#to carry the weight of your actions knowing that your father would so differently

[josephquinnswhore]

refined taste - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel relishes in the taste of you.

word count: 3.2k

content warning: pre-existing relationship, girl dad joel, drinking breastmilk, fingering, humping the bed, male and female ejaculation. mother + father joel. mentions of joel being a hoe pre-outbreak lol. brief mention of age gap, joel cums in his pants.

Times were scarce where you and Joel got to relax.. with no one but the company of each other. That’s what happens when you have a baby—you learn. Hell, most of the time you roamed the house in nothing but one of Joel’s shirts, as you are now. Maria had warned you of what was to come, after her and Tommy’s son was born, he was an absolute nightmare baby. Your and Joel’s daughter, Tilly, was wonderful. She had Joel’s dark hair and his hazel eyes. She looked just like him.

You didn’t mind, not when you could see that she was healing him in a way that you couldn’t. To fill the grief of Sarah. Not to replace her.. but to have a connection that felt the same way. A paternal connection.

Joel is a hands-on father, and he’s honestly incredible. He gently lies Tilly down in her cot.. after she had downed the whole bottle of your warm breast milk. Maria was generous to share over the baby things she no longer needed.

Tilly coos as she falls asleep, her tummy full of milk. For some reason, the bottle was the only way she would take your milk, since she was born she absolutely refused to take your breast. It was hard for you, as you’d heard it was good for her immune system and a way of connecting to the baby. You eventually grew accustomed to bottle feeding, still expressing by hand to relieve your breasts of their ache.

Joel sighs as he lies into bed with you. The sheets wrinkling under the sudden weight.

“Y'know I always wondered what breast milk tastes like.” You wonder aloud. A soft murmur so you don’t wake your daughter.

Joel's eyebrows rise in surprise at your sudden statement, a mix of amusement and mild shock on his face. He chuckles softly, his voice filled with a hint of disbelief.

"Oh really?" he playfully retorts, trying to hide a smirk. "Well, I can tell you it's quite distinct."

He pauses for a moment, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks, before continuing with a teasing tone, "Though I can't claim to be an expert taster."

“Then how do you know?” You ask, a confused expression on your face.

Joel's smirk widens slightly, the playful banter continuing between the two of you. He raises an eyebrow, his voice carrying a hint of mischief.

"I happen to have certain experiences with it," he replies with a feigned air of nonchalance, his gaze meeting yours with a hint of devilishness.

You laugh softly. “Oh, so it’s a fetish of yours then?”

Joel chuckles softly, enjoying the lightheartedness in your voice. His expression softens slightly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of humour and affection.

"I wouldn’t necessarily call it a fetish," he clarifies with a hint of a smile on his lips, "but let's just say I’ve had my moments. You know, like any man who's been around the block.”

A gasp leaves your lips, part shock and part confirmation. “So you were a whore before the outbreak?” You’d assumed he would’ve been a ladies man anyway, looking at the old photo of him before the outbreak.. he was a hunk, even then.

Joel's expression turns serious as he addresses your question, his tone softening. He realises the weight of his past actions and the impact they had on him and others.

"It's true, I was," he confirms, his voice filled with a sense of regret. "Back then, I was not the man I am now. I was more wild, more reckless. The world was a different place, and I made some choices I'm not proud of."

A faux gasp of surprise leaves your lips, and you raise a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe I’m marrying the town bike of Texas!”

Joel's jaw drops slightly at your playful remark, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if trying to process the teasing.

"Hey, you better watch it," he retorts, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I may have been the town bike, but you're the one marrying me. Who's the real crazy one here, hmm?"

“Probably the guy that’s tasted breast milk before his fiancé that’s actually got breastmilk?” You retort.

Joel's eyes widen at your teasing remark, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the flush of red.

"Okay, okay, you got me there," he admits, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "But in my defence, it was research. Purely for scientific purposes, you know."

The laughter that leaves your lips is followed by a low snort. “You’re ridiculous…. Well maybe I can help you with your.. peculiar study.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by your offer. He gazes at you for a moment, gauging your sincerity before responding.

"Oh yeah? You feeling generous, are you?" He teases, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, I suppose I could use a volunteer for my, ahem, 'study.' Just don’t go spreading rumours about me now."

You bite your lip to stop your smile. “I’ll be sure to hold my tongue whenever I feel like making fun of you.”

