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superprincesspea · 2 months ago

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Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 19 - Criminals

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

Only when Vhagar settles on the beach, do you notice the crumbling ruins of an old castle, its shattered walls peeking through the trees like a mischievous child.

People had lived here once, you think, and for a moment, you almost envy them, spending their lives in a place where the forest meets the sand. How strange and beautiful, you’d never seen anything quite like it. But even the beauty of such a place, could not distract from its location.

How much time had passed since you’d left the party? Surely close to an hour by now, yet here you were, on a beach instead of your chambers.

“This is not the Red Keep,” you say, anxiety quietly twisting in the pit of your stomach.

But Aemond laughs, not nearly as concerned as you are on matters such as time or propriety.

“You have a keen eye, Lady Baratheon,” he says, and his tone is flippant, teasing.

"Need I remind his grace that he was supposed to be returning me home?”

“All the way to Storms End? Now that would be quite a ride.”

You turn to face him, “you're not funny.”

But he was funny, at least in his opinion, and his cheek twitches with amusement, while his eye widens with feigned innocence, “I'm simply trying to clarify what my lady means by home .”

“Is that so?” you begin, a little tartly, well, very tartly, “because I’d say you were being a fastidious arse who knows fine well what I mean by home.”

Any ordinary man might have been aggrieved by such an accusation, but not Aemond. His grin is entirely guilty and fiendishly unapologetic.

“Fastidious arse ?” he repeats, “that is what you call your prince when you want him to return you home?”

Your eyes widen, but there’s not enough alarm in the world to douse the fire suddenly burning in your belly, “I will not beg you if that’s what you imagine.”

“On the contrary, I'm quite content to know that my lady will have me grovelling at her feet for the duration of our marriage.”

So cocky. Even if you actually wanted to marry him, you wouldn’t do it.

“Oh?” you say, “and who is this lady that has agreed to be your wife?”

He purses his lips, and there’s a wicked spark behind his eye, before his hand settles on his thigh, reminding you just how dangerously close you’re sitting to him. “I’m working on it,” he nods to the ropes on Vhagar’s neck, “now climb down so I may continue.”

“And if I refuse?”

Aemond’s head tilts, his hands suddenly grasping your hips with far too much enthusiasm, “then I might start believing that my lady would rather stay seated on my lap?”

“I’m not your lady,” you insist, sliding your fingers around his wrists to pull him away. But he seems to have just as much enthusiasm for the way you're fighting him than he did for touching you.

He struggles against your grip with a soft breathy chuckle, his efforts not enough to free himself, but enough to make you hold him tighter. Firm and steady, the illusion that you could ever truly hold power over him.

“Vhagar needs to rest,” he says, as though it explains your stop at the beach, but it only forces you to glare at him.

“You’re lying.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it, he only grins wider, testing the strength of your grip again.

“I’m not going to ask you to take a dip in the water, if that’s what you imagine... unless you want to, of course,” he teases, and why you let him crawl under your skin with such ease, you cannot say. But it seems that's all it takes, to get you to do exactly what he wants.

Blowing out a breath of frustration, your leg swings over the pommel, and if you weren’t so irritated by him, you might have been more afraid. As it happens, you’re beginning to think you rather prefer Vhagar over her master. At least she doesn't speak, or look so dammed smug.

This is what you think, as you climb all the way down her long neck with the kind of frenzied confidence only anger can provide, and before you know it, your feet have hit the ground and you don’t wait around. You storm down the beach, away from the tooth and fire end of the dragon, and more importantly, away from Aemond.

"Will my lady be walking all the way back to Kings Landing?” he calls after you, and you do not slow.

Maybe you will walk back. Maybe you’ll walk right into Alicent’s chambers and say that her precious son stole you away on dragonback- though she’d probably like that. She may have even been the one to suggest it! And the very thought makes you want to scream, so you do, feeling powerless as you kick up a big clump of sand.

“If that is your wish, then you are heading in quite the wrong direction,” he calls again, the sound of his voice so much closer than before, and you stop, anger quickly turning into rage.

“Just when I think that perhaps you might be somewhat tolerable, and that maybe we can actually be friends,” you snap, hair tangling wildly with the wind, as you turn to face him, “you prove yourself to be the most insufferable man that has ever lived!”

“Are we not to be friends on a beach?” he says, as though your reaction was a surprise to him, though you can see he’s enjoying it either way, and why wouldn’t he? You’re completely at his mercy.

“Were we friends, you would not trap me here!” you shout over the crash of a wave before crouching down to scoop up a ball of sand, which you promptly throw at him.

He dodges it, arms spreading wide, “I see no shackles, no prison walls.”

“Do not press me,” you throw another ball, which he dodges yet again, “or take me for more of a fool than I have already been!” And you were a fool, yet again you were the most foolish girl on the beach.

It was hard to remember what exactly you had been thinking in agreeing to leave the party with him. Certainly nothing rational. But Aemond didn’t want you rational, he wanted you here, miles from home, with the sea lapping at the shore and the stars your only witness.

He could keep you here all night, and even if he didn’t lay a single finger on your skin, you would be his, no questions asked.

“I do not think you a fool,” his voice is soft, coaxing, “I think you’re...”

“ What ?”

His lips curl, “the most terrible aim imaginable.”

You throw a third ball of sand, and as if to prove his point, it misses, and he proceeds to laugh. So, you throw a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth in quick succession.

“If you actually manage to hit me with the next one, then you have my word that I will take you home this instant,” he baits, knowing you’re just as competitive as he, and you suppose that’s part of the fun, if you could call it fun. You'd rather call it attempted murder with the only weapon you had at hand.

Crouching down to scoop up a fresh ball, you don’t waste it on a shot that might miss, you charge towards him, and Aemond runs away, clambering up a grouping of large rocks which form a sort of staircase towards the old ruins.

“Craven!” you shout, pursuing him as quickly as you can go, but finding your dress, and Aemond’s cloak, enough to hamper your every step.

You’re panting by the time you make it over the rocks and onto level ground. But you’re not giving up. You’d rather eat this ball of sand than let him win.

So you edge closer to the thick of trees surrounding the old keep, hoping his hair might give him away in the dark, but he’s vanished, or to put it another way, he’s hiding.

Returning to the beach and waiting him out would surely be a more sensible strategy. Yet, your patience has already worn too thin for strategy, and you can feel him watching. No doubt wearing that oh so familiar smirk he seems to acquire whenever you feel your blood begin to boil.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” you say, the words more demanding than playful, and the sound only met by the screech of an owl, and the rustle of leaves.

Still, despite the rush of nerves which shiver along your spine, you keep moving. Creeping towards a watch tower covered in ivy, while the ground below your feet, changes from grass to checkerboard tiles in the places where nature has not quite reclaimed the earth.

If it wasn’t so dark, you might have found it more enchanting. But with the tree cover filtering the moonlight, and another screech of the owl, your heart begins to thud.

This was yet more madness. There could be wolves or boars or bears lurking in this place, and you have to dare yourself to keep going, deciding to never speak with Aemond again if he jumps out and startles you.

But it's a whistle which catches your attention, and you spin around, looking up to see him standing on the second floor of the tower.

“How did you get up there?” you demand, moving to where the stairs have caved in, leaving only two steps to bring you closer to him, and both of them slippery with moss.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he taunts, walking to the edge of the floor before crouching down.

“Do your worst,” he dares, and if he stays still, you’re feeling quietly confident with your chances as you take the time to roll the sand between your hands, fashioning it into a perfect sphere.

Then you arch your arm back, and launch the ball as hard as you can, before watching the way it soars through the air, fast and sure, but too heavy, too flimsy. Aemond doesn’t even bother to flinch as it collides with the floor, eliciting yet more laughter.

“This is why I hate you, you know!” you say, wiping your sand coated hands onto the soft folds of his cloak, and finding at least some pleasure in that.

Still laughing at you, Aemond scrambles down from the tower with relative ease, before stalking closer, slowly , as though it's you who’s the most dangerous creature in these woods.

“You don’t hate me,” he decides, “you just hate losing.”

“I can hate two things at once, and I only lost because you ,” you point your finger at him, “had the advantage.”

“What advantage?”

“Well, for starters, you’re wearing boots, not these,” you hitch up your skirt and kick out your foot to show your shoes, dainty and made for dancing, “nor do you have to wear a gown. I should very much like to see how you’d fare if you had to scale a tower without any trousers on-”

Just as the words leave your lips, you hear them, “I mean , you know what I mean.”

With his laughter simmered to a soft chuckle, he lets your blunder stew in the air before inching closer.

“Then perhaps I should remind my Lady Baratheon that she has two eyes, and the aim of a blind woman.”

You scoff, taking full offence even if he is right, “and I suppose you're an authority on throwing balls of sand?”

“I’d say that hardly matters anymore, and now you’re obliged to stay until I say we leave.”

It was strange, but you’d somehow forgotten the reason you'd been chasing him in the first place, and anxiety quickly returns to the pit of your stomach. “And if someone notices I’m gone?”

“It’s still early. They'll be drinking and dancing for quite some time I should imagine.”

Deep down, you knew he was right, but there was always a chance, even if it was a small one, that one of your family would retire before the party was finished, then what? “That’s easy for you to say, you’re a prince, you can do as you please.”

“Don’t worry,” Aemond promises, his voice serious even if his eye betrays him, “if my lady's virtue was to come into question, then you can be assured I would do the honourable thing and marry her.”

“The honourable thing?” you repeat with a sharp laugh, “a punishment far worse than the accusation, I’m sure!”

He moves closer, the toe of his boot grazing against the hem of your gown, “but not the crime?”

You try to laugh, but really, it wasn’t hard to imagine such crimes as letting him kiss you, or the way you might fall together on the soft mossy ground. In fact, it was all too easy.

“We are not speaking of this,” you whisper, though you hadn’t meant for your voice to lose all strength, or your body to lose all resistance, when his hands bunch into your cloak. No, his cloak. His smell.

“Only thinking it,” he suggests, fingers curling tighter, reeling you in, “I must admit, I seem to think of little else.”

You can’t look him in the eye, if you do, you might say something crazy like ‘so do I.’ Instead, you say, “then his grace needs better hobbies to occupy his time.”

Aemond snorts, “perhaps you could teach me to embroider, that would certainly take up some time.”

Trying to act more annoyed than you feel, you attempt to wrench the cloak from his grip, “perhaps lessons in manners would be better suited?”

“Oh, I’d say it's far too late for that, wouldn’t you?”

And he does let go of the cloak, but only so his hands can slide to cup your cheeks, and force you to look at him.

“It’s never too late...” your words trail off, evaporating into the crisp night air. In fact, the whole forest seems to have fallen silent, perhaps the whole world, and you know you can pull away from him. But your heart is pounding, and there is something dangerous, something wanton, curling in your veins.

Perhaps Aemond feels it too, perhaps he notices the way your breathing has slowed, just as you notice the way he’s looking at you, so tenderly-

“Do you think Vhagar supposes where we have gotten to?” you blurt, and his eye brightens in surprise, as you tear yourself from his hands, before quickly turning towards the beach.

Though your swift exit is certainly hampered by the rocks, which seem even more difficult to descend than they had been to climb. You almost fall down them, before Aemond overtakes you, his hands catching your waist to stop your escape.

Or perhaps he’s just trying to stop you from breaking your neck. Either way, you can’t help but be reminded of the last time you’d been running away from him at the beach.

The sound of the waves had been just the same, and your heart had been beating just as quickly, but your reasoning had been different. He'd been a stranger then, now he was the opposite, too familiar.

“Perhaps it would be best to return to the party,” you say, as though returning to the party was not the least of what you wanted to do.

“Why?” he almost laughs, “ so you can dance with Lucerys Velaryon?”

You’d forgotten all about Luke and his half-hearted offer of a dance, but Aemond hadn’t, couldn’t , and even though his tone was light, there was quiet fury in his eye. Fury which could be abated so easily, except you didn’t want that, you wanted to turn the tide of conversation. Needing to shift it from a place where you might easily fall into his arms.

“Why do you hate him so?” you say, even if you’re almost certain you know the answer.

“You know why.”

“I know rumours.” You’d heard a dozen since arriving in Kings Landing, but you’d often wondered at the truth, Aemond’s truth, even if it didn’t feel like your place to know.

“Of the night I came to lose my eye?” he says, and hearing it said like that, you realise this was a stupid, awful , thing to bring up.

“I shouldn’t have asked you that, I’m so sorry.”

“Why ?” his head tilts, “you think me ashamed of the way I look?”

“I...” you stutter, “didn't say that. I don’t-”

He scoffs, “everyone pretends they cannot see my eye, when for most people, it’s the only thing they ever look at.”

"It’s not the only thing I see,” you say, and you’re not sure why it's so important for him to know this. You were supposed to be hating him after all, but you can’t stand to think he’d ever imagine you don’t see him. All of him.

He doesn’t say anything, and his attention turns towards the sea, his hands no longer interested in your company, and you can sense the old wound, still fresh and sore, as though it had happened only yesterday.

Now it was you who felt like the most repugnant person in the world, and you hate yourself for the way his shoulders have stiffened, the breeze feeling so much cooler than before. Because no matter how you might have felt about Aemond Targaryen, you were sure you never wanted to hurt him.

"Aemond ,” you reach for him, your hand finding purchase on his arm, and his muscles tense beneath the leather. Perhaps you shouldn’t notice such a thing at a time like this, but you can feel his strength, feel how he could break you apart if he really wanted to.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you say softly, wanting to bring him back from whatever dark place you’d sent him. But it's too late.

He stares at the way your hand is touching him, before his eye slowly scrapes to meet with yours.

“I was ten when I saw Vhagar on the beach,” he begins, his voice small, raw, and hearing him like this, somehow feels more intimate than any of the times he’d held you in his arms.

“You were so young,” you say, picturing the white-haired boy, who’d dared to face the largest dragon in the world.

“Not for a Targaryen,” he swallows, his words garnering more control, “you can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up in this family without a dragon, even the bastards had them. So, when I saw her, all alone, it was like she was waiting for me, while the rest of the world looked the other way.”

You glance at her, sleeping peacefully on the brow of a hill, but still so fierce, so terrifying.

“At the risk of giving you another compliment,” you say, trying to lighten the mood you have created. “I cannot believe you had the courage to tame her.”

“You never tame a dragon.”

You frown, uncertain, “but she is yours, is she not?”

“It's a bond, one that will last a lifetime. And I don’t know if it was courage, so much as desire...” he steps up, so he’s standing on the same rock as you. Then his eye crinkles with the beginnings of a smile, or perhaps it's just pride for the boy he was that night. “The first few minutes of the flight almost killed me. But I clung to her so tightly, and then we were flying as one, and I knew she was mine.”

You both turn to her now, and she snorts as though she’s listening. Perhaps she is. Perhaps her eyes are closed but her ears are open.

“When we landed,” he continues, and together you settle down on the edge of a rock, knee pressed against knee, “I was so excited and... perhaps a little too proud, I could hardly wait to tell everyone of my triumph. But my nephews were already waiting for me, with Rhaena and Baela, and they already knew what I had done.”

“What you had done ? You make it sound as though bonding with her was a bad thing?”

He tilts his head, looking at you strangely, quizzically , “Rhaena wanted Vhagar for herself.”

“But ... she chose you .”

“And so we fought.”

“You fought all four of them?”

When his eye narrows into a pointed look, you cannot help but laugh, “of course you did.” This was Aemond, a child who’d mounted the largest dragon in the world, he wasn’t about to run from anything or anyone.

“Hand to hand at first, and naturally ,” he shrugs, “none of them were any match for the hours I’d spent in the training yard. But even so, I was only one boy against four, and they just kept coming.”

“After a while, I picked up a rock, I just wanted to frighten them,” he holds out his hand, his fingers curling at the ends, as though he can remember the very shape and weight of it, “but Jace drew his sword, just a little thing, a needle really.”

He looks at you, and your stomach tightens, afraid of what he’s going to say next.

“He tried to swing at me, but I was taller and faster, so I knocked him down, and the sword fell away. I thought if I just kept hold of the rock, then surely they would run. It was already over, you see? Vhagar was already mine. And I’d bested them, they knew that.”

Suddenly his hand tightens into a fist, and you imagine the rock crumbling into dust, before he wipes his palm along his thigh as though he cannot even stand to touch the memory of it.

Then he laughs sadly, “but my nephews and I have never held any love for each other. So, when Jace saw an opportunity to throw dirt in my eyes, Luke picked up the sword, and -"

His hand reaches towards your face so quickly you startle. But his touch is not pain or blood, it's a slow caress across your eye, sealing it shut. Yet only for a moment, instead of forever.

“An eye for a dragon is a fair exchange,” he shrugs, but the words feel too well practiced; the hurt pushed away as though its nothing more than a speck of dust.

Yet it was so much more, and you have to swallow the swell of tears which has caught at the back of your throat, as you think of that little boy, so proud, so excited, then broken .

“No ,” you say, your voice strained, “what they did to you wasn’t right, and it certainly wasn’t fair.”

The way he looks at you, almost surprised, makes your heart ache all over again. And if he was one of your sisters, you would wrap him in your arms, and hold him so tightly he'd have to fight to break free. But doing so, would cross a line you were trying desperately to avoid.

“You know, the strange thing is, I don’t even hate them for taking my eye. We were children, and the fight was far out of hand, but they never apologised. Even now, they laugh about it, like it was a joke, like it meant nothing .”

