#so there's precedent. but like. whatever thank GOD

[kingjasnah]

kaladin having dark eyes as a herald…..like the class warfare plotline has predictably fallen apart but perhaps we got one (1) win

fully the biggest win of the entire book for me tbh. his big beautiful brown eyes.

[xcziel]

^^^ credit to this 💙gorgeous💙 pic from @moonlovingvampire for driving me back to the palettes because i love everything about it (including the moon lamp *eyes it enviously*)

under the cut, the original suggested colors -

i know it looks for "accent" shades but COME ON

all those soft subtle organic hues and it grabs ... black, and the yellow of the one light in the background? for sure they are contrasts i guess

when i see a glowing moon at twilight it definitely evokes images of ... bees??? warning signs? crime scene tape? lol

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello! I love your writing, especially the cult of the lamb stuff lately (I’m absolutely obsessed with the game) and was wondering if you could do something for Lamb with a follower! Reader that’s cynical but devoted to the cult because the lamb saved them, and how their relationship with the reader would evolve into something romantic?

Awh thank you!! This game is still an ever-present obsession ghshghs

.........

"Another gift? What's the meaning of this, Leader? Is there a reason for-?"

"Calm yourself, [y/n]. I only wanted to show my most devoted follower some appreciation."

"........."

"You can open it." Awkwardly shuffling their hooves, Lamb stood there as they watched you slowly unwrap the gift they had given you.

You wouldn't say it was "generous", considering how such an exchange is usually preceded by a favor ranging from assistance with a ritual to being forcibly converted into a demon.

It's not how most of your fellow followers would think, as they'd praise their leader for giving them presents and swear undying loyalty to them.

You're a little bit different.

After seeing that Lamb's gift was a golden plushie made in their likeness, you just frowned slightly. "It's...cute." Then you stuffed it into the pocket of your robe. "But don't think you can just woo me over with trinkets like these. If you're trying to turn me soft like the rest of your-"

"There is no ulterior motive behind my nice gesture, I can assure you. And this cult isn't making anyone "soft"." They scowled back, nearly baring their sharp teeth, but managing to hold back.

"...sure. Now may I be dismissed?"

"Yes. You may go back to whatever you're doing."

Huffing, you left for your sheltered home, leaving Lamb to reflect on why your attitude was so....foul today. But then again, they remembered a very important trait of yours that a few followers shared with you:

Cynicism.

Right from the start, your faith in this cult was low. And your loyalties weren't so easily boosted by gifts, confessions, decorations, and sermons...and yet despite your pessimistic ways of thinking, you've yet to actually dissent.

Dissenters usually began with the most cynical of followers, but you never acted like you hated Lamb themselves nor the way they run things here.

In fact, it's true you're the most devoted. You've gone to every sermon, assisted with rituals when needed, and even guided the young on the ways of this cult and aided the elderly.

You were everything Lamb wanted...

The only issue was your attitude towards their kindness.

But after a little bit of mindreading, they were aware that you've been in a different cult long before this one.

Your former leader had also done nice things for you, providing the basic necessities you've craved....all to make you gullible and willing to follow their every word.

Then they betrayed you to the Bishops of the Old Faith without a warning. You've done no wrong and never spoke out against anything they've done.

You never mattered to them. You were just a means to an end. A tool to help strengthen their cult and appease those "gods".

So even after Lamb saved you from the sacrificial altar, that bitterness and fear lingered. You were hesitant to let your guard down....especially when you became showered in gifts as thanks for your devotion.

In the back of your mind, you anticipated when they'd betray you when you least expected it--or perhaps they'd listen to the ludicrous idea of sacrificing or jailing you as some sick "prank" by another follower just to entertain them.

Surely, you were all just tools and entertainment to this sheep, right?

Yet there was a big part of you that didn't want to believe that..

You wanted to believe they were genuine in their gestures.

..........

"The Lamb has abandoned you all!! They are no hero!! They will fall to Bishop Shamura!!!"

"...really? It's too early for this crap.."

After going to bed feeling somewhat content, you woke up feeling groggy and annoyed as you heard some dissenter shouting nonsense outside. You drew back your shelter's curtain to see Hauras stationing himself near the shrine, holding a megaphone made of twigs.

Normally, the elders would be doing their morning prayers at the center, but with the scorpion being an absolute nuisance and a danger...they had no choice but to pray elsewhere.

It's no surprise that he was gonna be sour over his defeat and subsequent indoctrination for a long time, as he was the last of Shamura's keepers.

Speaking of whom, Lamb was still on their long crusade to finally kill the last standing bishop for good.

Even so, that pest thought demoralizing the cult's faith in them would be effective. But you weren't going to listen to this all damn morning.

And besides, your leader has tasked you with collecting lumbar as some new trees have recently sprouted. You've chopped them all down.....except for the one Hauras was standing right beside.

Lucky you.

Rolling your eyes, you just went ahead to make yourself breakfast, eating as you watched the other followers closely. A few of the overzealous ones shrugged off his words and continued on with their day, although some of the newer members looked confused and even anxious, thinking he was right about Lamb.

At that point, he began drawing a small crowd, but as you finally approached with an axe, they dispersed.

Hauras sneered, eyes literally seething red. "What do you want?"

"I wish you would take your little tirade elsewhere so our elders to pray here. Plus I need to chop down the-."

"You're [y/n], aren't you? The one who always second-guesses Lamb's "kindness"?" He chittered with a small smirk. "I've seen how you've acted around them...you hate them, don't you?"

"I don't hate them." You scowled. "They saved-"

"Sure, they saved you...but only because you're a means to an end." He taunted. "You don't have to lie around me. You think they're selfish..greedy..and no different from the Bishops of the Old Faith. They seek to replace them, but they won't replace Lord Shamura. I may have failed, but I know they-"

Fed up, you swiped the megaphone from his pinchers, throwing it towards a nearby boulder and smashing it to pieces.

He gasped. "How DARE YOU-?!!" After trying to whip his tail at you in retaliation, you dodged and managed to trip him, causing him to hit the ground hard as he laid on his back, groaning.

Then you stomped on his tail, hearing his pained yell that attracted the attention of other nearby followers. You, however, paid no mind to them. "You talk too much."

"R-Release me!!"

"I can....but first tell me one thing, Hauras."

"...what?"

"How badly do you need this stinger?"

His eyes widened with terror as he saw the blade of your axe glistening in the morning sunlight, hovering dangerously close to where his stinger connected to the tip of his tail.

"N-No.." He shuddered. "You wouldn't dare.."

"Then maybe I ought to tell Lamb you're singing praises about Shamura...and we'll see if it's more than just your stinger that you lose." You had a menacing glint in your eyes.

"Please..they would never-!!"

"[Y/n]. Hauras."

You both froze and looked to see Lamb suddenly standing there, their expression full of bewilderment at what was happening before them.

The moment you took your foot off of Hauras' tail, he scrambled to his feet and ran over to them. "Great Leader! They threatened to rip out my stinger!" He kneeled down, feigning tears. "You must punish them! They are-!"

"I've heard everything, Hauras." They cut him off, giving him a stern glare. "You're dissenting again, threatening our elders, and I'm honestly getting quite sick of it. But don't worry about defending Shamura anymore...for I've claimed their heart."

From the pockets of their cloak, they revealed the purplish thorn-wrapped organ, surprising both of you.

The scorpion, however, got up and scurried away to vomit somewhere, utterly repulsed by the sight and smell of blood.

It's clear to say he wasn't going to dissent anymore.

You scoffed. "That was one of Shamura's finest warriors, capable of melting his enemies from the inside out....and he gets disgusted by that?"

"It surprised me, too." Lamb glanced at you, smiling a little as they put the heart away. "I appreciate you defending me in my absence-"

"He was trying to put words in my mouth, and I didn't like that." You quickly spoke, trying to hide your flustered expression. "Like all scorpions, he was being a little pest...and this cult has no time for that."

"...that is true. The One Who Waits wishes to speak with me after I've broken all the chains, but for now..allow me to help you cut down this tree." The Red Crown flew off their head, turning into a gleaming axe in their hands. "It's pretty sturdy-looking. Should give us enough lumbar to improve the shelters."

"....alright. Thanks for the assist, Leader." Was all you said before heading over to the tree, while they hung back for a moment to process what you said to them.

A simple thank you.

That was all they've been wanting to hear from you for a long time, and you said it! To them!

It made their smile grow tenfold, before they quickened their pace in following you, ignoring the calls of their other followers. They could feel their own tail wagging with delight.

Were you finally warming up to them?

............

"Come dance with me, [y/n]!"

"...I don't dance."

"In this cult, we do. Now c'monnn.." Lamb tugged on your hands, pouting much like a needy child as you rolled your eyes.

Who would have thought someone with such a sweet face would change the lands of the Old Faith forever?

At last, they usurped the One Who Wait--or Narinder, as he was called--proving themselves worthy of the crown that many, yourself included, believed they didn't deserve.

Although you were still shaken up after being kidnapped and almost sacrificed to him (alongside the entire cult)...you saw that terrified look upon your leader's face, and realized there's no way they could have known..

Narinder had tricked all of you, and Lamb fought back not just for their own life, but for everyone's as well.

Especially yours.

That's what ultimately restored your faith in them.

Once everything was said and done, a huge celebration commenced--and lasted for three whole days.

Tonight, for the grand finale, Lamb wished to have a dance around the bonfire. You and your followers worked hard to gather as much wood as possible, before they ignited it at sundown.

It was a beautiful sight, seeing the red flames flickering and the smoke rising high into the night sky, lighting up the cult grounds and golden decor. And seeing the followers cheer, dance, sing, and play music was a lovely thing to witness.

You, however, felt content with just observing the scene..

Or at least, until a certain sheep approached and offered you a dance.

So maybe they did find a way into your heart after all, but you insisted on entertaining them with only one short dance. Just so they stopped pestering you.

Yet it lasted longer than you thought.

Together you two shuffled, twirled, and swayed..all while some other followers took inspiration and danced with their significant others and crushes.

Yet all you could focus on was Lamb and their surprisingly elegant motions.

Nothing else.

Eventually, you both settled into a slow and gentle sway, embracing each other with them burying their face into your chest, listening to your heartbeat. The blush on your cheeks was nearly as red as your robe at this point.

But you took in this peaceful and intimate moment, your hand gingerly stroking the back of their wooly head. The Red Crown was absent, instead being on the ground beside your feet, looking up at you.

For a brief second, you gazed at it, your blush worsening as it gave you a single wink. 'Huh..they're comfortable enough to leave it off in my presence..? They trust me this much?'

"Is it wise to leave your precious crown where any fool can just steal it, Lamb?"

"Why? You fancy stealing it yourself, hm?" They looked up at you with a teasing smile. "You're the most precious thing to me..the crown is just a tool at the end of the day."

"Like all the followers you work to th...."

You stopped.

It suddenly just occurred to you that they called you "precious". But why?

Were they infatuated with you?

Were you infatuated with them?

Lamb tilted their head. "What's wrong, [y/n]?"

You only gazed back at them, at first completely tongue-tied as you saw the curious glint in their eyes, alongside the red fire that reflected off of them.

It made your heart beat fast. Heat rose to your cheeks again...and it wasn't because of the flames.

That's all it took for the final wall to crumble.

You sighed quietly, relaxing your shoulders as you offered them a tiny smile. "Nothing, my dear leader. For the first time since you've saved me, I feel...at peace being here with you. This place, and you, make me feel....safe."

Lamb nearly teared up at your words. "I'm glad. Would you like to be-?"

"Yes."

Their ears perked up with surprise. Now it was their turn to blush as scarlet covered their gray cheeks. "You...knew what I was going to say?"

"You're not the only mind-reader around here, Lamb." You chuckled at their cuteness. "If it's alright, I'd rather...take it slow. No rush to do a marriage ritual."

That took a big weight off their shoulders.

You understood what they wanted the most. You've always understood them better than anyone. Even Narinder himself.

They were so elated they couldn't help but pull you into a kiss, not minding all the followers gasping and cooing at the intimate display.

None of them mattered, though.

Only you two.

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part three

authors note: hi! its me again. i had some free time and most of this chapter was completed, sans gaps and editing, so i figured why not?

thank you everyone for all of the kind words, like im still so floored just how many people like the random shit that comes from my head!!!

also, some tags don't seem to work for some reason, like when i type it, the hyperlink doesn't appear so super sorry to those impacted by that!!!

warnings: angsttttt, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny’s child

word count: 4.2k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wonderingfashion

You were sixteen years old the first time you drank alcohol. Truly, a result of peer pressure. Alcohol never seemed as amazing as your friends tried to preach it to be, not with the amount of hair you’d held back while your friends retched their entire days consumption in toilet bowls. 

Just didn’t seem all that appealing.

And then it was homecoming, and your school won the game, qualifying them for state. The whole town was in celebration, but no one was as lit as the football team. And, of course, dating the quarterback at the time and as cheer captain, your presence was damn near a requirement. High school politics and all.

