#steel is for a specific reason in story

[ectoplasmer]

biting him biting him biting him bi

[anneapocalypse]

What is "the occult" in FFXIV?

Ever since I first laid eyes on the EE3 bit about Urianger's parents I have been noodling on one thing in particular. Encyclopedia Eorzea volume 3 refers to "the occult" as Urianger's parents' field of study (and the reason they were so absent from his life). Every since that discovery, I have been curious what that actually means. What is "the occult" in a universe where magic is real, measurable, and a highly legitimate and prestigious field of study?

So, where else is "the occult" referenced in the game?

Thanks to this invaluable searchable transcript, I've found a few other references in MSQ.

The first use of the term "occult" in MSQ that I've found is way back in the Gridania starter quests when some Ixali "Occultists" are trying to summon Garuda at the Guardian Tree. In isolation I'd take this one with a grain of salt since it's very early in ARR, but I think it's consistent with other usages. The description for Whorleater Extreme also uses the term, referencing "the occult knowledge of the Ascians," so from the start there is an association of the occult with Ascian magicks and specifically with summoning.

The only other mention in MSQ comes from Alphinaud in Endwalker, where he and Krile are giving us the tour of Sharlayan, and specifically Phenomenon:

Alphinaud: As the center of what would later become the Studium, it was established to promote the study of aetherological phenomena, hence the name. Alphinaud: Though with aether being a fundamental aspect of nature, its scope expanded to include every conceivable facet of life and even the universe itself. Alphinaud: And then, in the four hundred and thirty-second year of the Sixth Astral Era, Phenomenon was decreed complete and the Studium officially opened as a place of learning. Alphinaud: With a long and storied history, it is without question the world's leading authority in aetherology, the arcane, the occult, astromancy, and countless other fields, standing proud as─ Alisaie and Krile: ...Sharlayan's foremost educational institute!

Okay, so "the occult" clearly falls within the general field of aetherological phenomena and magic, though that we could have guessed already. Something that catches my eye is how in more than one place, "occult" is contrasted with or referenced as distinct from "arcane." This is the case in Alphinaud's speech above, as well as in the Blue Mage quest "Everybody Was Fukumen Fighting," wherein Bluehood says, "No occult tricks or arcane incantations can contend with the all-surpassing might of blue wizardry!"

In the Loporrit Allied Society quests, we also get this odd little quest "Hare-Raising Thrills," in which we're asked to make "Occult Paraphernalia" for a Loporrit called Thrillingway. Depending on crafting job, dialogue with Keepingway will elaborate thus:

"It seems he requires a pair of shears─but not just any pair. No, he desires blades sharp enough to carve fur clean off!"

"He wants a sturdy coil of rope suitable for binding all four limbs of…a 'friend,' allegedly."

"Seems he wants a highly acidic gel for some dubious purpose I did not have the heart to inquire about. Honestly, I think it's best if we don't know."

Which. I mean. Okay. lol. Do what you will with that.

But probably most illuminating is the use of the word "occult" in a couple of Red Mage quests, and in the Sky Pirate raid quests.

In "The Weeping City," Cait Sith says, "Thus did the Mhachi magi construct an occult device that would more securely bind the voidsent to their will..."

And in the Red Mage quests "With Heart and Steel" and "Traced in Blood" we have, respectively:

"The tomes with passages pertaining to the voidsent Lilith are all forbidden occult works..."

and

"...the secrets behind Lambard's occult transformation."

In both contexts, "occult" seems to be connected to voidsent, specifically to Lilith in the case of the Red Mage quests.

And this ties back to the references in ARR as well, since from the beginning Ascians have been connected with the Void, even before we knew what the Void actually was. So it's safe to say at this point, I think, that "occult" can refer to magicks connected to the Void and to Ascians.

There's just one more reference I found that flummoxed me a bit, and that's this description of the Arcanist class, which refers to arcanist weapons as "occult grimoires." I found it odd initially because in most other contexts "occult" seems to refer to magicks seen as illicit, as opposed to the socially acceptable "arcane." But it does make a kind of sense, given that it is from Arcanist that we get Summoner. If summoning of primals is occult, then by extension so is summoning in the arcanist sense, even if it's not truly the same thing. This would seem to be the exception to "arcane" and "occult" being distinct categories, which leads me to believe that the distinction is more cultural than ontological.

So I think from the above, we can consider "occult" to be a fairly broad term that may be used in several distinct but overlapping senses:

Magic related to the summoning of primals.

Magic related to the Void, voidsent, and Ascians.

Magic which is taboo, forbidden, or otherwise outside of that which is socially accepted.

As a footnote, I think this is particularly interesting in the context of Urianger being introduced as our resident expert on primals, despite the fact that that's... really not specifically his field of study but merely adjacent to it. Urianger's primary interest is prophecy, and certainly plenty of prophecy seems to reference primals and Ascians and that's where we see him doing a lot of his research, but it's not the same field, merely overlapping.

Without more information we can't know for certain what his parents were actually studying. Maybe they were interested in primals, or Ascians, or the Void. Maybe they were studying Void-related magics. It's also possibly they were simply arcanists particularly interested in the summoner side and we shouldn't read much more than that into the reference to "the occult." Who knows.

But nonetheless, several of these interpretations would mean that in a way, Urianger has followed in their footsteps despite their making apparently little effort to guide him that way, which I find to be an interesting angle to his character and also profoundly sad in its own way--not that he found his own interests in those areas, but that the Augurelts had a child so naturally inclined toward their own interests and still took so little interest in him.

[dfortrafalgar]

Hiii! I'm so happy you are taking requests! I love the way you write, everything feels so real! I'm loving ILY and it's a bittersweet feeling now that it is ending (I'm the anon that commented early on saying that it was so relatable because I also had a miscarriage at 6 weeks). Thank you for that fic 🥰🤗

Now, my requests, if you choose to take it! I would love a jealous/protective Law X fem reader. I was thinking, no established relationship but some flirting going on, perhaps. Could be SFW or NSFW, it's up to you! I would just really loooooove some protective Law! I'm also obsessed with his hands so you can do whatever with that 😂

Did I mention that I love your writting? I did? I'll do it again. Thank you for sharing your gift! ❤️

I'm in annon but you can call me R.J. 😋😎

AAA HELLO R.J im so happy to hear from you again!!!!! no lie ive been thinking about you every day, your first message during my story was so amazingly sweet and touching and i havent been able to stop thinking about it, im so happy that you loved the end of the fic and to hear that you're doing well!!! <333

i ended up projecting a bit in this fic... and it ended up being a bit more Protective Law rather than Jealous Law, but i hope you like it all the same! i also juggled on nsfw, but decided that sfw worked better for this specific plot, so i hope that's alright!!!

thank you so much for requesting!!!! 💗❤️💓💕

Decontaminate the Heart

Law x Fem Reader

Your feelings toward Law had gone from a reasonable level of respect to a deep infatuation that you were readily keeping hidden. An unfortunate encounter with a predatory shopkeep might be what unravels your feelings... and the feelings of your captain.

Warnings: some descriptions of gross behavior from a stranger, light fluff, pre-relationship vibes, protective law but also struggling-to-accept-his-feelings awkward law

Law wasn’t fond of the word ‘jealous.’  After all, he was a seasoned veteran in the long game of Keeping All Human Emotions Bottled Up Inside So That You Don’t Show Weakness To Those Who Might Be Out To Hurt You.  He had become a pro at it, too.  After all, putting a word to an undefined emotion only validated that feeling, which was exactly the opposite of what Law needed.  Mouth constantly downturned in a pensive frown, steely, cold eyes shutting down all encounters with those he deemed unfamiliar or even the slightest bit threatening, holding even his closest friends at arm’s length on good days.  If he wasn’t the strong-willed, feared captain of the Heart Pirates, a man with a three billion beri bounty on his head, then who was he?

The answer is: a loser.  He was a loser.  Especially after he brought you on board his crew as a boatswain.  That day, he unwillingly began the downward spiral that would transform into his emotional demise.  A psychic catastrophe.  An inner turmoil of the highest degree.

Ikkaku called it infatuation.  Bepo called it love.  The rest of his raunchy, stifled male crew called it being horny.

Whatever it was, it had Law in a steel trap, never letting go.

And on a particularly warm, sunny day, docked cliffside on an island with idyllic spring weather, his steel trap was donned in a flowy sundress that complimented her entire outward appearance in a way he didn’t think was humanly possible.  When she first greeted Law before they departed the Polar Tang, she had bent down slightly, holding her hands together in front of her and pushing her biceps together just enough that her cleavage was on center stage for just a brief moment.  She had giggled at the way Law’s face flushed with a crimson hue.  Unprovoked… but not necessarily unappreciated.

Days for leisure were hard to come by as a pirate, so the crew was sure to take full advantage of the opportunities that crossed your path.  The pirates were given the freedom to roam to their heart’s content, so long as they didn’t cause trouble.  “Stress-free activities are crucial to maintaining good cardiac health,” Law would say.  But everyone knew he enjoyed some sparring days off just as much as any average bloke.

Especially when those days off were spent in your company.

“Thank you for coming with me, Captain!” you quipped, your voice cheerful as you walked beside him, a small paper bag clutched in your hand, containing a small product you had just purchased from one of the local shops.  The entire crew had shed their usual boiler suits for the day in exchange for more casual attire, you taking the opportunity to don the sundress that you had purchased a few months ago with Ikkaku.  “I’m always happy when you take days off to get out of that stuffy office of your’s.”

Law fought tooth and nail to keep the pleased smirk that twitched his lips from showing on his face.  He already needed to duel with his wandering eyes which kept itching to gaze at the way your breasts fit into the bodice of your light, flowy gown.  “Of course, it’s nice to get out sometimes.”  ‘With you,’ he added in his head before quickly balling up the thought into a crumpled mess and chucking it into a garbage pail.  The worst part about all of this, unrelated to walking side-by-side with you (which was the complete opposite of a bad thing), was the fact that he was pressured to leave Kikoku behind on the Polar Tang.  He felt naked without his sword perched on his right shoulder.

Your eyes were eagerly glancing between the storefronts that surrounded you on both sides, happy townspeople window shopping with their families and loved ones, partaking in the outdoor food markets, and spending quality time in the sun.  The domestic bliss of days like this always made your soul feel lighter, your footsteps almost floating off the ground.  A few couples passed by, their hands intertwined and souls combining with bliss, a sight that made Law’s own fingers twitch with the deep-seeded need to grasp your hand.  Every once in a while, your own fingers would tingle with the desire to reach out for him as well.

He wouldn’t hold your hand because of affection, Law told himself.  It was just to make sure other people knew you were off limits.

Was that because of affection?  Was he even entitled to such a thought?  

He stifled a frustrated groan.  “Are you looking for something?” he asked curiously, picking up on the way your gleaming eyes darted to and fro.

“There was a shop I read about in the latest paper that I could have sworn was on this island…” you muttered, bringing your free hand up to nervously stroke the skin of your cheek.  After a few more moments, your face lit up as your eyes landed on a shop tucked away between two larger markets, almost completely hidden from public view.  “Found it!”

Law’s heart almost leapt out of his throat when you subconsciously snatched his hand, yanking him out of the flow of people on the street and towards the storefront.  His stern golden eyes flashed up towards the sign above the front door.

‘WILD BILL’S PAWN SHOP’

“You read about this somewhere?” he asked, his voice revealing a level of skepticism as you stopped in front of the front door.  A dingy, beat-up ‘OPEN’ sign carved into a plank of birch wood and hanging from a rusty chain was flipped outward toward the street, beckoning townsfolk inside to peruse whatever wares were contained within the unassuming wooden shack.

You excitedly nodded.  “Yup, I was looking for places that might sell rare coins.”

Law’s breath caught in his throat.  “But you don’t collect coins.”

“I was looking for you!” you called out, flashing him a smile that could have easily put him in an early grave.  So much for being conscious of his heart health.  With the way his organ was hammering behind his sternum, he had half a mind to be worried about spontaneous cardiac arrest.

Instead of responding, all he could muster was a quiet, pensive, “Hmm.”

You finally released his hand (his palm felt so cold now), and pushed open the thin wooden door to enter the shop.  An obnoxious, ear-piercing bell chimed above the hinges, alerting any other shoppers or employees of your entrance.  Law always hated gimmicks like that, they were a pirate’s worst nightmare.  Instantly, the smell of centuries old dust and mildew flooded Law’s nose, making him suppress a sneeze into the collar of his shirt.  He was about to make a snide remark about being susceptible to allergens, but kept his lips sealed when an amused giggle emitted from your lips at the way his face contorted with mild disgust.

He blindly followed you to the back of the store, past dusty shelves containing books from all walks of life, old technology that Law had never even seen before, and antiques from across the globe.  Your expression remained one of wonder as you passed by each new item, gazing fondly at some of the more sentimental goods- boxes of old postcards, old newspapers from decades prior, wanted posters for pirates long deceased.  For such a ratty-looking establishment, the variety of wares this ‘Wild Bill’ had on hand was quite impressive.  In the very back of the store, a long glass case spanning almost the entire length of the wall was situated, separating a back room from the rest of the establishment.  There was a small space to walk around behind the case in between the wall, where small sliding doors were built in to allow someone to remove the wares kept safe inside.

Law’s eyes finally lit up in wonder.

A plethora of fine metalwork was kept in the special enclosure, jewelry with the finest minerals and perfectly sculpted details in precious velvet boxes, metal treasures surely passed down through generations of wealth, and in the nearest corner, an assortment of collectable, commemorative coins from across the world.  You smiled to yourself as Law drifted toward the coins, crouching down on his calves to more closely inspect what the shop had to offer.

He was so adorable.

“Can I help you folks with anything?” a voice from behind you asked, startling you from your affectionate daze.

A larger, older man emerged from behind one of the tall bookshelves, his hands in his pockets.  He was dressed surprisingly gaudy, a bright purple overcoat that traveled past his rump covering a sky-blue button-up shirt and a polka dot bowtie.  His belly was quite large, a curled handlebar mustache perched atop his upper lip.  He looked wildly out of place in such a modest, dusty shop.  Must be Wild Bill.