You hadn’t wanted to cry, but your eyes are too full, and a tear dares to break free, rolling lazily down your cheek, before its silvery trail is interrupted by the brush of Aemond’s thumb.

“Lady Baratheon... don’t tell me you’re crying for the most repugnant man in the world?”

Sniffling, you force a laugh before wiping the back of your hand across your eyes. “ I'm not .”

“You know, now that I think of it,” his voice is lighter, his eye more playful, “it seems I have a habit of finding all the best things waiting for me on beaches.”

You roll your eyes, before finding a length of cloak not sullied by the sand to pat your cheeks dry, "I’m not a dragon.”

“Not yet .”

The way he says that last word, so certain, you almost believe him, and force another laugh to hide any other emotion which might slip onto your face. Because sitting and talking with him like this was far too easy and far too comfortable.

“Speaking of which,” he continues, “since my many charms have yet to convince you to stay in Kings Landing, does that mean I am to invite myself to suffer a winter in the Stormlands? Or will you be so kind as to bestow me an invitation yourself?”

“Suffer?” you repeat with mock surprise, “I happen to like the stormy weather; I think it very beautiful.” And cosy, there was nothing better than a warm bed and a raging storm to pound against the walls.

He brushes your hair from your shoulder, his eye tracing your face, “I’m growing rather a taste for storms myself.”

“You should think me tame if you ever flew through a storm over Winter Solstice.”

“That I refuse to believe,” he says, close enough that even a whisper is easily heard over the waves, and leaving you to wonder why every moment, seemed to shift into a moment which felt like he might just lean in and kiss you.

“Well ,” you stand, pulling yourself from his gentle touches, “thanks to your mother, and this gown,” you gesture along the green silk beneath your cloak, “we are not leaving tomorrow after all.”

Aemond’s eye widens, the blue so much brighter than before, “you’re staying?”

“Only so we can entertain Tyland Lannister.”

His jaw ticks, “Tyland Lannister?”

“It's just tea ,” you add, thinking Tyland might not have been your favourite person, but he wasn’t bad, and you hardly wanted him to suffer over tea and cake.

But Aemond doesn’t seem so convinced, and his laughter is almost a growl as he stands, and begins to climb back down the rocks, before turning to offer you his hand, “then we should leave at once, I wouldn’t want my lady to miss an afternoon in the company of another man.”

“I’m not your lady,” you remind him, climbing down haphazardly without his assistance, “and if you must know, it was my mother who invited him.”

“Your mother?” he ponders this information as you walk back towards Vhagar side by side, “then we shall have to remedy that .”

Alarmed, you stare at him, trying to read his expression, but his face shows no tells. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” you say.

His lips quirk and he has no intention of telling you. Instead, he mounts Vhagar with the same swiftness he’d used in the dragon pit, leaving you to wonder.

Then again, you don’t wonder for too long, because all too quickly, you begin to remember that you weren’t supposed to be on a beach with Aemond in the first place.