So, you, Amir, and your closest friends spent the night house hopping, partying at one place for a little while before moving on to the next. And at some point, at some stop, you’d been convinced to try a beer. Honestly, it was disgusting as fuck, but a small part of you didn’t want to be the one prude of your group, so you downed it. And then another. Followed by another. Which preceded one more. 

And by the end of the night, you truly were white girl wasted.

You thank God that you had good friends at the time who made sure you made it home safely, because you absolutely did black out. Amir did too, hence him not being the one responsible for your care.

When you woke up that morning, the first thing you did was dart to the bathroom where you emptied your guts. The second? Panic. You were terrified of your mother finding out that not only had you engaged in underage drinking, literally violating the damn law, but you’d gotten so wasted that you blacked out. It was incredibly stupid and highly dangerous. Your chest tightened and stomach coiled at how she would react if and when she realized what you’d done.

That was the most scared and nervous you’ve ever been in your entire life.

Well, up until now.

Because all you can focus, think, and obsess about is the fact that Joe will be in your state, in your town, in your damn apartment in a matter of hours. He’d text you in the middle of the night a screenshot of his flight information indicating an arrival time much earlier than you were hoping for. 

Dread swept over as you sent him a message asking if he would stay at the same hotel he usually used when visiting, not that it got much use. He typically stayed with you during his visits. But, you offered to meet him there instead, feeling more comfortable if you were out of this setting, not in your apartment that had some type of reminder of Callie in damn near every room.

It took longer than you liked for him to respond, and his answer only served to increase your anxiety and trigger some anger.

No. I’m coming to you.

That was it, no explanation to your follow up texts which you know he read cause bastard had his read receipts on. Just radio silence.

That pissed you off even more, because why the hell was he ignoring you? Wasn’t he about to come talk to you about something anyway?

Oh.

Your stomach tightens. Not knowing what the hell he wants is driving you insane. You know why you reached out to him, but why did he seem so keen on speaking to you? It’d been nearly five years, what could have happened to trigger this sudden desire to reconnect?

And why the hell did he respond so quickly to your initial message? Truthfully, you expected no response whatever, convinced that he’d probably changed numbers after his massive increase in fame. Or, for him to at least hit you with the ‘who is this’? But, he didn’t, he called you and immediately knew who you were.

A tiny gasp leaves your mouth. That must have meant he still had your number saved, the same way you still have his in your contact list.

You….you don’t know what to make of that, don’t know what to make of it at all.

“Mommy, why am I spending the night with Aunt Mariah?”

Callie’s soft voice temporarily eases you from your panic, granted it also makes you aware of how she’s clearly unhappy about this. You know why too. Sundays are always your ‘special days,’ where you spend the entire day together doing the most random of things from baking, to playing game, to random dance parties that sometimes result in neighbors politely asking you to keep the noise down. It’s a tradition, and this is the first time since starting said tradition that it won’t be happening. 

Closing up her drawer where you were just digging for some pajamas for her, you move to sit next to her on her bed. Her head is down as she plays with the stuffed animal in her arms. “I’m sorry, baby. I know this is our day, but mommy just has some business she has to take care of.”

She keeps her head down, voice low. “Can’t you do it tomorrow?

Fuck. You hate disappointing her. “I wish, baby, but it can’t wait.” More like he won’t wait. You’re not sure what you would have proposed regarding a time to discuss, well, Callie, but it certainly wouldn’t have been the next damn day. “Hey, how about this? Why don’t you and I stay home tomorrow and have a special special day on Monday?”

At that, her head lifts, eyes sparkling with renewed excitement. “Really?”

“Yup. Mommy can take some time off, and you can miss a day of school. It won’t kill us.” You rarely ever take time off as it is, mostly because a teacher’s salary isn’t anything to write home about. You have to work your ass off to keep a roof over your and Callie’s head. But also….you’re not even sure what frame of mind you’re going to be in following this meeting with Joe, so better safe than sorry. “But only if we can watch The Lion King first.”

Clearly pleased with this compromise, she offers you her pink finger. “Deal!”

You two seal the deal with a pinky swear as you hold her into your side and sigh heavily. You wish that you two could stay like this forever. “I love you, Callie. Okay? Always remember that.”

________

“He’s what?”

You anxiously chew on the nasty ass protein bar Mariah offered you after you realized you’d barely had anything to eat today. It was a part of the latest dietary plan she was following, probably something she found from one of those weird ass dieting groups she was a member of on Facebook.

You loved Mariah, dearly, but as you two grew older, especially after having her baby boy, Micah, she’d become increasingly insecure about her body. Always the smaller, thinner, more athletic of the two, you knew that she struggled with how much weight she’d put on over the years, especially when her plan to drop the baby weight didn’t pan out. You're not sure she’s lost any of it, to be honest. 

It wasn’t even a massive weight gain, and truthfully, you thought curves suited her well. But, it didn’t matter what you thought. What mattered was how she felt, which wasn’t the best, despite your best efforts to build up her confidence.

“He’s coming into town,” you finally answer, debating if you should offer her the rest of this grass in bar form. Why the hell is it so damn grainy?

“Today? He’s coming into town today?” You nod. “I’m sorry, I must have missed a couple chapters.”

“More like volumes,” you murmurs, sourly. It’s a great opportunity for you to set aside the dirt bar and explain to her everything she’d missed, from Callie’s initial inquiry to your calling him, to him sending you an itinerary for a flight arriving in roughly three hours at this point.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, careful of her volume despite Micah and Callie being occupied in the living room watching Bluey. “What are you going to do? What are you going to say to him? This is….this is bad, girl.”

“You think I don’t know that?” You lay your head against her kitchen island and force yourself to take three, big, deep breaths. “I don’t think I can do this.” 

You hear her exhale. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious, Mo. I—” You lift your head and try your best not to cry. Tears won’t do anything to help the situation. “I don’t know what he wants, but it’s obvious he’s angry with me already, and I can’t imagine when I tell him about Callie that he’s gonna feel any better.”

“You think he’ll be upset?”

“Of course, he will.”

“No, not that. I mean, yeah definitely, about that. But, I mean, you know….that you kept her.” It takes a minute for you to process what she’s asking, and it’s a question you hadn’t thought about in some time.

You’d been so consumed about how upset he would probably be that you kept Callie hidden from him that you hadn’t considered the alternative. What if he was more upset she even existed in the first place?

The thought alone takes you to a dark place. Feelings of rejection and abandonment that you yourself experienced and probably haven’t fully processed. Feelings you swore with your life you’d always protect Callie from. 

And always will.

“Then he’ll continue to not be a part of her life.” Your voice is sound and resolute. Mariah also recognizes that all too familiar look of determination that fills your face. 

“But what will you tell her then?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” A motto, a mantra, an oath. You’ve hit hard times before and always pulled through. This will be no different. Whatever's needed to keep your daughter from the trauma you experienced, you’ll do. No matter what.

Mariah knows better than to try to reason with you right now, not that there’s a ton of that needed. As a mother herself, she fully understands the intrinsic desire and borderline need to protect your child. She just also knows that you can be stubborn, and when you put your mind to something, nothing and no one can change it.

She just wonders how that’s going to bode over with whatever is about to go down.

You finish off the conversation with thanking her again for her last minute availability. You know you could have asked your mom as well, but she would have had questions, questions you don’t have the answers for nor the desire to explain just what’s happening.

Hell, you don’t even fully know what’s happening. 

As the time gets closer, you realize you need to get home and straighten up. Maybe vacuum or some shit. 

“Will you call me before I go to bed?”

“Of course, I will, mama.” You push back some of her hair, hating to see her sad again. She’s wearing that pout that you just realized is similar to Joe when he scowls. Shoving that from your head, you add, “and don’t forget about our big day tomorrow.”

That seems to win you a small smile, enough to make you feel less shitty about ditching her, even if it’s completely beyond your control. “It’s gonna be so much fun!”

“You bet your butt it is, kiddo!” You bring her in for another hug, holding her close and tight. “I love you, Callie Bear.”

“I love you too, mama.” 

Callie expressing her love for you is the soundtrack in your head as you drive home and even as you move around your apartment, dusting and vacuuming. You even clean the baseboard, something you’re sure you haven’t done since you first moved in when you were 22. 

You even make the controversial decision to leave up the photos of Callie or both you and Callie together in the living room and don’t really do much to move aside the indicators that a child lives here. Like her toy bucket near the TV or pink kiddy cups lined up near the kitchen sink. 

It doesn’t make much sense to you to hide these things when the sole reason you even reached out is to make him aware of why those things are there and who they belong to. You’ve stopped letting yourself try to figure out why he wants to speak to you or why he’s upset, realizing it was only making your anxiety ten times worse to the point where you felt like you were going to vomit.

Recognizing you have some time before he arrives, you decide to take a shower that’s much longer than necessary and will probably have you upset at yourself when you get your next water bill. 

But, it’s a nice distraction. Being fresh, clean, and moisturized is always a nice pick me up. Granted, you find it almost silly as you struggle to figure out what to wear. It’s Joe. Not Beyonce. Also, your outfit should be the last thing on your mind, as you eventually settle on a graphic shirt and some shorts. 

And realizing you have nothing else to do, you plop down on the sofa and wait. Wait for whatever the hell is about to happen once you open that door. Strangely enough, your anxiety seems to be settling. Granted, you wonder if that’s being replaced with denial, because you’re also starting to tell yourself that it won’t be that bad.

It may not be, but that’s not a good hill to die on. Preferred but not reliable. 

Needing another distraction, you scroll aimlessly through your Instagram, liking a few posts of friends, family, and former classmates from both high school and college. It’s interesting seeing how everyone ventured down different paths, some homemakers, some business execs, and of course the aspiring musicians aka unemployed. 

And then there was you, the small town teacher raising her secret love child of a WWE superstar in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

Your stomach twisting and turning tells you the anxiety is returning, but it doesn’t have as much time to heighten because the doorbell rings.

He’s here.

There’s this irritating yet quiet ringing in your ears and anchor on your chest, both of which make it harder to untangle your limbs and move off the sofa. It’s like watching yourself slowly make your way to the door, the tremble in your hand noticeable as you undo the lock and start to turn the knob. 

I love you too, mama.

Callie’s sweet, reassuring voice floods into your head providing the sweet relief needed to return from dissociation and snap back to reality. Eyes shutting, you take another deep breath and carefully swing the door open.

Truth be told, you weren’t quite sure what you expected to feel upon seeing Joe again, not sure what you should feel. This was a reunion, but only in name. Nothing about him being at your doorstep was warm and inviting. That much is obvious by his stoic, unreadable facial expression, which isn’t entirely out of character. Contrary and both similar to his current heel portrayal, Joe has always been more on the quiet side, not as easy to read. More open and warm once you get to know him.

You’d found that out firsthand.

Taking in his countenance, you can’t avoid observing the rest of him. He’s somehow even bigger than the last time you saw him in person, almost taking up your doorway, rippling muscles on full display in the plain, black fitted shirt he wears. His hair is pulled back as usual, clean line up, and beard fuller than you remembered him liking it. He’s aged, obviously, but well. Very well.

Heat rising to your cheeks, you step to the side, allowing him inside. You hate how you close your eyes as you inhale his scent.

He always did smell so damn good.

The physical distractions dissipate when he’s inside, the door locked, and it’s just the two of you. 

You notice almost immediately how he seems to be intent on keeping his back toward you, playing it off by taking in your apartment. Not that much, if anything, has changed. He can’t be that damn interested. 

It was painfully clear that Joe was already frustrated with you just by his texts, but his anger is even more palpable in person, borderline suffocating. 

Just what the hell did you do to upset him so much?

Clearing your throat and crossing your arms over, you decide that someone needs to say something because this silent shit is not working for you.

But then Joe angles his body, still not looking toward you but something else. And that’s when your anxiety starts up all over again.

You watch him, intently, as he walks over to the side table near the sofa, the one that has pictures on it. 

Pictures of Callie. 

He picks one up, and you’ve never been so still in your life. It’s torture, not seeing how he’s looking, unable to read his facials, clueless to what he must be thinking. He’s quiet for too long, so you decide to bite the bullet and say something. 

“I—”

“Is she mine?”

Waves. Heavy, plunging waves of emotions splash at you with a ferocity that nearly floors you. His question, so simple, isn’t what you expected to leave his mouth. It’s posed so quietly, lowly, emotion evident but not enough for you to know which one. Anger? Sadness? Confusion?

It stumps you, and for a second, you try to convince yourself that he doesn’t mean what you deep down know what he means. 

“What–what are you talking about?”

He curses quietly, and you hear him say your name before he asks again in a dangerously calm voice, “is she mine?”

You recognize this tone, the tone he takes when he’s trying his best to tame his temper, but there’s no guarantee that he can. And that in and of itself is not a good sign, Joe rarely ever gets mad. He’s irritatingly adept at maintaining his composure in all situations. 

Except this one.

You just want to take a nap, take a break from all of this. Everything seems to be happening so fast, too fast. It wasn’t even 24 hours ago that Callie first asked about her father, and now the man is standing in front of you asking you to confirm she is his daughter. You’re so confused about everything. How could he tell so easily? You always said and thought she favored him, but did she favor him enough for him to take one look at her and know she’s his daughter?