You flashed a cordial smile.  “Just looking around!”

The sound of your talking alerted Law, who stayed crouched in front of the coin collection but tossed accusatory glares over his shoulder, assessing the man’s interactions with you under an analytical gaze.  Out of instinct, as a pirate.  As a captain.  Nothing more… probably.

“Well, let me know if you need help finding anything!” the man hollered, his receding hairline making the dim light of the nearby lamps reflect off his oily skin.  He stepped behind the glass containers with a small huff and disappeared into the back room, a curtain swooping closed behind him.

With the outrageous stranger gone, Law resumed looking over the fine details of each coin housed within their own individual boxes, while you approached the other end of the glass case and examined the jewelry.

Your eyes darted excitedly between pieces.  Delicate rings with rare gemstones sat perfectly in their boxes, some dated as old as centuries ago.  A bracelet that was assembled with the finest minerals, gleaming brightly through the dim atmosphere of the shop.  As your eyes continued to dart from one object to the next, you finally found yourself entranced by one thing in particular.  It was a necklace, more of a choker than a longer-hanging piece, with a small purple amethyst mounted elegantly in the center of a silver pendant.  The complimentary silver chain seemed to be fairly heavy duty just as it was delicate enough to still be an elegant accessory.  You felt a smile pull at your lips.  You doubted you had enough beri to afford it, but you’d be damned if you couldn’t at least try it on.

Wild Bill once again appeared from behind the curtain after a few moments, placing a few items on top of the counter to be placed inside the glass enclosure.  Law watched as the old man’s gaze turned to you as you bent over, tucking your dress behind your knees to crouch down and get a closer look at the amethyst necklace.

“Anything caught your eye, missy?” Bill asked, his voice far too loud for such a small shop as he leaned over the top of the counter and gazed through the transparent surface at the pieces you were admiring.  A seemingly friendly smile adorned his pudgy face.

You enthusiastically nodded.  “Yes, actually, can I try on this necklace?”  Your finger pointed through the protective barrier toward your interest.  “The one with the small amethyst pendant.”

Law kept watching your interaction out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course, of course!” boomed Bill, bending over and sliding the door of the case open to remove the necklace, holding it by the chain in his large, burly hand.  

Without being asked, he stepped out from behind the counter and approached you from behind, unclasping the chain and looping it around your neck.  Law watched, his leg muscles tensing as you visibly stiffened at the proximity of the man as he clasped the chain together around your neck.  He pulled over a small standing mirror to have you admire the piece that sat elegantly between your collarbones.  Your fingers ghosted over the gemstone embedded in the fine silver, a small smile ghosting over your lips.

“It looks absolutely beautiful,” you whispered.

Bill stepped closer, almost pinning you from behind against the counter.  His large hands rested against the glass case, caging you in.  “It does… fitting for a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

The air went ice cold as Law watched the man’s hand wander upward, trailing across your forearm and up toward your bicep, across your shoulder and to your neck.  Your face had quickly contorted into an expression of terror, having been caged against the counter all of a sudden against your will, being caressed by this stranger.  Law felt frozen.  His brain was screaming at him to move, to do something, to get you out of this shop as soon as possible.  But he couldn’t move.  Why couldn’t he move?

“I’m sorry, I think I’m going to pass, actually,” you uttered, trying to push yourself away from him.  Your voice had quickly grown shaky, apprehensive.

“No, no, it really does suit you!” Bill murmured, his head angling downward, predatory eyes gazing over the soft skin of your neck.  The way he kept you pinned against the counter prevented you from moving away from him.  His belly was almost pushed flush against your back, making your hands tremble in fear.

“ROOM.”

A flash of blue light engulfed the surrounding area.  You immediately breathed a sigh of mild relief.  A static sensation permeated the space around you, making goosebumps rise across your skin and the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.  Just as soon as the bubble surrounded you, the predatory man was replaced with your captain standing protectively behind you, his lean hand on your shoulder to keep you steady.

Now he’d done it.

“You’re…” Bill stammered, his own hands shaking with realization.  “I’ve seen that ability, you’re… you’re…!”

Law didn’t give him time to fully realize who’s identity he was dealing with before his hand was in yours, forcefully dragging you out of the shop, harshly pushing between narrow shelves of delicate antiques until the two of you burst back out into the sunlight.  Law didn’t let up his pace, your feet barely keeping you steady as you ran.  Onlookers stepped back, shocked gasps and wide eyes following the two of you in your mad scramble back to the cliff where the submarine was kept concealed.  He just needed to get you some place secure.  Somewhere where you could wash away the phantom grime of the hands that had just touched you.

What a bad day to leave his sword behind.

The two of you had just barely made it past the outskirts of the port town when you tripped, slamming into Law’s backside and falling to your knees with a pained grunt.  The shoes you were wearing definitely weren’t built for mad sprints through a town.

“Shit…” Law grumbled, crouching down in front of you.  “Are you alright?”

Your hands were still shaking, anxiously palming the dirt and grass beneath your fingers as your lungs heaved, desperate to catch up on the oxygen you lost in your frantic sprint.  Small tears brimmed in the corners of your eyes, but you were quick to blink them away.  Your heart was pounding madly in your chest, your brain a fuzzy mess of scrambled, panicked thoughts that couldn’t make sense in any order.  Law was so close to you, so close you could almost smell the mild soap he used in the shower.  Something woody.  Mellow.  So very him.  You wanted to hug him.  The stress of the sudden incident was rapidly catching up to you.

Instead, the only thing you managed to do was blurt out an awkward, weary, “Thank you.”

Law wordlessly helped you to your feet, walking you back to the Polar Tang.  His mouth was drawn in that pensive line once more.

—

It took a few hours for you to register the fact that you had sprinted out of the pawn shop with the necklace still clasped around your neck.  When you took it off, you held it gently in your hands, gazing at the way the brilliant purple gem was nestled perfectly in the metal sculpted around it.  But the fingerprints around the chain from the predatory man who groped you left a phantom burning pain on your skin.  You still loved the piece, you truly did, and you wished you could wear it, but you felt violated.  There was no denying it.

You needed to scrub it clean.  You needed to scrub your own body clean, it seemed.

Law was in the medical bay when you carefully knocked on the door, hoping that no one was in there with him.  The tired sounding, ‘Come in,’ granted you permission to gently push the heavy hatch door open, stepping into the dim lighting and closing the entrance behind you.

Your captain was in the midst of re-organizing the entire medicine cabinet, floor to ceiling.  He did it when he was stressed.

“Yeah?” was all he asked when you entered, barely looking away from his obsessive work while you stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding your necklace in your cupped hands like it was a suspicious specimen to be brought to a lab.

“I know this is a weird request, but can you disinfect this?” you asked.

You held up the necklace by the very end of the chain, dangling it in the air away from you.  Law finally turned his attention toward you, an eyebrow raised.

“Why?”  He sounded genuinely oblivious to why you would ask for such a favor.

You rocked back and forth on your heels.  “It still feels like it has the fingerprints of that guy.  From the shop,” you clarified.  When you said it out loud, you grimaced at how childish you sounded, but at the same time, you felt your concerns, your insecurities over what had transpired, were justified.

You were violated.  Case closed.

It seemed Law picked up on that as well.  As much as he struggled to put himself in other peoples’ shoes, he could see the anxious look in your eyes that told him everything he needed to know- you wanted to wash away all traces of the man who burst your personal bubble in one of the worst ways imaginable.

Law felt a searing jealousy in his chest, the sudden reminder of the way your face contorted in utter horror as you were touched.

Your captain wordlessly stepped forward and gently took the chain from your fingers.  You watched him silently as he stepped back toward the counter, rummaging through the supplies he had laid out mid-organizing before procuring an opaque bottle of rubbing alcohol and filling a small container about halfway with the solution before submerging your necklace inside.  He capped the bottle and placed it back where he found it, amongst his other disinfectant chemicals.

“We’ll let that sit for a few minutes,” he suggested.  “In the meantime, I have these wet napkins you can use to clean your neck, if you want.”

He took the words right out of your head, as if he could read your mind.  You gratefully accepted the small container of alcohol wipes, starting with your neck and rubbing the cold solution down your collarbones, chest, and arms.  You didn’t care if it would dry out your skin later, the feeling of wiping away that man’s fingerprints in some capacity was more freeing than anything else in the world.

Law simply watched, glancing away from you every once in a while when you turned at an angle that would let you see him staring wanton daggers in your direction.  He shouldn’t be watching you scrub yourself down while fully clothed, if anything that could also be a violation of your unspoken privacy.

After what felt like hours, you finally disposed of the wipes in the nearby waste receptacle while Law fished out your necklace with a gloved hand, placing it on a dry cloth and carefully removing all the liquid from the surface of the metal.

He started speaking without thinking.  “Silver and amethyst are sturdy materials that can be placed in rubbing alcohol for disinfecting,” he stated.  “If this was some other weaker gem, like an emerald, it wouldn’t be so easy.”

You grinned, stepping closer as he polished the chain.  His hand that wasn’t gloved carefully moved along the cloth, outlining the shape of the necklace folded under it in precise, delicate motions.

Goodness, you loved his hands.

“So you’re as good with rocks and minerals as you are with health science?” you asked, a small, playful smirk on your lips.

Law’s own mouth twitched upward.  “I suppose so.”  He gently unfolded the cloth and removed the necklace.  “There, all clean.”

You grinned appreciatively, turning around and brushing away any obstacles in the way of your neck.

He stared at you from behind your back.  “... What are you doing?” he asked dumbly.

You tossed a glance over your shoulder.  “Waiting for you to put it on.”

Law chewed on the inside of his cheek.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you confirmed.  “I trust you.”

What you didn’t say was just how much you trusted him.  You would willingly lay down your life for your captain, the love for him, both as a person and as a pirate, greatly surpassing that of a captain and his subordinate.  Sometimes, well, most of the time, you desperately hoped that he felt the same way.

After understanding your request, Law stepped toward you slightly, one hand still gloved as he looped the necklace around the front of your neck, bringing both ends of the chain around the back to clasp at the base of your spine.  His deft, inked fingers left scorching hot trails in their wake, your skin craving his touch.  The complete opposite of your counter in the pawn shop.

Once secured, you turned around to face him, a pleased smile on your face as your fingers once again ghosted over the delicate, purple mineral embedded into the pendant.  “How does it look?”

Law prayed that the blush on his cheeks wasn’t noticeable through the dim lighting on the medical bay.  He would put necklaces on your soft skin every day if you’d let him.

Oh, how he wished you’d let him.

“It looks great…” he mumbled, his voice soft and apprehensive.  “It suits you.”

His voice, the anxious tilt of his eyebrows, spoke volumes to you as your smile grew wider.  “Hey, Law?”

He turned his attention back to you, his lips pressed firmly together.

“Thank you for protecting me back there,” you sighed.  Your voice had gone quiet, but the look on your face was indebted.

“Of course,” he whispered back.  His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, his brain clearly struggling to say the words he so desperately wanted to say.

The sight had you suppressing a giggle as you stepped forward, fighting back your reservations as you wrapped your arms around his torso in a hug, dropping your head into the crook of his shoulder and inhaling that scent that was oh-so familiar to you.  Disinfectant and oil, so clearly from living life on the Polar Tang, but also so distinctly him.

You loved it.

You were starting to come to the conclusion that you really loved him.

And with the way Law’s arms slowly wrapped around your own body, the hands you loved so much resting between your shoulder blades and the lowest point of your back, you started to wonder if he secretly, deep down in that weary heart of his, felt the same way about you.

[painted-flag]

Little Red Riding Hood - Cregan Stark

Part 1 of 2.

Story 2 of Between the Pages: a HOTD x Fairytale Series.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist. main masterlist. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: cregan stark x f!reader (no use of y/n) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: a little bit of period-specific misogyny. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ wordcount: 5.7k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: the reason this is split into two parts is that my mac crashed and i lost the full draft (around 10k). i rewrote it, but i promised that it would release on the 29th so despite the fact i have not finished writing the full imagine, i am splitting it into two parts.

The sound of quiet chatter filled the small schoolhouse. It was a stone building, old and worn from the centuries since its construction, one of the oldest buildings in the small town of Wildgate. Young girls sat in a circle, each focusing on the fabric in front of them as they stitched the day away. Their hands gripped their wooden loops and meticulously weaved the needle up and down to create their desired patterns. 

The hall was warmed by two hearths on each side that chased away the winter chill. Your clothes aided in keeping warm while you paced around the outside of the circle. Your gaze watched the little girls as they sewed and your heart swelled with pride at the proficiency of your students. It was a rewarding job to work as a teacher for the girls in the town, despite the abysmal pay. Any money counted to the support of your family.  

The girls finished their work one by one, earning praise from you which had them giggling and running to go home to their parents and share their work. As each girl left, you began to clean up the room from the day's activities. Once the desks were moved back into their regular position and the chairs in place, you eagerly made leave of the schoolhouse. 

You made your way through the bustling town streets. The ground, usually muddy, had frozen over for the winter and patches of piled snow littered the area. People were hastily making their way to their destinations to run from the chill. The deep scarlet cloak you wore had been a gift from your grandmother and provided the perfect reprieve from the icy air. The red contrasted against the snowy surroundings. 

Upon turning to another street, you quickly open a wooden door. The heat from the ovens in the bakery had mixed with the smells of fresh bread. You inhale slowly, savouring the scent. 

A man came from a backroom and grinned when seeing you, “Ah! Darling, how are you today?” He was a short and plump middle-aged man who never had anything but a smile on his face and rosy cheeks. Every week, he would donate food to the schoolhouse for the children who were from poorer households. 

“I am doing alright, James. How have you been?” You put your basket down as he begins to place your regular bread order in it. 

“Well, the weather is drab but every day alive is a great day.” He nodded to you and accepted the payment. Once saying your goodbyes, you wandered back outside to the cool streets. Only a few buildings down was your next destination. The familiar sound of metal clanking against steel got louder as you approached. 