Then you’re only wondering one thing; if it's late enough for you to be caught.

~~~

Thank you for reading!

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #romance #female reader #enemies to lovers #aemond targaryen x oc #prince aemond #slow burn

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fazedlight · 10 months ago

Text

Dread (rewriting of Lena’s phantom ordeal in Fear Knot)

Coolant leak error?, Lena thought, reading the screen. “Let me see if the hardware needs repairing,” she said, unfastening her seatbelt and passing Nia to hop onto the elevator.

Her first hint that something was wrong was on the floor of the machine room. As she stepped over a puddle, her mind caught on something. The floor was wet - not with neon green coolant, but water, in a part of the ship where no water piping ran.

She stepped towards one of the wheels on the wall, checking that the flow was open, that the gauge showed appropriate pressure. There’s no leak, Lena thought, confused. Then what’s causing the-

“Why did you let me drown, Lena?”

Lena spun around, eyes darting to the familiar voice, lost over decades. A pale dead figure, covered in water and kelp, stared back at her - with cold, soulless eyes that sunk back into her skull. “Mother?” Lena said, trembling.

“Why did you let me drown, Lena?”

“I-” Lena was struggling to breathe, as her mother stepped closer, a heavy sloshing of her dress running across the ground. “I- I don’t know why-”

“Why did you let me drown, Lena?”

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, a small part of her mind screaming this isn’t real, but dread flooded the thought out. “I didn’t want- I just couldn’t move-”

But to Lena’s horror, her mother shifted - a translucent creature emerging from a dead woman's body, made of water and shimmers of light. A creature, Lena thought, her eyes wide. An alien creature of some sort.

She ran.

She darted around the being as its rumbling snarl reverberated through the walls. Lena yanked the door open, bolting down the hall, trying to shake off the unexpected grief of seeing her mother again. A kelpie? A shapeshifter of some sort, her mind thought, racing towards the mainroom. “I need help,” Lena yelled into the comms, yanking a second door open, “I need-”

No, Lena’s mind screamed, coming across the surreal scene before her. Please, no…

Brainy. Alex. J’onn. Kelly. All lay dead before her.

Lena halted as horror flooded through her, turning to Nia’s body, which glimmered in silver. “Nia?” Lena whispered, watching as a million sparks seemed to dance along her skin, from her spot slumped over on the control panel. Lena’s eyes widened. Those aren’t-

A cloud of silver withdrew from Nia’s body, flowing to the center of the control room, buzzing and humming in a familiar pattern, as a voice emerged. “Why did you kill me, Lena?”

“Jack?” Lena gasped.

The bots began to take shape in front of her, a man’s familiar face forming, cast in metal rather than human flesh. “Why did you kill me?”

“Jack, I- I didn’t-” Lena said, overwhelming nausea climbing up her throat. “I didn’t want- there was no other choice-”

“Why did you kill me, Lena?”

The kelpie, Lena’s mind screamed. The shapeshifter. It’s not him. He’s not real-

“Come with me, Lena,” Jack said, as his body began to decompose again, the swarm beginning to float in her direction.

No! Lena’s mind screamed, as she turned again on her heel, fleeing towards the backrooms of the ship. Everyone’s dead, everyone’s dead-

Is this how it ends?, she thought as she ran, knowing she could never outrun the nanobots, or the kelpie, or whatever the fuck this creature was. We all die. Kara is lost forever. This can’t be happening-

She found herself ducking into the medbay, scouring the room for anything she could use as a weapon, anything she could use to kill the creature. Kelpies are a myth, she thought to herself, but that brought her little comfort. Shapeshifters were quite real, and this one was going through each member of the ship.

Lena closed her eyes, trying - and failing - to get composure. It’s my fault, she thought, her mind flashing memories of her mother in the lake, of Jack’s begging voice. Did they blame me? Were they angry? Were their last thoughts-

“Why did you let me get sent to the Phantom Zone, Lena?”

Chills ran down Lena’s spine, as the familiar blonde’s voice washed over her. Kara, she thought, feeling her heart hammering through her chest. I can’t save you, I can’t save you… “I’m so sorry,” Lena sobbed.

“You want me in the Phantom Zone.”

“I don’t!” Lena shouted, turning to the blonde before her. Pallid and soulless eyes stared back at her - somehow indifferent, yet menacing. Lena shook, holding back tears. But I’ll never be able to rescue you, not with everyone…

“You hate me,” said the super as she approached, black veins growing on her face. “You despise me.”

“I love you, Kara,” Lena whispered. The creature was going to kill her. She would never be able to say the words to the real Kara. But there was nothing left.

Kara stepped closer to her, again, and again. Lena held back her sobs as Kara’s eyes turned red. This is how it ends, she thought. I’m never going to see you again. Her worst nightmare had become her reality.

Nightmare…

Lena’s brow furrowed as Kara stepped closer. I didn’t kill my mother, she thought to herself, looking up at the kryptonian again. There wasn’t a way for me to save Jack, she thought to herself.

Kara finally reached Lena, standing toe to toe as her eyes continued to burn. You’re a phantom, Lena realized. Praying on my fears… What had J’onn said? One’s deepest dread.

Like fearing that your loved ones were lost.

And that it was your fault.

Kelly said to focus on what’s real, Lena thought to herself. Things I can see, touch, hear… Lena’s mind scraped at the motor oil scent around her, wandering to the Tower itself, to the cool air and martian steel that surrounded her as Kara sneered back.

But Lena shrugged it off as she continued to stare at the angry super, looking into the still-burning eyes. Lena knew what was most real.

“I love you,” Lena said, raising her hand to doppelganger, caressing along her jawline. “I love you, and I’m going to get you back.”

Kara’s eyes dimmed, and the world flashed white.

-----------

Lena gasped as her eyes opened, finding herself back in the control room. Shifting in her seat, her eyes darted around the room, feeling a flood of relief as she saw the others do the same. “This is real,” J’onn shouted to the room. “You are free of the phantom's powers!” Lena wanted to cry in relief.

“Well that sucked,” Nia said, a shaky smile thrown in Lena’s direction. “What did you see?”

Lena turned back to her controls. It’s time to bring Kara home. “A kelpie,” she said quietly, her mind drifting to the final preparation needed for the sun bomb. “I’m afraid of drowning.”

#supercorp #mel writes ficlets

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anatay004 · 2 years ago

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ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴡᴀʀ | ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

Summary: You are in a content marriage with Aemond, but after King Viserys dies, he unexpectedly takes his anger out on you.

ɪᴛ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ

ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴢᴇ

ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ

HE WAS looking back at the fireplace. The flames ricocheted off the wood and draped over his features so luminously. His back was facing you, his spine was straight like steel and his muscles visibly tensed as you closed the door behind you.

You sucked in a breath.

His father was dead.

And your mother was the heir to the iron throne.

"I've heard the news, I'm terribly sorry about your father." Your voice was a whisper, but the words were vehement and he shifted a little in his seat. You fumbled with your hands when he didn't deigned to answer, but you took a deliberate step closer nonetheless.

"If you wish to – "

" – Are you aware of what must happen now?" He interrupted, his voice cold and distant as he climbed back to his feet.

Fire and blood, you thought.

A war with my mother.

Under the fire, you could see he was angry. His blue irise darkened as he anchored his gaze on you maliciously – as if you were the enemy. You knitted your eyebrows together as the question pestered your head momentarily, he was trying to intimidate you; that you knew.

He had never spoken so harshly to you before. Not when you were betrothed; not when he made love to you. Ever since you were kids, he always acted tenderly around you, despite being the youngest daughter of Rhaenyra.

But that night – something shattered.

"My mother will ascend the throne." You challenged.

He clenched his jaw.

"Your mother – " He trailed off, the words wrapped around his tongue with utter venom and you almost flinched back in surprise. He was quick to close the gap between you, dragging a hand up to lift your chin and look at you squarely in the face. " – is no more than a fucking whore, my love."

You fell back a step.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because war is on the brink of breaking and I need to know if my fucking wife will stand beside me or against me."

You swallowed the knot in your throat. He looked back at your searchingly as if he was trying to decipher every emotion that flitted across your face in that second. Unsatisfied, he took another step closer until his chest was pressing against yours and your back was touching the wall.

"Answer me."

"You are despicable."

His breath pressed against your skin warmly. "Must I repeat myself?"

You held back your breath. "You think I could ever see my mother as the enemy?"

There was a tick on his jaw and a shadow marred his face for a split second as he tried to coherent an answer. "You are my wife – mine. You don't have a fucking choice."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "But I do."

Aemond held your waist sharply, fingers tight against the fabric of your dress. "You're a fool if you think I'll ever allow that."

You tried to free yourself from his grip. "Stop it."

"You're a fool if you think I'll ever let you go."

You held back your breath, eyes glossed with unshed tears as you looked at him heatedly. "A war doesn't have to occur and you know it."

"Mhm," He hummed, stifling a grin that fought to itch his lips. "Then you are a fucking fool."

"Let me go," You spat, a furious tone wrapped around your words and he almost did.

Almost.

His arm wrapped around your waist stubbornly as he leaned the other on the wall over your head. He maneuvered his face closer to yours until his lips were brushing a feather-like touch against your cheek. "I would rather die."

A sickening feeling retaliated in the pit of your stomach. "I thought you loved me."

He faltered on his spot.

And, as if your words had suddenly torched him, he fell back a step. He didn't answer, instead, a strained silence ensued in the room and you eventually exhaled. "Fuck, I thought you really did."

No response.

Tears collected at the bottom of your eyelids, but you refused to blink and satisfied his bitterness. Instead, you made to walk out of the room, but he was fast to latch his hand onto your wrist and pull you back to him; forbidding you from walking away.

You looked at him then.

"I can't let you go."

"Stop – "

" – I won't survive without you." He suddenly confessed, his words unrelenting and soft, unlike him. Instinctively, his rough palm slid to interlace his fingers with yours; a silent plead.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"I wish I was lying, I really fucking do."

Then you watched as sincerity dawned in his eye and you believed him – for a moment. You instinctively leaned your forehead against his and he immediately did the same. You relished the sudden moment of peace that blessed the walls within the room as you both fell pensive.

He was troubled, you knew.

"We'll figure this out." You whispered, raking a hand through his hair in affection. He pressed his lips against the side of your head quietly.

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."

Aemond leaned back. “Swear it.”

You swallowed thickly, the words froze on the tip of your tongue for a second. You felt disoriented, like you were standing on the brink of a precipice and he was asking you to jump into the open air. He was your husband, but Rhaenyra was your mother – yours.

“Aemond – ” You began, but the doors parted and Queen Alicent announced her presence as she stepped inside the room.

Aemond still only looked at you.

“Aegon is missing.” Alicent announced.

It was then when your husband finally tore his gaze away from you. He mumbled something to his mother lowly before eventually turning to face you again, but with a heated look – as if you had suddenly betrayed him. You didn’t have time to explain, within seconds, he stepped out the room to search for his brother and you were left alone in your thoughts.

#house of the dragon #fanfic #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #jacaerys x reader #daemon targeryan

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abiiors · 3 months ago

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𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 — 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒

✧ — 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

✮ a/n: this might turn out to be slightly anachronistic, but can we ignore that guys? just focus on matty okay?

✮ cw: not much really, just...fire...

✮ wc: 2.7k

unknown: i know you never want to hear from me again unknown: but happy anniversary juliette unknown: i know what i did was absolutely horrible babe but talk to me once please. just once. it would have been four years together today. unknown: don’t throw us away like this. unknown: - max <3

jules fumes as princess peach lands a solid kick onto donkey kong’s chest. the ape goes flying and off the platform. matty winces on the phone, right into her ear.

“ouch…”

“yeah, well, it’s a fighting game,” she snaps, “again.”

on screen the match starts again. the characters start at their designated spot, moving a little in place and waiting for either jules or matty to make the first move.

she goes on the offensive, blindly kicking and punching without giving much thought to it.

matty curses on the other end of the line. he moves a little slower than the last time, more focused on dodging her blows than landing any of his own.

“are you going easy on me?” she accuses, her tone almost threatening. there’s a little bit of noise on his end. donkey kong stops moving completely.

“what’s up, jules?”

“is that why you stopped the game? to ask me what’s up?”

matty sighs. she has a distinct feeling he’s just rubbed a hand over his face. the thought somehow makes her angrier.

“you sound annoyed…”

“yeah,” she snaps, “annoyed that you won’t play.”

“jules…” his voice is a low warning, and she swears under her breath.

she’s being really unfair to him. she isn’t annoyed at him, she’s annoyed at all the messages currently sitting unanswered on her phone. not that that’s going to change at all. max can go die in a ditch and rot for all she cares. the audacity he has to imply that she’s the one throwing them away!

“can i come over?” matty asks, his voice cautious.

maybe he should, jules thinks. maybe he can fuck the frustration out of her. then again, she’s really not in the mood. she doesn’t think this is the kind of anger that can be taken care with sex.

maybe by bashing max’s head into a brick wall…

jules resists the urge to groan and kicks the wii u away like a petulant child.

“i’m not in the mood—”

“we don’t have to fuck,” he adds quickly. “i just… would like to come over anyway.”

is that… concern she hears in his voice? his voice is much gentler than before, softer around the edges. she wonders if he’s nervously gnawing on his lip, crossing his fingers in hopes that she would let him. despite her sulky, sour mood, that thought brings a tiny smile to her face.

“alright…” she bites on her nail, a little nervous, “carly’s home though.”

matty snickers. “window it is.”

jules plops on her bed, a tiny smile on her face and scrunches her eyes shut. “i’ll see you soon.”

it’s only the second time he’s climbing her window, so jules waits with bated breath, her hand hovering mid air as if she’d be able to catch him if he fell. matty succeeds though, jumping into her room like the last time.

unlike the last time, he doesn’t immediately go in for a kiss. he leans, his back pressed to the window and arms crossed in front of his chest, scrutinising her a little. jules notices he has a thin sweater on today, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal forearms sparsely covered in tattoos.

“hi,” she whispers, a little awkward. he’s looking at her like he’s trying to figure her out. like she’s a specimen. and it’s not necessarily in a bad way, but she’d rather he didn’t figure everything out about her within a month of knowing her.

“you alright,” he tips his chin up, greeting her like a frat bro as opposed to his usual sing-song version of hi jules. she realises she misses it a little.

“yeah, why?”

“on the phone it sounded like you were going to throw that controller across the room.”

jules groans and turns, dragging her feet back to her bed.

matty follows suit, his brows scrunched up as he keeps looking at her. when she gets in bed, sitting on top of the covers, matty does the same.

“what were you playing?” he motions to her 3ds. jules holds it up for him to see.

“majora’s mask. i restarted it.”

“can i see that?”

wordlessly, she hands it to him, watches him figure out the controls and move link around a little on the screen.

“have you played this one before?”

“what, zelda?” he raises a brow and jules realises that it was a stupid question after all. still she grumbles. grabbing pancake the bear and practically squishing him tight enough to pop an eyeball.

matty winces. “will you talk to me?”

“i am talking to you.”

“jules!” he sounds stern, which is very much out of character for him. a second passes and matty snatches pancake away from jules, holding the bear hostage. “you’re not getting him back till you tell me what’s wrong.”

“noth—”

“i’ll take him home, jules,” he threatens, holding the bear high above his head. she tries to swat at it, almost landing up in his lap in the process, but matty refuses to give up. so finally she huffs and gives up, pouting like a grump and refusing to meet his eyes.

“it’s max.”

from the corner of her eye she can see him raise an eyebrow. the expression on his face is a little cautious, a little guarded. he looks like he wants to say something but is trying to find the right words for it.

“here,” jules holds up her phone for him, the screen flashing the five messages from the unknown number that are still unanswered.

matty drops pancake next to him and takes her phone, still a little hesitant. jules wait.

he frowns while he reads, mouthing the words along and pausing at all the places she had when she first read those messages, stopping completely when he reaches the penultimate message.

don’t throw us away like this.

jules feels anger bubble up inside her once again. how fucking dare he?!

“right…” matty hands the phone back to her. “should we go set fire to his house?”

the question is so sudden, so serious, that she has no other choice but to blink at him in surprise. a second passes, and she bursts out laughing. it’s a laugh that comes from deep within her, leaving her giggling for a good few seconds while matty stares at her.

he smiles, his eyes softening and the corners of his mouth just barely lifted. it’s the kind of smile that has her feeling self conscious all of a sudden, and not necessarily in a bad way.

“so violent,” she teases. “there’s something we can burn though…”

he cocks an eyebrow, staring at her with renewed interest.

she can’t lie and say it’s a new thought, but in this moment it feels solid, real. as if she needed matty to breathe life into it.

“i’ll show you.” jules gets off the bed and walks towards her wardrobe, looking at him in warning. matty follows her, hovering right behind her but not quite touching.

there’s a whiff of decay the moment she opens the door to the spare wardrobe, stronger than the last time. matty swears.

“fuckin’ hell, what have you got there? his body?”

she rolls her eyes. “the flowers he sent me.”

he hums behind her, coming a little closer to peer over her shoulder at the dead and rotting bouquets.

“‘s a good time to finally get rid of them, don’t you think?”

“burn them you mean?” he bumps his hip into hers, teasing slightly, “so violent.”

her words echoed back to her. jules giggles a little.

“would it make you feel better?” matty asks. his hand is on her waist now, gently turning her until she’s facing him and looking right into his honey coloured eyes. she has to crane her neck a little to properly look at him. she tries not to steal a few glances at his lips (and fails, ultimately, but matty doesn’t tease her about it at least).

“i think so, yeah.”

“then that’s what we’re doing,” he declares. jules nods, determined now, and gets a bag out for the flowers.

there’s a heap in front of them. a heap of dried flowers on the ground in a clearing. if jules didn’t know better, she would have suspected matty brought her here to murder her, that’s how isolated it looks in the dying light of the sun.

“you’re worried,” he points out.

“don’t wanna set fire to the woods!” jules points out the obvious, hesitant to light the match and throw it onto the heap. it’s not like she’s going to need much of kindling for this. she knows it will catch the moment it comes into contact with that first flame.

still the nerves in her stomach don’t let her do it as easily.

“you won’t,” he traces his knuckles down her spine, leaving her shivering from the simplest of touches, “trust me.”

“and you know this… how exactly?”

jules turns to look at matty fully.

the absurdity of the situation almost makes her laugh. here she is, in the middle of the fucking woods with another man on her anniversary with max. here she is, burning the flowers max gave her when once upon a time she would have desperately tried to keep them alive for as long as possible.

“thoughts,” matty taps her head, “what are you thinking?”

“about how weird this is. maybe in a parallel universe i’d be with max having a nice dinner somewhere.”

matty’s face changes a little then. some of the warmth in his eyes leaves, replaced with an expression she can’t quite put a name to. he clears his throat. “and do you wish you were doing that still?”

“no,” jules turns away again, back to look at the dead flowers. “i’m glad i’m here instead.”

saying it out loud makes her realise just how true it is. i’m glad i’m here with you instead of max, i’m glad it’s somehow come to this.

she closes her eyes and shakes her head a little. she can’t be thinking these thoughts. she can’t.

just sex. it’s just sex.

outside of that, they’re friends and nothing more.

“should we set them on fire?” her voice trembles a little, so does her hand. she can hear matty’s heartbeat with how close he stands to her—his chest just barely brushing against her back.

the space between them is full of electricity.

“they’re yours to burn,” he whispers, a tad dramatic if she’s being honest but his words still skitter over her bones. jules smiles a little.

“right.” she holds up the match, a little more confident now, and strikes. the flame burns steady. before she has the chance to overthink it, jules throws the burning matchstick into the pile of flowers.

for a moment nothing happens. she thinks maybe the fire went out, maybe she should give up and go home. and sure it might not be as satisfying as watching those flowers burn, she would have at least gotten rid of them. until a small flame rises from under the heap.

it licks at the petals, growing hungrier and consuming the leaves and the stems until what jules is looking at it a blazing bonfire. behind her, matty whoops, arms thrown up in the air, and his face stretched into a wide grin.

jules mimics him, whooping a second later.

“they’re burning!” she shrieks, her voice full of awe. “i did it, i got rid of them!”

“you did,” matty laughs with her.

she stands there for a moment, looking at the flames, at the way they turn each flower to ash slowly. the more she watches the lighter she feels. the more the flames burn the easier it is for her to breathe. maybe she’d let the rot stay in her life for way too long, let it consume parts of her that should have been blooming.

“are you crying?” matty stands in front of her, partially blocking her view now and with concern etched on his face. it’s then that she realises her cheeks do feel a little wet.

“no, i—” she tries to come up with something only to be stopped by the lump in her throat.

matty moves tentatively, hand coming up to her face. his calloused thumb swipes at her cheeks, so tender and gentle that her heart swells in her chest. one by one he wipes the tears away.

“sorry for being a crybaby,” she lets out a watery chuckle, “i’m having a moment or something.”

“clearly,” matty teases a little. “come here.”

before she has a chance to say something more, his arms are around her, holding her in place. jules rests her cheek against his chest, right over his heart so that she can hear his heart beating in her ear. she wonders why it’s so loud and fast. she wonders why hers feels the same.

she tries not to inhale deeply and make it obvious. but his scent is all around her, comfort and safe and so fucking familiar that she wants to stay here and keep breathing it in until her veins are full of it.

she hugs him back, her arms squeezing him and holding him so close, holding onto him so he won’t step away from her. not that he does… a second later, she feels his cheek rest on her head, feels his thighs touching hers.

the fire burns steady next to them.

her heart feels so full then, she feels like she might just explode. but jules does absolutely nothing to move away from him, to put some distance between them. even when this feels… so much more intimate than any kind of sex ever has.

she doesn’t move even when matty hums a soft little tune and sways them, not when she follows his lead and sways with him.

“what are we doing?” she asks, so softly that it’s barely even a sound, but jules doesn’t want to startle him and break this moment.

he stops humming for just a second. “dancing.”

that’s obvious. she knows they’re dancing, moving side to side while he hums and she tries not to bury her face deep in his t-shirt.

“and friends dance like this?” she asks, her voice thick.

matty keeps on humming for a second longer. “we do a lot of things friends don’t.”

and right now she wants to do something even their rules forbid. she wants to kiss him, just… kiss him. she wants to stand there by the fire, swaying in his arms and kiss him until she can’t breathe anymore.

but jules banishes the thought so quickly that it barely registers. instead she pulls away a little, still in his arms and looks up at him. he’s already looking at her, his face a strange, calm mask.

“your place is closer,” she points out.

matty nods. “it is.”

“should we go?”

he smiles at her a little crooked, almost like he’s figured her out—figured out that if they’re fucking she’ll get to kiss him, at least. if not by the fire, swaying in his arms, then half-naked in his bed.

“if you want,” he tips his head, looking away from her to the fire that’s almost done consuming the flowers. it’s almost on its way out, burning steady but on a dying path.

“i do,” jules nods.

matty steps away from her, takes her hand in his like he had that day in the big tesco and pulls her along. jules follows him and swallows the lump that’s curiously still in her throat.

#✮⋆˙ - when i knock at a hundred and two #matty healy x oc #matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #matty x oc #matty x reader #matty x you #102!matty

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fkeknife · 8 months ago

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wreckage of july

millions knives x reader gender neutral reader 800 words

He recoils. He tries to speak, to curse the stranger for touching him, but the breath comes out wheezing and wet and more through his throat than his lips. “Hey, it’s okay, don’t move,” they say. “Don’t move. You’re okay right here.” Knives realizes his body is dying. The stranger is waiting for his body to die.

this fic is about you finding knives’s horrible corpse in the rubble of july and being like. boy howdy that guy is dead then he moves and you're like. oh sorry that guy isn’t dead YET. better go hold his hand while he dies so he experiences love and humanity in his last moments or whatever (MISTAKE)

read on AO3 if you like or read below if you'd rather, up to you

Night is the worst time for these kinds of things to happen. In the dark, you can’t tell survivors from orphaned limbs, shadows from trip hazards, water from blood and gasoline.

Flame spreads over what is left and casts confusing geometries of light and shadow. Smoke turns the air acrid and unbearable and rich with the smell of burning hair and flesh. The rumble and rend of delayed collapse climbs over the noise of panicked humanity.

The explosion doesn’t kill everyone, and it doesn’t break everything. Maybe that’s the worst part–incompletion. Being among leftovers.

Knives wakes in the wreckage of July, immobilized under rubble. He’s on his side, in the shadow of a wall that’s partially at his back and partially splayed over him, crushing.

He tries to move, to shove a hunk of concrete off his chest, but he finds himself weak. The world shivers. He brings a hand towards his face and struggles to focus his eyes on the bone of his fingers as they drip.

Out of the smoke and sound, something resolves before him; shoes. Then knees, then hands, pulling rubble off him, brushing thick dust from his nose and mouth and turning his face to meet a pair of eyes.

The eyes flash in and out of contact with his—wide and alert and assessing; then tight; then gentle.

He recoils. He tries to speak, to curse the stranger for touching him, but the breath comes out wheezing and wet and more through his throat than his lips.

“Hey, it’s okay, don’t move,” the stranger says. “Don’t move. You’re okay right here.”

Their knees shift before him in the dark rock and gravel. Black liquid climbs the thread of their clothing. It’s his blood.

The hand on his face touches his cheek with a thumb; another hand slides into his slick palm.

Knives realizes his body is dying. The stranger is waiting for his body to die. As he struggles for physical awareness, it slips away. His throat is open, his chest sodden and ripping when he tries to move.

The stranger makes an odd noise when Knives twists. They try to recapture his attention. “Don’t. Don’t. Can you hear me?”

“Just wait it out. Rest.” The reassuring, gentle expression contorts, the voice breaks. “I’m so sorry I don’t have anything for the pain.”

Yeah, the pain. The pain is what makes everything so difficult.

This is stupid.

Knives screws his eyes shut and draws from the gate. He feels it—his chest starts to warm, to knit, then constricts around something and surges with pain again. This time, his voice works better, and he spits out the feeling, liquid and wordless noise.

Somebody starts. The hand around his tightens and releases.

“You-“

Knives remembers he’s with company.

The stranger’s face is blank, backlit with flame and cast with white light from Knives’s skin.

“You’re…” They trail off, eyes flicking across his body.

Knives jerks his hand away from them, trying to focus on the concept of blades and assemble them at his fingers. To strike the stranger down before they can call anyone else over, rat him out.

“…you might actually pull through this.”

The stranger leans back.

“Okay. Okay. We need to get you out of here right now, especially if you’re going to keep looking like that.”

They turn their back to Knives and begin to heave rubble off his legs, levering it sideways. “I’m going to have to lift you off that beam. I’m sorry.”