That doesn’t even seem possible nor plausible. 

You have so many questions, but there’s no need in delaying the inevitable.

Rip the Band-Aid off.

“Yes.” 

It’s at that moment he finally decides to turn around, and you can see the moment it happens, the moment the floodgate of emotions rush through him like a tsunami. He’s shocked. He’s confused. He’s angry.

“How did you find out?” Putting the pieces together is a slow progress, but one that’s progressing nonetheless. He clearly came here with that question prepared and ready to launch. He knew about Callie, knew when you texted him, knew when he decided to call. Knew before he even walked in and saw a picture of her.

He just needed you to confirm as such. 

That seems to be the wrong question, because anger is suddenly more prominent, both vocally and physically. “You’re seriously asking me how the fuck I found out I have a daughter?” Any attempt to control his anger is out the door, replaced with visceral emotions. “No, the real question is why the fuck you didn’t tell me I have a child?”

You’re not sure what it is, the emotionality of it all, the fact that you’re face to face with the man you’ve worked so hard over the years to get over, or even just the fact that he’s speaking to you this way. Maybe all of it. Regardless, you’re not about to just take it lying down. “First of all, watch your tone. You’re not going to talk to me any kind of way. Second of all, you are married, Joe. What was I supposed to do? Send you and your wife copies of the sonogram?”

“Don't put this on that,” he dismisses, swiftly and curtly. “Jadah has nothing to do with you telling me I'm a father. Don't you think I had a fucking right to know?”

“Of course you had a right.” He did. He does. You won’t deny him that, but it’s also not as cut and dry as he’s making it out to be. “But—”

“There’s no but, Y/N!” He cuts you off, and you have to take another deep breath. This time though, it’s not to lessen anxiety. It’s to calm your own anger that’s rising. Who the hell does he think he is to speak to you this way? Like you’re some damn child. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Are you going to actually listen to me, or are you just going to keep yelling? Cause I don’t respond to disrespect, Joe. You know this.”

He actually smiles, smiles at your words. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? I’m disrespecting you? You keep my child from me, and I’m disrespecting you?” He scoffs and looks up at the ceiling, probably to settle himself. “Did you know when you ended things between us?"

The surprising questions just keep on rolling. “What?”

“I swear to God.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Did you know you were pregnant when you told me to leave? Is that why you did it? So I wouldn’t find out?”

This time, you’re the one scoffing, trying to rationalize how he could even think to ask you this. “Seriously, Joe? I told you why I ended things.”

“Yeah, well, you’re clearly not the most honest fucking person, so I don’t even know what to believe anymore.” 

You hate the fact that his words don’t further anger you but instead sadden you. You see how he’s looking at you, with a level of disdain and disgust. It’s such an unfamiliar experience, an unwanted one. “So, I’m a liar now?” It should have come out much stronger, firmer, showing him that you’re not putting up with his bullshit. Instead, it’s a damn near whisper.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads, like he doesn’t get what you’re not getting about this. “What do you call what you did?”

Your head is starting to hurt. This is going exactly how you feared it would go. 

Bad.

It’s all becoming too much, your voice weighed down with the emotions of it all. You feel like you’re on the verge of tears, and you hate that. You won’t let him see you cry. “We’re not….we’re not getting anywhere here, Joe. I think—”

“You should get a lawyer.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

He runs both hands over his face, the heaviness of this conversation clearly weighing on him as well. “We need to figure out some type of custody arrangement, and I don’t think us handling it with each other is a good idea—”

“Custody?” The room is starting to blur again, items moving wayward and sideways. The ringing in your ears is also returning. “What—you—you want to take her from me?” You need to sit down, your legs feeling like they’re ready to give out at any moment. Take her. He wants to take her from you. Unable to control yourself, you snap, “she doesn’t even know you!”

He matches your tone and volume precisely, clearly unwilling to back down. “Exactly, I’m her father, and she doesn’t know me because of you!”

You can barely believe the words coming out his mouth, incapable of processing that he’s actually standing here threatening to take your child from you. This has gone from bad to worse in a matter of seconds. “So, you think taking her away from me is the way to get to know her?”

His volume levels down a bit, and you could have sworn you saw a glimpse of sympathy. “I don’t want to take her away from you, Y/N. I just can’t trust you to not keep her away from me.”

This is disastrous. You never could you have envisioned this conversation playing out the way it is. Desperate, you move over to him, needing him to see you, to hear you, really hear you. “You’re here now, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough?” 

His answer surprises you with its austerity. He’s so angry. “No, because it took almost five fucking years for you to call me in the first damn place.”

He moves away from you, obviously headed for the door. He has nothing else to say. Your head is throbbing, vision still murky, but you manage to rush past him, obstructing his leave. “Joe….wait.”

You’ve never felt so small, so desperate, so helpless in your life. It’s reminiscent of the last conversation you had with him five years prior, that same boulder on your chest, bigger now. Much bigger. 

“Please.” You’re not even trying to hold in the tears anymore. That’s not even important. Not in the slightest. This is your child.  “Please don’t take her away from me. She’s my baby, Joe. She—she’s never even been without me before.”

He looks at you, and you can see it now. Finally see it. Finally see past all of the hurtful threats, the dismissiveness, the refusal to hear you out. He’s not angry. He’s hurt. “And she’s never been with me.” He moves past you, but not before one last statement. “Maybe now you’ll know how I feel.”

________

just curious, ya'll think joe trippin? personally, i'm team callie cause both reader and joe are wrong in one way or another but im also biased so ignore me.

[0cta9on]

You want fluff requests? Please do (G)I-DLE Soojin! I wanna read M Reader literally sleeping with her.

Hello anon! Sorry for taking so long on this one :> Also, never thought I'd have to do this for a short, but thanks to @msafterhours for looking over this, you're a real one lmao :]

The scratching of graphite against paper is a tune you’ve come to memorize, even enjoy as late nights provide the much needed quiet and solitude that allows space for your creativity to thrive. The people around you have plenty to say about your poor sleeping habits, but you can’t exactly help it if an idea for a garment comes to you as the sun dips below the horizon. In the long history of great creatives, “good health” doesn’t exactly rank high on their list of priorities, so you figure you’re on par to opening that high end fashion brand one day. 

A gentle rasp against your front door reminds you to straighten your back. The clock reads 1AM, who the hell could it be at this hour?

“Hey,” Soojin greets you from the other side of the door, carrying a pillow and wearing a bizarre combination of an oversized band tee and pajama pants with pumpkins all over them.

“Uh, hey, what are you doing here?”

She nervously shifts her gaze from side to side, avoiding your eyes entirely. “Well, I was in the neighborhood and—”

“Carrying a pillow?”

A hint of pink forms on her cheeks like blooming sakuras. “...Y-yes. Anyways, I thought I’d stop by and visit a friend.”

“It’s 1 in the morning, what if I was sleeping?”

“You? Asleep at a normal time?” she scoffs. “I think hell would freeze before that would happen.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as her regular cocky attitude shines through. “Yeah yeah, whatever. Come in.”

Soojin’s grin widens as she skips into your apartment like she’s done plenty of times before, her gaze immediately gravitating towards the messy pile of sketches on your desk. “What’cha working on this time?”

“Just an idea for a dress I had,” you say, tidying up around your apartment. She shoots you a familiar impish look that always precedes an increasingly annoying line she likes to repeat.

“If you ever needed a model—”

“I know, Soojin,” you groan. “You’ll be the first person I call, alright?”

“Just making sure,” she chuckles at your expense, plopping herself onto your coach.

“Why are you really here?” you ask. That same nervous expression pops up on her face, an obvious tell whenever she doesn’t want to reveal the truth.

“I told you already, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to visit you.” She clutches her pillow closer to her chest, her gaze glued to the ground. “That’s all.”

You sigh. “You live a good half an hour from me, and that’s the best lie you could think of?” you quip, raising an eyebrow at her. All that gets you is a solid smack to the back of your head that knocks a few of your screws loose.

“I-I’m not lying!”

“ALRIGHT, DAMN!” you exclaim, clutching the back of your head in pain. The room falls into a tense silence as she huffs into her pillow.

Lies were so commonplace on Soojin’s tongue, as normal as butter on toast. You’ve come to expect every other word out of her mouth to be laced with some kind of half-truth, all dolled up to hide the cracks underneath. You can’t help but wonder why she keeps you around if all she does is play make believe with you.

“...Sorry for hitting you,” she murmurs, her tone uncharacteristically somber.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the couch.

“I, uh…” Her shoulders rise and fall as a heavy breath falls from her lips. “I wasn’t just in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah?” You glance towards her, curiosity piqued.

“Y-yeah, um… God, this is gonna sound so stupid.”

“Hey,” you say gently, resting your hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Are you alright?”

She sighs. “Promise me that you’re not gonna laugh.”

Your heartbeat echoes with anticipation, crescendoing in your chest. “Um, alright, I won’t laugh.”

“Promise me,” she scowls, shooting fire with her eyes.

“O-okay, I promise,” you gulp nervously. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I, uh…” Soojin shoves her face into her pillow, muffling her voice. “Ifhadnighmar.”

“Huh?”

She huffs in annoyance before spewing, “I had a nightmare! There, I said it! Look at me, a grown ass woman with a nightmare! Whoopty-fucking-doo!”

You shrink in your seat from her outburst, but despite it all, you can’t help but feel grateful. Her eyes were on you the whole time she was yelling. She didn’t lie to you.

“Hey, it happens, what can you do?” You stand up from your seat and stretch out your back, a bout of exhaustion hitting you as the muscles in your lower back relax. “You’re free to crash on the couch if you want—”

“W-wait!” Soojin grabs onto your arm, her eyes wide in panic. “I, uh… Nevermind. Sorry.”

For how much she lies, it’s a wonder how easy it is to read her. She’s like an open book written in a language that you can only partially understand. Sure, it takes a while to completely get her, but all that time and effort is worth it in the end.

“Eh, my room is too far, you mind if I stay on the couch with you?” you ask her.

The corners of her lips lift into a sly smile, but her eyes betray her true feelings as they beam at you with appreciation. “Hm, fine. I don’t usually let guys sleep with me until the second date, but I’m willing to make an exception just this one time.”

“Oh god, if this is your idea of a first date, then we desperately need to find you a better taste in men,” you chuckle, molding your body into the space next to her. Soojin smacks your face with her pillow before laying on top of you.

“Whatever,” she huffs, shifting her body into a comfortable position. You begin to push her off, but decide against it as the warmth of her body sends you towards a peaceful slumber. A gentle pressure on your cheek is the last thing you feel before succumbing to your own exhaustion.

[neverchecking]

Oh my god, please. That chain facesitting piece was beautiful. I could cry, dammit.

Big request, but could you do like a pt 2 of that where it’s just one big orgy between all of them? (Not link x link but like all links x reader, yk) maybe they take turns n shit, yeah?

(Heavy on Time plz, ik yk by now he’s my favorite 🤤💕💕 I can’t help it, he’s just so daddy 🥵🥵🥵)

-🧚‍♀️ who fucking adores your writing 🫶💕✨

Fairy anon! Welcome back~

I can! I can't promise it'll be as good, but I can try.

Its okay I know you love time-

Smut so MDNI! 18+!

Smut CW: AFAB! Reader, Multiple partners, face sitting, mentions of masturbation, but it's not from Time or Reader.

Your hips twitched and quivered as they fought to shut, stopped only by strong hands keeping them open. You were a glorious sight. A renaissance painting.

Everything from the sheen of your lips, coated in drool, to the flush of your cheeks- a gorgeous cherry red- to the heat of your skin from the hours you've been held hostage. It was all enough to have a grown man drooling in his seat.

Well, almost.

He was sure he would, at least just a little, if his mouth weren't doing something much more important currently. Goddess, just the feeling of you above him, thighs clasped around his head with your hips rocking in time with his ministrations made his gut coil with anticipation. While, yes, the newcomer and Wild had both gotten their turns with you, and had done an...adequate enough job, it was clear he needed to set a precedent. Nothing but the absolute best for his divinity.

Those two were merely boys in comparison to him.

With the way you clenched and tightened around his fingers as he slowly dragged them along your velvet walls, spasming as they adjusted around the girth of his middle and ring finger, you knew it too. You knew he would be able to give you something the others could not. Because he was the only one who could take you as you were; a feast filled with delicacies bursting with nothing but seraphic tastes. One that only he could truly understand and appreciate at its fullest capacity.

And even them, he was sure his bitter mortality would do nothing but encase him in naive blindness from your true potential.

As it stood however, he was more than happy in his current place, hands locked around your legs as you pushed down against his chest, crying out as your nails marked him as yours. He would bare the marks proudly for as long as they remained. They were your thanks to him for doing what he simply saw as his civil duty.

It was an honor, really, to be the one below you, lapping at your cunt eagerly as his fingers toyed with your opening. Dragging them in and out slowly before tracing along your gummy walls, feeling what made you jump and what made you shiver. What each miniscule jab or rub made each reaction. Whether a hum against your clit would make you cry out or paint deep red lines onto his pecs. Each little movement was a new chord in the choir you sung for him.