The area was covered with a roof but open to the elements with a single wall being opened. It was the only blacksmith in the town, which happened to employ the man who had enchanted your fantasies. You watched as Aegon pulled a blade out of a forge and set it against an anvil. He grabbed a heavy hammer and began to pound it down against the glowing steel, over and over. The sound reverberated across the buildings and travelled through your body. He was sweating from work and despite the gentle snowfall, he only wore one set of clothes. The shirt he had on was thin and billowed with the breeze. 

Aegon was not your first choice in men. He had only arrived in the village a few years ago and settled down into an apprenticeship. While you could not deny the beauty he held, you had not been enticed at first. You were generally disinterested in most men in the village, especially having known them all since childhood. His uniqueness was what had reeled you in, not the prospect of romance. Though there were no qualms with the way he treated you, the spark you so desperately wished to feel only flickered. 

One thing was undeniable, his steady income would protect you and your family. A considerable rarity among the other available men. 

Upon seeing you approach, Aegon used large tongs to pick up the blade and dunk it into a nearby vat of water. The sizzle and bubbles from the heat-laden steel rippled across the water. He smiled at you and put the items down. When you made it to the work area, Aegon took and placed your basket down. He gently held your hand and brought it up to lay a small kiss on the knuckles. 

You accepted his affection, following like a sheep unaware of the wolf’s lure. 

“And how is my lady?” Aegon moved back to organizing some of his tools, lifting them as though they weighed nothing, despite them being heavier than you could imagine. Although he had a lean and built figure, it seemed uncharacteristic with the amount of weight he could lift. 

“The girls are doing so well with their stitching progress. I don’t believe there is much else I could teach them.” You spoke and Aegon hummed while he placed a hammer off to the side. 

Aegon moved back to you and kissed your cheek, “Well, it is just stitching. There is not much to that work, maybe they could move on to other womanly duties?” 

There was a brief moment of bitter taste in your mouth, but you swallowed it down. You reached for your basket on one of the tables and lifted the small cloth that covered the items inside. When you took out a package wrapped in cloth, Aegon watched your movements. 

“I got your favourite dinner.” You placed the package into his outstretched hands choosing to ignore his previous comment, “Though, I am still so confused on how you could eat so much.” You laughed at your little joke and Aegon did too, but his gaze still pieced through you. 

“I am always hungry,” Aegon’s voice dropped a few octaves and his expression darkened for a moment. It was quickly extinguished and he continued speaking, “Thank you, my love, for bringing this to me. I should get back to work now.” 

You nodded at his words and leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, “I shall leave you to it then.” 

Your hands grasped the handle of the basket and picked it up. Giving Aegon a wave goodbye, you started back down the street and hummed idly to yourself. The trek in the falling snow was quiet and pleasant. All of the cottages around you had smoke billowing from their chimneys and glowing windows from candlelight. The sky had darkened fast. 

A cottage in the distance caught your eye. The home was not large, but the warmth from your mother and little brother was more than enough to make it feel larger than a castle. You opened the heavy wooden door and rushed in, closing it quickly to keep out the cold. In the open area that consists of the kitchen and living space, your brother was sitting in front of the hearth and your mother was busying herself with dinner. 

Upon spotting you by the door, your little brother rushed to greet you. He called out your name and wrapped his arms around your legs with his head burying itself in your stomach. Your arms encircled him and squeezed. 

You ruffled his dark locks, “Good to see you too, buddy.” He pulled away from you and started asking countless questions about your day. You laughed at his curiousness and mentioned you would speak over dinner before sending him on his way to wash his hands and prepare the table. 

Your mother had moved to the hearth to tend to the cast iron pot simmering with that night's stew. She stirred it around and brought a wooden spoon up to her lips, blew on it, and tasted. She nodded at the taste and decided it was ready. She turned around and saw you standing there and wrapped you in a hug.  

“I expect your day went well?” Your mother pulled back and grabbed the pot. She carried it to the table and set it down by the bowls your brother brought out. When you sat down with your brother in the spot beside yours, a piece of parchment was dropped by the bowl that your mother placed.

“My day was fine. What is this?” You held up the parchment. 

“A letter from Winterfell’s healer.” Your mother answered. You furrowed your brows. Winterfell was the town over, about a little over a day's ride from here. It was where your grandmother lived. It had been years since you visited last. 

You unrolled the parchment and began to read. The more you did, the greater your worry grew. Your grandmother was sick and had been for a while. The healer could not keep watch on her enough while also taking care of others in Winterfell. He asked for a family member to come to the town and watch in on your grandmother for the times he is not there. The healer said he would be waiting at the town gate on the morning of the moon's first quarter to escort whoever showed up to her home. 

“That is two days from now.” You spoke to your mother as she swallowed a spoonful of stew, “I will have to go tomorrow at midday.” 

“You do not have to.” Your mother interrupted, “I could go.” 

“Mother you need to take care of Joffrey.” You interjected. Your mother did not speak for a moment and considered your words. After a few minutes of quiet eating, she acquiesced to your stance and accepted your travel plans. 

Dinner was spent with your brother speaking about his day. Both you and your mother occasionally interjected with quips, but the mood from ill news regarding your grandmother hung over the table like a thick smoke cloud. You thought back to all of those moments you had with your grandmother, which became fewer the older you got. Trips to Winterfell became scarce to the point that it had been close to a decade since your last visit. 

Cleaning up the kitchen and table was done in silence between you and your mother. Your brother had been dismissed to go to bed early - something he was adamantly against, but listened to nonetheless. You slowly packed the items you would need for the trip over. Getting time off of teaching would be easy, but you were hesitant to leave your family for however many weeks it would be. 

Once you were settled in for the night, sleep came quickly. 

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

Your black boots made crunches in the snow as you walked through the town. You had swung by the bakery that morning to pick up a couple of sweets and pastries for the road. Your grandmother had always loved raspberry tarts, so you picked out a couple for her. While you may not be able to cure her sickness, at the very least you could brighten her spirits. You were set to begin your journey in just a few hours, but you had one last task to complete. 

The same familiar sight of the blacksmith appeared as you made your trek down the street. The sound of metal clanging rang through your head. You saw Aegon working, steady and focused. When you approached closer, he spotted you out of his peripheral. He stopped what he was doing. The smile on his face faded slowly at the neutral expression across yours. 

“Are you okay?” Aegon spoke. He moved forward and pulled you closer by your scarlet cloak. One of his hands fiddled with the hood that protected you from the snowfall. 

“I have to go,” You began, “My grandmother is sick and it's getting worse.” 

Aegon’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Go? Go where?” 

“Winterfell.” 

For a brief moment, a shadow swept across his face at your answer. His posture went rigid and the hand clasping your hood was pulled back and balled into a fist. You attributed his change of mood to your sudden departure. 

“For how long?” He asked. 

You reached out to gently squeeze one of his biceps, swiping your thumb up and down in comfort, “A few weeks, possibly a month or two. I leave tonight.” Aegon shrugged free from your hand and stepped back. His arms raised slightly with his psalm facing you. They shook for a moment before lowering. 

“So, you’re just going to leave… like that?” Aegon now looked bewildered, with a slight air of offence in his voice. 

“My grandmother needs someone from her family to take care of her.” 

Aegon began to move his equipment away, “I’m going with you.” The finality in his tone made no room for rebuttal, but you stood your ground. 

“I need someone to look after my family here.” After you spoke, Aegon halted his movements and turned back to you. You went up to him and placed your hands on his chest.

“I’m guessing no amount of persuading will work?” He questioned. When you nodded, he accepted your answer. He cupped your face, “Just… stay safe. The people of Winterfell are vipers.” 

You rolled your eyes at his overprotectiveness, “I will, Aegon. Just keep my family safe while I’m gone.” 

Aegon licked his lips, “I’ll keep your family safe.” 

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The gates of Winterfell looked unfamiliar compared to the faint memories you had of this place. It was morning and the ground was laden with a thick cover of mist that hovered above the packed snow. Early light from the rising sun cast against the snow and sparkled. You breathed in the scent of pine and exhaled, watching as the mist from your mouth evaporated in the air. You wrapped the scarlet cloak around you more to drive away the chill. The horse you had rode had been taken to the stables. 

On the inside of the gates, you spotted an old man hunched over. He was dressed in clothes that signalled his position as a healer; neutral grays and a simplistic design of a tunic, trousers, and coat. His hair had turned gray from age and his beard was twisted into a braid that fell down to his chest. 

You approached him, “Excuse me, are you Orym?” 

“Yes. I assume you are one of the family members?” The old man greeted you politely and shook your hand. 

“Her granddaughter. Is she alright?” 

“She is as good as she can be, given her condition.” The man responded. Just as you were going to speak, the sound of horse hooves hitting the ground caught your attention. A couple of horses ridden by men passed through the walls. They all dismounted. One of the horses had a wooden carrier that towed the body of a large stag. The man on the horse dropped down with his back to her. 

The men all gathered around the stag and clasped the shoulder of the man who, by the positive words being spoken, had taken down the wild beast. From his back, she could see the thick pelts that draped from his broad shoulders. His dark hair was long, falling to his shoulders, with the top half tied up in a knot. The greatsword on his back had to be close to six feet. 

He turned around and she saw his face. Strands of his dark hair framed his face, carving out the already sharp jawline he possessed. His brows were even, set over pairs of calculating eyes. The man’s face held a stoic look while his lips were set in a line. You were shocked that such a handsome face could belong to an imposing figure like his. Despite his stately appearance, there was a sense of familiarity there that was comforting. The morning sunlight shone against his figure, almost deifying him. 

The man’s gaze found yours and that feeling of calm swayed to a sense of purpose. Like all your life had been waiting for that precise moment. 

His eyes were kind and inviting, but also commanding. You were stuck by how off-guard you became. The snow that fell around you, including the world, faded into the background. A sudden pounding feeling hit the back of your head. It was like a part of you, somewhere deep inside, was clawing to be released. It felt as though you knew him already. 

Orym shook your arm slightly, “Are you alright?” 

You broke your gaze from the man and turned to the healer, “Just fine. Could we go to my grandmother now?” 

Orym took your arm and escorted you through the streets of the town. People began to bustle through the streets. All were friendly, exchanging good words with others as they passed. Some stalls opened to sell goods ranging from fish to other oddities. You were slightly angered that you had spent so long away from such a town. This place would have been a wonderful area to grow up in. There was a fair amount of carved wolf imagery in the wood and stone that made up all of the buildings, a running theme throughout Winterfell.

There were summers that you spent here in your youth, but the memories of them had faded with time. 

After a few short minutes, you and the healer happened upon a cottage. It was humble but looked homely amongst the snowed backdrop. You had a faint recollection of this place, but since those scattered memories were only marked by summertime, the winter feel of everything was new. Yet, the winter here somehow felt warmer in spite of the biting cold. Three large oak trees surrounded the home, protecting it from the elements. 

Orym opened the gate that surrounded the cottage and walked you to the door. He tapped three times on the knocker. He announced you coming before opening the door. Orym bid you a good day before hurrying on to another patient who needed him. When you entered the home, it was apparent that your grandmother lived there. It was neat but decorated immensely with furnishings, quilts, and other odds and ends. The smell of baked goods permeated the air, mixed with hints of dried lilac. 

From the door of a room on the far end emerged your grandmother. She was a short and plump woman whose natural energy radiated everywhere she went. While your heart swelled upon seeing her for the first time in many years, you could not help but notice the slight sway in her step and the way her eyes were almost glazed over. 

She welcomed you with a great hug, “Oh, darling look how you’ve grown!” For the first time since your arrival, you felt warm and at home with just a simple embrace. 

“How are you, grandmother?” You questioned. The woman pulled back to look at you and pinched your cheek lightly. 

“I am healthiest than ever. Really, it is just a cold.” She then moved over to her kitchen, but her steps faltered and you caught her and guided her to a seat by the hearth. 

You knelt and began to stoke the fire more as it had reduced to burning embers. While you were occupied, your grandmother began to brief you on all her symptoms and how the sickness had progressed, but she seemed to be in denial about how bad it had gotten. Your worry had tripled upon seeing her state. 

You took out the raspberry tarts that your grandmother would love. Over the course of a few hours, you two caught up on all the years missed. It was as if no time had passed. You ate the treats and laughed by the fire as the cottage warmed. At some point, you made tea that the both of you nurtured in cups. 

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke you out of the story you had been telling. Your grandmother smiled like she knew who was there and called out for them to come in. The door opened, and a large figure fit through the doorway, ducking to get in. The light from the gray day outside hit his back and cast the front in darkness. He closed the door and suddenly you could see it was the same man who you saw just a few hours prior. 

“Cregan, how was your hunt?” Your grandmother asked. The man, who you now knew as Cregan, smiled and moved to place a wrapped package on the table next to the kitchen. 

“A large stag. I saved you a hindquarters cut.” He responded. You furrowed your brows. The hindquarter was one of the most expensive and you wondered why this man was just giving it away.  Your grandmother stood up to go and unwrap the meat and you followed.

Your grandmother looked between you and the man and decided to introduce you, “This is my granddaughter. I told you she was coming to take care of me.” 

Cregan then moved to greet you, taking your hand in his and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles, “It’s good to see you again after all these years.” 

You were confused by his words. There was not a moment you could recall ever meeting a man such as him. Surely, with looks like that, you would remember. Upon seeing your confused expression, Cregan released your hand and looked to your grandmother. 

“I am sorry if I misstepped there. It was rude to assume you would remember me, for you were a few years younger.” 

It was then that the scratch from the back of your brain was alleviated. The name had sounded familiar, but now that you were closer to him, that familiarity you felt when you saw him for the first time washed away to the faintest of memories. It was flashing still moments in your brain. The tall summer grass, glaring sun, and the images of children running in an open field. The same dark hair bounced on the head of a young child, just a few years your senior, as the two of you chased the other children. 

“Cregan?” You spoke, “I think I remember.” 

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, “Well, I never was one to make lasting impressions,” He joked. 

Your grandmother hit his shoulder gently, “Don’t be so silly, you are a wonderful young man.” You could clearly see that Cregan and your grandmother got along well. He must have been taking care of your grandmother for a long time. It made your heart stutter.

The old lady then yawned, “Could you show my granddaughter around Winterfell? I am awfully tired.” There was a mischievous glint in your grandmother’s eye and you were unsure of her motives. 