Joel smiles, his eyes gleaming with affection and a hint of playful mischief. He leans in closer, his voice slightly huskier as he responds.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his words filled with warmth. "I know you wouldn't." He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, his gaze fixated on your face, as if he can't take his eyes off you.

A small drop of milk leaks through one of Joel’s shirts you wore and your face heats up, but you take the opportunity to tease him. You lift your shirt and swipe a drip of milk falling from your nipple, and pop your finger in your mouth, tasting your breast milk. You raise an eyebrow. “Huh.. not bad..”

Joel’s eyes widen slightly as he watches you taste your own milk, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. He can’t help but chuckle softly at your reaction.

"That’s all? Just ‘huh’? I thought I was gonna get some more details," he teasingly responds, his voice carrying a hint of playful disappointment. "Don’t leave me hanging here. How does it taste?"

“You’re more than welcome to test it yourself, mister scientist..”

Joel blinks once, his cheeks flushing with a hint of a blush at your suggestion. He can’t help but chuckle softly, the idea a bit new and unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“Well, I suppose I could be a good scientific partner and contribute to my.. study," he replies with a hint of a smile, his voice a little husky.

He reaches out, gently lifting the material of his own shirt that you wore, exposing your breasts with one hand, and leans in closer, his warm breath grazing your nipple.

A whimper leaves your lips as Joel latches onto your nipple, suckling softly at first to let you adjust to the new feeling, then when the milk starts to flow; he starts suckling desperately, using his hands to help express the milk.

Well; it certainly did seem like he’d done this before.

The tips of your fingers caress his scalp, as his ministrations grow more desperate, you gently tug on the greying locks, he draws a breathless whine from you.

Your touch sends a shiver down Joel's spine, intensifying the connection between you. His mind and body are consumed by the sensations swirling around him. He moves his hands to your hips, gently pulling you closer as he continues to suckle on your breast, the taste of milk fueling his passion. The sound of your whimper only serves to heighten his arousal, his desire for you growing with each passing moment.

“You’re a selfish man Joel.. gonna drain me dry.”

Joel's body tightens at your words, a mix of desire and restraint filling his mind. He pulls away from your breast, his lips leaving a trail of warm kisses along your sternum before he finally speaks.

"You taste divine, you know that?" He whispers, his voice husky and filled with passion. "I might get addicted to this."

“Don’t get greedy now sweetheart.” You tsk him in a mock condescending tone.

Joel chuckles softly, his hands tracing gentle patterns on your hips as he whispers, "I don’t intend to. But you’re tempting me, you know that?”

His eyes gleam with desire, the passion evident in his gaze. "You’re so captivating. I can’t help but want more of you. I hope you’re prepared for it."

Giggling, your fingers play with his hair. “So.. what’s the verdict—Mr scientist? How does it taste?”

Joel smiles, his eyes filled with warmth and affection as he responds, "Ah, the scientific results."

He pauses, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "Well, it tastes wonderful. Sweet, with a hint of earthy goodness. And the texture, smooth and creamy. Not to mention the effect it has on me."

He leans in, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "But I think I’ll need more time to conduct further research."

You hum. “Tastes like sugar water to me. Seems like you’re.. undecided.”

Joel laughs softly, shaking his head in playful disagreement. He nuzzles his face against your neck, his voice filled with teasing desire.

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that. It's not sugar water. It's unique and delicious. I'm not undecided. I'm just thorough, sweetheart. I need more... samples. For science, of course."

“Oh right—if it’s for science.. by all means, go ahead.”

An eager smile spreads across Joel's face, his body pressing closer against you. His eyes gleam with desire, a mix of playful mischief and affection. He leans in, his voice filled with a husky rasp as he whispers against your neck.

"Perfect. I promise to be... thorough."

It feels more sensitive than it did the first time.

Joel's smile widens against your skin as he hears your whine, his body reacting instinctively to the sound. His mouth presses gently against your breast, his tongue coaxing out more milk as he suckles hungrily. His hand begins to massage gently, his grip firm but tender, his touches designed to elicit more of those delightful sounds from you.

Joel becomes more intense with his mouth and tongue, lapping at you, his teeth gently graze at the sensitive skin of your nipple and you moan softly.

A sudden movement catches your attention, the bed shakes a little, and you’re curious—so you look. His hips are desperately rutting against the bed, he groans against your flesh.

As Joel's mouth continues it’s ministrations, exploring your body with increasing intensity, his hips involuntarily rocking in rhythm with your moans and whimpers.