When he felt you clench around him, something wet dripping down his palm and wrist, he smirked from beneath you. Time knew what every one of your telltale signs were at this point. He knew what every twitch meant and how he could achieve his end goal subsequently.

He hummed against your clit, before flicking his tongue back and forth over the definitely over sensitized bundle of nerves, clenching his grip on your thighs when you tried bucking off of him. Which simply wouldn't do.

Not when you were so close.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few of the others palming themselves, cooing down at you as your cheeks shined with tears. Slobber decorated your lower jaw as you mindlessly babble whatever plea you had half-formed.

Goddess it was erotic. His perfect, ethereal Goddess was letting him, not only touch her, but please her. Bring her to the place only he could take her too.

You cried out above him, painting his skin further with thin white lines as you moved from trying to buck away from him to instead smothering him further, pushing into face and riding his tongue for all it was worth. Droplets cascaded down his cheeks and jaw as he eagerly lapped at your cunt, taking every little bit you'd grace him with. It was a divine nectar gifted to him by your ever eager soul. And he would be nothing short of a damned fool if he wasted even the tiniest bit.

So he wouldn't.

[callsignthirsty]

Chapter 2: On the Roof

Shit weather can only stop me for so long! Here's chapter 2

Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron “Slider” Kerner Summary: The boys receive their commendations, and you keep your legs crossed. Should be easy, right? Wrong. Word Count: 3680 Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering, oral sex (female receiving) Chapter: 2/4 Minors DNI Previous Chapter

“Sooo,” Maria Cortell leans as far forward as her bump will allow, drawing out the word with a smile on her lips. It’s become apparent that you’ll be waiting a while for your stolen tablemates to walk onto the stage and receive their commendations. “Are wedding bells ringing?”

Your poor heart, which had only just slowed, skips an unsteady beat. Maria’s question, for as simple as it is, packs one helluva wallop.

The thought hasn’t crossed your mind. You haven’t even said I love you—not for a lack of love, but because you’ve lost many of the ones you love over your life. Admitting the depth of your feelings—whether for family, friends, or beaus—always seems to precede an abrupt departure of said person from your life. But now that Maria has mentioned it, what are you supposed to do?

Distracted, you twist your cloth napkin between clammy hands. It’s not like you can marry Ice and Slider, but you can’t date Ice forever, either. especially not if he’s trying to climb the ladder. He’s expected to marry. To have kids. The white picket fence experience. A wife to come home to.

“They must be,” Merlin’s wife jumps in.

Maria nods with the enthusiasm you wish you felt. “Bill and I were looking at houses after three months. I’m sure you’ve at least talked about it.”

Goose throws back a full glass of wine.

They think they’re being supportive, and it would be nice if it weren’t so terrifying. “I–”

“And now’s the perfect time,” Maria doesn’t even realize she’s cut you off. “Who knows how long he’ll be stationed at Miramar?”

“Ooh! You could get married on the beach.”

Cougar catches your lack of participation. “Don’t scare her off, now,” Cougar says, placing his hand on top of his wife’s to get her attention.

“Oh please,” Laura brushes Cougar aside, “they’ve been practically wrapped around each other all night. Ron said they’ve been inseparable.”

Maria sighs. “Poor Ron.” Carole chokes, but the only one who pays her any mind is Goose, who smacks her between her shoulder blades and refills her water. “I remember how close he and Tom were at Pensacola, must be hard for him to watch his friend settle down–“ something must flit across your face because she hesitates mid-sentence, her eyes widen a little as she realizes the insinuation, and she all but lunges for the distraction of her sentry of a water glass, “–but, um, I’m sure you have a friend you could set him up with?”

“Oh,” Goose interjects loud enough to turn a couple of heads and incite a stern look from Jester, “I think this is them.”

It isn’t.

“That would be fun,” Laura coos back to Maria without skipping a beat. “Think of the double dates.”

“Come on,” Goose tries again, “you don’t want to set someone up with Kerner, do you?” And didn’t Goose know it. He squawks when Carole catches him in the ribs with her elbow, but Maria and Laura are off to the races, passing the idea back and forth and painting a picture of your future while you struggle to keep up.

“You’ll always have someone to keep you company when they end up on a carrier halfway around the world.” Maria.

A sly look from Laura. “You know, if you time it right, your kids can grow up together.”

“Community is so important,” Maria agrees, ducking around a waiter’s arm as dinner plates are settled.

“Sam and I were lucky enough to be stationed near my family when we had the girls.”

“I don’t know what I’d have done without the wives’ group while I was pregnant with Robbie.” Maria gives her husband a tender smile and smoothes a hand over her belly. Whatever she says next is drowned out by applause.

This time—as Goose breathes an “Oh, thank god”—a familiar group of flyboys are led onto the stage. The commander keeps it brief; says some words about the Layton mission and the courageous efforts of the aviators who defended the boat from enemy MiGs. Everyone gets a pin on their lapel before they’re all ushered off the stage. Your legs are crossed by the time they make it back to the table.

The rest of the dinner passes without issue. Plates are cleared. The program comes to a close with the cutting of a cake. A cacophony of music and conversation erupts as the masses are released from their seats and the event finally catches its second wind. More immediately around you, the flyboys spill into the space between their tables and continue catching up.

Hollywood and Sundown introduce their dates—fiancée and wife, respectively—to the larger group. Jester and his wife sneak off, presumably to find Viper but definitely different company. It’s a relief to gain more social padding between yourself, Maria, and Laura, well-meaning though they may be.

It’s while you’re reacquainting yourself with the rest of the group when Hollywood asks Slider if he’s flying solo these days.

“What’s it look like?” Slider grumbles.

Wolfman slings an arm around his fellow RIO’s shoulders to pull him close. “Aw, man. What happened?”

Slider gives him a half-shrug, looking otherwise unaffected. “You know how it is. Couldn’t handle the job.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Chipper chimes in. “You’re still at Miramar.”

“So she dumped you?” Wolf’s winces as he looks up at Slider, taking his silence for confirmation. “Yikes.”

“Hey, it wasn’t like that–”

“Don’t mind them,” Sundown says, an arm wrapped around his wife. She beams at him when he assures Slider,“The right one will stick around.”

And the conversation could’ve ended there. Wolf, Chip, and Sli could’ve spent the rest of the night wingmanning each other until it was time to turn in and Slider would slip into your quarters.

Maria Cortell had other plans. “Don’t be ridiculous! We were just talking about how the future missus must have a friend she can set you up with.” Cheeks flaming, you tuck into Ice’s side in an attempt to escape his gaze. “Future missus?” His tone gives nothing away, but the stiffening of his arm beneath your hand speaks volumes.

Beside Ice, Slider raises a brow. “Were you, now?” This is a conversation you were hoping to avoid.

“Please,” Pete scoffs. “I wouldn’t wish Kerner on anyone.”

Slider sneers, but it doesn’t have any real heat behind it. “Bite me, Mitchell.”

And bless Carole Bradshaw because she sees Pete opening his mouth to say, “Which one?” from a mile away and deploys a very loud countermeasure: “I wanna dance!”

Goose grabs his wife’s hand and pulls her to sit across his lap. “Great idea, honey!” he crows, earning a kiss on the cheek.

For as long as you’ve known him, Goose has always been a darling. Everyone knows it, too. The sun is hot. Water is wet. Everyone loves Goose. His close call on Hop 31 only cemented that last truth. Nick Bradshaw is magnetic in a way few others are, and he could pull a crowd just as easily at the piano as he could, apparently, at his wife’s beck-and-call.

The display of eager, honeyed affection drawing the eyes and smiles of the group.

“C’mon, Mav, give us a push!” Goose loops his arms around Carole as she makes herself comfortable in his lap for the taxi to the dancefloor. “Should be a—what did you call it?—a target-rich environment.”

“Wait. You not seeing Blackwood anymore?” Hollywood asks, receiving ‘oohs’ from the rest of the men. Pete’s shoulder’s bunch, but otherwise, he ignores his friends. Though she was a civilian contractor, Charlie did work for the DoD, and after her relocation to D.C., Pete was technically on her turf tonight.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Ice deflects.

Pete grabs hold of Goose’s wheelchair, finding it more difficult to maneuver with two passengers.  “I wonder if Penny’s here.”

Carole throws her head back with a guffaw. “After your little joyride? I’d be surprised if her daddy lets her within a thousand feet of you!”

The group doesn’t stick together much longer, inevitably breaking up as they go their separate ways.

“What do you say?” Ice asks, nodding after the group headed to the dancefloor. Eventually, Ice needs to go back to rubbing shoulders with the brass, but there’s no harm in a quick dance or two to break up the monotony.

“That’s okay, Ice,” Slider butts in, a wicked glimmer in his eyes. You repress a shiver when the same hand that had been between your legs squeezes your shoulder, fingers ghosting over the velvet near your collarbone. “You go keep Mav out of trouble. We’ll grab dessert and meet you there.”

The twitch at the corner of his lips gives away how hard Slider is fighting to keep the wolfish grin off his lips. Your ears burn, but Ice’s only reaction is an unenthused, dismissive sound. Both of you know what Slider is playing. That doesn’t stop the pinpricks of arousal from returning as you imagine Slider’s hands—both of them this time—working to finish what he’d started under the table.

“How long have we known each other?” Ice asks Slider.

“Going on ten years.”

“And I can count the number of times I’ve seen you eat cake on one hand,” Ice muses.

Undeterred, Slider offers you a lopsided, wolfish grin, his fingers tracing down your arm and raising goosebumps in their wake. “Who said anything about cake?”

“There it is.” Ice flicks Slider’s fingers from their path and threads his fingers through your own. The same Iceman mask he wears around the tarmac is firmly in place when he levels Slider with a look. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re pissy because I had this in the bag before I was interrupted.”

“And how were you planning on getting away with it?” Ice hisses with a glance to make sure the three of you are well enough alone. “Sitting at a table full of people.”

“I had a plan,” Slider scoffs.

“A plan to get caught with your hand up her skirt.”

“You’re just upset you walked right into it.” Ice clenches his teeth. He doesn’t have a responding quip, and Slider knows it. Ice had been too excited by the sudden appearance of Cougar to realize Slider was gunning for a quick win. “All it takes is one mistake,” Slider needles.

Wearing down the competition with technical precision is a page straight out of Ice’s book and his fingers twitch ever so slightly in your grasp, Slider rubbing it in his face that he’s fallen prey to his own game. It’s a mistake he won’t make twice.

Ice takes a deep breath and looks to the barrel-vaulted ceiling as if he’ll find the answers he’s looking for among the gold leafing. “We’re leaving now.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” Slider taunts, but Ice is back on his game. He serves Slider a smug look as he wraps his arm around your waist.

“Goodbye, Kerner.”

In the dance hall, you’re a single drop in a rolling sea. The band is louder here, the floor tacky with spilled beverages, but you find a pocket of space as the music slows. Pete hangs onto the edge of the crowd with Goose and Carole, his face pressed between Goose’s shoulder blades as he helps his best friend stand to dance with his wife—Carole, you’re sure, is crying.

Gentle hands bring your focus back to your partner as he encourages you to step with him to the rhythm. When you look up at him through your lashes, you almost forget the rest of the room. Taken by the flint of his eyes in the low light. A smile bubbles to life on your rouged lips is an inevitability.

You spin beneath his arm and let Ice reel you in until his breath tickles your ear. “You’re stunning.” You glow under the praise, fingers playing with the short hairs at his nape. High praise.

It makes you wonder: does Ice even know what he looks like?

The ever-present tan of his skin highlighted by the contrasting white of his uniform. The smarts. The confidence. A beauty mark on his jaw. High cheekbones. The way he moves.

He has to know. Not for vanity, but for fact. 

“How’re you holding up?” He must pick up on the restless twitch of your muscles or maybe the flutter of your heart in your palm.

You paint on a smile. ”I’m fine.”

You can’t suppress the shudder that wracks you or the sharp intake of breath when he lifts your chin with a finger, lashes brushing your cheeks as a kiss is pressed to your forehead. When he tugs you closer, you go easily, but you’re unable to fully relax into the embrace.

“Did you know you only say you’re fine when you aren’t?” He shifts his hold so it feels more like a hug, a soft quirk to his lips. It’s easier for him to hold you like this when you fade into the crowd. There’s less pressure. Fewer eyes on him when his hand shifts lower, dexterous fingers tracing over the knobs of your spine and raising goosebumps beneath the luxurious drape of your gown.

The band does wonders to mute your gasp, but Ice doesn’t miss the way you jerk in his grasp. Sensitive.

“Was it…?” He doesn’t finish in an overabundance of caution for who may or may not be eavesdropping. The hand you’d let linger near his nape comes to fidget against his chest as you lay your head against his shoulder and nod while focusing on the ba-dum of his heart. “Do you need to leave?”