“It would be my pleasure,” Cregan answered. He turned to you, “If you would like to, of course.” 

“It would be good to see all of Winterfell as I plan to stay for a while.” Your reply made the subtle, almost indecipherable smile on Cregan’s face light up a little more. You and Cregan gave goodbyes to your grandmother and put your cloaks on. The scarlet colour was a sharp contrast to the greys and blacks that made up Cregan’s clothing. 

Cregan held open the door for you. You gave one last look to your grandmother who sent a wink your way. Your face flushed at figuring out her plan to get the two of you alone. Surely, if you had mentioned seeing Aegon back home, she would not have done this. It also made you question yourself. Why had you not spoken of Aegon when catching up with her? He was a large part of your life, yet did not seem important enough at the time to bring up. 

Upon reaching the road, Cregan began to point out important locations. The bakery, library, market, and everything in between. You noticed everyone had kind exchanges with Cregan. They seemed to gravitate towards him. 

“The people like you.” You spoke to him. 

Cregan glanced at you for a moment while still walking, “Well, I am the lord of Winterfell. My family was given the title by our Queen Rhaenyra’s ancestors. It is a lucky position to be in. I’m grateful to serve these people.” You watched as children ran across a patch of road, all giggling and chasing one another. 

“Is Winterfell in need of a teacher?” You asked. Cregan weighed your question for a moment. 

“We could always use help with the children around here. Are you a teacher back home?” Cregan spoke. 

“Yes. If I am to be here for a while, I should contribute and get money to support my grandmother.” You reasoned. A light dusting of snow began to fall and settled all around. Pieces of snow clung to Cregan’s hair and he shook his head. 

“You need not trouble yourself with work. I have taken care of your grandmother for years, I can do the same for you.” He spoke. 

Your heart warmed at his words. “That is kind, Cregan, truly. However, I would like to teach.” 

“A beautiful woman like you should not trouble herself with work,” Cregan responded. Your brows furrowed at his words, having taken them the wrong way.

“So a woman’s looks dictate whether or not she should work?” You crossed your arms. 

Cregan froze while you continued to walk. He was caught off guard by your quip. “That was not my implication. I merely thought that your husband would have made sure you have enough coin for your trip.” You turned around to see him stopped with his hands raised in a surrendering manner. 

“I do not have a husband,” Cregan caught up to your pace and let out a hum after your words, “But there is a man I may marry, he is a blacksmith back home. His name is Aegon.” 

Your gaze was focused on what was in front of you, but you could still see the hardened gaze of Cregan’s features. His lips turned down to a sharp frown. The name almost seemed to evoke a deep response in him. 

“Well, then you must be sure that he will treat you perfectly if you are so faithful in his intentions.” Cregan’s words seemed to hide a double meaning that you struggled to ascertain. His steps fell harder on the snow-covered ground. You began to question the meaning of your relationship with Aegon. Now that you were away from him, it felt like you were washed from the confinement of his presence. A troubling but newfound realization. It was then that a guard turned around the corner and looked relieved to see Cregan. 

“Lord Stark! You are needed at the gate.” The guard spoke and then spotted you there as well. He lowered his voice, “Tracks have been spotted.” 

Cregan tilted his head in question, “I fail to see how that warrants my attention.��� 

“My lord, it is uh…” The guard whispered the last bit, “Wolf tracks. Not of our own.” His words made Cregan’s shoulders stiffen. His gloved hands formed hard fists. You were confused about those last words, not of our own. The meaning was lost to you. 

Cregan turned to you, “It is best that you get back to your grandmother’s house. I must go handle this.” He moved in the direction of the gate with the guard following. You stood back for a few moments in the falling snow and watched as he walked away. The chill crept up your spine and you decided it was best to go inside. 

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅ 

The first week in Winterfell was spent taking care of your grandmother, watching over some of the kids at the school, and spending your free time with Cregan. The children in Winterfell were much more calm in the classroom, but also wicked tricksters outside. However, you managed to gain respect from the kids and are not subjected as a victim to their pranks. That was done rather easily having brought them butter tarts and candied lemons. 

Once the children trusted you, the people of Winterfell warmed to your presence as well. They were wary of outsiders, but seeing their children take a liking to you was enough to sway them. You were on your way to do errands. While weaving through the streets you listened in on people talking. Bits and pieces hit your ears. 

“Jamie is improving on his reading.” 

“There are no good pieces of-” 

“The full moon is tonight.” 

“Where is Lily?” 

You made your way through the street stalls. While on your errands you wondered what Cregan was up to. You had found a good friend in him, despite the fact that your heart would beat faster and your cheeks would burn when you got near him. He had been a friendly companion, having shown you around Winterfell and introduced you to his friends. His friends, while a bunch of rowdy loud-mouthed people, had treated you respectfully. 

Cregan continued to check in on your grandmother and bring game from hunts every day. There are moments when you are alone with Cregan, that you find your resolve crumbling. With each passing day, your fancy for Aegon dwindled to the point that he was rarely - if ever - on your mind. It brought you an immense feeling of guilt. Aegon has been nothing but supportive of you and your family. While he did tend to get overprotective - at one point fighting an old childhood friend simply for talking to you - Aegon still showed you passion. 

Yet, with Cregan, he introduced a type of stability you had never felt before. There was support given to you, but reassurance and encouragement in your own capability of taking care of yourself. You were not treated as helpless by Cregan, a surprising contrast to the men back home. It was nice to see, but also wildly different than what you were used to. It confused you to see such a difference in culture despite there only being a brief two days of travel between the two places. Cregan only said that it was the way Winterfell functioned. 

“We are like a pack here - always looking out for one another.” 

It was easy for you to fall in love with Winterfell in just a week. With your grandmother’s improving condition, you wondered how many days you had left in your stay. It was incredibly relieving to have your grandmother up and active more and coughing less, though you wondered if it would be okay to extend your stay. 

You spotted one of Cregan’s friends, Ser Dustin, walking in your direction. He was a few years older than Cregan, with a bushy beard and muscled figure. His clothing matched Cregans - dark greys and black with silver embellishments and the familiar wolf head insignia on a patch on his chest. You smiled in greeting. His normal warm smile was replaced with a troubled look on his face. 

“Are you alright, Ser Dustin?” You questioned. 

“Quite alright. The night is approaching, you should be inside.” He responded. 

You pulled your scarlet cloak tighter around your frame, “Have you seen Cregan? I have not seen him today.” Ser Dustin sighed. 

“Cregan has been busy with his duties. I’m sure you will see him tomorrow.” His brief dismissal was so out of character. You blinked a few times. 

“Okay,” You spoke, “I’ll be going home now.” While you wanted to talk to him more, his earlier comment on the day ending almost sounded like a warning rather than an observation. It sent a deep feeling of uncertainty in your bones. The cold of the weather was not the origin of the chill that slithered up your spine. 

You took a few steps back from Ser Dustin before turning and going on your way. When you were out of sight, your hands grabbed the fabric of your skirt and lifted it up so you could run. You sprinted as fast as your clothing could allow you until you reached your grandmother's house. You swung the door open and flung yourself against the door to close it. Your lungs were pushing for any semblance of air. Your grandmother looked up from the table as she was setting down two bowls of stew. 

“Is everything alright?” She questioned. You calmed your breathing and shrugged off your scarlet cloak to hang it up on a hook by the door. 

“Everything is fine, grandma.” You lied, not wishing to stress her out, “What’s for dinner?” 

“Stew.” She responded. 

Dinner was spent with your grandmother taking up most of the conversation. You nodded along graciously and occasionally made quick observations, but your mind was elsewhere. The entire day something had felt off. An unfamiliar itch that you could not ascertain. The people of Winterfell seemed more tense than usual, and the countless ornamented wolf heads felt like they were staring through your soul, piercing everything within. You had chalked the feeling up to homesickness, nothing more. Yet, your gut was sounding an alarm. 

It is nothing but missing home.

You exchanged goodnights with your grandmother and secluded yourself in your room. The gentle monotony of your night routine lulled your nerves just a bit. You were down to your nightclothes - a thin white shift with silver vine embroidery - when your gaze locked with the small window. Night had come and you could see the full moon rising in the distance. Clouds obscured the moon, but its white light still illuminated Winterfell. 

A pounding sensation began to hit the back of your head. You lay down in your bed hoping that some rest would wash it away. Over the period of a few hours, your body tossed and turned as you fell in and out of sleep. You had left your window open just a hair to let in the winter cold, but your body felt like it had been set alight. 

It was in that forever torment of heat and restlessness that a shrill shriek cut through the crisp night air; a sounding cry bellowed from the depths of a chest and torn through the vocal cords. Wolf calls echoed the sound and bounced off the walls of buildings until they bounced throughout your skull. When the vibrations hit your ears, the pounding in your head eased. 

Another shriek rang out.

_____________

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, flashback, blood and injury, swearing

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Part Twenty-Two of Ink & Needle

Simon relives the past. Evie goes to Simon for help. Price and 141 come for another visit.

Chapter Twenty-One // Chapter Twenty-Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It’s raining.

Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fracted concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.

This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.

Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.

The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.

Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.

They’re all dead now.

All but Walsh.

Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.

Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.

Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.

It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.

“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.

Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.

Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.

He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.

Three years.

Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.

Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.

And he will.

He fucking will.

Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.

Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.

He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.

Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.

Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.

The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.

This is hot. This is heat.

This is flame.

The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.

“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.

Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.

The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.

Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.

The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.

Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.

What the fuck did Walsh set off?

Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.

A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.

Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.

There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.

Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.

Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.

“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.

He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.

“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.

The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”

Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.

“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.

Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.

Either way, Walsh is a dead man.

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”

Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.

Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.

Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.

“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.

He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.

“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.

Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.

They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.

The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.

Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.

This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.

“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.

Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.

“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.

Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.

Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.

Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.

With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.

Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.

Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.

The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.

Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.

A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.

The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.

At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.

Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.

Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.

It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.

Like—

Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.

And that buzzing.

“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.

Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.

“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.

The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.

Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.

Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.

He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.

But it’s not you. It’s—

“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.

She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.

Something is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”

“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.

Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.

“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”

“Simon,” she starts.

“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”

Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.

Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.

When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.

“What happened?” he asks.

Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.

“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”

Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.

Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”

“What time was she supposed to be home?”

“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”

“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.

Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”

Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”

“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”

Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”

“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”

Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.

The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.

Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.

You are not here. You are—wherever you are.

Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.

And they walked right into their deaths.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.

Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.

This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.

Not at the moment anyway.

This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.

It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.

Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.

“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”

“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”

“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.

Price glances at him. “Simon.”

He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.

“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.

“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”

Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.

Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”

“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”

“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”

“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”

“We don’t know that, Simon.”

Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.

Life does not seem complete without you.

Letting you go is not an option.

“Captain!” calls Johnny.

Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.

Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.

Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”

He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.

“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.

He ignores Price, tearing it open.

There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.

Come and find her. – KW.

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[victorgrwrites]

Gortash Age/Timeline

For my prelude, see live footage of me at work below. (PS: Mac on the right there is basically my wife, she was very kind to let me ramble about this.)

Here we go. And I think it goes without saying, but spoilers ahead.

So, we have a better idea of Durge's timeline than Gortash, which is helpful since we know that they knew one another before the events of the game. On top of that, we know what each was doing when the other was doing something else. At least, to a point.

We'll start with Durge.

Exhibit A: We know that Sceleritas Fel appeared to Durge on their "age of majority", which is generally accepted to be 18. Could be 16, but we're going with 18 for the timeline.

---

Exhibit B: We know that in the prequel Blood in Baldur's Gate, the main antagonist is Dark Urge, and Sceleritas himself appears multiple times in the story. We also know for a fact that this happens in 1477, 15 years before BG3.

Therefor, we know that Durge CANNOT BE YOUNGER than 18 in the year 1477, and therefor cannot be younger than 33 in BG3.

It's important to note for later on that at this point in Baldur's Gate in 1477, it is very likely Durge has already started the cult of Bhaal or is on the verge of starting it. --- Like I said, easy as Hell, now on to Gortash. Cause he is definitely trickier; we'll be needing to work backwards for this guy. Exhibit A:

Gortash is intent on making a memoir of his life, and has given us a helpful order of events, if without dates and such.

Exhibit B:

We'll start with the heist at the House of Wonders. If you don't know what the House of Wonders is, imagine a giant museum/research university run by NASA. It's a big fuckin' deal, and holds some insane things.

We don't know everything they stole, but we do know some. 1. A Bhaal torture device and some preserved Bhaalist bodies (unimportant for our conversation), and 2. Schematics which served as the basis for the Steel Watch, as well as the submersible.

((I can't find the specific screenshot for the Steel Watch schematics, but just trust me, it exists.)) We can assume that Karlach was sold right around this time, maybe before, most likely right after. The reason why she was sold around this time is because... ---

Exhibit C:

Karlach is a proto-prototype Steel Watcher, or at least of the infernal engines the Steel Watch use. What Gortash most likely got for Karlach were plans/materials/development for the infernal engines.

So let's recap. We now know that ten years ago Durge and Gortash pulled their heist, traded Karlach, figured out infernal engines, and started production or development on the Steel Watchers. Neither were the chosen of their gods yet, and the Crown of Karsus wasn't even on their radar.

Let's keep going. --- Exhibit D:

The first and second listings in Gortash's memoirs are him founding the Bane cult, and then discovering that there was a Bhaal cult already started. I would posit that Gortash established the Bane cult right around the time of the previously mentioned Blood in Baldur's Gate. At the bare minimum we know that Durge had to have been already active and Sceleritas already trying to guide him. So we can likely say that Gortash established the cult of Bane in 1477. Which means he was not in the House of Hope any longer in 1477.

The Crux of the Issue:

Here is where we get into speculation, and there's several questions we have to answer that don't have a clear answer. 1. How old was Gortash when he was sold off?

2. How old was he when he escaped the House of Hope?

3. How long after that did he establish the Cult of Bane?

I'll give you my answer for these questions, and my reason why.

Given my previous post, you might know that I subscribe to the idea that Gortash had a knack for artifice when he was young. There's no way a devil/warlock would pay even a small amount for a useless kid. So, at what age is a kid "useful" while still being a kid? My guess would be as old as ten, as young as eight.

