes a shitpost. We keep the lights on, we decide when to call it quits, we carry the torch.

Light, do not faulter.

Final Thoughts

There are so many other Moringmark comics that I could have spoken about. From the dramatic and emotional with Skara comforting Matt Tholomule to my darling, the bus. But I left it where I did for a few reasons.

It is not my intention to be sycophantic about Moringmark. I don’t want to be invasive, and if this comes across as such, I apologise and will remedy that. But also, this isn’t about Moringmark.

This is about the fan community. Moringmark has made themself the head of that community through sheer time and hard work, and has made themself as big enough part of it that I can feel comfortable writing this and it not feeling out of place alongside the original series.

But there is a lot more of this fandom than Moringmark, I can’t discuss every fanfic at length. Just know that they are out there, and you can find them. My ask box is open for recommendation requests, but you should also just go and look for them yourself. Follow artists, support them if you are able. This is a community, we should act like it.

Next week, I am diving into the final season with Thanks To Them, so stick around if that interests you.

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