“No.” Sure, you tingle with each brush of skin on skin. Yes, you’re eager to soak up each touch. But, as you meet his eyes, you mean it. “I’m just a little overwhelmed by all of this,” you fib.

Slider may be pushing the boundaries of decency—may have definitely blown past them during the dinner— and you may be wound tight after so many days without either of their company, but you can do this. Tonight is about Ice, and you intend to see it through.

“But I don’t want to leave.”

Ice keeps you close as the song fades out and the band counts in a fast-paced number. “Look,” Ice concedes when you break free of the dancing. Playtime is over, you can practically see the cogs turning in the metal of his eyes as Ice comes up with a revised plan. “There are still some people I need to talk to, but after, I’ll get us out of–”

“Just the man I was looking for.” Ice stops so abruptly that you stumble into him. “Admiral John Benjamin,” Penny’s father introduces himself, taking Ice’s hand in a firm shake. “Really good stuff on the Enterprise.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The praise, though sparing, is well-deserved. But the obsequious nature of his comment is revealed in the way the admiral’s eyes scan the nearby crowd. Ice isn’t his target.

“Say,” the admiral drawls as he drops all pretenses, “you wouldn’t happen to know where your wingman is? I want to congratulate him on a job well done.”

You very much doubt that, but as you glance over to where Pete had been with Goose and Carole earlier, he’s long gone—Carole helping her husband back into his wheelchair, the only evidence Pete had been there at all. And Ice knows enough through retellings of Pete’s past run-ins with Admiral Benjamin that you trust him not to sell your brother out. At least, not if he doesn’t have to.

“I haven’t seen him since we received our commendation.”

“Of course. Congratulations again on those,” Benjamin clips. “But you must have some sort of idea of his whereabouts.”

“I–”

“Ice. Admiral, sir.” It never ceases to amaze you how someone as large as Slider can so easily fly under the radar when he wants to. “I need to borrow her for a minute,” he says before Ice can say anything, and because he can’t do anything when Admiral Benjamin continues to squeeze for information on Pete, Slider steers you out of the dance hall.

It had been a crisp 66 degrees in DC, the setting of the sun taking what remained of the day’s warmth with it. The cold creeps beneath your skin as Slider beckons you up the roof access, shimming the door with a wad of folded cocktail napkins so you can slip back to the party later.

Though shrouded in darkness on the flat of the rooftop, the bright lights of the capital might as well be a hair’s breadth away. Too close for comfort. Before you can protest, Slider engulfs your hand in his and looks for a more suitable, more private corner. It won’t do to be caught, though Slider doubts anyone will come looking. But it pays to be cautious.

“You have any idea how good you look in this?” Slider rumbles, voice resonating from deep within his chest in a way that makes your insides quake. He lets you know with a demanding kiss, his lips lightly stained with your rouge when he pulls back so you can suck in a breath.

“Sli.” The wind carries your whine toward the street, where it’s drowned by the brassy horns of street traffic. When goosebumps erupt along your arms, your fingers scrabble for his shoulder boards in a bid to keep him close.

It takes next to nothing to convince Slider to give in to your plea. Crowding close as he smears kisses and color down your neck. “It’s been so hard to keep my hands off you.” Said hands grab fistfuls of you over the velvet of your gown; the smooth rasp of the fabric over tender skin makes you gasp.

“You didn’t,” you point out.

“No,” he agrees, fingers reacquainting themselves with the gusset of your panties. “But can you blame me?”

“Who else would I blame?”

Dizzy with desire, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep a heady whine locked away when fingers slip between your pussy lips to tease around your entrance. “Do you want me to stop?” Slider asks with a lopsided, teasing grin.

“Don’t you dare.”

Instead of giving you what you want—two fingers to fill you where you feel hopelessly empty—Slider’s hand withdraws from your panties. You’re a second from demanding he put his hand right back where he had it when Slider lowers himself to the ground. “Wait–!” you exclaim as his first knee touches down on the unkempt rooftop floor “–your pants.”

“Don’t worry,” he says as both of his hands slip under your dress, eager fingers drawing the lacy elastic of your panties down your legs. “That’s what drycleaning’s for.” But his other knee stays decidedly off the ground.

Slider scoots himself closer, impatient hands rucking up your tight-fitting dress until he can take advantage of the slit in your skirt. He hikes your leg over his shoulder, soft skin exposed to the night, but you’re far from cold as he chases the fabric with scorching kisses up the inside of your thigh. Deliberately leaving marks where no one else at this stuffy party will see them.

His hair is just long enough that the tips begin to curl. You spear your fingers through the short waves and fist what you can. Normally, you’d hold him close as he litters your hip with hungry kisses and sharp, rosey blooms, but with the way he’d worked you up earlier, you pull his head toward the apex of your thighs. You can go back to being Ice’s pretty trophy girlfriend after you cum on Slider’s tongue.

Slider lets out a gruff rumble of a chuckle as if he’s read your mind. A nip makes your leg jump in his grasp, your heel knocking against his back, but he’s as eager to get this show on the road as you are.

Face half-obscured by black velvet, Slider’s tongue laps over your clit. Eyes slamming shut, whole body pulsing in time with your heart, head thunking back against the wall. Slack-jawed, you encourage him to do it again with a shuttered but wanton noise in the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” Slider encourages, his other hand reaching up to massage your ass and drag your hips forward in a slick grind against his mouth. You tremble in his grasp as he continues to roll your hips against his face before he opts for a new angle of attack.

A quick reposition of the leg over Slider’s shoulder grants him better access for a more thorough assault on your cunt, and your back arches when his tongue prods at your entrance. Blood roars in your ears while your walls clench around nothing at the promise of his tongue, but it only teases at your lips.

You try to drag him closer with your one leg, letting go of Slider’s hair with one hand to steady yourself against the wall. Sli takes that moment to dive in, tongue finally fucking into you and his nose bumping into your clit in a way that has your heart stuttering and limbs shaky. Your hips jolt at the touch, back arching off the wall.

It’s messy, the pinpricks of Slider’s stubble eased by the mix of arousal and spit coating the apex of your thighs. The barely muffled slurp as he parts your lips and delves his tongue inside before engulfing your clit in the wet heat of his mouth and giving it a suck.

Slider’s eyes are half-lidded when he meets your gaze. “You’re close,” he breathes, calloused fingers petting up your leg directly to your clit and drinking in the shiver it knocks loose, your lips red as you bite back a moan. “Don’t worry,” he says, two fingers dipping the slightest bit into your cunt before drawing back to rub at the opening, “we’ll get you there this time.”

Against your back, the wall rattles as the roof access bangs open.

Next Chapter

[waitmyturtles]

Rose's Day of Asks

From your 'OGMMTVC Project' what have been the shows that surprised you the most? For whatever reason

Have a great Day💜

HI ROSE, great to hear from you! Oooh, great question! Old GMMTV Challenge shows that I was surprised by....

I think in general, shows that surprised me were ones whose reputations preceded them in various ways. More below:

1) I was surprised by how much I liked Make It Right (season 1 and season 2 thoughts here). It's still seen as a problematic show in many ways, and especially by the way the main ships of TeeFuse and FrameBook began their relationships (and there have been issues since 2016 about how young the actors were in their first BL roles). But I was really struck -- especially in the second season, but also many times in the first season -- by how empathic the show was to the confusion of young men discovering their sexualities. It was a wild and chaotic work by New Siwaj and Cheewin Thanamin (GOD, THEY WORKED TOGETHER ON THIS, crazy to acknowledge this now), and there were manyyyy points of the two seasons that made nonsense, à la Cheewin's modus operandi. But there was true heart in the show, and the last episodes of TeeFuse and FrameBook confirming their relationships just took me out (especially with FrameBook's ending serving as a preview of how King and Uea confirmed their relationship in Cheewin's future show, Bed Friend).

2) I was surprised by how much I LOVED LOVED LOOOOOOVVVEEEEDDDDDD Theory of Love. The word used the most to describe this show when I was crowdsourcing the OGMMTVC list was "controversial." And I watched it and within the first episode, I was like, "OOOOH WE ARE GETTING PLAYYYYYED," and I loved the show for it. I know X Nuttapong has had some non-wins in his drama list (e.g., Vice Versa), but I think X's Theory of Love and Cherry Magic Thailand were seriously so fucking amazing, and he clearly can do wonders with excellent screenwriting. Theory of Love was so subversive and smart, and I think it showcased the start of the real depth of the OffGun ship wonderfully. Those two rose to the occasion. I can't wait to rewatch it.

3) I was surprised by how much I jumped on my bed and was screaming YAAAAASSSS at Lovely Writer. I watched some of Tee Bundit's works out of order. I watched TharnType first and was like, NO. And THEN I fucking watched STEP BY FUCKING STEP after that, and I was like, FUCK this guy. But Lovely Writer has almost universal praise, so I took some time to breattthhhheee, and watched it, and I was like, OH, so that's why everyone was originally hyped on Step By Step. Lovely Writer was fantastic, easily Tee Bundit's best show (in my opinion) on his list (and I say this as a IFYLITA stan), and thank god for this show, because it made me then appreciate his cute cameos in War of Y, lol.

4) I was surprised by how obsessed I got over Until We Meet Again, because fuck series that are 17 episodes long, but I literally still feel like I can't get enough of this series? I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

5) I was super surprised to have enjoyed my recent rewatch of KinnPorsche so much! I thought I'd be all haterade over it, considering my newfound education, but honestly, it was funny in a lot of parts, well acted, obviously well shot -- it was a romp, and I was glad to make myself an excuse to rewatch it as my first-ever Thai BL.

6) Something else that has surprised me recently, not quite show-related: I have recently watched Secret Crush On You, and I'm watching War of Y currently, and: I am not sure that Seng Wichai has gotten enough of his flowers. It's interesting to me that some of the absolute BEST actors in this field -- Seng Wichai, Ohm Pawat, etc. -- have controversial reputations preceding them for life situations that don't comport to easy shipping, god fucking forbid. During both SCOY and Seng's turn on War of Y, I was seriously taken by how good this guy is, and I'm not sure, during my crowdsourcing work, if Seng was boasted about enough. This m'fer can ACT, and I love him for it.

7) Not at all surprising was how much I had to say about Bad Buddy. I loved writing this mini-series!

Thanks for the question, Rose!

[doomzday-zone]

oh my god sorry I'm giggking thanks for seeing the poll too it's lowkey mind boggling sorry like wh.. what.. I have so many thoughts on this but I HAVE to be kind because wdym william afton -> sympathetic villain sorry in general but it makes me like abnormally angry when people are like No.. no he was really a good guy he just had to take extreme measures that led to his downfall.. EXTREME MEASURES?? HAD TO? QUESTION MARK sorry ohh I want to be kind crying into my little paws but haha guys wdym extreme measures that's not. that's

maybe I've just forgotten canon fnaf and I'm like so far off base but what is..wrong..with.. y.. scrunching my whiskers yYUOPEOPLE... YOU.. (you see me throw a chair with my mind and immediately collapse)

NO NO CAUSE . LITERALLY ITS LIEKKKK.

like people can think whatever they want, i honestly dont give a shit in the grand scheme of things, what PISSES ME OFF tho is when people assert that they are correct when they literally just dont have a fucking clue.

never once in five nights at freddys canon has child murder been portrayed in a morally neutral or good light. Never. its literally the SCARE FACTOR OF THE ENTIRE FUCKING SERIES. the good ending of fnaf 3 implies that the childrens souls have been released and fazbear frights and springtrap was supposed to be burned to the ground ending it all, the completion ending in fnaf 6, henrys ENTIRE MONOLOGUE is literally about freeing the remaining souls and literally says that william afton will BURN IN HELL. like literally what more evidence do people need?????

the missing children, the dead children etc etc is literally supposed to be sad. its supposed to be tragic. in fnaf, youre not supposed to root for william afton. IN FACT, you LITERALLY play as innocent bystanders trying to escape 95% of the time in the games. even when you play as micheal afton in sister location, literally doing his fathers bidding, at the end of the game nothing good happens to mike. this task was not noble, he did what his father asked him to do and he fucking died. like its so obvious if you have played the games or just know literally anything genuinely about fnaf.

even casually william afton is depicted time and time again to be generally repulsive, the only times he is seen as good or chill in any way is when hes LYING TO PEOPLE. and even then!!! he still offputting and weird, very few people genuinely want to be around him. in the entire series we only know that William has a single friend, and he KILLS HIS DAUGHTER !!!!!!!! FOR FUCKS SAKEEEEE HE ISNT EVEN SHOWN TO HAVE A PRESENT WIFE. LIKE ?!?!?!??!?!

child murderer has never been a "necessity" for afton, there is no precedent ever set for his character EVER. that would point towards him being grief stricken, that he has ever felt remorse for killing those children. the only teeny tiny little inkling we have ever seen of him feeling negatively about the dead kids is right before he was springlocked. he doesn't feel bad for killing the children, hes scared when hes faced with the consequences of his actions. ofc William 'baby killer' afton isnt gonna go around proudly proclaiming that he kills children, because then hed go to jail r smth. and he doesnt want that, he WANTS to kill more children!!!!!!! there is literally proof via his actions and dialogue in the games that literally just point to the fact that the only reason he does the things he does is because he likes to hurt people, he Likes to kill children. he was never pushed to the extremes, William afton IS the extreme !!

i will be so fr rn. i did NOT spend a chunk of my childhood being a weirdo nerd loser with no friends religious following the fnaf games and lore. i did not put in so much of my effort and time into going thru the games and dissecting and analysing them AGAIN, to be told by some little baby idiot who hasnt even played the fucking games that its all 'up to interpretation' when its fucking NOT !!!!!! ITS NOT UP FOR FUCKING INTERPRETATION WHEN YOU IGNORE THE ONLY CONCRETE FACTS WE KNOW IN THE ENTIRE FNAF SERIES. ITS NOT THE UP FOR INTERPRETATION WHEN YOU LITERALLY JUST IGNORE CANON.

its genuinely an idiotic notion. and like i said!!!!! like it literally doesnt have to be a big deal!!!!!! its okay to not know everything about fnaf, you dont have to lie about it. i promise not knowing all of the five nights at freddys lore is morally neutral, id even say its morally good to not know Anything about fnaf tbh. but i digress!!!!!!

people can think whatever they want, but you literally cannot cry and whine and pretend when ppl call you out for being a fake fucking fan, for openly just not giving a shit about the source material in a space about Celebrating The Source Material. its not up for interpretation when you are just a dumbass.