Based on the conversation with Nubaldin, I would say he was still fairly young when he escaped. The way he talks about Gortash establishes that the jailor remembers Gortash as a 'sniveling little shit' and 'mischievous little blot of a boy'.

I would put him at about sixteen, absolute tops.

3. I believe he would have started the Bane cult very, very soon after leaving the House of Hope because I have a sneaking suspicion that Bane's influence started at the House of Hope. Might be how he escaped in the first place, or maybe he heard about Bane while there. Either way, I don't think he took very long.

In my head, he's probably around 17-19 when he starts the Bane cult. But also, if there's age discrepancies, this is probably where they come in.

---

And there you have it. I don't focus on his in-game model much, because looks can vary so wildly. Especially when there's years of demonic torture, obsessive artifice study, and dead god cults. The game narratively describes him as a young man, so I generally erred on the side of "young" when figuring out this timeline.

If you've got questions, comments, additions, go on and lay them on me.

[chillinglikeashilling]

I am very confused when I see people question why Suvi's still prioritizing defending the Citadel from the threat of war even after the Identify spell.

Suvi's entire family lives there guys. All of them, not just Steel or the Wizard Council she may be suspicious of re: the geas but also Sly, her apprentice Yulia, Steel's husband Sonder and their kids (her siblings), Hana, Hana's dad and evey friend she has ever made outside of Eursolon and Ame.

I don't think the Witches and the armies of Rhuv are going to make much of a distinction between Sonder, Yulia and Steel if their stated goal is to burn the Citadel to the ground.

I understand that in this story, and by Suvi specifically, 'The Citadel' is often said as a reference to the wizard military industrial complex of the Empire but it's also a physical place with non combatants living there, which has currently deployed a lot of it's actual combatants elsewhere.

And I think it's fine if that's not your priority, or if you think the Citadel as a political entity is reaping what it sowed but again - everyone else Suvi loves is physically there and they will absolutely be caught in a war.

And in fairness to people asking this, Suvi is arguing about the culpability of the political!Citadel in the actions Tefmet is accusing them of but those accusations are the reason for the vote!

Unfortunately there is no way to go to war with only the political/military structure of the Citadel and leave the rest of it alone both because those things are currently extremely intertwined, and because the Wizard's knowledge is being treated as part of the threat here!

Edited: To reword some points and also to remove my disclaimer at the start because it's irrelevant to the point.

[ohai-there]

post canon SVSSS x minato hokage era naruto crossover where it's scumplane (bcos i love scumplane) heading to the elemental nations on official business for some reason or another (maybe theres a barrier between their lands to prevent leakage of spiritual energy or somethign) SJ hates being alive purely because it means he's in SQH's debt for ripping him out of SQQ's body that Shen Yuan was inhabiting and reviving SJ (because SY decided to fuck off and live his best life as the demon emperor's wife and Cang Qiong NEEDS a peak lord for Qing Jing)

canonically immortals are extremely beautiful (even SQH is described as a 'proper' face iirc) and SJ is like TOP TIER beauty, but also immortals are sometimes described to have faces 'carved from jade' so I imagine when they step into immortality, they no longer have micro expressions and have like... crazy control over their facial muscles - so it kinda freaks out the ninjas, because the only emotions they can see is exactly what scumplane want them to see (SJ - disgust, usually. SQH - cowardice/flattery)

Scumplane also have 0 sense of danger when it comes to shinobi - they're immortals and old (lets say this is an indetermined amount of time after canon wraps up) so things like mundane steel and mortal poisons mean nothing to them when theyre so old. They also don't even bother holding back their tongues because what can these mortals even do to them? Worse comes to worse, they just seal up the worlds again, or just wait out for all these mortals to die (a strategy they use for troublesome emperors or politicians).

They also bring their disciples (Ming Fan specifically because I want him to have a redemption) and after canon had wrapped up the PIDW's story finished, everyone in the world actually bounced back into their rightful places (e.g. MF suddenly got a second puberty, his face improved to be beautiful as it should be and his intelligence returned to the level that the head disciple of the scholarly peak should be).

I want it to be during Minato hokage's short, short tenure - Minato is 23, a war hero and recently hired as ninja president, Konoha just came out of a war and suddenly the daimyo is paying WELL and hiring for the best teams of Konoha to escort these foreigners who are so otherwordly beautiful and so otherworldly RICH, like, the material of the clothes they wear puts the daimyos court to shame, they can pay in pure gold and stones thrumming with power.

SJ's whole thing is like... based on image. So imagine SQH bowing and being like 'ooh thank you for your hospitality' and SJ just grabbing him by the back of his collar and hauling him up like 'wtf dont even bother bowing to this guy. Have some face. he's only got the same rank as you AND he's a fucking child.'

(He's figured that Daimyo = weak emperor-ish, because what kind of a emperor only has control of such a small land AND has others in nearby lands with the same, competing title????. Hokage & Konoha is like the sects, and all the peak lords of CQS are of the same rank as a sect leader. Of course, they all defer to YQY officially, but tbh all the peaks run like their own individual sects, and SJ has never allowed himself to act below YQY in rank)

During Minato's reign, Orochimaru is still a loyal Konoha shinobi.... his interest in immortals makes him soooooo crazy invested in them....

SJ looks at Orochimaru who's questioning him on immortality and is like, 'out of all these people, you are the closest. Your mind is too unstable, however (ironic, coming from SJ) and you still cling too tightly to the material world. Abandon all worldly matters and immortality may be in your grasp, if the heavens deign it so.' acting like he's a good teacher or something, while SQH is in the background, the voice of reason like 'SHIXIONG WTF!!! WE'RE NOTT SUPPOSED TO BE GIVING UP THE SECRET TO IMMORTALITY TO THE MORTALS OF THE FORBIDDEN REALM????'

Maybe SQH does know they're in the naruto world, and knows what naruto is, (hc that the water walking we see YQY do in the donghua was ripped off from naruto, when SQH was still writing PIDW) but it's been like 200+ years! He can't remember shit!!! This is all new information to him!

[stars-fall]

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul chronic pain head canons

the pain is caused by the steel spine implant if you're wondering

-refuses to tell the family lest they learn that he is infact not perfection in the form of a 14 year old boy

-will spend an absorbent amount of time to find a posture that will cause him the least pain (God forbid he lay down)

-hogs the family heating pad

-his morning stretches help with soreness on good days

-back in the league Talia would sit and rub his back at night when it got too bad

-Alfred knows and often leaves those icy-hot Patches and painkillers on Damian's desk

-During one of his worst flair ups Bruce came in to check on him and found him crying. Bruce sat with him, running his fingers through Damian's hair while murmuring stories about when he and talia were younger until Dami fell asleep

-that was the first time Dames called Bruce baba

-it took him years of being in the manor to unlearn his habits of pushing through debilitating pain

-half the reason he started drawing was because it was something 'productive' to do that didn't agitate his back

-sleeps like a corpse (flat on his back) because that's the best way to reduce back pain

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

A list of what I hc dami has

Chronic:

- back pain

-head aches- specifically in the back of his head /neck area

-hip aches

Basically anything that is related to his spine hurts ok?

[guywrestlingaddiction]

What Turned me Gay: The first BGeast match I purchased - Troy & Brian Baker v Vinny Trevino & Joshua Goodman (bgeast.com)

It's no secret that Bgeast turned me gay. The combination of hot men in compromising situations, muscles straining, humiliating holds; all summed up to ignite something inside of me.  Now while all of that is worth a post in itself, I wanted to devote this time to rekindle a memory specifically about the first Bgeast match I watched, Tag Team Torture 3.  

What turned me gay (not really) ... 

Troy & Brian Baker v Vinny Trevino & Joshua Goodman (bgeast.com)

This post, inspired by the sidelineland.com blog, takes a tongue and cheek look into "what made me gay (not really)" and in thinking about the topic of gay wrestling, it's helpful to go back to the beginning - at least my beginning as a gay wrestling fan.

The Background Now, when I first viewed Tag Team Torture 3, I had no idea what to expect.  Sure I had watched porn before, but the default for porn back then (and now) was a cheesy few minutes of story line followed by emotionless hard core action.  In those scenes the guys refused eye contact with each other, closed their eyes, and probably thought of their girlfriends or something while they did the deed so in a very big way, bgeast was different.  

Baker and Baker - two reasons why I purchased this match.  Beefier Brian and Tasty Troy. 

In hindsight, I love the Backstreet Boy Look on Mr. Joshua.  This was a very popular look back then - Highlights and a Soul Patch.

And boy was Tag Team Torture 3 different, from the opening scene I realized that the focus was on the wrestling and everything, from the guys lifting weights, to the trash talk; all of this led up to struggle between men.  

Troy and Brian bonding before the match.  They build each other up saying stuff in the tone of 'you're the best, no you're the best'.  They support and encourage each other ... at least for now. 

Compare that to the other team, bragging about how much they can bench or talking shit about their opponents the "beach boys".  There's no building anyone up here, simply tearing the pretty boys down.  

In lieu of porn which hurried to climax and rushed to "get the job done", gay wrestling highlighted the emotions exchanged between our guys and what is sex really except a bundle of intense emotions.  

The Action Finally, 20 minutes in the guys start to wrestle.  I told you that gay wrestling takes it's time and slowly savors each and every popping bicep and ab and now we have the Troy Baker reveal and boy was it worth the wait...

Troy knows what we're all here for. 

And later, Troy swooning over himself.  The man and I are on the same wave length when it comes to admiring that body. 

But all that muscle just begs to be abused. 

Brian Baker is the powerhouse but he can't fight off two men by himself and it's clear that Troy is more interested in himself than on the match.  

Mr. Joshua multitasking by dominating and making his infamous "adjustment".  I love how the back of his hand goes straight from his package to smacking Brian on the back of his head.

Brian: [exasperated]: Lookout Troy!

Vinny: You like that surfer boy?  Troy: *Moan*

The Finale At this point our heroes are done for.  All that camaraderie, the hours at the gym spent sculpting those muscles, all of that vanishes and we are left with a beaten Troy Baker.  

To further the point, our heels double team the helpless Troy while his brother watches on.  Further emphasizing that there is no coming back from this one.  

Troy's abs of steel are put to the test with yet another barrage of abuse.  That golden tan is starting to turn a shade of pink as even those abs of steel have their limits.  

But the real crescendo for this match comes at the end.  When Brian seems to triumph despite the odds and an upset looks possible, that is until a weakened Troy folds under our heels.  It's that moment followed by a betrayal when our gay wrestling saga is complete and the Baker Brothers are finally broken with sound and fury. 

In hindsight it's obvious to see why gay wrestling sucked me in and became my obsession.  I've always loved the emotional highs when I wrestled in high school and bgeast perfectly captured those stories of struggle and dominance multiplied by like 1,000.   You see this story, told through sweat and humiliation is so vivid, so real, that the feelings I get now from watching a 20 year old tag team match are the same as when I first saw them and  is undoubtedly what turned me gay (not really).

[tsukimefuku]

Let me die

I've been obsessed with a bit for a fic I want to write, so I just decided to put it here. Nanami fluff and some angst ahead, be careful.

Disclaimer: NO ONE DIES, it’s just a conversation in a bar where y/n requests something.

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". A sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a fic I'll eventually write (eventually). To see the ever-growing list of one-shots, please visit my masterlist :) 

Disclaimer: they’re NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this story fits in the timeline, please check the masterlist mentioned above.

You had just finished a mission that left a pretty bad taste in your mouth. You were forced to choose between two people to save, and one of them was your friend. Was.

The glare she had as she embraced her beloved's dead body made you sure that she would never forgive you for saving her instead of him. You chose to save her for egotistical reasons, you knew that. You knew (or thought you knew) that his death would not weigh on your shoulders as much hers would. However, you just didn't account in your egotistical equation how much his death would weigh on her, and how much more suffering you bestowed upon her by choosing to let him die in exchange for her life.

"Nanami, I need to drink." you said on the phone. "I had a horrible day. I'd like some company."

"We can meet at the bar by your house at 7PM." He promptly replied.

You and Nanami had grown close during the course of the last few months. He was assigned to you as your informal mentor until you were promoted from a grade 2 to a grade 1 sorcerer. There was some history before you went to work for Jujutsu High. Both of you met when he was on a mission that led to him eventually saving your life, and your gratitude eventually started to become something more. Sometimes, you wondered if he felt as close to you as you felt to him. These night drinks were turning into a regular thing, and you usually let your mouth say things you couldn't think to say out loud if it weren't for a few beers in, and Nanami being the person you were talking to.

***

After a while, when you spend so much time around somebody, you tend to pick up on their mannerisms, like their brows frowning, the way their mouths twitch when they feel mad, or how they are dead silent because they're drowning in unsaid things.

"What is it?" Nanami asked, out of the blue, surprising you. Both had already been drinking for a while, and you specifically were 4 beers down in misery. "I can hear your thinking from the other side of the table."

“I have a request for you.” You answered.

He took another sip of his drink, and said, unfazed, "What request?"

He inquired like he already knew you wanted to ask something from him, even before you knew you would.

"If you’re ever faced with a situation where you have to choose between saving my life or someone else, don’t choose me." you said. Nanami lifted his gaze to meet yours, and seemed surprised.

You continued. "Please, don’t make me live with the fact that me being alive is because someone died in my place and I had no choice over that. Don’t assign me that guilt.”

It would be something harsh to say to anybody, but you knew Nanami. You knew him well enough to be sure he'd not take that as an accusation of sorts. That's why you chose to tell him this kind of "if this ever happens" desire before telling anybody else. Shoko would probably chastise you for such a request, given you were prone to overthinking and martyrdom, and Gojo would never listen to that in the first place, simply doing whatever he felt like.

Nanami went silent for a while, mulling over what you asked him to do. Different from you, someone that had a little trouble controlling your emotions and how they impact your words and actions, Nanami was the man that you used to call in your head as nerves of steel. You had never seen him lose his composure. Ever.

He started talking, his face lightly flushed from alcohol. “There are two sides for this. You assume I’d be willing to live with the guilt of not saving you when I could have done so."