Yes—that’s what it is, in his chest. Metal and H-shaped and all the way through him.

He starts to push himself up by inches, to prop himself on his arms, but the left, untested, crumples. He slides back to the ground, sweat and wet agony.

When he opens his eyes, the stranger is over him like an animal. He sees the patterns on his skin reflected in the wet dark of their eyes. Knives swipes at their neck, but the blades are gone—or never came together at all—and his fingers rake blood uselessly across their throat. It drips back into his face.

Fingers slip again into his bloodied hand. Squeeze it. They’re warm, warmer than him. He feels the pulse of blood within them. The heat of life.

“Are you ready?”

Yes.

His hand is placed on the back of a neck. The animal leans over him, wraps limbs around him. It cradles him like an awful doll. The movement is in his ribs, in his teeth. Too slowly, not smoothly enough, it pulls him forward and over. His vision slips like a red blanket. He’s clinging to the gate. To consciousness. To power. To the nape of someone’s neck with his fingernails.

At the height of agony, of demand; something shifts.

The gate cracks away from him. And there is only the raw horror and the helplessness of it left. Him, his body, the animal, the dust, his blood, someone else’s.

He loses his grip on awareness, like everything else.

#millions knives #millions knives x reader #knives millions x reader #trigun fic #knives x reader #trigun x reader #millions knives x you #knives x you

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bimoonphases · 6 months ago

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@wolfstarmicrofic May 9 - prompt 9: Star-crossed Lovers [word count 963]

[also my small tribute to the thousands of lives we the fandom have created for these two to live through]

TW: multiple deaths ahead

There had always been two moments, two split seconds in all of their lives, where they knew: the first time they laid eyes on each other, teeth of recognition gnawing at their memory with still no chance of remembering; then those last fleeting instants before death, when fate chose to hit them with the fact that the love of their lives was about to be snatched away from them. Again.

The flapping of wings got closer, and Sirius stretched out his hand, every fiber of his being trying to reach the man looking at him from the cloud below, blinking away the sweat from his forehead.

“Please, my lord Helios, please…” Sirius begged, stretching further down. “I swear he’s not trying to slight you, only to reach me. I’ll do anything, please, let him come to me.”

But the gods never listened, not even to lesser gods, and as Helios burned even brighter over him, Sirius could only scream as the wax on Remus’s wings melted and he fell.

Ancient Greece

Remus passed his sword to his other hand and cradled Sirius’s cheek, ignoring the ominous footsteps coming towards them from further down the pass.

“Let’s win this, my love,” he smiled. “Then let’s go home together.”

Sirius nodded and kissed him, their helmets clanging softly, like multiple others around them. The footsteps got closer.

Thermopylae, Greece, 480BC

Sirius moaned as Remus pushed him against the wall of the nearest house, his mouth immediately latching onto his lips, his hands grabbing his waist over the fabric of his tunic.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered between searing kisses. “I’ve loved you for lifetimes now.”

“I love you too,” Sirius answered, his fingers curling into Remus’s hair. “You’re mine and I’m yours, for this life and others.”

The sky went dark in that moment.

Pompeii, Roman Empire, 79AD

Sirius was laughing. He was laughing hysterically, which was a strange sound coming from the cart transporting them to the square where a pile of wood and kindling was waiting for them. Remus would have worried if he hadn’t been just about to be burnt at the stake.

“What’s so funny?” he sighed.

“The fact that for once in their lives these people got it right,” Sirius went on laughing. “They’re burning witches, and here we are with our magic.”

“Which is useless now,” Remus grumbled, straining against the rope binding his wrists, as if his wand could somehow be within reach instead of already ashes in some magistrate’s fireplace.

“And they’re hanging men who sleep with other men,” Sirius went on. “And again, here we are.”

Despite all, Remus chuckled. Sirius grinned and moved closer to him.

“What do you say, my love?” he whispered. “Let’s give them what they want.”

And not even the shouts of the crowd pressing around the cart stopped Remus from kissing Sirius one last time.

Milan, Italy, 1384

The mercy of it was that they still had some instants to say goodbye. Sirius cradled Remus’s cheek in his hand.

“At least,” he murmured with a smile. “We’re already in a tomb.”

Remus smiled through the tears, shuffling even closer to Sirius on the marble slab.

“At least I get to keep you in my arms as we go,” he whispered. “I always wished to be with you until the end. I just hoped the end would come years from now.”

“I’d rather have only days with you than nothing at all,” Sirius said.

The cold was seeping into his bones. Time was running out.

“Do you think that English poet who’s been in town lately will write about us?” Remus murmured.

“If he does he’ll have to change some details,” Sirius got even closer, the cold now all over him, his mouth desperately searching for Remus’s lips one last time. “Thus, with a kiss, I die.”

Verona, Italy, 1590

They had lost, that much was clear. Remus stumbled back into the building with the others, desperately climbing over barricades of furniture. They had lost, and the National Guard was advancing on them. No one was coming to help them. Shots rang out, some people fell and Remus crashed into the back wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the leader run up the stairs, his flag still in his fist, a testament to a last stand already. There was a crack, and the last chairs blocking the door moved, leaving room for the guards to move inside, shotguns at the ready, eyes locking with Remus’s, who sighed and leaned back on the wall. He felt a hand slip in his and turned his head, a smile he would have recognised everywhere in front of him.

“Sirius…” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Dying with you, my love,” Sirius answered.

They almost didn’t feel the bullets, lost in each other’s eyes.

Paris, France, June 6th 1832

“Should I call you ‘my lord’ then?” Remus asked, his hands slipping under the silk waistband hugging Sirius’s evening suit.

“Never,” Sirius whispered, his arms around Remus’s neck. “I want to be just Sirius tonight. I don’t want to be my family name, or my title or my fortune or anything other than yours.”

“Your wish is my command,” Remus said, leaning in to start kissing Sirius’s neck.

Outside the porthole of the small cabin, the Atlantic Ocean was gleaming under the moonlight.

RMS Titanic, April 14th 1912

This time, the first moment was stronger, almost breaking to the front of their consciousness. They were young, so much younger than every other time. They had all their lives ahead.

“Hi, I’m Remus Lupin.”

“Sirius Black.”

Yes, what could go wrong in two children’s lives after all?

“My name’s Peter Pettigrew.”

Hogwarts Express, September 1st 1971

#no I don't love History and tragedies what are you on about #also not me conflating two of my tragic fandoms together here #I'm sorry alright?#wolfstar #wolfstar microfic #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #marauders era #marauders #the marauders #the marauders era

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kerubimcrepin · 6 months ago

Text

Live-Read: The Remington Comic [PART 3]

TOME 12

What is this... thing? This is some very strange magic. We need to have a closer look. Do you really think you can escape that easily? Admit that... it's not like you can escape down there easy and avoid all the traps.

Joris's first reaction to this is literally "i NEED to know what the fuck that is. and if i have to take these two injured people there, so be it."

Also, yes, Ush's tower has a lot of traps. Love how Joris went up here with no plan of how to go down. I guess he really believes in his luck... just like an ecaflip.

When I saw a little guy climb the wall, I was… stunned. But to leave this place with a wounded man and a battered eniripsa, that's another matter. I know, but what do you propose? To fight? You saw me come in, and you didn't raise the alarm, which is quite unusual… I can still do it. Getting out of here before everything collapses would be better… for all of us. Obviously, the urgency of the situation benefits you. But we'll deal with that later. Just follow me!

"if you wanted to beat the shit out of me, you would have done it already." Never change, Joris.

These panels go out to my Ush enjoyer readers. Also: this comic takes place around 2 years before Wakfu the Animated Series. Ush is 7-9yo at best by the time of the OVA, and 10 by seasons 3-4. This might point to the fact that Ecaflip demigods age faster on their next lives.

That, or it might point to Ankama not giving a shit.

But he does look like a (tall) child in the OVA, and like a teen by time of S3-4

He has his muscular years in the future. Also I guess his cat lovers don't give a shit, but eh, there's bigger ethical concerns about their relationship than the age of his physical body.

Anyway, now onto what is the most important Joris moment of this comic, to me:

We must hurry. A terrible danger threatens bonta. It can't be worse than letting you escape.

Yeah, sure, lady. Joris and 2 criminals are a bigger danger to Bonta than a giant kaiju. Now, read closely, because this moment here has some fascinating Joris lines:

If Ush scares you so much, maybe it's time to run away with us. Yeah… no. It's not that simple. You're in love with him. That's why you can't leave your master. What?! No… but… you're crazy! It's okay to be in love. But I'm not in love with him!

(putting on tinfoil hat) Geez Joris, it almost sounds like you yourself have ecaflip issues. Like you've been unable to leave someone for centuries because you love someone too much, despite their flaws, and the way they may have hurt you. It almost sounds like you made peace with that. "It's okay to be in love", huh?

Context for the next scenes: After some time, they try to kill the kaiju, but it backfires, and Ush gets hurt instead.

nothing will stop it now… let's run. Opus, you're an eniripsa. Save him. Yes… Have mercy… Save him! After all the harm he's done me? What's the point? Please… A restorative word should give him back some energy… but I doubt he'll escape unscathed. Beating heart… You were right here. It's the best I can do… he'll last a few hours, but he'll… die of his burns. So maybe it's time for beating heart to be used.

Joris's expressions here are so beautiful... He doesn't seem too bothered by seeing Ush's burned, dying body. It's pretty funny.

You can wear Beating Heart around your neck, and it will give you all which you desire the most. Ahh… everything… that I desire? Or you can use it to annihilate this monster. If it swallows this object… then the power of it should stop it. I can do that, I'd rather die in glory than live through a defeat. I'm going to save Bonta! and nothing can stop me now, not even death. beating heart… beating heart… out of sight… out of mind… will you give your soul the time? beating heart… beating heart… will you give your time the soul? Ush... No...

@dullard and I have talked a lot about the relationship between Ush and Joris, despite how little of it is shown. (he is the Ush enjoyers I was mentioning. all the Ush screencaps are meant for him. hi.)

In those convos we came to the next thoughts: Ush probably views Joris as Kerubim's weird little son, or Kerubim and Atcham's pet. But also, despite Ush viewing Joris in a bit of a low light, he is much smarter and cooler than Kerubim and Atcham — truly the best thing to come from his cringe brothers. He likes toying with him more than he likes toying with Kerubim and Atcham — because Joris doesn't react easily, which makes his reactions more satisfying.

Despite that, they both care for Bonta, and being "a good person", in their own unique ways. So, it is easy for them to put aside their differences, for the most part.

I personally find it fascinating how subtle Joris is about suggesting Ush to sacrifice himself. As subtle as a wrecking ball.

You should never have stolen it from me. Yes… but thanks to us, it was used to save Bonta. And me… who will save me from the curse now that Ush is gone? You must seek the wisdom that remains in you, not the instinct that dominates you. this wisdom will one day overcome your curse.

[always sunny in philadelphia music begins playing] Grany stays a cat for at least the next 10 years, maybe longer, maybe forever.

...Joris has too much hope in these two.

Also, small personal comment: Joris is so pretty on the second image... Very cute head shape. You can just see his baby-ish cheeks, lmaoo.

Beating heart, beating heart… erase the weapons, bide your time.

This is like a renaissance painting. Some guys celebrating. Grany disgusted by Remington making out with his Opus (who seems to have left him by Wakfu series' time LMAOO), somewhere off-screen, there's a crying woman because Ush is fucking dead and Joris didn't bother telling her something like "Don't worry he'll remember you. Dying isn't much of an issue for him." Instead, Joris is going away, hands behind his back, reciting poetry again.

Beautiful.

Yes, master... Your meal just arrived. Nine lives... And I remain as devoted as ever to each of your reincarnations. You need a new name for this new life. (Hoping he won't be as bad-tempered as before.)

Bad news, bestie: he will be. His previous deaths hadn't fixed this either.

Tell me, young lady... You seem very sad. Oh... it's a long story. A love story? Great stories... are always love stories.

I kind of hate Joris for giving her the wonderful idea of wasting her mortal life on some immortal guy who might never love her back. But also. He did give advice based on first-hand experience. To him, spending your entire life with a demigod is both noble and awesome and fulfilling.

Except that's his family, he's also immortal like his family, and he kind of hates everyone else in the world who ISN'T his family, so I'll be real, I think he's biased.

#remicomic #ro liveblogs dofus #krosmoz #dofus #wakfu #joris jurgen

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captain-mj · 1 year ago

Note

Official request for part two of wolfshifter ghost story please! 👉👈

I can definitely do that :)

The poll said rewrite it from Ghost's perspective so this is 80% from Ghost's with a small bit of insight into Soap, basically the exact opposite of the first one! Also, already working on the next actual part

Ghost sat in his little cage before the show, eyes closing. One of his owners had come in earlier and painted the skull on him. It was a mockery of Roba’s, but it marked Ghost. His entire being started at a wolf and ended with a skull.

He had presented as a shifter extremely early. When he was only four, he had shifted and hid under his bed to get away from his dad. His mom had been delighted, a shifter herself, while his dad had been less than pleased. It was… rather easy honestly. With all of his other troubles growing up, being a shifter didn’t really rank as a problem.

A few school friends thought it was cool. It was unusual, but it was like having heterochromia or a gaming system. Cool, but not the biggest thing in the world. Sometimes, he’d shift and walk around in the sun.

Late at night, in this tiny cage, he pretended he could still feel his friend’s hands. The warmth of the sun. Anything and everything. Fresh food. The air.

They dripped blood as they dragged the carcass of the last wolf away. It smeared and several of them started barking and thrashing. All of them full of bloodlust.

Ghost was no better. He gnawed at the cage and thought of the ring.

Fighting was easy. He fought in the military. He fought his dad. He fought and he fought and he fought and….

It got fucking nowhere.

Ghost growled and lashed out at the handler before he was forced into the ring. The arena was deafening. People cheered and he could hear himself being announced.

A few people cheered for him. Like he was a boxer or maybe a musician. Someone that deserved praise instead of a murderer.

Regardless of all of that. He faced off the wolf across from him.

She panicked. She started to scratch at the walls and try to escape. Unshifted, she was probably a smaller person. That would give her advantage against the others. But not Ghost.

Shame.

He growled and she yelped and tried to climb out.

Ghost rushed forward and opened his jaws, grabbing her and dragging her out onto the floor.

Unshifted, who was she? Would they be friends? Would they have sat in the sun together?

Ghost shook her like a squeaky toy. He felt her snap at his ears but she couldn’t twist herself enough to get a good grip. He tossed her to the side. His jaws snapped again and then he heard someone shouting down at him.

There was a gun. A man held it but it was pointed at him. Someone yelled Gaz and he looked up. So Ghost assumed his name was Gaz.

But Gaz kept pointing the gun at him and Ghost slowly backed away, body shaking. He heard another click of a gun and saw another man also pointing at a gun at him too.

“Careful Soap. And you don’t make a move Ghost.” Clearly Mexican based on the accent. It sounded familiar. Maybe from somewhere near where he had been living.

Ghost turned his head and saw a third man in his arena. The man grabbed the injured wolf and carried her away. Someone else took her and then he held out a leash. One of the ones with the poles that made him feel like he couldn’t breath.

Ghost snapped and snarled, trying to defend himself. He didn’t want this man near him. He didn’t want any of them to touch him.

Fight. Fighting. Got to fight. Protect himself.

"Listen, I want to help you, okay?" Soap said, sounding very scottish.

Ghost wanted to retort that he was a fucking liar. That he absolutely did not fucking believe him. Whatever they were going to do to him, it was probably just as bad if not worse than what he had been doing. At least here, he hoped he could one day die with dignity. In battle. He thought he heard once that those who died in battle went to Valhalla as warriors. There were worse things.

Something hit his shoulder. Spiraling out from that spot was a paralyzing cold feeling. It burned slightly after a moment but he could feel time slowing as he slumped down.

In the records, his file was simple.

Lieutenant Ghost. A picture of a wolf. Measurements.

Does not shift back.

Do not allow him to shift back.

Bought for $40k and had already made twice that back and then some.

Nothing else. Why would there be a need?

Ghost bit back a whimper at the raging headache. It felt like a hammer was hitting his temples.

The scottish man smiled. “There you are! Sorry for the cage, i promise it’s a formality. As soon as you shift back, we can help you.” It took him a minute but he remembered the name Soap again.

Ghost looked up at him. The cage was bigger than his normal one. Much bigger actually. He could stand up without having to hunch over and make a full circle without having to bend his body unnaturally.

Rather homey honestly. However, he did not let Soap know this. He gave no reaction to him.

“Hey, Alejandro! Can you help me with something?” The man with the gun came back and Ghost started to snap at him. Alejandro took a step back and went for the gun and that only upset Ghost more. He was afraid. Very afraid. He didn’t like guns. They were loud and they hurt and they burned and he didn’t want anything to do with them.

“Nevermind. I’m going to need some Spanish lessons from you soon though.” Soap waved him away and closed Ghost’s cage. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

Ghost didn’t care. He wanted them both gone honestly.

But when they were both gone, Ghost just sat there. There was enough room that he might be able to shift like this, but what would he do if he escaped? Where would he go?

The fight just went out of him. He continued to lay there silently.

Someone who smelled familiar walked past. One of the wolves he had fought. They looked at him and flinched. They were shifted. Looked different. But they reacted like he was a snake trying to bite them.

When they fled, Ghost just felt worse. He tried to sink into the ground, half hoping he’d melt into a puddle and bleed into the Earth.

Then Soap came back. Carrying things. Something smelled good.

Soap set food in front of him. It smelled delicious, but Ghost didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to move.

And then Soap was in his space. He had leaned all over him, throwing a blanket over him and Ghost’s hackles raised. It was instinct. Just instinct. But he bit him.

Soap jerked back but now that Ghost’s head was up, he decided to start eating. It tasted great. Homey. He really was starving. They mostly fed them raw meat. Wolf shifters couldn’t thrive on dog food or they’d probably just feed them that. Ghost was sure that if he never ate red meat again, it would be too soon. Soap moved and Ghost thought, hysterically in hindsight, that he’d take it from him. He snarled at him and Soap quickly went still again.

Though, this soup wasn’t half bad. He licked the bowl clean, but he was careful not to dirty himself up.

Ghost let him leave, laying back down on the floor. Soap stood next to the door and kept it open. "Do you want to get out?"

Ghost looked at him and slowly backed further into the cage. No. He didn’t particularly want to. The cage was safe.

"Alright... just... tell me when you want to get out okay? You can shift as soon as you're ready."

Ghost would not be. He nodded though and Soap smiled which was weird. Why would he smile at something so small?

Every day, Soap brought him food. It’s how he kept track of the days. At first, he counted as if Soap visited once a day before realizing that couldn’t be it. Once he realized he visited twice a day, the timeline made more sense.

Soap would sit with him occasionally and talk. It was clearly a means to an end. He wanted Ghost to shift. Ghost didn’t know why though.

There were a few reasons it could be. He might want to see how he looks. Examine him as a human. Test something. Who knows. Roba had let men assault Ghost before. Maybe this guy was like that. Wanted to know if he was worth whatever money he put down. Or worth killing everyone in the arena.

Ghost assumed he killed them all at least. It was what made the most sense.

The worst part about that time though, were the others. Other wolves that passed by him. Some looked afraid. Some looked angry. The worst were the ones that looked at him with pity. Like they knew something he didn’t. He snarled at those and they all quickly ran off. After 21 of Soaps’ trips, or roughly 10 and a half days, they slowed. It went from two or three a day to none. One the 11th and 12th day. None the 13th. And now it was the 14th.

Soap spoke to him. He tried to speak in broken Spanish but when Ghost just stared at him blankly, he seemed to get the message.

Today though, the man was staring at him again.

He was the only person besides Soap that visited. He didn’t usually speak. Just… stared. Ghost stared back.

He wore a fishing hat. And sometimes, he reminded him of someone. Ghost could never put together who though.

The man left.

Ghost was alone.

Soap was late. He did not bring breakfast. The man did.

Then, Soap was there. With leather in his hands instead of a bowl.

Soap’s hands were soft. They led Ghost out of the cage.

Ghost felt like he should fight back more. But he wasn’t sure he could handle anymore time in this place. The monotony had started to wear at him. Digging into his soul.

Soap muzzled him and it felt grounding. Maybe it shouldn’t. He wondered briefly if Soap found the acting as claiming as Ghost did.

Did he feel he owned part of Ghost now? The leather pressed to his skin and it was familiar. Like wearing a jacket that’s a little too hot but its yours. The collar went on next. Ghost took a deep breath to make sure he could breath. It fit perfectly. Soap checked with two fingers anyway.

He patted him. Lightly. Ghost didn’t give him a reaction, but it felt nice.

He fell in step behind Soap. He was glad Soap did not leash him. Ghost doubted he could survive the humiliation of it, even if he’d let him.

The entire situation bothered him. He was exposed and unable to defend himself. Soap’s hand was so close but he refused to press into it. He was The Ghost. He didn’t need comfort.

Ghost jumped into the passenger seat after Soap opened the door for him and he settled in. He felt warm.

“Do ye like music?” Soap’s accent had thickened over the few days they knew each other. Ghost was pretty sure he had tried to speak clearly to him. Enunciate or whatever. That seemed to have slipped though. Soap didn’t bother and Ghost could understand him just fine.

That didn’t mean Ghost was going to answer. He didn’t feel like it. When he was human, he did this sometimes. He’d struggle to put words together. Now it translated more to just not reacting.

Soap put on pop music. Ghost’s ears flattened. It wasn’t that he disliked it. But it was higher pitched and…. Okay fine. He just didn’t like it. That wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t in a pretentious way! It just wasn’t his type of music.

Ghost shifted his hand, resulting in fingers. He clicked the little button and shifted his hand back, looking out the window.

Soap fixed it after a moment and Ghost changed it back.

“Is that you doing it?” Soap asked.

Ghost looked at him and they had an uncomfortable amount of eye contact considering Soap should’ve been looking at the fucking road.

“If you did, just nod and I'll leave it okay?"

Slowly, Ghost nodded. He really did not want to have to listen to more.

“Thank you.” Soap smiled at him and Ghost’s chest felt a little warm. He turned it up for him and Ghost couldn’t stop his tail from moving. It quickly laid back down though.

The walk inside wasn’t as bad. To any passerbyers, Ghost could just be a dog. A big dog. But a dog nonetheless.

Soap watched Ghost curl up on the couch. Ghost didn’t really like being observed, but he allowed it.

Soap tapped him. “I’m going to be gone a while, okay?”

Ghost didn’t really react, but Soap didn’t expect him too.

Soap went to see Marcus. He was a nurse so he had four days and then four nights, so the day of the transition was the best time for them.

He went to his apartment, but he couldn’t shake a nasty feeling. Ghost was locked up in the house. In his house. With no supervision.

Soap didn’t worry about him breaking anything. He was too worried he’d hurt himself or leave. So long in those places… Ghost would need time to readjust to being human. Soap worried he’d rush himself if he left.

Though. Any progress would be nice.

Marcus noticed how distracted he was and tapped him. “You alright? You mentioned things were hard at work. You doing okay?”

Soap liked how observant Marcus was, but one thing he hated was how his job was treated. Marcus treated it like animal control or a crime unit. Soap thought of it more as… social work for wolf shifters.

His job was important to him, but he couldn’t really talk about it, because….

“You know, if you wanted to quit and find something else.”

There it is…

“No. I’m fine. It’s a little sad, but I’m just not feeling great today, don’t worry.” Soap smiled.

“Alright, if you’re sure…” Marcus put his arm around him and pulled him closer.

Soap left soon after that to find Ghost in the bathtub.

Ghost always kept an eye or ear on Soap. He always wanted to be aware of his position. If it felt like Soap was trying to sneak up on him, he’d flee the room.

Soap looked so nervous when he took the muzzle off for their first meal together. He did it like Ghost might lash out. Ghost considered it just to prove him right, before changing his mind and devouring the steak in front of him.

Rare.

There was blood on his paws.

Blood in his teeth.

Ghost jumped down and sat under the table instead. He wasn’t upset. A little offended, but not traumatized. He just… didn’t want to be perceived at the moment. Not at all.

Soap didn’t bother him for a minute before he came and sat with him, bringing the food too. He glanced at him for a moment before switching their plates. Ghost ate Soap’s food a little easier. His tail gave another thump he forgot to control and he growled at the inconvenience of it.

Soap gently scratched at where the muzzle pressed to his skin and Ghost let him. It felt nice.

Soap tried to be subtle. Little things. Offering him clothing. Putting things just out of reach. Talking to him. He wanted him to shift.

And Ghost did. Just not in front of Soap. He would wait until he was gone to Cologne guy and he’d practice things. Walking upright for one. Talking was another. His voice was hoarse. He wanted to be presentable.

It was the third day of the the cycle. Ghost had started using it to keep track of time. He didn’t count the days, just kept it as a reminder.

"Ghost?"

Ghost grunted, letting Soap know he was listening.

"If you shift back, I won't say anything to anyone. Just... so we could talk. I want to help you."

Not yet. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to be human.

Ghost never missed his cage though.

Marcus appeared. Ghost didn’t listen to the conversation. His entire world boiled down to the cigarettes in his pocket.

Nicotine. Sweet, sweet nicotine. That sounded perfect.

Once he took them, he waited until they left to shift and start smoking.

It didn’t taste as good as it used to, but it took the edge off.

He wrapped the sheet around himself when he heard them arguing. He still had some modesty of course.

Soap was staring at him. It made Ghost feel funny. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t find Soap pretty, but he was not going to be a homewrecker.

"You have shit taste in smokes." Because it was true.

"I..." Marcus trailed off, staring at him. He eyed Ghost. Eyes traveling over muscle and scarring. Ghost felt a distinctive sorta pride in the fact even like this, he struck fear in people’s souls.

"Are you going to leave already?" Ghost wanted him gone. He didn’t like him very much.

Marcus gritted his teeth and nodded, backing away, his eyes never leaving Ghost’s. Like he was a wild animal that would fight him if he turned his back.

Maybe it was an accurate assessment.

Soap stared at him. "All I had to do was get you cigarettes?"

Ghost grunted and looked away. He pulled the blanket up a little more, but it uncovered his legs. Too small.

"Simon."

"Huh?"

"You said when we first talked, you wanted something besides Ghost. My name is Simon." Ghost blew more smoke, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t sure why he told Soap that. It wasn’t important. It felt important though.

Soap nodded. "Simon. I like it. Now that you're talking, we can try to fi-"

"My family is dead Johnny. Saw their bodies myself. Any friends I had are long gone too." He took a drag. This conversation wasn’t going to continue.

"That why you didn't want to shift back?"

"Exactly why. What was I going to do? I knew once I talked, you guys would throw me on the streets. That's the next step right?"

"No. Absolutely not." Soap was almost offended that Ghost thought so low of him.

Ghost frowned. "I bit you. I caused you a lot of trouble." He certainly didn’t consider himself worth the effort.

"But I won't throw you out. I'd like to think we're a bit closer than that."

Ghost stared at him. His long hair got in his eyes. "Johnny."

"Yeah, Simon?"

"I'm going to take a bath. I need one. Do you have any clothes I can borrow?"

"I'll see what I can find."

"Thank you." He sighed softly and the black leather tugged tighter against his skin. "And I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Scaring you." Simon meant it genuinely.