COUGHS. anyways.... wher eam i................

[cloudbattrolls]

Underculture

This drabble is preceded by Rule of Law.

Hazard Ailaht | Present Night | Beneath Selatak

Hazard hardly dared look around as the hyena bounded across the noisy streets, terrified they’d crash, terrified it would throw him off as he clutched at its furry body with thick fingers. He shut his eyes to keep himself from panicking entirely.

Then - maybe a few minutes later, maybe several - the noise of the city cut off, the air got cooler, and he felt them go…down. With a mechanical, clanking sound, he realized they were using what must be an old elevator.

But how would a hyena know to do that? Was a bronzeblood controlling it somehow? No - surely that was impossible from this distance, even if the troll was using mind honey…

He opened his eyes a crack, cautious but curious. They widened as he realized he and the beast carrying him were descending far, far beneath the ground, and Selatak was already barely above sea level, island city-state that it was.

It was dark, almost stiflingly black. The little he dared to move his head provided no change in visibility as they went deeper.

He tried not to panic. 

“Gods and spirits, if you can hear me…” he murmured. “Please help me with whatever’s coming. I may be ignorant, but I mean no harm. I never wanted those clowns to die.”

He had to take a deep breath. Calm. Try to be calm. Or at least not lose it entirely.

Finally, with a thud, they reached what he assumed was the bottom.

The hyena shook itself and growled, and strangely he thought he could feel its impatience. He had an idea that it wanted him to get off.

The blueblood did so, if somewhat clumsily, given the darkness and his stiff limbs.

Then there came a rushing, cracking, bizarre rush of noise and air -

- and the elevator doors opened, dim light pouring in as they slid away with a clatter. He couldn’t quite identify what its source was, only that it was coming from several feet off in this cavern they’d apparently descended to. 

The hyena was gone.

Instead a tall man - tall as his ancestor and even more muscled, visible skin dotted with scars - now stood beside the librarian.

He blinked, mouth agape as the man began walking.

“Shifter.” He murmured in wonder. His friends had told him, but he’d never imagined…

“Yeah, that’s right, kid.” Said the man - short-haired, dressed in camouflage gear - in a rough if not disdainful voice, now several paces away and more visible. 

“Now follow me, you can go gaga about it later.”

Hazard followed, stumbling a little across the rocky floor as he got feeling back into his arms and legs. What else could he do? Fight? Interrogate him?

Neither were his way, and both seemed like a terrible idea given the circumstances.

“Where…are we?” He managed to pluck up the courage to ask, though he wasn’t sure if he’d get an answer. “Why did you take me down here?”

The werehyena snorted.

“We all decided after what Roscur’s stupid ass pulled that we had to intervene before the clowns could cull you. Not fucking fair, is it? You never asked for this.”

Hazard, stunned, mulled this over for a few seconds.

“I…thanks, but Lizzie was going to defend me. She would’ve gotten me off, I’m sure of it.”

The taller man laughed unkindly.

“They say you’re supposed to be smart. Use your fucking brain, kid. Even if you’d been pardoned, you think they would’ve let you run around free for long? No. You know how clowns work. Unless there’s blood, they’re not satisfied. Not after that many losses.”

He gritted his teeth, letting out an animal-like huff in frustration.

“That’s why we don’t operate that way. That’s why Roscur is the biggest fucking idiot ever hatched and he’s going to drag us all down with him.”

He looked up at the distant rocky ceiling, then shook his head and laughed again, unpleasant and now hyena-like.

“Don’t we seem down to you? Isn’t this deep enough we’ve been forced to hide? Fuck, maybe you can’t get it, you’re a blueblood. Then again…”

He looked at Hazard.

“You know what it’s like. With that ancestor of yours.”

The scorpion-snake troll shuddered.

Yes. He knew.

The man nodded, and finally they made their way into a large room carved out from the rock.

Inside was the strangest assortment of trolls Hazard had ever seen. Some almost looked normal, but their eyes, ears, or horns gave them away. Others seemed like things out of story books; he wasn’t even sure they were trolls.

He saw a couch and went for it, sitting down heavily.

The werehyena snorted softly, but Hazard was too tired and baffled to care. He looked away from everyone’s gazes, a mixture of curious and wary eyes all pointed his direction.

Mutants. He was sure at least half of them were mutants. And the ones that looked more normal…he’d be willing to bet they were shifters, or something.

But the one that had brought him down hadn’t hurt him.

So why was he here?

“Uh, heeeeey, hi, Mr. Ailaht.” Said a maroon girl, one with a pointy nose and rather homely face. She had buck teeth and dirty nails, and she fidgeted as she talked.

“I’m Rattus, and this is the Dicemaker…” she gestured to a quiet older man sitting cross-legged on a cushion, his hair streaked with gray. His caste was impossible to tell, head tilted down.

Then she gestured to the werehyena.

“That’s Kharak, you’ve met him…uh…shoot. I forget what I was gonna say.” She said, biting her lip, then she grimaced.

“Right, uh, sorry for grabbing you. Kharak said why, right?”

“You don’t want the clowns to hurt me.” Hazard offered, but his expression was politely confused. “But…who are all of you? What’s your connection to Roscur? Why…why do you care so much what happens to me?”

He tried to sound politely curious instead of suspicious, but he couldn’t help wondering. The whole situation was so odd. 

Kharak and Rattus exchanged a look - hers worried, his a grimace - but it was the Dicemaker who spoke up.

The older man looked up at Hazard, and he finally realized his eyes were a faded green; it was impossible to tell if they were olive or jade. His expression was distant, as if his mind was elsewhere, but his words were clear enough. 

“Panzen is one of ours.” He said quietly, and the room of strange people hushed as they hadn’t for the maroon or the werehyena.

“We are Selatak’s unwanted, its underculture of mutants, mages, and other such folk. Most of us live down here, but some such as Kharak and Panzen live on the surface. We do not like what he does with his gang, but he sends us money and goods we can hardly refuse. And it is our fault for failing to protect him when he was young.” He sighed wearily. 

“What?” Hazard asked blankly. “I’m sorry, I’m still pretty lost. I know magic exists - some of my friends are mages, though, uh, Kharak’s the first shifter I’ve ever met. But I still don’t see what this has to do with why he apparently stole my venom and started using it to kill people? I think?”

He cringed at making such a direct accusation, but given everything that had been said…

The Dicemaker studied him, those faded eyes suddenly turning sharp as he sniffed the air for some odd reason, then nodded.

“You truly don’t remember.” He murmured. “You must have suppressed it.”

“Suppressed what?” Hazard retorted too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“The carnival. That night Goh Tat asked you to cull a mutant -“

Noise in his ears.

Laughter. Striped canvas. 

“No.” He mumbled. “I don’t -“

A cluster of cages all gleaming, shining metal and soiled insides. The stench of troll misery, such a sharp contrast to the animal tent, its inhabitants well fed and well cared for.

Mutants were less valuable than beasts.

Goh Tat’s hand on his shoulder. Tight. Too tight. Making sure he wouldn’t run away.

A girl with hair so dirty he couldn’t tell what color it was. A tail of some kind. They said she was a cat and lizard mixed with a troll…

So why were her eyes - a strange but lovely silver - full of fear just like his?

Just like Bohaai’s?

“No.” He moaned. “I don’t - don’t make me -“

Remember.

Hazard held his head in his hands.

He’d spat venom at a clown to get the mutant free. In their face. 

Then another. 

Shouting. Cursing. 

Then all was quiet.

“For your donation, Goh Tat, we will forget this happened.” Came a pleasant voice as he heard the rustle of stacks of bills. “I will make them all forget. Voodoos are wonderful that way. But you owe us a new mutant.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Said the cerulean dismissively, waving a hand. “You’ll get one. I’ll teach my stupid kid a lesson. We’re square.”

After that, it had taken Hazard weeks to walk without pain. 

In the present, he sobbed, now on his knees on the cold stone floor.

“Why…?” He whispered as he saw the greenblood’s eyes crackle with magic. “Why did you…?”

“That was Panzen.” Said the Dicemaker. “You saved him. He never forgot.”

“Now he repays me with this?!” Hazard cried, blue tears running down his stubbled face. “Murder?!! I never asked for that! He made it look like it was my fault!! Why!!!”

“Yeah, that’s why I want to beat him over the head.” Kharak growled. “He’s a little fucked. Anyone would be, running off and getting raised by Hakket fucking Ixodes, but he’s still a champion bulgewipe. Aside from screwing you, it’s just gonna make the clowns crack down harder. He’s stupid. But no, money and murder were just too much of a temptation for his dumb ass.”

“Money?” Hazard asked blankly, rummaging in his sylladex for tissues. 

Kharak rolled his eyes. “You think mamba and deathstalker venom come cheap? Especially mixed together? He’s been selling the shit too, just pretending it’s some new poison.”

“Great.” Said Hazard numbly, slowly wiping his face dry. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

The Dicemaker’s expression softened.

“That’s enough for now. We have food, if you’d like some.”

“Yes.” Said Hazard instantly.

—

It was the strangest meal he’d ever eaten, only feet away from almost three dozen mutants and mages, but it wasn’t bad. 

He quickly ate up his first plate of chicken and rice with vegetables and was given a second, then a third, and after that one Kharak snorted and told him they’d have to start charging him for more.

Hazard blushed blue and looked away.

They probably struggled to get fresh food…

“I know we have little right to ask, but we could use your help, Hazard.” Dicemaker said to him after he finished his meal.

“Huh?” He said, baffled, sitting on the couch again. “What can I do? And I can’t stay down here forever.”

“We know.” The greenblood assured him calmly. “We will take you back no matter what, but we would like to rescue Panzen, if it is still possible.”

“Rescue?” Hazard repeated, and then he felt dread well in his stomach.

“Oh no…” He whispered.

Dicemaker nodded grimly, and with one upturned palm he produced some silver dice that projected a hazy image of the mutant gangster.

He was, once again, held in a circus cage. 

The Day Howler sat with a cool expression, arms crossed, but Hazard saw how his tail curled around his body, the way his ears pressed down as he struggled to swallow past his psi suppressing collar digging into his throat.

“What can I do?” He whispered - frustrated, helpless. “I’m not brave. You have magic. You don’t need me.”

“You’re a blueblood.” Kharak said roughly. “You can get into his execution ceremony. All the sects he hit are in on it, making it into a real party tomorrow evening. You and I could save his sorry ass, see him get justice the right way. Not from clowns. Not like this.”

Hazard laughed softly. It was all so insane. 

“You said the clowns won’t rest until they have blood.” Hazard pointed out. “How do we save him and still appease the sects?”

The olive wore a vicious grin.

“I didn’t say we won’t hurt him.”

Then he tossed back his head and let out a mocking hyena cackle, the sound echoing through the caves below Selatak.

[minfricks]

I noticed Crowley and Aziraphale have an interesting dynamic that kind of precedes what Aziraphale does in the confession scene, and it starts with the fact that Aziraphale is always the one getting himself into trouble and Crowley is always the one coming after him. I think really sets the ground for what happens during the confession scene: Aziraphale just fully expects Crowley to follow him to heaven no questions asked, because that's what he's done for 6000 years.

Think about some of the flashback scenes we see. It's a lot of Aziraphale getting himself into tight spaces or complicated situations, and Crowley helping him out: saving Job's children (though that's something Crowley had a role in as well), Aziraphale getting captured by the french revolutionaries, Crowley saving Elspeth in Edinburgh after Aziraphale sets in motion the events leading her to try to kill herself, Crowley saving Aziraphale from the church and later helping him with the magic show.