You were not expecting that answer. He was the most dutiful sorcerer you had ever met — hell, he was the most dutiful person you knew. If there was one thing Nanami was known for, it was not letting his emotions interfere with his judgement when making a decision. You never thought he could ever feel guilty if you died in a situation where you gave him permission to let you die.

"You'd feel guilty?" You questioned.

"Yes." He replied. "Your request would make me live with a guilt I don’t want, either."

"My request of letting me die, with my authorization, to save somebody else?" You inquired.

"Yes." He replied, looking down on his glass.

You were both silent for a moment.

"I can't accept your request, because you’re assigning me your guilt just as much." He took another sip from his now almost empty glass of whiskey. "I don't think I could bring myself to let you die, even if you asked me to.”

That pulled on your heart strings. Hard. You were instantly flooded with all the memories of the time you two spent together working, or simply chatting like this. All the times you had a silent but deep understanding of each other. Could he be...?

"I never pegged you for someone with any dose of egoism of not letting someone go when they'd rather die." You responded.

"Not letting you die." He answered. His answer made you fluster, ever so slightly, and you reclined yourself in your chair, trying to hide your face in the bar's dark ambiance.

“Would you ever curse me for that?” You asked. "Curse me for dying to save somebody else?"

“No, I wouldn't.” He replied. "That's who you are, and that is something about you that I respect, even if I don't understand it."

You chuckled softly, trying not to get too emotional. The alcohol was not helping. “Well, I might just have to curse you, then.” you responded, smiling.

“To curse me for saving you, you'd have to be alive.” He bottomed his drink. "I can live with that.”

[univac1219]

Does your 1219 have a nickname?

Also, I was wondering if you have any fun stories surrounding it! Strange quirks it has or anything like that.

I'd love to see more photos if you're allowed to post them!

Thanks for the question! These are my favorite part about my blog by far.

Not exactly, the UNIVAC 1219 doesn’t have a nickname. I did realize recently that I should specify the pronunciation (Twelve-Nineteen), but it doesn’t have any nicknames. Apart from ‘the 1219’, it’s also regularly referred to as the CPU or just ‘the computer’.

Fun stories or weird quirks? Boy, I could fill a book with this machine’s weird quirks (or as we say, intermittent issues), but I’ll try to blitz through the most common ones:

Sometimes the computer will stop running and enter a WAIT mode. No reason, it just needs a break. We can’t fix it, it just has to decide to go back into operating mode.

The computer will often start attempting to communicate on IO channel 13. We’re not telling it to talk to anything, it just decides to try to.

One of our teletypes (the Kleinshmidt) stamps ink splotches into the paper rather than characters most of the time. However, this weekend it worked for the first time in 10 months! We didn’t change anything, it just had an extra cup of coffee or something.

The Digital Data Recorder, or the tape drive, has the most gremlins out of any of our units. The top handler works fairly well, but the bottom handler won’t properly read data, write data, move the tape forward, initialize the tape, or any number of other issues.

There’s more but hopefully this satisfies your curiosity.

Fun stories? Well, I can’t name any specific ones, but I can say it’s a very endearing machine. It’s the very last of its kind and being one of three individuals in the world responsible for it makes every issue that more frustrating. There is no real forum for it, the subject matter experts sit next to me and are often just as exasperated as I am.

But the unique nature of this situation make every successful diagnostic test that much sweeter. Every new addition (5.25” floppy drive via serial) that much cooler. I have an IBM PC-XT clone at home, but I thank my lucky stars every day that this big iron is what I get to specialize in.

As for more photos, I have none that are as grandiose as you would probably expect. I do have my working photos though. I took all my photos when I first started working on it and now I am more dedicated to fixes than photo-ops.

This is a photo of our finicky Kleinshmidt teletype. Still has blotches but it actually printed!

This is the back of the bottom handler. Pictured is the vacuum pump in the bottom left (so sudden stops just yank magnetic tape slack rather than ripping tape). The big cylinder in the center is a motor for running the magnetic tape handler itself. The big black ‘hose’ of wires coming out of the steel plate contains all the cables that come right off the handler’s head for reading and writing data!

This is the forward pinch roller of the bottom handler. It was replaced after this photo was taken as you can see the rubber has deteriorated in the 55 years this machine has been operating.

As for being allowed to post photos, that’s not an issue. The last 1219 was decommissioned in 2014 and now you can find all of its documentation online at http://www.bitsavers.org/pdf/univac/military/1219/

[avelera]

The Author =/= The Narrator

In creative writing workshops, my teacher taught us not to say, "The author did this..."/"The author said that..." but to instead say, "The Narrator" when critiquing each other's works, for many reasons but in particular in order to avoid the author, as a person, being attacked personally for things that happened in their story.

This is an important distinction for many reasons:

The Narrator and The Author are not necessarily the same person. They do not necessarily share the same experience or view.

Thinking this way helps to decouple The Author as a person from the Narrator as a literary device or tool that is available to an author trying to achieve a specific goal with their work. For example, Vladimir Nabokov, the author of "Lolita" is not the same person as its narrator and main character, Humbert Humbert. Nabokov was, among other goals, trying to draw attention to the vile nature of Humbert's worldview, while Humbert is, among other goals, trying to exonerate his vile behavior. To confuse these two as the same person is a deep disservice to Nabokov.

That said, there are of course books and stories where the Narrator is not necessarily embodied or given voice as a character (for example, in a 3rd person omniscient rather than a 1st person narrated story) though it can still have a viewpoint and an agenda that is still separate from the authors, even if they're more closely aligned. For example, there is no named narrator in, "A Christmas Carol", but the narrator describes Scrooge thus, "Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self contained and solitary as an oyster." From this, we can deduce that maybe, just maybe, the narrator doesn't like Scrooge very much. Now, the narrator likely shares much of their politics with Charles Dickens but again, and this is important, they are not the same person. Because "A Christmas Carol" is making other wider points and has other wider goals as a self-contained work that exists at a specific point in time that is not necessarily the same as Dickens as a person.

What I think is most important for people in places like Tumblr and Twitter to understand with the use of this distinction is that it is a system designed to allow both charity and deeper critical thought towards the author.

Authors can and should be able to write awful characters and depict awful narrators without everyone assuming they share those views, (e.g. Nabokov vs. Humbert). It also allows us to understand that authors, as living people, might change their views over time while a creative work is, by its nature, frozen in a certain place and time.

That said, by decoupling narrator from author, we can also understand a story more critically (not just negatively, I mean in the sense of literary critique) and ask questions like, "Why is the story being framed this way? What agenda is it pushing, if any? What are the views its expressing, if any? What does the narrator think is good, or bad and how does that impact the way the story is told to us?"

And most importantly, y'all have got to give writers a bit more credit for being able to use their craft to depict a view they don't necessarily share, to explore ideas that they're not necessarily promoting (and might even be deriding, such as Swift's "A Modest Proposal") and to allow the author to exist as a human being that may change, for better or even for worse!, from the views espoused by the narrator of their story.

I promise you, learning to decouple these two concepts will pay back dividends in being able to thoughtfully disseminate written works more critically and be less awful to real human beings.

[collinrobinsonsglasses]

Too Soft to Be a Pirate

Izzy Hands X Reader (GN)

Chapter 12 of a series, but I think you could read a lot of these separately and understand what's happening.

Summary: You run into your ex and Izzy has feelings about it. <3 It's the moment you've been waiting for. The rest of this story hasn't been super smutty, so I didn't want to make this chapter over the top. It's definitely a little spicer though with a ton of fluff. This is not based off a specific episode of ofmd.

Warnings: The reader has an anxiety attack just in case that's triggering for people to read about.

Chapter 12: Ex Marks the Spot 

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter}

{Next Chapter}

Your peaceful slumber in your hammock was interrupted by the subtle pressure of Izzy’s hand squeezing your knee, rousing you from the depths of sleep. An initial wave of annoyance washed over you at being woken so early. 

“Five minutes, on the deck,” Izzy’s hushed voice reached your ears, carrying an air of authority. 

“Why?” you groaned, your hand instinctively moving to rub the sleep from your eyes, while you attempted to avoid the man standing in front of you, by further cocooning yourself into your hammock. 

“That’s an order. Stop fucking complaining,” Izzy responded with a gentle yet firm tone. Although you couldn’t see his face anymore, a vivid mental image of the eye roll he was likely indulging in manifested itself in your head. You knew that questioning his request any further was useless. 

Emerging onto the deck, your arrival coincided with the rays of the rising sun, casting a warm glow over the ship. There, in the heart of the deck, Izzy waited holding two gleaming swords. With a fluid motion, he tossed one towards you, the metallic gleam reflecting the soft morning light. 

As the sword landed in your grasp, a subtle disappointment gnawed at you. The realization dawned that this was the cause of your early awakening, and you couldn’t help but glance down at the weapon in your hands, disappointed that this was the reason for the lost moments of sleep. When you met Izzy’s eyes again, you give him a pleading look, a pair of puppy dog eyes silently questioning the rationale behind this unexpected training session. 

“Don’t give me that fucking look,” Izzy retorted, his tone sounding exasperated, yet the swift response betrayed a vulnerability he tried to hide. Your pleading look had a way of working on him, and he struggled to conceal the impact. 

“When was the last time you trained with a sword?” he inquired, regaining his composure. 

“I don’t remember,” you admitted in a hushed tone, fully aware that the answer was sometime before your wrist was fractured. Since then, the blade had been a neglected companion, untouched during the months of recovery. 

“Months,” Izzy scolded, his tone firm. “Stede’s got plans for a raid today, but you won’t be part of it unless you can convince me you still remember how to use a sword.” 

“I do know how to use a sword,” you grumbled quietly, your nose scrunching in annoyance. 

“Then prove it,” Izzy responded, raising an eyebrow in challenge. 

“Why am I the only one up here? Where’s the rest of the crew?” you protested with a whine. “Why just me?” 

Izzy shot you a look, a silent declaration that the debate was over. It was clear - this morning’s training was reserved just for you. In that moment, you couldn’t help but acknowledge the power of Izzy’s gaze; it held sway over you that mirrored the influence your own puppy dog eyes had on him. 

The clash of steel echoed across the ship’s deck as you engaged in a spirited sword fight with Izzy. Despite the lack of recent practice, muscle memory kicked in, and your movements became a dance of controlled aggression. However, it didn’t escape your notice that Izzy was holding back. His strikes were deliberate but measured. He was gauging your abilities without fully unleashing his own. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead. The lesson persisted until Izzy, seemingly satisfied with his assessment, allowed you a moment of rest. 

“You can fight today,” Izzy relented, his tone carrying a hint of concession, “but Fang will still be keeping an eye on you.” You shot him an annoyed glance, silently protesting the need for an extra set of eyes monitoring your every move. 

“Oh, come on,” Izzy teased, a playful grin playing on his lips as he reached to gently lift your chin. “Let me make you a coffee. Stop being a twat.” 

Despite your initial grumpiness, his teasing paired with his warm touch earned a genuine smile from you. You couldn’t help but appreciate Izzy’s concern and the lengths he went to ensure your safety. You followed him below deck towards the promise of coffee. 

The next hour unfolded in the cozy embrace of the ship's galley, where you found yourself seated, leisurely sipping on a cup of coffee while engaged in easy banter with Izzy. The morning sunlight filtered through the small portholes, casting a gentle glow on the wooden interior, creating an intimate setting for the shared moments. Reluctantly, you admitted to yourself that the sacrifice of an early awakening was a small price to pay for these stolen moments with Izzy.

Both of you ascended back to the deck, and you immediately noticed Fang using a spyglass to scan the vast expanse of the open sea. As Izzy took charge, issuing orders to the crew, you gravitated toward Fang, greeting him with a nod. 

“Morning,” Fang sang in his characteristic cheerful tone. “We’re closing in on a ship for the raid. Want to see?” he offered, extending the spyglass toward you. 

With curiosity you took the slender glass, aligning it with the direction Fang had been facing. As the distant ship came into focus, an unexpected wave of unease swept over you. You knew that ship. A sudden drop in your stomach felt almost like a free fall, and for a brief moment, the edges of your vision seemed to be tinged with black. Concerned that you might faint, you hastily passed the spyglass back to Fang, gripping the side of the ship for support. 

Fang, noticing the sudden shift, inquired softly, “Hey, what’s the matter?” His expression transformed from casual cheerfulness to genuine concern as he placed a reassuring hand on your back, ready to offer support. 

A sharp intake of breath accompanied your swift revelation. “That’s my old ship,” you stated quickly, the words leaving your lips like a hurried confession. The realization hit you with a force you hadn’t anticipated. You bent down, letting your head rest against the edge of the wooden ship. 

“I think I need to find somewhere to sit, Fang,” you uttered, your voice barely above a breath. Breathing deeply in an attempt to steady yourself, the taste of your morning coffee felt bitter on your tongue, and the ship beneath your feet felt like unsteady ground. The prospect of confronting the man who had tossed you into the ocean had triggered a visceral reaction. 

“Oh, shit,” Fang murmured, as he comprehended the weight of your words. Without hesitation, he practically scooped you up in his arms. Fang, knew the ghosts of your past, understood the magnitude of the situation almost instantly. 

“The captains will know what to do,” Fang reassured himself, his tone a mix of determination and worry. Swiftly, he whisked you away towards Stede’s cabin, his arms cradling you securely. Bursting into the cabin, Fang wasted no time sitting you down onto the couch that adorned Stede’s quarters. 

“What’s all this then?” Stede huffed, rising from the breakfast table where he and Ed were seated, a look of curiosity etched across his features. 

Fang stepped forward, taking on the responsibility of explaining the situation on your behalf. “The ship we were planning to raid is their old ship,” he revealed. 

Edward reacted swiftly, pushing back his chair with a clatter and abandoning the table without uttering a word. His movements were purposeful as he headed towards Stede’s auxiliary closet, leaving everyone with a sense of anticipation. 

Stede’s gaze shifted between the unfolding scene and the absent Edward. “Well?” he prompted, addressing Fang. “What does that mean?” 