"You were frightened too. Don't worry. I didn't take it personal." Soap grinned.

Ghost nodded and went to take a bath. He didn’t remove the muzzle. Only Soap could do that. But he did scrub himself clean. He made sure to go over his tattoos and his scarring carefully. His tattoos were still in pristine condition. Probably all the fur.

Soap put the clothing in the bathroom and Ghost could feel him lingering.

“Marcus won’t be back.”

“Hmm.” Ghost responded and turned the water off. He dragged a towel in to the shower and dried himself off before grabbing the clothes. Only once he was dressed did he step out.

Soap was staring again. He wasn’t scared. Looked more intrigued than anything.

The clothing was tight. Especially around his chest and when he moved, it showed his midriff.

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. If you’re up for it. You’re a lot better off than I was expecting. I was worried so long being shifted would have effected you, but you seem… your speech is perfect. No trouble walking.”

Soap glanced at his face and frowned. “Let me get that stuff off of you.”

Ghost flinched back. “Why?”

“You’re shifted. You’re clearly not dangerous.”

“Yes, I am. You shouldn’t trust me.”

“I do though. You’re a trustworthy person.”

Ghost shook his head. “No… No…” He started glancing around, looking for a way out and Soap seemed to realize it.

“Alright. We’ll keep it on yeah? No worries.” Soap smiled.

Ghost nodded.

#call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare ii #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty

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wooldamenace · 18 days ago

Text

Better People- (Samily Until Dawn)

romantic tension, fluff, light angst, possible gay thoughts, over 1.2k words

The mines were wet and cold, too cold for Emily's liking. Right now she needed something warm, something comforting not these damned mines. Nor the puddles ruining her designer boots.

The mines would breathe with her the frigid air heaving as she inhaled. In and out in and out. She didn't want this, to be curled up in fear after all she went through.

She wanted to apologize. She really did. She didn't mean to slap Ashley, at least not that hard. All she could do was mouth a quiet ‘sorry’. Then she felt it, hands on her shoulders.

Samantha Giddings. Her hands were sudden, but never unwelcome. Emily couldn't bring herself to look into Sam's silver eyes. They were glaring at her pointing.

“Em? Are you okay?” Sam's voice cut through her thoughts.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

Emily can't even respond. What even is the logical reaction for something like this? Getting a fucking gun pointed at you like you were a criminal.

Sam's hands examined the bite mark on Emily's shoulder. It didn't look that bad now that everyone had their head screwed on right.

As Emily, Sam, Chris, and Ashley conversed around this barred up safe room of the mines the wind of the caves got colder. Emily felt a hand pressing to her cheek. Sam.

“Em? Okay, your temperature is normal.” She sighed quietly, “Chris, hand me the first aid kit.” Sam ordered the boy around, and before Emily knew it she was being patched up by Samantha.

“It doesn't look half bad I'd say.” Sam says, trying to lighten the mood as she always did.

Em couldn't stop, she couldn't stop the tears as she cried and apologized, Emily rarely cried. She only cried under two circumstances, she was alone, or she was hurt and alone, and right now she was just hurt.

“I'm, I'm sorry. Ashley I didn't mean t-to…”

She felt Sam wipe away her tears with her dri-fit hoodie. Emily couldn't only look at Sam through her tear glazed eyes, and Sam would keep wiping them. As Emily sniffles she tries to wipe her distraught away.

“Hey, hey don't wipe those, I don't want your jacket getting more ruined then it already is…” Sam said.

Everything was blue, maybe it was the tears, the possible frostbite, the shock finally setting in but everything to Emily was distorted, but no one could blame her, she had a gun shoved in her face by a man who not even a few hours ago was begging for Emily to get back together with him. Michael Munroe was an asshole, a stupid asshole who thought with his dick.

As Sam mentioned to go look for Mike, Emily followed her friend close behind begrudgingly. She didn't want him to die, but maybe they could have waited a bit longer. The group struggled behind Sam who was practically meant for climbing mountains and cave diving or whatever it was called. Emily had no idea how Sam was not wheezing for her life as she helped the injured Chris down ledges and up rocky walls with ease who was obviously heavier than her.

As Emily slipped, Sam had caught her. “Jeez, Wm we gotta get you more shoes with actual traction on them.” Sam joked around a bit, causing Em to laugh. She hated Sam's stupidly cute quips, with how long she's known you she should've gotten used to it.

Sam's toned arms wrapped around Emily until she regained her balance. Jeez Louise, was Sam always this pretty? Samantha the girl who draws in the margins of her notes for fun? Little miss moral high ground? No, definitely not. It's the gratitude, the reaction of someone still attempting to be so level headed in a space of a massive fatal situation that's what's attractive, not Sam. No way. Not the way she barely breaks a sweat spelunking down these damned mines, maybe that's a little sexy, but anyone would find that sexy.

But Em has more things to worry about like if she was going to make it out alive, rather than the girl who's saved your life multiple times tonight is starting to look a little too attractive. It's definitely the cave fumes getting to her. All the old miner's dust and grime making her all woozy.

Em felt the water of the cave seep into her boots. Dammit those were expensive, and real cute too. Now the idea of trench foot was on the table? These boots were a lot, she saved up for them just for this little retreat, maybe to make herself look like she was doing great. Even though she wasn't, inside she was all jumbled up, scared, guilty, angry, and who knows what else.

“Sam?” Emily whispered as she walked along behind Sam while Ashley and Chris walked behind them.

“Yeah?”

“Are you not freezing?”

“Trust me, I am… these leggings are killing me.”

They duo stayed quiet, as if to be cautious of the creatures from the mines, listening for its long and quick strides, as it could teleport from place to place.

“Borrow my jacket.”

“Emily, no.”

“Sam-”

“I am fine. Okay?”

“Are you sure?”

Sam stopped walking for a second as if she was frozen, stuck looking for an answer. She knew she wasn't okay. She came back to this mountain for one reason and one reason only, to get some fucking closure. Not this. Sam should be asleep in a bed, or relaxing in the Washington family lodge in front of the fireplace. In a perfect world, Sam would be sketching in her diary, while her friends played a drinking game.

“I don't know.”

“Listen, I'm sor-”

“I know, and so am I. We're shitty people. Makes me think this is just karma.”

“Sam,” Emily placed her hand on Samantha's shoulder, the usually neat blonde hair of Sam, getting a bit frizzy and messy. “If I could change the past. I would've.”

“So would most of us.”

“I know.” Sam shuddered due to the cold frigid air of the cave. “If we get back to the lodge safely, I'm gonna need a good sleep.” That comment caused Emily to genuinely laugh, the first one in a while.

“You know, you're funny sometimes Sam.”

“Sometimes? Ouch my ego.”

“You know what I mean. You ease the tension. You try your best to keep everything and everyone together. Makes me realize I shoulda been a better friend to you.” Em confesses quietly, as if she's been sitting on that for a hot minute, as if she held it on after this night she'd die with that in her.

“I should've been a better person to you too.”, Samantha says, holding Emily's hand in her own,“Maybe we can start to be better people?” Her voice breaking as if that's all she needed right now.

“I'd love to be a better person with you, and I guess the rest of our friends too.” Emily said, but mainly Sam. She had to make it up to her somehow. Emily was responsible for causing so much pain for Sam, Josh, the Washington family, everyone, and now it's time to get better.

“Don't say it like that, you wanna be a better person for all of us.” Sam said optimistically.

“Mhm yeah, sure.” Emily groaned lovingly as Sam hugged her.

“I can't wait to see the better person you become, Em…”, and that sentence was enough, it will always be enough.

Emily smiled, a real fucking smile. With tears running down her face, the liquid left trails as if it was burning her to cry.

“I'll be better. I swear.” Emily said as they continued walking. Even if they didn't make it out Sam could tell that Emily was going to be the best version of herself she could be.

Have a great day guys! xoxo - Wool

(This was part of my commissions I'm opening up soon! I'll be posting more info on that!)

#until dawn #emily davis #samantha giddings #samily #fluff #slight angst #oneshot #wools commisions

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superprincesspea · 8 months ago

Text

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 11 - Remedy

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

Aemond’s remedy consisted of every ingredient you could find which made your nose wrinkle, and you were feeling quite pleased with yourself as you softly giggled all the way from the maesters quarters to Helaena’s chambers.

However, when you arrived, you were dismayed to learn that Aemond was no longer there and had returned to his own room.

This left you with two choices. Deliver the remedy as promised or forget about it altogether, hoping for it to never be mentioned again. Yet it would be mentioned again.

Maris would certainly have a number of questions, and when had Aemond ever let anything drop?

Still, his room. It seemed a forbidden and foreboding place, and you bit your lip as you turned towards the staircase which would lead the way.

Though you supposed, if you were to enter any man's chambers in the Red Keep, then Aemond’s was quite possibly the safest.

He’d never done anything more than look when he’d had ample opportunity to do more. So, in a strange way, you could trust him, at least in that regard.

Still, that didn’t mean you actually wanted to enter his room, but you reasoned that all you had to do was give him the remedy then leave.

Remedy then leave. The words cycled through your mind as you climbed the stairs, as though you might forget how to do it and be tempted in by conversation and disagreements.

Your only consolation was that the feast would be starting soon and, you’re already dressed, having borrowed Cassandra’s lavender gown, so everyone is expecting your prompt arrival.

Remedy then leave, you think again. That's all you have to do.

“Lady Baratheon,” the guard says as you approach Aemond’s room, and the use of your name unnerves you.

Aemond's guard, who you’re not sure you’ve even seen before, should not know who you are, but he does, and he opens the door without questioning why you are here.

“I'm bringing his grace a remedy,” you explain anyway, mortified that he might be thinking you're here for something else. Something unmentionable.

But he doesn’t react, and you suppose he's trained not to. Like a fly on the wall, seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

You don’t want to wonder if he opens Aemond’s door to countless other ladies, but you do, just as your heart begins to pound and your forced to take a deep breath before stepping into the room.

It's brighter than you expect, and you’re immediately struck by the heady scent of sandalwood and bergamot which smells both fresh and comforting at the same time.

Aside from that, the room is smaller than Helaena’s but not by much. There’s plenty of bookcases, a giant carved bedframe and an equally giant carved fireplace.

All the carvings are made of dragons, which is to be expected, yet they’re different to the ones in the queen's room. Those were playful, chasing their tails and weaving merrily around the furniture, while Aemond’s dragons are fierce enough to exude power but not enough to be frightening.

In the centre of the room, two plush chaises are arranged around a low table and Aemond is sitting on the one facing the door, so he sees the very moment you enter the room, the book in his hand slamming shut with a satisfying thud.

He's wearing his doublet, but it hangs open as though he was trying to dress for dinner but gave up on the buttons. Beneath that, his white shirt is loose, the strings unravelled enough for you to see the bandages still wrapped around his ribs.

“Here,” you say, quickly sliding the remedy onto the table in front of him. Yet when the time comes for you to turn and leave, he catches your eye, and he will not let it go.

“How should I use it?” he asks, wincing as he leans forward to pick it up.

“Is it to consume or to rub on the-” he clears his throat with a small breathy chuckle, “swollen muscles and lips?”

You give him a sharp look. Laughing at Maris was only amusing when you did it. From Aemond’s lips, the same joke seems cruel instead of funny.

“If you consume it, perhaps you will choke and this conversation will be over,” you say tartly and he laughs harder, tipping some of the remedy into the palm of his hand before sinking it beneath his shirt and presumably the bandages.

“It smells a little... odd ,” he says, and you bite the inside of your cheeks to suppress the full force of your amusement just as the queen walks in.

“Ah, you have company,” she says, moving to stand where she can see you both, “though I did wonder if it would be the other Baratheon girl who would be entertaining you this evening. You asked for her favour, did you not?”

Aemond doesn’t respond, stoic as ever. But you smile politely, “I’m only here to bring a remedy for his grace’s injuries.”

“A remedy? How sweet.” She smiles warmly yet the look is fleeting before her eyes turn shrewd, “will you not stay? Aemond has already decided to forgo this evening's entertainment though I'm sure he will still enjoy some pretty company.”

Your eyes dart back to his, but he offers you no reprieve from the suggestion and, of course not, he’s like a plank of wood whenever his mother enters the conversation.

“If his grace wishes for company then I shall be pleased to fetch my sister, ” you say and you can’t help but notice the look of alarm which flashes across his face.

Perhaps the queen notices it too, because she rejects your suggestion with a shake of her head and a dismissive laugh.

“That is such a long way to be walking back and forth, when you are already here,” she says, gesturing to one of the maids who'd snuck into the room behind her, “bring the chair closer so Lady Baratheon may sit with the prince, and will someone put more logs on the fire and close the windows before they catch their death of cold?”

Neither you nor Aemond say a single thing in protest, while the Queen supervises the burst of activity which grips the room.

The first maid struggling to move a plump chair from beside an end table stacked with books. Another stoking the fire until you can feel the burn nipping at your skin, and a third closing all the shutters to block out the night sky and any chance of a draft.

Then supper is sent down for, a carafe of wine placed on the table next to two cups and the candles are rearranged, some being extinguished altogether.

With the warm glow of the lighting, you’re beginning to feel as though the room is being prepared for your wedding night instead of supper and start to imagine that now would be the time to run away. Yet you’re still standing, hands clutched to your cloak for moral support.

“Lady Baratheon looks quite beautiful tonight, does she not?” Alicent says, as if you weren’t feeling uncomfortable enough, her hand sweeping to stroke across your hair with the sort of familiarity which only belongs between lovers and family, of which she is neither .

Aemond's Adam’s apple bobs deeply, but his face remains cool and unchanged, “she looks as she always looks.”

“And how is that?” Alicent presses, seeming to take great pleasure in trying to get a rise out of him at your expense, but you cannot stand to be toyed with for another second.

So you turn, moving away from her reach and, you're just about to tell her that you have zero interest in Aemond’s opinion, when he clears his throat, interrupting your next words and, perhaps, saving you from yourself.

“I think we can all agree that Lady Baratheon is...” he meets your eye, and his words are tightly spoken, “exceptionally beautiful, no matter what she is wearing.”

Exceptionally beautiful .

Gods , every time you thought you could feel no further embarrassment in the presence of Aemond Targaryen, embarrassment always seemed to arrive, and it always felt worse.

He was the one wearing the stink of the remedy, so why were your cheeks burning?

“Now,” his voice commands between sips of wine, “will there be anything more, before you leave us to suffocate in the stifling heat which you have created?”

“It is a little warm,” Alicent concedes, her eyes shining with satisfaction as she instructs one of the maids to take your cloak, which you give up with great reluctance.

“Will you not sit?” she says quite innocently though you’re no fool to her doe eyed expression. She isn’t asking, she’s telling, and you have no choice but to take your place next to the prince.

Then, looking even more satisfied than before, she indicates for all the maids to follow as she exits the room, the door shutting quietly behind the procession, leaving only the crackle of the fire to fill the void which now occupies the air.

“There is no arguing with my mother,” Aemond’s says after a while, and you head whips around to look at him.

“Well, you certainly didn’t try.”

His eye softens as he offers you the other cup of wine, “perhaps I wanted the honour of your company?”

You scoff, ignoring the outstretched cup as you stand.

“You’re leaving?” he says quickly, his expression suddenly alert.

You ignore him again and move to reopen the shutters, letting some of that cool night air return to the room before you both start to swelter.

Then instead of sitting down, you inch towards his bookcases of which there are four, all lined up in a row against one wall and all bursting with books just as the queens were.

If Aemond wasn’t here, you could enjoy this so much more. Not just the act of rifling through his shelves, but the room itself, which is so orderly yet comfortable, and has so many perches on which to devour the hours upon hours of unread words.

Instead, you look back at him and wonder if he always reads on the chaise. Or if, like you, he enjoys curling up in bed by the light of a solitary candle.

Then, knowing you really shouldn’t look at the bed when you’ve already caught his eye, your attention moves there anyway.

The sheets are pulled tight, the huge swags of heavy curtains tied to the thick posts with tasselled ropes, and a candle does sit by the pillow, worn down to the wick but with a neat row of replacements waiting in the wings.

When you look back at Aemond, he’s relaxed deeper into the chaise, but he’s still watching you with what looks like fascination, as though the door to his room is never opened for other ladies.

Perhaps only his family and his servants ever step inside these walls. Perhaps he even wants you to rifle through his belongings so he can look at them with fresh eyes, but you were only here to give him the remedy then leave. Not delve into the depths of his room with a hundred different questions.

For the art above the fire, for the book he was reading when you arrived, for the small wooden box which sits on the shelf just within your reach, its clasp begging to be flicked open.

Instead, you knit your hands together and say, “you should not toy with my sister if you have no wish to pursue her.”

Aemond frowns, slowly licking his tongue across his lip, the wine swirling in his cup. “What makes you think I have no wish to pursue her?”

His question takes you by surprise, and you suppose you don’t really know what Aemond wants. “ Do you?” you ask.

His instant reaction is a disparaging little snort which is so soft you can barely hear it, but it bothers you just the same.

“I merely asked for the lady's favour, not her hand,” he points out as though his actions were completely innocent.

“I think even his grace must realise the significance of a favour,” you say, knowing fine well that he has your handkerchief tucked neatly away someplace.

“Is that why you gave yours to the Lord of Deepwood Motte ?” His says and you wonder if he intends for the question to sound so accusatory. Or for every syllable of Deepwood Motte to drip with so much distain that you could believe it to be the worst place in the entire kingdom.

“A lady hardly has a choice in the matter of who she gives her favour to, but you chose Maris, and if you did so without any intentions then you’re being terribly unfair.”

He sits up straighter in his seat though you can tell the sudden movement pains him. “Your sisters only intention is for the crown and the glory of the Targaryen name. Is that fair?”

If he wants you to pity his position, you don’t, and your temper bristles, "and why else would she want you? Certainly not for your arrogance or contempt.”

“ My contempt?” he laughs, “I’ve seen no greater contempt than the contempt you have shown for your prince.”

You scoff, “then I fear his grace has only met liars.”

“ That we can agree on,” he says, holding his cup up in cheers but he isn't waiting for you to meet it. He takes a long drink before he continues.

“Who, but the indomitable Lady Baratheon, could ever say what they really think to the Targaryen who rides the biggest dragon in the world? I can count on one hand the amount of people who would dare to tell me ‘no’.”

You frown, a little confused. Most men craved the opposite of ‘no’, wanting submission and complete dominion over everything and everyone. “Is that truly what you want? For people to refuse you?”

Aemond laughs bitterly, “sometimes. Yes .”

That was no problem where you were concerned, so you smile, moving to pick up your cup of wine and raise it in the same way he did, “then I shall promise to always disagree with everything you say.”

“Then our friendship shall remain the same,” he touches his cup to yours and finishes the remainder of the wine.

“We are not friends.”

He sighs, the empty cup resting on his knee as though this was one of the times he did not wish to be refused.

"Play with me,” he says after a while, nodding towards the Cyvasse board by the fire.

You narrow your eyes, “ no .”

Aemond’s head tilts thoughtfully, reconsidering his approach with the hint of mischief, “then don’t play with me… I can think of nothing I would dislike more.”

You try not to smile but you smile anyway, rolling your eyes as you move towards the board.

You choose the seat closest to the warmth since the shutters really do let in the cold, while Aemond picks himself up from the chaise carefully, clenching his hand to his chest as though every movement is a spike of pain.

“That must hurt terribly,” you say, watching as he eases himself into the seat across from you.

“It does,” he concedes, though he’s still trying his best to make it seem like it doesn’t.

“Good. ”

His laugh is breathy, made up of half amusement, half jolt of pain, “careful Lady Baratheon or I’ll start to believe you truly don’t like me very much.”

Your meet his eye, “you’re only starting to believe that now? And I thought his grace was a scholar?”

He restrains another laugh, arranging his own Cyvasse pieces. “So, you think it my fault I found you bathing without a stitch of clothing to cover your modesty?”

You huff, “I think it your fault you looked.”

“I only half looked,” he says, meeting your eye with a devilish smirk and, though you want to laugh, you bite your cheek.

“Well, you should not have looked at all,” you scold when you’ve managed to swallow your amusement, but your tone is far too light to sound truly upset. “And that is not the only reason I find you completely repugnant.”

Aemond leans back in the chair, his pieces all arranged, "surely not completely repugnant?”

“Completely ,” you repeat, setting your last piece into place.

“Then please, do tell me all the reasons, what's one more wound when my lady takes such pleasure in my pain?”

You bite your lip, “I do not take pleasure in it; I merely think you deserve it.”

Aemond leans forward, “is that why I am to spend this entire evening stinking worse than the tail end of the dragon pit?”

The remedy.

You cough to cover your laughter as you pick up the little ivory Light Horse and make the first move. A move, which you were ashamed to admit, you’d already decided upon before you’d even entered the room.

Of course, you’d never say this to Aemond, but you’d thought of your game with him almost every day, playing it over, deciding upon new strategies, wanting to be more unpredictable .

Aemond moves his Spearmen, a move you’d already calculated for, but he hasn’t given up on his suggestion, “if my lady is struggling to think of a single grievance against me, perhaps she will care to offer me a compliment instead?”

You meet his eye, challenge accepted as you move your dragon.

“You ate my cake,” you say, starting off small.

Aemond snorts, pushing his piece to meet with yours, “what cake?”

“The lemon cake in my room, which happened to be my favourite, but you ate the remainder of it without any thought at all. Quite unforgiveable .”

His laughter is soft, his whole body relaxed, “then I apologise for the hurt I have caused.”

You move again, “and you also told everyone that I cannot dance, after , might I add, you said you had no wish to humiliate me.”

Aemond frowns, dismissing your claim as though it is absurd, “that's only humiliation if you care what the idiots at court think.”

“Really ? Then shall I remind his grace that he also told his mother that I cannot dance, or does he regard all the people in the Red Keep as ‘idiots’ whose opinions are far inferior to his own?”

Aemond hesitates, skirting his piece away from yours, “not all and she did not believe it.”

You chase his Trebuchet with your Dragon, “it doesn’t matter what she believed, you still said it and you're only intention was the make me look like a fool, was it not?”

This time, Aemond has no laughter, or easy apology, only the stoic expression he seems to make whenever he’s not entirely sure what to say.

“That was not my intention,” he admits eventually, blocking one prong of your advance with his Rabble while opening a line for you to capture his Catapult.

“Yet you embarrassed me just the same and, even if I didn’t care what people think, my family do, and I do not wish to let them down or cause them any shame.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, but he looks sufficiently repentant, and you feel no need to press him for an apology.

Instead, you both play several more turns between sips of wine and the game isn’t rushed or aggressive like it was in the garden. He plays slow, giving you ample time to think despite the intensity of his attention which still seems to make your heart quicken.

“You’re letting me win,” you say as you capture another one of his pieces.

“I’m letting you play,” he replies, as though it is something entirely different and perhaps it is. Except Aemond always plays to win. He’d said so himself.

You advance on his King and there is one particular grievance which had been lingering on your tongue in all the silence.

“I know you said something to Tyland Lannister, Ser Harrold and all the others,” you admit, and the air feels denser, the crackle of the fire louder in your ears.

Aemond's ebony dragon hesitates in his hand, “what makes you think that?”

You don’t reply, you wait for him to meet your stare, giving him nothing more than a single look but it's enough for him to know you’re not playing, not with this.

The past few weeks at court had been, at times, miserable, despite how much you tried to pretend otherwise, it was not easy to be an outcast. You certainly enjoyed your own company, but nothing was truly enjoyable when it was forced instead of chosen.

“Were you in love with any of them?” he says, focusing far too much attention on the board when you find you've lost interest in the game altogether.

“That's hardly the point!” you snap, thinking of all the times you’d stood alone while people whispered and wondered.

“Isn’t it?” he meets your eye, and he’s still so calm when you feel as though you might scream, “what should it matter what I said if you did not care for them?”

"It matters to me!” you stand, your chair falling backwards with the burst of movement. “And I should very much like to know what other lies you have said to make everyone hate me.”

Aemond takes a deep breath which blows out through his nose, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the Cyvasse board, “you’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” you say, even more annoyed.

“Very well. I didn’t tell them a lie. I said I would cut off their cocks if they ever dared to touch you again.”

Despite your anger, your cheeks still heat, embarrassed by his choice of words and, for a moment, you want to think that he’s joking but you can see that he’s being entirely serious. No trace of a smile, no slither of remorse.

“And since you have no more need of suitors you can hardly hold that against me either,” he adds as though the whole thing was perfectly reasonable.

“No more need of suitors?” you demand, your voice high, incensed, “I am in every need of a suitor. The only duty I have is to marry and to marry well and I cannot marry a man who will not even speak to me.”

“I agree,” he steeples his fingers together. “You should not marry a man who is too afraid to fight for your hand.”

Then he laughs wickedly, and his eye is so dark and dangerous, “if anyone ever dared to make a threat like that against me, I would gut them where they stood.”

“And that, your grace, is just another reason for me to find you completely repugnant!”

Just as you step away from the table, the maid arrives with supper and you welcome the distraction as you hurry towards your cloak, pulling it from the peg and not bothering to even throw it over your shoulders before you leave the room.

If Aemond is attempting to follow, you have no idea. You don’t look back; your mind is spinning.

He barely even knew you when he threatened all those men.

He'd seen you twice. Once at the beach then dancing with Ser Harrold. Only two times and he’d saw fit to threaten their manhood's as though you were... what? In all honesty, you weren’t entirely sure what could ever warrant such a thing.

He was completely insane!

The sad part was, Maris would probably relish in such actions, but you could not.

Nor could you even join your family in the hall since the queen would know you’d abandoned her precious son.

So, as usual, you're alone. Throwing your cloak across the room before slumping into the chair by the fire and kicking off your shoes.

Just as you’re about to do something useful, like get ready for bed, there’s a knock on your door and you hardly dare to answer it.

Surely it can’t be Aemond and, if it is, you don’t want to see him.

But whoever it is, they don’t wait for your response and the door swings open without invitation, a maid emerging with a wooden tray and a nervous smile.

“My Lady,” she mumbles, her voice like the squeak of a baby mouse as she sits the tray on the table next to the window before scurrying away.

With a resigned sigh, you move to inspect its contents, your feet cold on the stone floor.

One large slice of lemon cake. Your favourite. And a scroll sealed with a circle of black wax which is printed with the Targaryen sigil.

You tear it open and unfurl the thick, crisp parchment, moving closer to the light of the fire.

I shall aim to be less repugnant in the

future, but only if my lady promises not

to meet me in the library tomorrow.

~Aemond