And this is different to their arrangement— performing each other's miracles. When it comes to the miracles, the arrangement is made in regards to their own work responsibilities, but there is a certain self sacrificing aspect to what Crowley does for Aziraphale. For instance, just merely walking into the church is physically painful for Crowley, yet he does it anyway, and after saving Elspeth, Crowley is taken to hell and is likely severely punished for the good deed. We don't see Aziraphale taking any remorse or responsibility for this. He chalks it up to "that was the last I was to see of Crowley for some time." He has the mentality that whatever happens is worth it, because they did good for one person. Not to mention that Crowley mentions hell to be significantly more violent and severe than heaven is when it comes to punishing misdeeds. He is aware that if their relationship gets found out, it will not be good for him—so much so that he would rather destroy himself completely than experience it, hence the holy water request. There is always much more at stake for Crowley than there is for Aziraphale, and is still consistently taking greater risks than Aziraphale at every turn.

While yes, there is a grander context behind each of these (Crowley's love for Aziraphale), we never see any times where Aziraphale has helped Crowley like this other than performing his miracles for their arrangement, and delivering the holy water. Though this could very well be simply be because Crowley doesn't get himself into situations in which he is in need of rescuing in the first place, but the greater point is what it's adding to Aziraphales ego, what he's subconsciously learning throughout all this—that Crowley will always be there for whatever he needs, whenever he needs it.

During the present day when we've reached the more domestic era of their relationship, when they see each other in the same setting every day, and it's still the same dynamic. Aziraphale wants to take the Bentley to Edinburgh, so Crowley must give him the keys. He is off investigating his Clue while Crowley looks after the bookshop and Gabriel. In season 1, Aziraphale doesn't tell Crowley about finding the antichrist, leading to them splitting up and Crowley thinking he is dead—but thank god Crowley was there in time to retrieve the book.

But that's exactly the point. Crowley is never too far away in case anything goes wrong, but we never quite see a time where Crowley could rely on Aziraphale other than the arrangement they had to perform each other's miracles throughout the years.

It's this exact dynamic that made Aziraphale feel free to shut Crowley down when he visibly had something important to say, and why he so blindly believed that Crowley would want to follow him back to heaven and be his second in command.

There are no discussions, no compromise.

This of course isn't to say that they don't love each other. They are both simply so absorbed in and used to this dynamic which neither of them notice.

[blowflyfag]

WORLD WRESTLING ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE: January 2003

Rico: Man of Mystery

What Does WWE’s Best-Dressed Man Have Up His Sleeve?

By Brian Solomon

The lime green 911 Porsche Carerra roared recklessly down the Las Vegas Strip, Sin City’s famous main drag. Cars swerved left and right to get out of its path, some barely making it. Numerous pedestrians on their way to chance their hard-earned cash at the casinos stopped to catch a glimpse of the speeding sports car. 

Behind the wheel sat Rico, WWE’s stylist/wrestler extraordinaire, a look of feverish anxiety in his eyes. His zebra-print ascot whipped in the wind as he made his way ever closer to his destination. In his haste, he spilled most of his Starbucks’ double Frappuccino all over the plaid-upholstered interior. He’d have to deal with that later. He had a much bigger problem on his hands. 

Turning down a side street, he finally spotted the place–Francis & Joseph’s of Vegas, the town’s finest dry-cleaning establishment. Reputed to be the place where legendary grappler Gorgeous George brought his luxurious jackets and robes to be pressed, it was the kind of business that was perfectly suited to a man of Rico’s epicurean tastes. He had been there earlier that day to drop off some clothes, but had only just realized that he had absent-mindedly left something in the pocket of one of those items. 

The car came to a screeching halt in front of Francis & Joseph’s and its dapper occupant came tumbling out the driver’s side door. Barging through the front door of the cleaning establishment, he quickly made his way to the front desk. Just as he expected, Henri, the prim and portly store manager, was standing behind it in his usual place. 

“Ah, Monsieur Rico!” exclaimed Henri. “How are you doing zis afternoon?”

“Don’t gimme that!” Rico shot back. “You know what I came for. Where’s my overcoat?”

“Overcoat? Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“The paisley one, the one I just brought in here. Where is it? I need to see it. You haven’t looked at it yet, have you?”

“Oui, zee paisley overcoat! Very dashing, Monsieur Rico. No, I’m afraid we haven't gotten to it yet. I’ll take you to it. Right zis way, sir.”

Henri led Rico down a long, narrow room. On either side hung countless articles of clothing of varying size and shape. At the end, on the left side, hung a long, powder-blue suede garment bag. Rico spotted it before Henri, and ran ahead of the manager, pouncing on it like a panther whose hide had been used to line the inside of his sportsjacket.

With Henri looking on curiously, Rico unzipped the bag and thrust his hand inside. As he frantically searched through the overcoat, Henri suddenly heard the sound of crumpling paper, and a relieved smile crossed Rico’s face as he pulled out a small spiral notebook. 

“Oh, thank God,” breathed Rico, casting a sidelong glance to the manager. “It’s still here. You haven’t looked through it, have you?” 

Staring blankly, Henri slowly shook his head from side to side.

“Good!” said Rico as he ran past Henri and headed for the door, notebook in hand. “My plans mustn’t see the light of day yet. That would ruin everything!”

Rico hopped back in the Porsche, which had been left running outside. Peeling out of its parking space and turning back on to the Strip, the car left a cloud of dust and one very confused store manager in its wake.

The preceding story was pieced together using various eyewitness reports obtained from the scene. It’s very rare the WWE Magazine is able to scoop the venerable Informer on gossip like this, so you can imagine our interest upon first hearing these reports. Our curiosity was further piqued when several unrelated sources contacted us regarding rumors of a grand plan being concocted by Rico that would send shockwaves through WWE. Making a reasonable leap in logic, we deduced that this must be related to the incident in Vegas.

The question is: What was in that spiral notebook?

There’s no doubt that Rico is a real pro when it comes to manipulating power behind the scenes. He was first introduced to WWE fans as the stylist of Billy & Chuck–a seemingly harmless role that portrayed him as not much more than a joke. But it quickly became clear there's more to him than meets the eye. Unbeknownst to anyone, behind the comic facade of Billy & Chuck, Rico was the guiding force, formulating an ambitious scheme to make his charges the brightest stars in the WWE firmament and turn them into legitimate crossover celebrities.

Rico persuaded the two men to pledge their lifelong bond to each other in a “commitment ceremony,” knowing full well the press would have a field day with such an event. And so it came to pass. The eyes of America were suddenly on Billy & Chuck, and Rico was as pleased as punch. Unfortunately, during the ceremony, Rico’s well-laid plans unraveled” Billy & Chuck admitted the ceremony was nothing more than a publicity stunt.

And that’s where the genius of Rico soared even higher. Anticipating that the duo would back out at the last minute, Rico–a SmackDown! Superstar–had contacted Eric Bischoff, the General Manager of Raw. Both men wanted something. Rico wanted to humiliate the men who were about to ruin his scheme, and Bischoff was looking for a way to halt SmackDown!’s momentum. In a now-infamous turn of events, Rico had Bischoff disguise himself as a minister, and during the commitment ceremony, arranged for the mammoth Rosey & Jamal to beige the ring and lay waste to Billy & Chuck.

Changing loyalties like a chameleon changes color, Rico jumped ship and joined Raw, where he immediately aligned himself with Rosey & Jamal, two of the hottest commodities in the industry. Just like that, the devious calculator emerged from one of the biggest debacles in WWE history not only unscathed, but actually improved.

Since that time, Rico’s actions have become shrouded in mystery. Just what are his long-term plans for Rosey and Jamal, and who else might be effected by whatever scheming Rico is in the midst of? Surely his recent suspicious activities seem to indicate he’s got something cooking. In fact, it’s entirely possible that what has transpired thus far involving Billy & Chuck, Bischoff, etc. is only a part of an ongoing gameplan. Maybe we’re just not seeing the big picture. The Rico machine may already be in motion. 

One undeniable fact that we can cling to is that he seems to have a particular interest in tag teams. In that respect ( as well as others), he reminds some of another managerial manipulator of years past–Sunny. During the mid 1990s, the alluring woman known as the “Golden-Haired Fox” orchestrated a brilliant coup that resulted in her managing three consecutive pairs of Tag Team Champions–a feat that will likely never be equaled. Using her unscrupulous savvy, she jumped from the Bodydonnas to the Godwinns to the Smokin’ Gunns (one whose members, ironically enough, was Billy Gunn).

But Rico seems even more ambitious than that. After all, anyone masterful enough to orchestrate the betrayal of Billy & Chuck is capable of setting his sights much higher than Tag Team Championships. Nevertheless, that could very well be another cog in the well-oiled Rico engine, as Rosey & Jamal seem poised to follow in the footsteps of Billy & Chuck as World Tag Team Champions, if they haven’t already by the time this magazine hits newsstands.

Some sources have even indicated that Rico’s enigmatic background included a stint in law enforcement, which means that he may have any number of contacts and connections on both sides of the thin blue line. The power this man may be wielding behind the scenes is clearly enough to give one pause. Even his exterior imagine as a 21st century fop, and the flamboyant lifestyle he leads, may b e nothing more than a smokescreen hiding an individual as serious as a heart attack. After all, what better way to get your enemies’ guard down than to let them think you’re a buffoon?

Although his histrionics may distract casual viewers from what’s really going on, a closer look at the situation reveals the carnage Rico has left in his wake thus far, in particular the destruction of Billy & Chuck as a unit and the public embarrassment of SmackDown! G Stephanie McMahon. Such an individual certainly warrants scrutiny. If his actions are allowed to go unchecked as they have been to date, there’s no telling what the effects may be on WWE, its Superstars, and the sports-entertainment business as a whole.

[frownyalfred]

already commented this on ao3, and i think i saw that you have moderation up so ik you’ve already seen it, but i was v proud of these descriptions i came up w and want more batfans to see them so i am humbly requesting a repost for emphasis lol:

GODS full-force-batclan/non-gothamite-hero(es) interactions are always so fucking good and you've somehow made them EVEN BETTER???? GAH the mental image ALONE of "first protégé of batman, a.k.a. the one who convinced the JL Founder Trinity member who's the scariest AND the most viciously protective of kids to let him FIGHT CRIME *IN GOTHAM* with absolutely NO precedent for it, and THEN somehow managed to just fucking REFUSE to let that define him and actually successfully form a completely new vigilante identity WELL INTO HIS CAREER, undisputed leader of an entire upcoming generation of heroes" nightwing and "prodigal son of batman who CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD, butchered LITERAL BAGS FULL of the most cutthroat, well-connected criminals from the most cutthroat, well-connected organized crime province masquerading as a 'city' this side of the Kuiper Belt— AND THEN SOMEHOW STILL ENDED UP CONVINCING THE BAT TO FUCKING VOUCH FOR HIM, and oh yeah btw he's also built like a literal fucking wall of stone" red hood flanking "literally everything i already managed to mention and also Jesus Fucking Christ Do I Even Have To Tell You" Batman, and all three of them doing the Murder(affectionate /lh) Walk that everybody always thought only Batman had truly Mastered, except they look even more like him than they usually do?!?!?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK ABOUT LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE FOR THE NEXT WEEK NOW DUDE, AND I HAVEN'T EVEN GOTTEN *STARTED* ON THE REST OF THE CHAPTER

(edit: i mean tbf most of my other thoughts can be very concisely summarized as:

*me thinking abt bruce thomas [pennyworth-]wayne* — …!!!!! <3<3

* me thinking abt bruce thomas [pennyworth-]wayne: Mx. Resurrectionist Edition* —

…!!!!!😭😭😭<3<3<3

BUT WHATEVER, I TOTALLY HAVE COMPLETELY NORMAL FEELINGS ABOUT THIS FICTIONAL CHARACTER, ITS FINE EVERYTHING IS FINE)

...anyways great job and also pls update again soon bc i'm actually dying for more :D:D:D <3

I am more than happy to repost this :) I was actually just sending a screenshot of your comment around to my author friends telling them how honored I was to receive such a comment.

Thank you so much and I'm glad you're enjoying <3

[deludedfantasy]

Trimax Vol 7 Ch 4-6

My suffering continues in the second half of this volume. Things have been getting steadily worse and worse for a while, but something about this one really just got me. I know it's gonna get worse though lol. Until then, my thoughts on the last three chapters.

Ch 4

Wolfwood, my guy, what are you even doing? “He looks like he’s been to a funeral, and another one and another one after that.” I mean, yeah, Vash has been having a real shit time of it lately. That’s actually a great way to describe it.

In all seriousness, this is actually weirdly sweet to me. I think Wolfwood’s trying really hard to cheer him up, except he has no idea how to do it, so he’s just being so awkward instead. He gets like the tiniest little smile out of him. But it’s so sad because you can’t see Vash’s eyes anymore, he’s hiding all that pain beyond his brand-new goggles that function almost like blinders.

Despite how terrible Vash feels, he still helps those people out. His reputation precedes him though and it’s gotten worse. Now the story about his powers is out and the people avoid him, treat him like a devil. 

But the guys he saved are being really nice to him! Actually treating him like a person! We love to see it. 