Fang shot you a nervous glance to see if you’d begin to speak but he recognized that you weren’t in the best headspace. “They got pushed off their last ship, by the man they loved, Timothy was his name I think,” Fang explained, then offered a detailed account of the story to Stede, who absorbed the information with a furrowed brow. Meanwhile, Edward remained absent. 

Seated on the couch, you drew your legs up and wrapped your arms around them, trying to shrink. As Fang narrated the story to Stede a million thoughts raced through your head and you couldn’t grasp onto any single one. 

Your gaze followed Edward as he emerged from Stede’s closet, he had shed the distinctive bag-like garment and kitty collar he was wearing before and reverted to his familiar leather attire. Stede’s immediate reaction was an exasperated sigh, “Ed! What are you doing?” 

“I’m gonna go kill that motherfucker,” Ed declared. “That’s what I’m doing.” “Edward, stand down,” Stede commanded firmly, a note of authority in his voice. “We need to ask them what they want. Look at them,” he urged, gesturing toward you. 

Ed’s fierce anger melted into genuine worry as he observed the emotional turmoil reflected in your eyes. Bending down to your level, his tone softened, “Little mouse, what do you want us to do if he’s still on the ship?” The tenderness in his question surprised you. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, uncertainty lacing your words. “What should I do?” 

Stede joined Edward, offering his support as he whispered, “It might be good to talk it through.” Edward shot Stede with a look of concern. “Stede, last time they talked it through, they got pushed overboard. I’m not sure if that’s the best idea,” he replied with firm resolve. 

Stede, eager to find a compromise, suggested, “Maybe we can lock him up in the brig, so they can talk. Would that work?” It was a practical solution, an attempt to create a controlled space for dialogue while minimizing the risk. 

You nodded in agreement, torn between the fear of confronting the past and the apprehension of future regrets if you did nothing. The uncertainty weighed heavily, leaving you caught in the crossfire of conflicting emotions. 

“It’s decided then.” Stede declared with authority. “I guess I need to go fill in the rest of the crew.” While Stede moved to leave his cabin, Edward stood up and pulled Fang aside, exchanging hushed words in a private conversation. Even at a whisper, his words carried to your ears, “Go update Izzy about this, Fang, before Stede announces it to the crew. He’s not going to fucking like this.” Just like Fang, the gravity of the situation was not lost on Edward.

Edward crouched down again, his hand gently finding its place on your arm, which was still tightly wrapped around your legs. “We’ll sort this,” he assured firmly, “Fang is talking to Iz…knowing him, he’ll be in here in a second, so I’m going to leave. I think I’m the last person he’ll want to see here with you.” Ed gave your arm a final reassuring pat before rising and heading towards the door leading onto the deck. 

Alone for the first time, your body granted you the space to release the floodgate of emotions that had been tightly pent up. The idea of confronting the man who had inflicted such profound hurt twisted your stomach into knots, and tears welled up almost instantaneously. Slowly, the silent tears transformed into audible sobs. A profound sense of helplessness enveloped you. All the feelings you believed you had healed from came rushing back, as if you were reliving the initial agony again for the very first time. 

The creaking of the cabin door signaled someone’s entrance, but you resisted the urge to look up. Instead, you kept your head buried in your thighs, legs still tightly curled up in a ball parallel to your chest. Displaying vulnerability was never your strong suit, a trait shared by many in the crew. You sensed someone taking a seat on the couch beside you. Although it wasn’t difficult to guess who it was, a wave of embarrassment kept your head firmly planted on your legs, hesitant to meet his eyes. 

The gentle touch on your head confirmed what you suspected - Izzy had silently joined you in the cabin. His hand, warm and comforting, rested tenderly on your head, while his thumb traced soothing patterns up and down the back of your neck. The simple gesture worked, slowing the rapid pace of your breathing and providing a feeling of solid ground in the flood of emotions that had consumed you. 

Izzy’s touch continued its calming dance until the tension in the air began to lift, and you felt secure enough to lift your head and meet his eyes. As your gaze connected with his, you couldn’t help but wonder what reflection stared back at him - a puffy, red-eyed version of yourself, no doubt. Unfazed, Izzy’s hands moved for your head to gently cup your face, his thumbs now taking on the tender role of wiping away the lingering tears that adorned your cheeks. 

“What do you need?” Izzy whispered, his voice bearing a weight that echoed the pain coursing through you.

“I don’t know,” you responded, your voice quivering. “I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. I’m so fucking stupid.” 

“Stop talking like that,” Izzy retorted gently, but a simmering anger underscored his words. “You are not stupid. The fucking twat who made you feel this way is stupid… Stupid fucking twat.” During Izzy’s response, his hands left your face, curling into tight fists on his legs as if ready to confront the very source of your distress. 

“Izzy, will you stay here with me?” you asked earnestly, a plea laced with vulnerability. “I think that’s what I need.” “Of course,” Izzy responded without hesitation. 

Gently stretching your legs out on the couch, you rested your head on his thigh. His hand found you again - his fingers running through your hair in a soothing rhythm. In the quiet intimacy of the cabin, being with Izzy served as a reminder that things were different than before. The feelings still felt overwhelming, but with Izzy and the rest of the crew you were safe. 

⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓

Once news arrived that the raid had concluded, Izzy guided you onto the deck, his hand resting firmly on your back until you both were in everyone’s sight. He couldn’t decide if his touches were more for your comfort or his own. The sight of you in pain stirred an anguish within Izzy, and his deepest desire was to mend the hurt in any way possible. Wiping the tears from your face and enveloping you in his arms provided him with a sense of purpose, an action in the face of the unavoidable pain you were experiencing. The burning desire to kill the man who had caused you such distress surged within Izzy, fueled by the possibility that he was likely among the crew of the ship that was just raided. Yet, for your sake, he planned to temper his own impulses. 

The crew had gathered the prisoners from the raid on The Revenge, awaiting the identification of the man their captains had spoken about. Blackbeard separated you from Izzy, pulling you aside and whispering quietly in your ear. Izzy's gaze remained fixed, watching intently as you nervously pointed to one of the captured crew members. Izzy scrutinized the man you had pointed to trying to gauge his presence and assess him. A recollection surfaced in Izzy's mind: Timothy was the name Edward had used when recounting your story to him on The Queen Anne's Revenge. He was around your age, stood tall, his brunette hair seemingly catching the light. His stature, combined with a confident demeanor, grated on Izzy's nerves. Even in the midst of being restrained, Timothy’s presence managed to emit an air of self-assuredness, intensifying the rage that was simmering beneath the surface.

Blackbeard commanded Fang to apprehend the identified man and confine him to the brig. As Fang executed the order, dragging him away, Izzy observed the unfolding scene with a keen eye. Timothy, finally seeing you for the first time, had an expression on his face resembling that of someone who had seen a ghost. As the twat called out your name, Izzy's attention shifted to you. The nuances of your reaction didn't escape him. There was a fleeting wince, a subtle recoiling at the sound of Timothy’s voice calling your name, but you ignored him. 

Fang delivered a swift punch to the man's stomach on the way to the brig, eliciting a yelp of pain. "Fang!" you reprimanded your friend, disapproving of the unnecessary aggression.

"Sorry, he just slipped into my fist," Fang replied with a smug grin. "I don't know what happened."

Izzy couldn't help but smirk at Fang's action, he was relieved the crew shared his protective instincts towards you.

"I knew it!" Roach declared triumphantly to Frenchie once the chaos had settled. 

"Were you two betting on who Timothy was?" you questioned Roach with a curious tone.

As you spoke to your friends, Izzy, feigning disinterest, deliberately kept his focus on other matters around the ship. He positioned himself far enough away, cautious not to draw attention to his listening ears. The eavesdropping distance provided a subtle vantage point from which he could hear the unfolding conversation without making his investment too obvious.

"Yes. Frenchie thought it was that guy," Roach replied, pointing to an elderly sailor who appeared to be about 80 years old.

Izzy felt a pang of worry, concerned that any teasing directed at you in this moment might risk breaking your calm composure. However, his anxiety began to ease as he witnessed a genuine grin spread across your face – the most authentic expression he had seen since the news had broken that morning. The sight brought a welcomed relief, reassuring Izzy that your resilient spirit was still present despite everything you were feeling.

"What the fuck, Frenchie? He's ancient!" you exclaimed, playfully punching him in the arm.

"Ow," Frenchie responded, holding his arm in mock pain. "I thought you were into older guys." He teased, prompting a lighthearted exchange.

Izzy observed as a deep shade of red crept across your features in response to Frenchie's comment, and you briefly glanced around.

Swiftly, you hushed Frenchie, attempting to quell the potentially embarrassing situation. "Stop betting on my love life," you whispered back to the pair of men, your words carrying a mix of exasperation and amusement. 

Curiosity filled Izzy, but he recognized that this wasn't the moment to delve into those thoughts. His immediate concern was ensuring that you made it through the day, and that took precedence over anything else.

Several of the captured crew members, along with their captain, recognized you. Izzy observed as you graciously greeted each of them, offering apologies for the inconvenience. He couldn't understand your kindness, wondering why you would show mercy to those who hadn’t protected you like they should have. The men who recognized you did appear relieved and grateful to see you alive and well. While it didn't come as a shock that you had forged connections with them during your time on their ship, Izzy marveled at your ability to connect with almost anyone.

"Iz," you called out, capturing his attention as you walked up to him, interrupting his thoughts about you. "You can say no, but… would you be there with me when I talk to him?"

Izzy replied with a small nod. A wave of relief washed over him, grateful that you had asked him to accompany you. The idea of leaving you alone with that twat might have been impossible for him. If he was being honest, a deep curiosity stirred within him about meeting someone you used to love, paired with an undeniable feeling of jealousy. No, Izzy thought to himself, you shouldn't be alone in there with him. 

Izzy’s keen eyes followed your every move as you paced the length of the ship with an air of nervous energy. For what felt like an eternity, you traversed the deck. Every now and then, when it seemed you were on the verge of descending below deck, you abruptly changed direction, as if caught in a perpetual cycle. 

As you began the cycle anew, Izzy quickly intervened, stepping in to halt your pacing, his grip on your shoulders gentle but firm, reminiscent of past moments. "You don't have to talk to him," Izzy whispered. If it were Izzy's decision, the confrontation would have started and ended with a swift thrust of his blade, but the idea of "talking it through," instilled by Stede Bonnet, wove itself deeply into the fabric of this crew. With the resurgence of the Kraken, Izzy found himself considering that perhaps, against his instincts, Stede might have been right all along.

Your gaze remained fixed on his chest, as if peering through him, likely pondering his remark. “I know,” you sighed, “but I feel like I’ll regret it if I don’t say anything.” Izzy observed the transformation on your face, shifting from distraction to determination, and your eyes met his. “I need this to finally be done.” With those words, you left Izzy’s grasp, making your way below deck. Swiftly, Izzy followed, aware you were likely headed to the prisoner. 

“You’ve got this,” echoed Fang’s encouraging shout from the deck as the two of you descended below. 

Izzy watched the final deep breath you took before entering the area that held the brig. There was a strength in your demeanor, a contrast from the morning, yet Izzy couldn’t shake the concern that lingered about how this conversation might affect you. It remained too unpredictable. 

The brig was a dimly lit, confined space tucked away in the belly of the ship. A series of iron bars formed the cell structure, allowing a glimpse into the confined space. The flickering light of a lantern suspended from a hook on the wall cast uneven shadows. Sparse and functional, the brig had a simple wooden bench fixed to one side. Timothy, seated upon it with his head resting on his hands, looked up at the sound of approaching company. Swiftly rising, he moved towards the bars of his cell, as he uttered your name once again, this time in a mix of shock and recognition. 

“Timothy,” you uttered flatly in response, a stark greeting that revealed little emotion. Despite your stoic demeanor, Izzy knew you well enough to tell that you were still scared. Yet, you persevered, putting on a brave face in front of this fucking twat. 

“You’re alive,” he whispered back, Izzy visibly rolled his eyes at the statement but remained quietly standing further away, wanting to respect your space. 

“I know. That must be a surprise for you,” you replied dryly, your tone devoid of any warmth. 

“I’ve thought about you every day since you fell off the ship, hoping you were alive,” he responded, his words carrying a tone of pleading sincerity. 

“Since I fell?” you asked, your cool composure giving way. 

Izzy studied your face, discerning something he had never witnessed before. Muscles tensed beneath your skin, evident in the way your jaw clenched and your fist tightened at your sides. Your posture shifted, becoming more rigid, as if every muscle in your body was ready for a fight. Izzy, accustomed to your usual composure, couldn’t help but note the unfamiliar contours of your rage, a sight both alarming and mesmerizing. 

“You pushed me,” you spat, each word drawn out with a venomous precision that cut through the air. 

“Pushed you?” Timothy replied with feigned shock. “I was trying to catch you. I tried to get help, but it was too late.” 

Izzy watched as this ponce addressed you with an air of condescension, as if attempting to portray you as clueless and naive, working to convince you that you were misremembering what happened. Izzy clenched his jaw. It took every ounce of self-control not to storm across the room and deliver a punch that would wipe the smugness off this man’s face. 

You maintained silence in response to Timothy’s words, prompting him to continue. “It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that you’re alive. We can sail together again. You and I, just like the old days.” 

“How long did it take for them to leave you? A month? A week?” you responded smugly, a sarcastic curl to your lips that hinted at your disdain. Izzy assumed you were referring to the person he left you for, the one he deemed worth throwing you overboard for. Izzy observed the man in the brig, and the cracks in his composed mask became visible at your comment, anger flashing in his eyes. 

“I left them,” he muttered through clenched teeth, but quickly regained his composure, reverting to the role he was playing. “I missed you too much. It killed me.” 

Izzy watched as your hands wrapped around the cold bars of his cell, leaning in closer to convey your unwavering resolve. “I will never go anywhere with you again,” you whispered, the words reverberating through the confined space. 

“Oh come on,” he pleaded in a hushed tone, arrogance still echoing in every word. “You’re happy here? With a bunch of pirates?” 

Your response was a smug smile and nod, a nonchalant retort that only fueled his growing anger. “I know you still love me,” he insisted, leaning even closer into the bars, narrowing the distance between you. 