~~~

Thank you for reading! :)

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specialagentlokitty · 10 months ago

Text

Daryl x reader - take on the world together

Part 6:

Following Daryl up to the watch tower, you sat down inside while he stood by the door leading to the platform.

“The boy?” He asked.

“Human if that’s what you’re wondering, it’s why I cover him in my jacket when we’re out, and keep him close.”

Daryl nodded.

“How did you really come across him?”

“I was looking for something to eat, it was the second week of the outbreak, I was in a small town looking for sick or injured stragglers left behind, the town had already been overrun by walkers.”

You sighed, and you pulled your knees into your chest, wrapping your arms around then.

“I couldn’t find anything, so I was getting ready to leave and I walked past this house, I heard crying coming from inside, so I walked inside. I walked to the basement door, two walkers were there, looking like they’d tried to get it over with before they were bitten, and they failed, turned anyways.”

Daryl glanced at you before looking out past the prison.

“I crushed their skulls, and I broke open the door, and downstairs was the little boy, huddled in the corner crying his eyes out, he’d hurt his leg trying to reach a window to climb out of. I’d never been one for humanity, but I couldn’t leave him there like that, so I brought him with me.”

You sighed.

“Turns out the walkers I killed was his parents, they wanted this little boy to survive on his own, they left him all alone. I wasn’t going to do that, so I packed a bag with food, and some of his stuff, took a couple of hunting knives and got the hell out of dodge.”

“How’d you know the walkers didn’t like you?”

“Well, you got all these dead things eating living things but none of them coming after me? That’s pretty concrete evidence you know?”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“Why did the wounds close so quick?”

“Small wounds heal in seconds, larger ones would be minutes but without a good died I’d be looking at weeks, months even. As long as it doesn’t destroy my heart or brain I’ll always heal.”

He slowly nodded his head, sitting down in the doorway.

“What do you eat?”

“Same thing you guys do.”

He glared at you and you raised your hands.

“I’m telling the truth, I can eat anything you can providing I balance my diet. In order to be up to full strength, I need blood. We survive on human blood, but that doesn’t mean we need to kill in order to do it.”

“We? There’s more? Blood? You survive on fuckin’ blood and you expect me to just keep you around? Is that why you travel with the kid? A snack for later?!” He hissed.

You slammed your hand into the metal wall beside you, making it creek as you put a sizeable dent into it.

“Say that again I’ll take your heart out your chest…”

Daryl stared at you.

He just wanted to make sure everybody was going to be safe with you around, that spencer was safe around you.

Clearly you didn’t want to hurt Spencer, but he couldn’t be so sure about anybody else.

“I’m not going to feed on anybody, you guys have it tough as it is without being hunted down by more creatures. I go out, I find small wildlife, maybe a deer if there is one and I feed on them.”

“Why not feed in walkers, plenty of them running around.”

You scoffed a little shaking your head.

“I tried. I’d much rather drink a whole bottle of holy water than do that again, they taste like shit, like, you ever eaten rotten food? It’s basically the same. I’d have to eat before they turn, cause once they turn the disease or whatever it is destroys everything inside.”

Daryl thought about his next question for a moment.

“Can you tell if someone’s infected?”

You nodded.

“All humans are, I don’t know what it is, but since the outbreak the smell of human changed ever so slightly. No matter how you die, if the brain isn’t destroyed you come back, illness, a wound, bitten.”

You went quiet for a moment.

“I can tell if people are infected, sick with a cold or something, same with animals, can tell if they’re sick.”

“The fuck are you?”

“The original walking undead, vampire. Got no heartbeat, no blood pumping inside me, no body temperature, as cold as a corpse, don’t succumb to human illness, or wounds, or age, better senses, speed, strength. Whatever a human would need to survive this shit, I have.”