Vash looks like he’s having fun drinking but after the last volume, I’m a little worried. He’s having a nice time, but I also feel like he’s using it to bury all the hurt he’s feeling. 

“Oh well. This may be his last chance to enjoy himself.” I can’t begin to explain the dread this line puts in me, especially since I know where this is all going. So does Wolfwood, of course. But he seems so calm about it, like he’s accepted the inevitability of it all. 

“I’m the angel of mercy handing out booze to these poor souls.” This is a banger of a line to come from some random barkeeping granny.  

That is a bleak, bleak view of Vash’s possible future that this guy gives him. That he’ll always be alone, time the only thing that will wipe away his regrets, nothing but that for as long as he’s alive. He’s probably speaking from experience though and that’s what makes it even sadder.

Oh no. OH NO. Vash’s power reacted to something and I don’t like it. It’s Knives, it’s him merging with the Plants and things are about to go down. 

The way Vash says, “Wolfwood, you really are my guide, right?” HE KNOWS. I’m convinced now that he knows that Wolfwood is Knives’s agent and has been from the beginning. I hesitate to say he doesn’t care, but he certainly doesn’t blame Wolfwood for it. But it also makes this all so tragic. In a way, they’ve both accepted their fates at this point and just, ugh, nooooo. 

Knives’s big plan is starting…with an attack of galactic proportions. He’s bringing down all the satellites, destroying the planetary communications network. A great way to sow fear and chaos across the land.

When we do see Vash’s eyes, they’re so empty. He has given up. The way he’s talking, it’s like he’s walking to his death. He knows whatever he’s walking into, he’s not coming back from it. His language, thanking everyone for one last drink, one last good night, it very much reads like a suicide note. I’m gonna go curl up in a ball and cry now.

Ch 5

The chapter titles in this volume…they fuck me up. “Late Arrival to the End of the World.” On the one hand, oof, yes, how evocative. On the other hand though…I’m scared.

So Wolfwood and Vash arrive at Knives’s murder castle/ship. Vash runs right on in because there’s no hiding now. Knives’s power is at full blast. Not only can his brother sense him, but Vash’s own power is reacting to it and he’s shifting. For the first time, he looks calm about it. But it’s not because he’s okay with his power. It’s because he’s accepted his fate. He’s locked in and nothing will stop him now, because he has nothing left to lose.

Oh my god???? What was that horrifying vision Wolfwood had? He doesn’t seem to think it was Knives and Vash didn’t even notice. FREAKY. There’s someone in the murder castle that’s after him too. 

But also, “I don’t want to be a burden on him.” God, Wolfwood. Just…you care about him so much, but it wouldn’t be a burden to him. But he knows that, which is why he won’t do it. He won’t put something else on Vash’s shoulders, he won’t make him even more worried, or harder than it already is. 

Elendira is just like, “Hi there! Let me lead you to your murderous brother for your final showdown. Right this way!”

Ah, so Vash did pick up on something from Wolfwood’s vision. As always, Vash remains more perceptive than Wolfwood is willing to give him credit for. 

IT’S REVEALED. Wolfwood isn’t Chapel! Also, can we talk about the badass wheelchair of death the actual Chapel is using? 

I love that Elendira basically scolds them into not pointing their guns at each other.

You know, it occurs to me that Wolfwood manages to betray a lot of people all at once. There’s something really sad about that because I just know it makes him feel so much worse about himself as a person.

Always funny to me when Wolfwood calls other people faithless. Like, dude, so are you! That’s just the pot calling the kettle black. 

Knives’s aura is so powerful, it cracks Vash’s glasses and blows them off his face. He can’t hide his feelings anymore and he also can’t hide from his brother anymore. He has to look the world full in the face now. There’s no turning back or running away anymore. 

Also, this last panel of Knives emerging from the pavilion is terrifying. Especially the way the giant hands don’t match up with where the rest of his body is positioned. 

Ch 6

It kills me that Knives’s plan to make Vash suffer and break him down succeeded. He wanted to see his brother brought low, to have all of his ideals smashed and proven wrong, before they faced each other again. It’s so cruel, especially after seeing how kind and loving he was as a child. 

But Knives still frames what he’s doing as saving Vash! Now it’s because of the black hair, because he’s closer to death than Knives is. Does Knives feel guilty though? Because as far as I can tell, every time Vash has used his powers and his hair has turned black up to this point has been directly due to Knives forcing or manipulating him into it. 

This has been haunting me since the first half of this volume, but Knives bringing up Tesla again reminded me. Would she want this? Would she want the kind of destruction Knives wants to rain down on the world? Would she want that kind of large scale revenge against all of humanity? She might have been a child, but Independent Plants, as we’ve seen, are incredibly intelligent, even as children. If we assume she was a vengeful ghost who wanted to show them the truth about humanity, then maybe. There’s this tiny part of me though that wonders if she’d be horrified instead to see so much suffering done in her name. Would she really want to see anyone, Plant or human, harmed just because she did too? Would she want others to experience the same pain she did? And that’s the thing. We don’t know. We’ll never know what this little girl wanted. She never had any agency, not when she lived or died, not even in her legacy. She became a martyr for a cause she didn’t even know existed. 

Oh hey, it’s the argument Vash and Knives have in the Tristamp finale! I didn’t catch this on my first read. The context here is very different though. Vash is a lot more broken down here and we know he has so many doubts. So to hear him say something like this, that he’ll run away and try again, is so weirdly hopeful and optimistic. Knives is just as enraged though. 

I’ve been wondering what those tubes on Vash’s jacket were for ages! It looks like ammo to reload his arm gun (and maybe his revolver too). Clever design for a gunslinger’s jacket, honestly. 

Is—is Legato hopping up the stairs in his weird little metal coffin thing? Like he’s in a sack race? That is such a ridiculous image in the middle of this battle. 

Ough, Vash. This page…Why must you hurt me like this? He might still have some hope left for humanity, but he doesn’t have any left for himself. In that sense, Knives failed. He wanted him to suffer and see humanity’s failings, but Vash only ever saw his own. 

Knives really went, “If I can’t save you from yourself, I’ll make you part of me and take away your entire autonomy.” He’s always been like this, but this time he’s just said it out loud. All those posts about Knives seeing Vash an extension of himself become very, very literal here.

Oh? Vash was actually able to overpower him when he tried to meld with him? 

I can’t believe Knives actually listened to Legato. He hasn’t been listening to anyone recently. And Legato’s deranged, excited expression when he does and then asks him to restrain Knives…he’s really enjoying himself, for once.

Oh no, oh this is bad. Vash is captured, Knives is planning the destruction of the planet, there’s apparently a massive airship. Everything looks very, very bad. This is so much worse because I know where this is going. 

[embodies]

o'leary mountain has come a long way since the good old days — once a watchtower and a dream between two drifters with not much more than a couple of beer bottles and gas cans to speak of, now a full - fledged safehouse with a small community within its walls. he still rejects this leader thing, preferred his days of walking in the shadows, coming into camps with a nod of the head in greeting and some freaker ears thrown on the table for easy cash. he's not one of the mongrels for nothing. but no matter how hard he may try to cling onto the scraps of his nomad ways, it is he that is called when there is a situation at the gate. it is he that surveys from the watchtower, hands cupping around his eyes to see better, face pressed against the glass. from afar, it looks like a lone freaker — but that doesn't make any sense, why wouldn't they just shoot it already, huh ? whadda they need me for, that . . . it doesn't add up.

he's already cloaking himself in leather vest and grabbing a pistol, takes the stairs two at a time and bustles past the brewing commotion. he doesn't realise it's her at first, that classic ponytail fallen out and the remaining strands matted with blood and shit and whatever else, but it is the recognition in her own eyes that leaves him with pause. an unmistakable glint that precedes her relief, and before he has time to even process it, she's plummeting to the ground. ❛ lucky— ! ❜ it's a cry, as if he can somehow stop the fall, knees buckling into a sprint to close the distance and cradling a body already so beaten that the landing must not have done much more damage than was already evident. it's a miracle she's still alive.

❛ lucky, lucky, lucky— grab addy, quick ! ❜ it's called over his shoulder, frantic ( pitiful that the closest thing they have to a doctor is a veterinarian ) as he conducts his own checks. heartbeat, faint, fleeting. like a baby bird, hardly a thrum, a whisper. checks her airway, her pupils, before the thought comes unbidden. bite, bite - bite - bite - fuck, is she bitten ? please, god, don't let her be bitten. likely looks like a man half - crazed as she inspects each of her limbs, her neck, her face, lifts each garment in turn until there's hardly an inch of skin he hasn't covered. his forehead is beaded with sweat by the time a sigh gushes from him, satisfied she's at least clean of that. thank you, thank you, thank you. she is taken away under addison's guidance before he can process anything else.

( and the rest is a blur. )

he's lost track of how long he's been at her bedside, cracking his knuckles, pacing, greeting check - ins from sarah, boozer, rikki. when consciousness makes a debut, he's cautious, hitch in his breath as he takes a step back. he would dare not speak in case it ruptured this new milestone of progress, but he can't help himself. he doesn't escalate beyond a low murmur, doesn't want to startle her in her current condition. she looks so frail, a husk of the lara croft he has grown to know.

❛ hey, hey— it's okay, you're safe, it's— it's deacon, you're at o'leary mountain, okay ? you're alright. you're gonna be okay. ❜ he doesn't know if at this point the reassurance is for her or himself, each life lost a personal tally to his own name nowadays. a leader's responsibility, there it is again. following him like a cloud.

@croftborn.

[istumpysk]

I’ve always wondered how Sansa would leave the Vale. Will it be during the tourney? After the tourney? Will the mountain clans get to her and she escapes from them? Does ser shadrich get her?

And then there’s LF. I believe in the theory that Harold will be killed at the tourney, leaving LF to open the door for him marrying sansa herself. (That could be what “wakes her,”). On top of that, LF has been m*lesting her with his kisses 🤢Is there foreshadowing that he’ll go farther before Sansa escapes? If so, how far should we brace ourselves. I’m very fearful about it ngl

I think he's set enough of a precedent with previous tournaments (Harrenhal, Ashford, Hand's tourney), that it's safe to assume whatever is about to happen will happen during the tournament and not after.

I still don't have a cohesive theory, but I know the following:

You don't introduce Ser Shadrich to the story unless you intend on using him.

There's probably a reason the author gifted Brienne the knowledge of Ser Shadrich's appearance and objective, followed by an assessment of her ability to fight him.

If it was Ser Shadrich dogging her heels, she might well have a fight on her hands. She did not intend to partner with the man or let him follow her to Sansa. He had the sort of easy arrogance that comes with skill at arms, she thought, but he was small. I'll have the reach on him, and I should be stronger too.

[...]

"Men will always underestimate you," he said, "and their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely." She had learned the truth of that once she went into the world. Even Jaime Lannister had come at her that way, in the woods by Maidenpool. If the gods were good, the Mad Mouse would make the same mistake. He may be a seasoned knight, she thought, but he is no Jaime Lannister. She slid her sword out of its scabbard. - Brienne II, AFFC

In her second chapter, George essentially lays out Brienne's journey: she will initially be led astray (for the right reasons), but will backtrack.

The Wall was too far, surely, and a bleak and bitter place besides. And to reach Riverrun the girl would need to cross the war-torn riverlands and pass through the Lannister siege lines. The Eyrie would be simpler, and Lady Lysa would surely welcome her sister's daughter . . .

Ahead, the alley bent. Somehow Brienne had taken a wrong turn. She found herself in a dead end, a small muddy yard where three pigs were rooting round a low stone well. 

"I was looking for the Seven Swords."

"Back the way you come. Left at the sept."

"I thank you." Brienne turned to retrace her steps, and walked headfirst into someone hurrying round the bend. 

We have every reason in the world to believe we will see Gulltown.

Brienne contemplates going to Gulltown roughly 34 times.

"Gulltown next," her captain told her, "thence around the Fingers to Sisterton and White Harbor, if the storms allow. She's a clean ship, 'Strider, not so many rats as most, and we'll have fresh eggs and new-churned butter aboard. Is m'lady seeking passage north?"

"No." Not yet. She was tempted, but . . .

Towards the end of ASOS and all throughout AFFC, George places excessive emphasis on how bold the mountain clans have become.

Sansa has identified Lyn Corbray as a problem, and Nostradamus is always right.

If I had to guess, I would say Lyn Corbray does something (Nostradamus), Harry is badly wounded or dies (à la Hugh of the Vale, and Humphrey Hardyng), Ser Shadrich seizes the opportunity to grab Sansa (2 + 2 = 4), and Brienne will have to intercept (because I said so).

I realize that doesn't sound possible, given Brienne's current location and injuries, but Alayne I is happening a long time after Jaime is brought to LSH.

Unfortunately, I couldn't even guess how characters like Myranda, Yohn, Lothor, and Timmet factor into all of this.

As for Littlefinger, I totally understand your fear, and I agree it's blatantly obvious his actual intention is to marry Sansa, but I'm hopeful we won't see her alone with him in the Vale for much longer. The pot is boiling over.