“No fucking way,” you responded firmly, the rage still evident in your eyes. 

“Oh I see. You’ve met someone else” he sneered, his fingers snaking through the bars to grab your wrist. “You’ve found someone else to follow around. Who is it?” 

Izzy snapped immediately, his gaze turning fierce as he watched this man lay hands on you. “You will get your fucking hand off them, twat, or I’ll happily cut it off.” Izzy growled, his protective instinct kicking into overdrive. 

The man quickly released your wrist, and Izzy pulled you back from the cell with swift determination. Though it was only a matter of seconds, Izzy knew he’d never allow this fucker to get close to you again. 

Timothy began to laugh, his eyes shifting between the two of you. “Him?” he chided, gesturing towards Izzy. 

Izzy nervously glanced at your face, anticipating a hint of embarrassment or shame.  However, to his surprise, you appeared certain, resolute in the face of the man’s taunts. 

You didn’t retreat back to the cage; instead, you stood taller, asserting your presence next to Izzy. “Yes,” you proclaimed, your voice unwavering, “him.” Izzy observed Timothy glaring at both of you, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you continued speaking with a calm determination. “He is a hundred times better than the man you pretend to be. He’s strong, loyal, and one of the smartest sailors I’ve ever met. I’m safe when I’m with him.” 

Izzy felt, for a second, like he was in a dream. A surreal moment where reality blurred with his deepest desires. For a fleeting moment, he tried to reason with himself, attempting to talk himself out of what he was hearing. You were admitting you still cared for him, and it didn’t seem like a mere performance for the man who had broken your heart, It seemed genuine. The words echoed in his mind, and he couldn’t dismiss the sincerity in your voice. The weight of the admission hung in the air, and for the first time, Timothy found himself without a response. 

Timothy’s silence seemed to embolden you, and you continued your speech with a quiet yet firm resolve, as if the words had been rehearsed in your mind hundreds of times. “When my mother died, you were the only one I had left. You were my family. That’s why I’ve been so blind to what a complete and utter ass you are,” you said, your voice steady. “But I want to thank you because you pushing me off that ship is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I have a real family here now–not only Izzy, but everyone else on this crew.” 

The weight of your gratitude for the new family you had found on The Revenge lingered in the air, and Izzy felt a profound understanding of your words. 

You turned to leave, but Timothy spoke again, venom lacing his words. “You were always pathetic,” he hissed, the bitterness evident in his tone. “Always following me around like a puppy dog. The attention was fun at first, but then it just got boring.” 

“Just give him back to his captain, Iz,” you said flatly, unfazed by his attempt to provoke you. “He’s not worth it,” With that, you left the brig, heading back on deck. 

Now alone, Timothy redirected his comments toward Izzy with a sly tilt of his head. “You’ll get tired of them too one day. You’ll see. When you need your space you can always use my method… just a little push.” 

Izzy, fueled by a surge of anger, grabbed Timothy through the bars, slamming his head against the hard metal of the door. Timothy yelped in pain, but Izzy continued holding him tightly, leaning menacingly toward him. “I’ve met some stupid fucking twats during my lifetime, but you are number fucking one. If it was up to me, you’d be tied to an anchor and dropped to the bottom of the ocean.” Izzy let go of the man with a forceful shove, causing him to fall onto the ground. “They,” Izzy spat, gesturing towards the spot where you had just stood, “are the only reason you’re still alive because every person on this crew would happily gut you otherwise. You lost something precious, and I’m never going to let myself make that mistake.” 

⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓⚓

After leaving the brig, you sought out Stede and informed him of your decision to send Timothy back to his ship. The conversation inside the cell probably wasn’t what Stede had imagined when he suggested you talk it through, yet you felt a sense of relief that it was finally over. Timothy’s true colors had been shown, revealing his manipulative nature that you were grateful to have escaped. 

You made your way to the bow, leaning against the banister — the familiar spot where introspection came easier to you. You contemplated what Izzy might be feeling right now. While expressing your feelings for him hadn’t been part of the plan, you no longer regretted being honest. You were tired of concealing your emotions, but even still, you didn't anticipate a significant change in your dynamic with Izzy. It hadn’t changed anything before. 

Lost in your thoughts, you eventually sensed another presence. Turning around, you found Izzy standing there. Approaching you, Izzy gently lifted the wrist that Timothy had grabbed earlier, the same wrist Izzy had carefully wrapped after your injury many weeks ago. His fingers traced soothing circles, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken pain you endured. Before uttering a word, Izzy scanned your face, his eyes searching for signs of distress. 

“His captain will handle him,” Izzy spoke sternly, “They’ve sailed away.” 

You acknowledged his words with a nod, unsure how to respond, the weight of recent events still lingering in the air. Sensing your unease, Izzy cupped your face with his hands, a gesture that was becoming more familiar but no less comforting. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, his concern evident in the warmth of his eyes. 

“I feel calm now,” you whispered, a smile gracing your lips. “I needed closure, so thank you for being there for me” Izzy’s eyes softened as he listened. 

Izzy’s hands lingered on the sides of your face as his eyes darted back and forth, signaling that he was lost in contemplation. “What’s on your mind, Israel?” you asked, attempting to pull him out of his head. 

“You told him it was me,” Izzy responded uncertainly, referencing your earlier confession of feelings. 

“Yes,” you responded matter-of-factly, looking into his eyes curiously. 

“Why?” Izzy replied. He seemed uncertain in this moment, a stark contrast to the commanding presence he normally displayed on the deck. 

“Because it is you, Izzy,” you replied sweetly, gazing at him with adoration. “It has been for a long time. Long before we ended up on this ship, with this crew.” In that moment, a shift appeared in Izzy’s expression, a trace of longing. It mirrored the same look you had witnessed on the first night you spent time together on the bow of the ship. His eyes lingered on your lips. 

“Israel Hands,” you cooed, the soft utterance of his name drawing his gaze to meet yours once again. With a playful smirk, you continued, “If there’s even a small part of you that wants to kiss me right now, I’m begging you to do it.” 

That was all Izzy needed to hear. His lips eagerly found yours in a passionate collision. His hands cradled your face as if you were the most important thing he had ever held. As the kiss deepened, his strong hands traveled down to your waist, pulling you closer to his body. Simultaneously, your hands found their way around his neck, fingers entwining in the tousled strands of his hair. The world around you seemed to fade as the intensity of the moment heightened, the connection between you and Izzy growing stronger with each passing second. Izzy’s lips departed from yours and embarked on a journey down your neck, prompting a gasp to escape your lips. You kept your eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of his lips caressing your skin. Each tender kiss sent shivers down your spine. 

The resonance of Stede’s voice reverberated across the deck, jolting you both back to the awareness of your surroundings. As you exchanged glances, a giggle escaped your lips. 

Izzy’s smile persisted as he spoke with authority, “My cabin. Five minutes.” He punctuated his words with another lingering kiss on your lips. 

Breathless, you responded, “Yes, sir.” With a steadying moment on the bow, you collected yourself before making your way to the first mate’s cabin, anticipation building for what awaited in the privacy of Izzy’s quarters. 

Fortunately for you both, the crew seemed absorbed in their own activities, paying little attention to your discreet entrance into Izzy’s cabin. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted. You stared silently at each other until Izzy pulled you into another passionate kiss. 

The unspoken understanding between you and Izzy lingered in the air as you undressed each other, the layers of clothing falling away like a barrier that had kept your desires at bay. Standing there, exposed and vulnerable, a silent acknowledgement passed between you, the world outside the cabin fading into insignificance. Your fingers traced the contours of Izzy’s chest, your gaze meeting his in a moment of shared vulnerability. 

His hands found their way to your bare arms, a gentle squeeze conveying a question that echoed in his words. “I want this,” he murmured, his touch conveying reassurance. “Is this what you want?”

In response, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer, and his fingers traced down the length of your back. “Yes,” you whispered, the word carrying a weight of longing. “More than anything.”

{Next Chapter}

Taglist: @5tud10-54r4h @locamoka-blog @promptly-mercy @this--is--music @raviolical @lxsm2 @emilynissangtr

[horizon-verizon]

People who see the dragons as nukes who must die are completely misinterpreting the story. Let’s apply this analysis to the books though. Does Daenerys receive 3 deactivated nukes as a gift in her wedding day ? Does she press a nuke against her pregnant belly and the chemicals inside of it reach out to her unborn child ? Does she lay 3 nukes in her husband’s funeral pyre to honor him ? Does she lovingly hold and breastfeed 3 nukes ? Does Jon Snow wish that he had a nuke to fight off the freezing cold ? Does Arya consider nukes to be her friends ? Does young Tyrion beg his uncles for a nuke so he can be less lonely ?

Dragons aren’t single purpose objects, they’re living, thinking, breathing creatures, and Daenerys specifically views them as such, she literally thinks of them as her children. Historically, the dragons were essentially enslaved by the blood bond and the problem was that they were used by people who viewed them as weapons first and foremost. Daenerys (a character who is extremely invested in liberation by the way) being mother of dragons, specifically, as in giving them life and literally nursing them herself, is meant to show how her relationship to the dragons is unique from her ancestors. They aren’t just a bunch of flying weapons to her.

Dragons are the living embodiment of a primordial natural magical force (fire), and their extinction was caused by misogyny, human ambition, greed, and by people in the story doing exactly what the “dragons are nukes” crowd does, which is look at them as just Big Weapon (e.g. Aemond and Daeron), and said extinction is heavily implied to be the reason winters are getting harsher (“the summers have been shorter since the last dragon died, and the winters longer and crueler”, “the real enemy is the cold”).  Calling them nuclear weapons is wayyyy missing the point. It was the greater Valyrian sin of trying to control and dominate nature/magic and bend it to their whims that lead to chaos (hello The Doom and hello Valyria Fanboy Euron), which manifested in the dragon lords like the Targaryens as them controlling dragons, but “dragons are nukes” flattens the theme and misses the forest for the trees, and it’s why you get absolutely mind numbing takes like “yeah George brought back the dragons after centuries of extinction just to kill them all off again after two years in existence because Magic Bad”.

I talked about dragons, their symbolism, etc. HERE.

George at one point did compare dragons to nuclear "deterrents" when he speaks about Dany being the most powerful person in the world in 🔗a Vulture article:

When civilizations clash in your books, instead of Guns, Germs, and Steel, maybe it's more like Dragons, Magic, and Steel (and also Germs). There is magic in my universe, but it's pretty low magic compared to other fantasies. Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only Dany has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world. But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I'm trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn't mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn't give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.

and GRRM does bring it up to express that dragons are so destructive that one can't use their fire for everything, for every problem when it might spell so much disaster. Can you can use dragons more often if the situation will not spiral out of control--Dragonfire does not persist when one attempts to put it out, like with wildfyre, so it's destructiveness is not in the exact same scope or horror as a radioactive nuclear missile that can leave behind radiation/devastation for years afterward...nor does it have the sort of reach these modern weapons have. Dragonfire remains within the confines of its targets unless you got really dry ground and don't put it out in time. The reason why dragonfire is compared to nuclear warfare is because like nuclear weapons now, for the world it exists in, it is the most powerful possible weapon of war.

It's about how Dany or anyone uses and regards dragons and others' own conceptions of magic and strength/danger that will make/break how they will perceive dragons. Not that dragons are innately evil; you sound like an overly superstitious and hypocritical Seven septon/over zealous Christian that way.

[moments-on-film]

Moments on Film: Carmy and Sydney’s Tattoos

I’ve been thinking a lot about Sydney’s tattoo of the heart with three swords piercing it and the parallels to the tattoo on Carmen’s right hand of a knife going through a hand.

We have been shown time and time again with The Bear that everything happens for a reason. When we are confused about something it is because of the timing of the dispersement of information, not lack of it. Every character, situation, look, or line of dialogue has connective tissue to the story.

In episode 3 Carmy was supposed to go out with Sydney to eat different foods for an inspirational palette cleansing reset. Instead, he was presented with the opportunity to spend time with his long lost crush from high school, who has reappeared in his life—a different kind of reset.

Carmy presumably spent at least part of the day with Claire, although, we never see any of it. We do see how dedicated and diligent Sydney has been all day in an experience that was supposed to be shared with Carmy.

When Sydney returns to the restaurant later that night, Carmy opens the door. She’s surprised to see him. He’s happy to see her. As he ushers her in he places his hands on her back. At first glance this moment of physical contact really sticks out. Why does he do this?

Physicality is everything in this moment. Watch his right hand. He places his right hand, with his hand with the knife tattoo directly on top of her shoulder, covering her heart with the three swords tattoo. In this brief moment, their tattoos are physically stacked and aligned.

Again, to me, it’s the dispersement of information here, not lack of it. We don’t find out until episode 8 that Sydney has this tattoo on her right shoulder. Carmy presumably does not know about it either. That said, I now interpret it as another subtle, subconscious hint that they are emotionally entwined and connected beyond what we see on the surface.

Carmy not keeping his plans to go out with Sydney (honestly, regardless of the reason) is the first real time this season he has made a decision that has wronged her and in turn, ultimately (per his thoughts in ep. 10) wronged the restaurant and himself. This is due to his complete and total lack of balance in his life, among other things. In a split moment decision, he is dancing on the knife’s edge, and he knows it.

We know from this article that Carmy’s knife through the hand tattoo has specific meaning, a “reminder of just how close Carmy is to ruining his life. It's hard exactly how to put into words why it does, but there's a self-sabotaging aspect to Carmy. And I think that a knife through the hand speaks to that a little bit."

📷 Source: @cosmic-light-fics

Sydney’s tattoo is an image of the Three of Swords from tarot cards and can represent loss, hurt, pain, misunderstanding, loneliness, betrayal and separation.

Knowing what we know about how Sydney and Carmy both have a tendency to internalize deep emotion, the physical representation of their aligned tattoos with Carmy’s hand on Sydney’s shoulder is more than skin deep. To me, it’s another example of their soul connection and how their actions and emotions deeply impact the other.

Even without realizing it, the deeper parts of themselves are drawn together, emotionally, physically and literally, like magnets to steel.

©️moments-on-film 2023