He slowly nodded, and he grabbed one of his arrows, stabbing you in the shoulder and you grabbed hold of his wrist.

You bared your fangs at him, red eyes meeting his.

He pulled the arrow out and you raised your hand to your shoulder, pulling it back to look at the blood.

“Then why’re you bleedin’?”

You placed your hand over your shoulder, feeling it already starting to heal.

“Still got blood dumbass, still falls out when I get stabbed. My body still holds blood, any I uh.. let’s just say drink, it gets absorbed into my own body, becoming my own meaning I’ll still have blood, it’s what helps me heal.”

You moved your hand from your shoulder, looking at your blood before you looked back at him, red eyes boring into his own.

You pushed yourself up, squinting a little as sun got in your eyes and you stepped back into the shade.

“The fuck is your problem now?”

“These eyes, the sunlight, they don’t really mix all that well. But you stabbed me, so I don’t really feel like relaxing.”

“Shit, if I wanted to kill you I woulda already dumbass.”

You shrugged a little, crouching down and resting your arms on your knees as you looked at him.

He never dared to turn his back on you, he wasn’t stupid, so, he kept his back on the doorframe.

You kept away from him, not wanting to risk your own life because one wrong move would be all it takes for him to kill you no hesitation.

You saw his gaze fixed outside and you placed your hands on your knees, pushing yourself up.

“What is it?” You asked.

“They’re pushing the fence again.”

Daryl stepped outside and you followed him, hand just above you eyes as you scanned over the walkers.

“You got another trick for this shit?”

You walked around, checking the other fences.

“It’s the smell, all these humans in one area, warm bodies, still alive, that’s what’s bringing them here. You could leave a walkers along the fence, dead ones but that would bring a smell.”

You ran a hand through your hair, and you glanced at him.

“I might be able to scatter some of my own blood, but with that many of you guys in there I just don’t think it’ll work all that ways. I can put some on a few trees.”

“The fuckin’ good is that gonna do?”

“Confused some hopefully, any that come straggling will smell me first, think it’s me and hopefully stay away. I need to know what time the guard changes though, I can go out, but only when I know it’s safe to come and go.”

“You think that’s gonna make me trust you dead ass?”

You shook your head.

“No, but Spencer is here. He’s happy, I want him to be safe. He asked me to help, I’ll help.”

“If he asked you to kill us?”

“If he had a good reason to, then I would kill you without hesitation. I will kill anybody who dares to put him in harms way, don’t mistake this for kindness Daryl, it’s not safe anywhere, he needs food, he needs water, he needs a shelter. That’s all.”

“You really takin’ orders for a kid?” He scoffed.

You said nothing and he shrugged a little bit.

“Fine, do it. I’m on watch tonight.”

You nodded, and you quickly left the watch tower, jogging back up the path to the courtyard.

Jogging up to the gate, you waited for it to open and you looked around.

“He’s inside with my dad.”

You nodded at Carl and made your way inside.

Walking into the cell block, you tried to find the man, and you looked up to the second floor to see him walking out of your cell with Spencer in his arms.

You took the stairs two at a time, and you stopped in front of him.

“He went to sleep, I think he had a nightmare or something he won’t say.”

“Spence?” You asked softly.

You placed your hand on his shoulder, and he spun around, tears on his face.

“Hey buddy, what’s with the tears?”

“You’re okay!”

He flung himself into your arms and you laughed softly, holding him closely, running a hand up and down his back.

“Of course I’m okay, nothings gonna happen to me, alright?”

He sniffled a little bit and nodded his head, and you smiled a little at Rick.

“Thank you…”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, moving past you.

For the rest of the day Spencer stuck closely to your side, and you waited for him to fall asleep before leaving the cell.

Jumping over the gate, you made your way to the bottom of the watch tower where Daryl was waiting for you.

I’ll take out as many as I can while I’m out there, but I’ll focus on creating a diversion.”

He nodded his head, handing you your knife.

“Show me how you get in and out.”

You nodded, gesturing for him to follow you, the pair of you jogging down the path to where two fences meet.

Putting the knife in your belt, you climbed part way up the fence, then you jumped to the next one, jumping over the barbed wire and you landed on your feet.

“Well shit…” he whispered.

“Would be easier if I could break the wire but security and all that, go back to the tower, I’ll come up when I’m done.”

“One wrong move.” He warned.

“Yeah yeah you’ll kill me good and proper.”

“Damn straight.”

You turned around to begin your work.

With the cover of darkness you had the ability to used your full speed, strength, whatever you could in order to get everything done.

You killed walkers, disposed the bodies as far as you could, scattering your blood along street and the top of some of the fences so they couldn’t see it.

You did some hunting, killing a few small animals so you could eat to regain some of the energy you were using.

You also found some scrap metal and brought it over, using it to fill some of the gaps in the fences, crushing them together.

When you were finished you jumped back over the fence, running to the watchtower before climbing up.

Daryl was stood at the top waiting for you.

“I’ve done what I can for now, and covered a few small gaps in the fence.”

He nodded his head.

“They’re going to ask about it.”

“Not my issue, it’s safe, all I care about. What did you see out there?”

“Not much, a few walkers, couple of animals, too many trees to be able to see properly and I was too busy with other shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You walked over to the outside of the watchtower, slowly looking around.

For a human it was dark, and they wouldn’t be able to see much but you could see a lot more, you could see a few walkers wondering away, some a little curious but not wanting to come to close.

“It seems to be working.”

“Looks like it, guess you earned your keep for a while.”

You both went quiet for a few minutes, despite your efforts a few walkers could still smell the others inside.

“I don’t think it’s going to last for long, I’ll have to keep going out every few nights to kill them.”

“Don’t know why you’re telling me.”

“You’re the only one that knows, I want to keep it that way, I’ll need to match my time outside with your watches.”

“Oh hell nah, not a fuckin’ chance.”

You turned around.

“Daryl remember our deal, anybody else finds out I’m gone, you’re on your own. I can get to places you can’t, move faster, and move among the walkers. You. Need. Me.”

He grabbed you by the shirt, holding you over the edge of the tower, your cold hand gripped his wrist.

“We don’t need shit from a bitch like you…” he snarled.

“I could easily throw you off this building and to them walkers… nobody would ever find your body…”

“They’ll throw you and the boy out…”

You sneered, loosening your grip on his wrist and you help up your hands.

“Doesn’t change the fact I need to work on your watches…”

Daryl turned you around and threw you inside the tower.

“Fine, I don’t give a shit. Just get the fuck away from me.”

“No problem jackass.”

You left the tower, slowly making your way back towards the cell block, trying to contain your anger

#the walking dead imagine #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead x y/n #twd #twd imagine #twd x reader #twd x you #twd x y/n #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon #Daryl Dixon x you

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blametheeditor · 4 months ago

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Day 26 | Bumbling

Gt July Prompt List

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When stranded on an uncharted underwater planet, alone and surrounded by hostile lifeforms, there are only two possible outcomes: adapt and survive, or die trying.

Spoilers: For the game Subnautica

Content Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of death and violence. Mentions of drowning and suffocation. Referring to someone as 'it'. Mentions of dehumanization, experimenting on people. Lapses in memory. Being held against someone's will. Mentions of diseases and infections. Darker themes.

________________________

Mike missed being able to fit into habitats.

That was one of the first things he thought after he found one on the island he claimed for himself. The second thought was realizing the first one shouldn’t have been possible.

But there it was! Sitting on the beach. Newly built and looking like the owner wasn’t around.

It had been forever since he so much as thought about humans. Kind of hard to when he was the only one left on planet 4546B, and even then that was only by a technicality. He was human, but he also wasn’t. Hadn’t been for a long time. Hense the comment of missing being able to go into habitats.

The weird part is the fact it’s hard for him to remember anything past that, as well as specifics. He knows he was small enough to explore the island without issue, but he can’t remember doing it. He can draw a map of how the cave system winds and twists, but there’s no memory telling him how he learned that kind of information.

He can hear a voice saying his name, scolding him for not listening. But he doesn’t know who’s it is, and why it was important.

Well, he didn’t, until Vincent started to talk about William.

Mike blinks, and suddenly he’s staring up at a massive sea creature ramming itself into tempered glass that’s almost impossible to break. Watches the long transparent tail glowing blue get coiled up to make enough space in the tank for it to comfortably lie on the floor. Sees the chest heaving and a shiver travel up its body.

A hand suddenly settles on his shoulder. He turns his head and looks up to return a smile with someone who has black hair and blue eyes identical to his own.

“Isn’t it amazing?” William asks.

“I never knew it’d be so big,” Mike murmurs.

“That’s why you never go into the water,” his father says, giving a look that said he knew the teenager hasn’t been completely listening to that particular rule. He never goes into the ocean, but he doesn’t mind getting his feet wet while exploring the caves. “This isn’t even the biggest leviathan out there.”

“There’s bigger one’s? Can I see?”

William rolls his eyes, ruffling Mike’s hair to elicit a squawk. “Not if I can help it.”

Mike blinks again. Finds himself standing in a dark hallway, his back pressed against cold metal. To his left, nothing but darkness until the wall start to glow an eerie green. To his right, someone standing over a desk with multiple vials of liquid.

He waits for his father to sit down again before silently slipping around the corner, running past multiple archways until he finds the containment room. Grins at the sight of the ghost leviathan coiled at the bottom of the tank.

He jogs over toward a ladder, carefully climbing up one step at a time. Constantly checking to see if the massive creature will decide to ram into the tank again, or if his father will walk in and yell at him.

Neither happens. He gets to the top and proceeds to toss ten fish through a small opening after retrieving them from his pack. Quickly puts the bag around his shoulders and hands on tight.

He expected the leviathan to be startled by suddenly having fish land on its head. He hadn’t expected it to only stare at him rather than roar and try to attack him.

Mike hesitates. Lifts one hand to give a small wave. “Hi?”

It lunges toward him with a roar.

Mike blinks. Stumbles as he tries to keep up with long strides, a hand gripping his arm keeps him from falling as he’s forced to keep moving. He can only look up so a second to see the unbridled anger on William’s face. Then he has to watch his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip again.

“What were you thinking?” his father demands.

Mike’s carefully released so he doesn’t trip, but there’s no denying the fact William’s absolutely furious. “I wasn’t.”

“Do you have any idea what you did?” the tall man snaps. “You corrupted all of my research. Now I have to restart from square one. Get a new leviathan. This put me back a year. Time we don’t have, Michael.”

Mike looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies mean nothing if you’re intent on being nothing but a bumbling fool.”

Mike blinks. Has to blink again for the words in front of him to focus. When they do, he’s greeted with data regarding a reaper leviathan, a ghost leviathan, and a sea dragon leviathan. Notes he took himself have been written in the margins, with a few words in his father’s handwriting complimenting them and giving advice.

His hand twitches, and he carefully flexes it as the rubber glove around it rubs painfully against his skin. It would feel worse if he wasn’t wearing it, though. He learned that the hard way.

Before he can turn back to scribbling down information, a hand is gently placed over his own. “Has it gotten worse?”

Mike shakes his head. “It just hurts.”

William offers his palm. “Can I see?”

Obediently he carefully takes off the glove, hissing through his teeth as air hits the small green cysts. Lets his hand be gingerly taken as his father looks them over.

His question of how long until it gets worse is cut off by a leviathan trying to break the tempered glass.

Mike blinks again. He’s lying on a table. There’s a machine above him. William stares down at him with an unreadable expression.

“Leviathans aren’t effected by the Kharra like we are.”

Instead of sounding like a thoughtful observation, it’s spoken like a promise.

“I won’t be here when you wake up.”

He can’t move a single muscle, can’t ask his father why.

“I'm sorry.”

“What do you know about the disease?”

Mike blinks until the world comes back into focus. Sends a grin over at Vincent’s concerned look. Ignores David’s staring at him with narrowed eyes. Looks down at the three tiny forms behind glass. Doesn’t notice the memories leaving as quickly as they came.

He raises an eyebrow as he finally becomes aware he’s the center of attention. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you,” Scott begins as his brow furrows. He didn’t miss too much, did he? “Vincent only knows that’s what was trying to be cured. What can you tell us about it?”

”It’s in the water, part of the ecosystem. It will speed up the process of infection while hindering its progress.”

“It’s in the water,” Mike recites. “Part of the ecosystem. Everything here can get infected, but the inhabitants have natural immunities.”

Scott stares up at him, surprised. Now it’s guessing game whether that’s because the man wasn’t expecting such a thorough response, or he didn’t think Mike would be happy to share what he knows. “How do you know that?”

Damn it, he thought it was the second one. “I don’t know, I just do.”

“What do you mean you just know?” David demands, and naming the reaper a douche bag within a few minutes is by far Mike’s proudest accomplishment. Befriending Jeremy is right behind it. “That isn’t something that’s just common knowledge.”

“I mean I just know,” Mike shrugs. “Like I know you’re a reaper leviathan and Vincent’s a ghost. I know the Kharaa disease slowly infects and it’s only a concern when there’s green cysts on your body. I know leviathans are too big for the disease to affect them the way it does humans. I don’t remember how I learned shit, though, I just know.”

“L-L-Like how you knew where the caves led out to,” Jeremy chimes in. Jumps when he spots Mike watching him before looking down at his hands. “You knew, but you c-couldn't say how you knew.”

There’s a reaper on the cliffside that could spot him if he swam out too far.

“Exactly,” Mike agrees, glad his best friend has been paying attention. Vincent’s known him for years and the ghost still gets surprised when he gives random factoids. “Just like that. But for almost everything.”

David stares at him, unimpressed. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“He was artificially made into a leviathan. It’d be fair to say he doesn’t remember everything,” Vincent muses, failing to hide just how tense he is. “You’d be surprised the amount of times I had to remind him crashfish explode.”

That’s not entirely true. Mike remembers they explode, he just forgets they’re in caves. It just seems like he’s unaware of the consequences when he blindly sticks his hand into the rocks to grab a peeper trying to escape him. And now he’s been betrayed because he’s explained the difference to Vincent multiple times, yet here the ghost is spreading false accounts.

“Is that everything you know?” Scott asks before he can defend his good name. “The Kharaa, is there a cure for it?”

”I’m sorry.”

Mike shakes his head. “We thought a leviathan would have a nullifying chemical that could be used, but we never found it.”

Vincent stares at him. “We?”

We, we...why did he say we? It felt right, but it also didn’t. Like that was instinct. A truth in technicality but not spirit.

Why did he say we? “I’m sorry, Vincent, I-”

“Don’t hurt yourself by thinking too hard,” the ghost rumbles. His hackles don’t lower, but he no longer looks betrayed, like Mike just stabbed him through the heart. Gives a halfhearted smile to say he’s not upset, just on edge. “I don’t want to drag you to the beach again.”

He actually forgot about that. The time he tried to tell Vincent something after they were talking about sea dragons. When they got into an argument on whether it’s sea dragon, or just dragon. And right as he was giving up, he remembered.

Remembered, and then from one blink and the next he was waking up on the island with a panicked ghost. Was told how he fainted, and his gills stopped working. Had to drag him to the surface so he didn’t drown before lugging him to the beach. Had him promise never to scare Vincent like that again.

“I don’t know a cure,” Mike repeats. Doesn’t try and force a fragment of a memory to appear, but he’s ready to catch one if it passes by.

Scott nods once. “Mind if we scan you?”

Mike grins. “Fuck no, is Fritz the one doing it?”

“Why do you want Fritz to?” David growls.

Because he wants to poke someone. Hold them in his hand. Keep them close so no stalker or David can ever grab them again. Marvel at the fact he was that small once upon a time.

Mike debates whether or not he should tell the truth. “Fritz let’s me poke him.”

“He what!”

“He’s really careful, David!” the human they’re fighting for pokable rights over says. Mike should’ve realized Fritz had been claimed by the reaper. “I don’t mind!”

“I mind!”

Mike quietly swims over to where the entrance into the habitat is as the two argue, lying down on the seafloor to patiently wait for someone to scan him. He really doesn’t mind a ‘look don’t touch’ rule, he’s respected the one established for Jeremy, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t mind having permission to poke.

The hatch suddenly opens, and out swims Jeremy, his absence almost completely unnoticed by the rest. From the sounds of it, even Scott’s trying to advocate that Fritz should decide whether or not he says yes or no to being grabbed.

Despite his want to satisfy his curiosity of being able to hold someone in the palm of his hand, Mike will always prefer Jeremy, rules against having his space invaded and all. Because even though he let the significantly smaller get grabbed, and there had been a kind of secret not so secret forgot to say he’s a human turned leviathan secret reveal, his best friend still trusts him.

And knows exactly what he’s thinking and attempts to give a stern glare. “One poke. And no t-t-touching my hair.”

Mike gently nudges the miniscule figure, grinning when it earns him a squeak. “Am I forgiven?”

“M-Maybe,” Jeremy murmurs as he points the scanner. Mike doesn’t move except to rest his cheek on his knuckles, watching the light move across his skin. It takes a full minute for everything to be collected. It’s long enough for him to contemplate if getting another poke in is worth getting into trouble.

“What does it say?” Scott asks once it finally finishes. He looks down to see the man and Fritz standing by the hatch. Can’t help a smirk at the sight of David glaring, meaning Mike’s allowed to poke a certain human.

“H-H-He's infected,” Jeremy begins as he looks at his tablet. “But barely. He’s also something called a warper.”

"They’re meant to keep the disease contained. If they find you, you will be transported into containment.”

“Oh,” Mike blinks. Chuckles humorlessly as he ruffles his hair. Ignores the quiet robotic voice telling him Subject 11832’s level of infection just increased to 0.10f. "About that.”

#G/t July 2024 #Day 26 | Bumbling #FNAF bois #g/t #giant #tiny #BTE writing #Subnautica AU #cw #content warning

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feathered-serpents · 2 years ago

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So. In both God of War games Atreus/Freya are coded to follow the player right? In any game with companions the companion is obviously basically glued to the player and in a lot of games (Dragon Age for example) the companions will interact with the environment as best they can, climb letters, jump over stuff, etc but if the player gets to far away they will just teleport to their location so you don’t lose a companion

In God of War this doesn’t happen. Atreus/Kratos always follow you by naturally interacting with the environment. If you climb they climb, if you jump they jump, they never teleport. That’s because God of War’s AI is so good there’s almost never a need to, they’re really good at not getting stuck or left behind

But

Sometimes. It still bugs out. and the results. Are incredibly funny

I’ve had this happen to me twice, once in the first game, once in the second game. Both only with Atreus, never lost Freya which tracks honestly

In the first game I lost Atreus in Ivaldi’s Workshop and if you don’t know what that is because you don’t play GOW but still read the posts I make about it (I love you) Ivaldi’s workshop is an ever changing labyrinth filled with saw-style booby traps consisting of death propellers or 20 foot saw blades or classic “just fucking squish’em” the ceiling falls down traps AS WELL AS thick ass fog that makes it so you can’t fucking see and also it’s POISONOUS so if you stand in it for too long you straight up die and I have lost my kid in it

And suddenly I went from playing God of War to playing a “Lost my kid in the mall” simulator except the mall is a death trap filled with toxic fumes and ever changing walls aka any suburban mall. I am walking down all these halls trying to find this dumbass and the only thing I have to go on is sometimes I can hear his voice distantly through the mist. Far away. He’ll just say something and I’ll walk in that direction and he won’t be there. It was hell. It literally sounds like Kratos’ hell. I never found him I had to reset the checkpoint

The second time I’ve already talked about but it was awhile ago and it’s still one of the funniest things that ever happened to me in a game so I’m talking about it again.

I was doing Surtr’s trials and was getting to the last six (?) trials at the very end. If you’ve done these, you know if you do all of them in one go rather than leaving and coming back you get REALLY methodical at it. Arena one, arena two, main arena. Arena one, arena two, main arena. Again and again and again

The thing is, at the start of each of these fights the arena gates slam shut. Which makes sense since it’s supposed to be an arena. Arenas have gates and they’re usually shut. Well. I managed to move from arena two to the main arena so quickly that Atreus didn’t have time to get out of the first arena and got locked in behind the gate

I didn’t even REALIZE he wasn’t there until I tried firing arrows and nothing happened. Finally I turned around and I couldn’t see him. Then I heard a tiny, distant “Watch out father!” And got cleaved in half by a draugr. I would’ve had to restart either way several enemies you NEED Atreus with you to beat and he was in JAIL

Just the image of Atreus on his toes, locked in another arena with his face pressed against the bars screaming at the top of his lungs “FATHER!! BEHIND YOU!! HE’S BEHIND YOU!!!!!” Is the funniest thing in the world

This absolutely actually happened in my mind. Atreus thinks both are funny now, Kratos does not

#god of war #god of war: ragnarok #god of war ragnarok

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gagsolineoilrefinery · 7 months ago

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brian headcanons? pretty please

Smiles so big and wide at you yes absolutely I love that little freak

putting under a read more for convenience's sake

- I'm 100% a Bug Brian truther, that man is an insect you can't convince me otherwise, I like to think he can make weird little chittering noises and climbs up walls with his hands and feet for enrichment

- He's trans and has no last name because he didn't care enough to pick a new one so he went with none, acts all mysterious about it because he thinks it makes him look cool

- This man needs glasses so fucking badly but after a litany of "nerd" comments growing up he refuses to wear them, has attempted contacts but cant get them in his eyes for the life of him

- He would genuinely rather die than go to the factory, he does all his needed repairs on himself unless he's forced to (usually by Ben or William)

- He gets along with his co workers in, his own way when he's forced to interact with them. He does not understand how to behave "appropriately" around other people, he's my favorite rude autism icon (he is going to insult your intelligence at any given opportunity with what he sees as good intentions and does not understand why everyone hates him)

- I'm also a Bellthinker truther I think that british man should kiss that bug right on the brain dome and make him so flustered his systems soft reset

- Every time theres a meeting that he's in the second he's at the front of the room the entire mood changes because everybody knows he's gonna have a whole presentation planned thats no less than 1 hour long, and he will yell at you if you try to stand up for any reason

- I like to think living in the heart of toontown (right in the playground no less) definitely has some side effects on him, the silliness is rubbing off on him more than he realizes, most obviously things like his brain exploding comically when he starts baby raging

- Im sorry this man is absolutely a cog reddit user (coggit? idk) you can't change my mind, hes a power mod and proud of it, keeps getting talked to for using it on company time though

- He's very attatched to the Desk Jockeys but absolutely hates to admit it, I like to think its a Dr. Robotnik with Scratch and Grounder type dynamic (thinking especially like that one scene where Robotnik says "I don't even know why I bother to repair you guys, I suppose I'm too sentimental" shit like that)

- With his dynamics with the other toontown central managers, I think he actually feels very guilty about the incident that happened with Buck- but instead feigns a petty hatred for him so nobody will ask him about it and he doesn't have to admit how monumentally he fucked up

- He's on relatively chill terms with William, they're both angry big mouthed autistic people who do not know how to shut up so they mesh pretty well, I think they like to fight eachother to let off steam and then makeup immediately after, Brian isn't too fond of the whole oil leakage problem thing though because it makes a mess of his basement but he doesn't exactly hold it against him since he knows he can't help it

- When he can spare the time he loves poking around in the systems of his co workers just to see how they operate out of morbid curiosity and to see how he can make the jockeys more efficient, he's on that medic tf2 shit, not many of them let him do it though (understandably so)

- Probably went to whatever the cog equivalent of medical school was but lost his medical license after The Buck Incident™️

(And I think thats probably good for now because I am dangerously treading the line of infofumping about my AU sorry I have so many thoughts about this creature)

#sludgetalkz #answered asks #prethinker #brian ttcc #fuck it yknow what this is getting character tags. look at my thoughts boy

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riding-palominos-every-day · 8 months ago

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Finally finished a little piece I've been working on for a while called Stop Soaking The Scabs:

After Crutchie’s arrest, Jack had been ready to bail on the strike. There was no chance he was putting his boys back in danger after what had happened; half of them had already been in the Refuge, and the other half Jack prayed never saw further than the exterior wall. He’d rather die than willingly put any of them in a situation where they could end up there.

But there was finally hope. His faith in their cause had been reignited by Davey and Katherine, and his motivation was in full swing. The other newsies had been overjoyed to see him back at the lodging house, and with an upcoming rally in three days time Jack had helped with the preparations, lending his artistry to a representative sign for Manhattan, as well as several picket signs.

The evening edition was being rolled out, scabs were no doubt still selling, but the Lower Manhattan newsies stood fast in their decision. Some of the older boys went out to try and convince scabs to join the cause, whilst the rest were laying low at the lodging house. Jack doubted there were many scabbers left, now that Brooklyn had voiced their support, but he was well aware Pulitzer and Hearst both had hired strikebreakers.

Davey, Racetrack, Albert, Mush and Specs were out, everyone else was supposed to be in: Smalls, JoJo, Mike and Finch were playing cards, Buttons was patching up Ike’s vest, and most of the other boys were dozing or talking softly. Sniper and Splasher, still recovering from their injuries from the riot, were sat by the window on watch.

But Jack had noticed two more absences. Two that worried him.

“Where are Elmer and Romeo?”

A few boys mumbled vague uncertainties, glancing between each other and shrugging. Even JoJo, Elmer’s closest friend, shrugged helplessly when Jack turned to him for an answer. He saw a look of guilt flash across Splasher’s face, and without even needed to ask Jack figured they weren’t in the lodge.

He stood up, straightening his vest and putting his hat on.

“M’gonna go look for ‘em.”

“Be careful, Jack.” Smalls said, not looking up from his cards.

Jack climbed out onto the fire escape, making his way down to street level. He wracked his brains, trying to think where the kids could be. They wouldn’t be selling, so it was no use checking their usual corners. If any of the protesting boys had found them, they would’ve brought them home.

Maybe Elmer had gone to visit his siblings? But why go without telling anyone? He doubted Romeo would’ve gone with him... and he knew Romeo would rather be dead than see his family again.

They were in trouble, Jack concluded. No other explanation added up. Heart quickening, he made his way down every street with haste, hoping to find them before things got too serious.

He’d expected to find the youngest boys in trouble. Not to find them being the ones causing it.

Romeo had another boy pinned to the ground in an alley, whilst Elmer paced back and forth by the boy’s head, a newspaper bag clutched in his fist. Ripped papers littered the ground around them. Jack felt frozen, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“We told ya we ain’t sellin’ anymore!” Elmer’s voice was louder than usual, and Jack could tell he was trying to put on a tough facade, “Not until Mr. Pulitzer and Mr. Hearst stop, uh.. stop...”

“Screwin’ us around?” Romeo suggested. He readjusted his hold, pushing the scab harder against the ground. “Quit squirmin’!”

“Yeah, yeah! Til they stop screwin’ us around! So why’re you still sellin’?” Elmer emphasised his last word with a sudden kick to the boy’s shoulder. Their captive let out a squeal of pain.

“B-But I gotta feed my family!” He protested. Elmer’s eyes flashed angrily.

“And y’think the rest of us don’t?” The younger boy’s voice was steadily growing angrier, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

“I ain’t the guy to be talkin’ about feedin’ a family to.”

“We’re doin’ this so we can afford to look after ourselves and our families!” Romeo snapped, his tone colder than Jack ever thought possible for a twelve year old, “You scabs are messin’ everything up!”

And all at once, the two kids pounced. There was a shriek from the scabber, his legs kicking furiously in an attempt to get away. Jack heard a crack and felt a sick feeling in his gut; Elmer and Romeo were sweet kids, he’d never seen them act so ruthlessly violent.

“Alright, enough!” He barked, marching forward. He hauled the younger boys off the scab -careful not to grab them too tight or be rough- and knelt down. A SoHo newsie from the looks of him. His elbow was scraped and his nose bleeding; his eyes were blown wide in fear.

“Hey, hey... s’okay kid.” Jack soothed, “I’m sorry ‘bout my coworkers.”

He pulled out one of his old painting rags from his pocket, finding a clean corner before carefully dabbing at the other newsie’s bloody nose.

“Go on, get outta here.” He helped the younger boy to his feet, watching as he tore out of the alley and down the street. A sharp blow to his side made him wheel round, the next making contact with his stomach. He grabbed Elmer’s fist before he could throw another punch, and the kid let a wordless, agitated shout through gritted teeth.

“Don’t hit me.” Jack said softly.

“You messed everythin’ up-!”

“Don’t hit me, Elmer. You’re old enough to know better.”

Elmer made a few clumsy swipes at him, still making those angry little half-shouts he made when he was stressed or frustrated, but he very quickly seemed to lose heart. Jack released the boy’s hand, satisfied when Elmer let his arm drop to his side. He hated reprimanding the younger boys over anything, usually the younger kids could do no wrong in his eyes, but he had to nip this behaviour in the bud before it got his brothers in serious trouble.

Romeo’s kept his gaze fixed on the ground, fiddling with his hands. Elmer now looked on the verge of tears. Jack immediately felt his usual instinct to pull them close and soothe them, but he stood firm. He needed to figure out what had caused this.

“Naw, no tears an’ no lookin’ away.” He kept his tone firm, but was careful not to sound too angry, “You guys have got some explainin’ to do. We told you guys to stay inside, and you not only snuck out, but went to go attack some poor kid-”

“He was scabbing!” Elmer interjected shrilly. Jack raised a hand to silence him.

“-You guys attacked a kid, and at a time where the cops are more on our asses than ever. A bull catches you soakin’ some guy and you two would be joinin’ Crutchie in the Refuge.”

Jack ignored the sob caught in his throat, the pain in his chest when he thought of Crutchie.

“I already got one brother locked up, ain’t no way I’m havin’ you two taken away as well.”

Both boys had the decency to look suitably ashamed, although Jack could still see Elmer’s fists were clenched tightly.

“You wanna talk ‘bout anythin’, El?”

Any composure Elmer had kept until then suddenly exploded all at once.

“I’m angry, Jack! I’m angry at the scabbers, I’m angry at the bulls, I’m angry at the Delanceys an’ Mr. Pulitzer and Mr. Hearst and- and...” He paused to catch his breath, physically shaking with the emotion of his outburst. Jack saw his hand reach up to his head, and he swiftly -but gently- grabbed the younger boy’s fist before it made impact.

“We’s just trying to survive, and it feels like everyone’s against us.” Romeo finished.

Jack couldn’t deny it. They were right, he hated how right they were. He felt a weight against his shoulder; Elmer was slumped against him, his breathing ragged and shaky. Jack instinctively wrapped an arm around him, inviting Romeo into the hug with his free arm. He didn’t agree with what they’d done, not at all. But his kids were scared and very rightfully angry, he couldn’t stay mad with them.

They stayed there for some time, holding each other tightly and surrounded by the scabber’s ruined papers.

“C’mon, we’re goin’ home.”

Romeo seemed content to walk beside him (although he kept a death grip on Jack’s hand), but Elmer seemed to have exhausted himself. Jack hoisted him onto his hip, and Elmer instinctively wrapped his arms around his neck. They walked in silence for the first block or two, before Jack had to have another question answered.

“Splasher looked like I’d caught him with his hand in someone’s pocket when I asked where you two where. D’you tell him where you’d gone?”

“We asked him,” Romeo said, still struggling to make eye contact, “Well.. Elmer did. He said he didn’t wanna come though, said it was dangerous an’ we weren’t s’posed to.”

“And he’s damn right on both accounts.” Jack said, “Shame on you for askin’ him to go out when he’s recoverin’ from a head injury. And so’s you, in fact!” He jostled Elmer slightly, making sure the eleven year old was listening.

“No wonder you got the idea to go out soakin’ scabs, your brain’s still all rattled after that knock you took.”

Elmer made a strange little noise, halfway between tired and agitated. He’d no doubt overwhelmed himself with this little escapade, and for once Jack hoped it would be one of the times he was exhausted for the rest of the day; at least he’d stay put if he had to rest.

“We were tryin’ to help, Jack.” Romeo’s voice was very quiet, barely more than a whisper.

“I think what really happened is you kids are stressed t’your limits and don’ know how to cope. Y’knew the scabs were a problem, so you saw a chance to both get out some’a that pent-up anger and get a couple more scabs on our side.”

The silence from the younger boys was all the answer he needed. Maybe they didn’t know how to verbalise it quite that articulately, but he was fairly confident he’d hit the nail on the head. Romeo’s grip on his hand tightened a little, and he felt Elmer’s head push further into his shoulder.

Jack started humming to himself as they walked, one of the piano tunes they played at Medda’s theatre. It seemed to put the kids at ease.

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

“You found them!”

JoJo shot forward as soon as Jack entered the room, quickly scooping up Elmer and carrying him over to his bunk. Jack let him fuss for once; tensions were high enough, and the kids’ unauthorised venture had stretched everyone’s nerves to the breaking point. Romeo let go of Jack’s hand, heading for his own bunk and curling up into a ball.

“Yeah, found ‘em tryin’ to crack some kid’s head open.” Jack said, sitting beside Tommy Boy.

“Why?” Sniper asked, looking concerned.

“They say they though they were helpin’. I reckon they‘re just gettin’ overwhelmed by the whole strike. Ro said he felt like everyone’s against us.. he ain’t exactly wrong.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Tommy Boy bumped his head against Jack’s shoulder, a rare sign of affection for the younger boy. Jack paused, before wrapping his arm around Tommy’s shoulders.

The boys playing cards were hardly focused on their game anymore, tossing down and picking up cards at random. Ike was humming agitatedly, rocking back and forth, whilst Buttons kept unraveling and rewinding the same spool of thread. This latest incident had clearly unsettled everyone.

Jack glanced over to Elmer, already asleep beside JoJo. The whole idea seemed to be more his plan than Romeo’s, and that worried Jack somewhat. Elmer was usually a sweet, happy kid, but there was a lot of anger in the little guy, and he didn’t always have the healthiest ways of releasing it. He’d been in a lot of fights in the past.

“Once all’a this is over, m’gonna ask Spot if I can the kids over to Coney.” Jack announced to nobody in particular, “They need a break most outta all of us.”

There was a scattering of murmurs and grunts of agreement. Jack started running his fingers absentmindedly through Tommy Boy’s hair, suddenly feeling a swell of pride in chest. Despite everything, his boys still stuck together.

He made a mental note not to let a repeat of today happen again. At the rally, perhaps he could mention something. He doubted Elmer and Romeo’s attack was an isolated incident, and it wouldn’t do any good for newsies city-wide to be fighting amongst themselves.

He didn’t want anyone else hurt.

#this is mostly Elmer-focused inspired by discussions about him me and Emmy have had in the past #the ending peters out a bit I know I really didn't know how to finish it satisfactorily but I really just want it done #newsies #newsies fanfic #elmer newsies #romeo newsies #newsies jack kelly #raz writes

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