The sensations swirling between you only seem to intensify, the connection between you growing more intimate and powerful. Your voice, the sound of your pleasure, fuels his desire, his touches and kisses growing more urgent and desperate.

“Joel..” you whine, an octave higher than normal. Almost begging for something.. more.

Joel's ears perk up at the sound of his name, his mind consumed by the intimacy of the moment. He can tell that you need more, that you're on the verge of something intense. His mouth moves hungrily across your skin, his teeth grazing softly as one of his hands slide down your body.

His fingers slide down between your cunt—it’s soaking his fingers, the pad of his thumb begins to swirl softly against your clit, teasing you at first. He drags his other fingers down into your hole, pumping in and out. Your head hits the pillow, hips bucking upward as you whine in approval.

As he hears the sharp inhale that escapes your lips, he knows he's found the spot that makes you quiver. His touches grow more deliberate, each stroke sending a shiver of pleasure through you, his touch knowing precisely how to ignite the fire he's been fueling.

You tremble at the sensation of the two most sensitive parts of you both being worked simultaneously. His mouth is lapping desperately at your breast, your sensitive nipple is perked and dribbling milk. Joel doesn’t let a single droplet go to waste. The feeling of his thick fingers pumping into the spongey flesh of your cunt makes you clench around him, his thumb remains in it’s steady pace of working your clit.

Joel's eyes are fixated on your face, watching every tiny expression and reaction to his touch. Witnessing the way you tremble beneath him only serves to heighten his own desire. The intensity of the simultaneous stimulation is nearly overwhelming for you, and he takes full advantage of the moment. His mouth lingers on your breast, his tongue exploring and teasing as his fingers continue their seductive dance on your precious cunt that’s soaking his fingers, determined to bring you to the brink of ecstasy.

You curl your fingers in his greying hair, pulling taut as you fall apart, feeling it all at once, the sensations overwhelm you in a delicious symphony of overstimulation. Then, as coil that had been winding tighter with every pump of his fingers, every lap of his tongue.. it snapped. The quickest orgasm of your life.

By far, the most intense, too. Your toes curl into the bedsheets and your legs try to close at the feeling of sensitivity. Your cunt clenches around his fingers at it coats the thick digits with your cum. A ringing sound warbles through your ears, breath struggling to regulate as you huff quickly, desperate to get oxygen to your lungs after Joel ripped it from you.

Joel's body tightens in response to the way you pull at his hair, a mix of excitement and pleasure surging through him. As your body quivers in release, he continues his ministrations, each slowed stroke designed to prolong your bliss. He can feel the intensity of your pleasure, the way your body convulse and clench, and it fills him with a sense of satisfaction. He watches as you surrender to the moment, his touch gentle yet deliberate, guiding you through the waves of ecstasy until you come back down.

Joel falls apart at the sight of your parted lips and pinched brows—relishing in the intimate and ecstasy of his actions.

The bed vibrates as Joel desperately ruts against the mattress, hearing you fall apart, feeling your cum coat his fingers..

Joel's own release follows shortly after yours, the intensity of the moment overwhelming his senses. He continues to move against the mattress, the friction of his body against it adds to the intoxicating mix of sensations. He finds release in the rhythm of your breaths, the tremble of your skin, and the sound of his name on your lips. As he climaxes, his grip on your body tightens, his gasps and moans mingling with yours in the heat of the moment.

He couldn’t help the way his weeping cock finally exploded inside of his jeans.

You’re wide eyed as you realise Joel had just cum in his jeans, he pants heavily, groaning against your skin as he pulls away from your breast, resting his sweaty forehead against your warm chest.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling as he tries to calm his racing heart. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and he glances up at you, realising the mess he had made.

“Did you just..” you trail off.

He lets out a sheepish chuckle, his voice filled with a hint of embarrassment.

"Oh...well, that was unexpected. Guess I got a little carried away."

“A little? You think?” Your eyebrow is raised. But you’re not upset, not even a little. It was.. flattering, honestly.

Joel laughs again, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and fondness. He looks up at you, a softness in his gaze as he responds.

“Alright, maybe more than a little. Can you blame me though? The sight of you in the throes of passion...it's a sight I can't resist. I couldn't help myself.”

You smile softly, admiring the redness in his cheeks.

“I love you. Even if you were the town bike back in the day.”

Joel's expression softens at your words, a deep affection shining in his eyes. He reaches up, gently cupping your cheek in his calloused hand.

"And I love you, more than anything.” He responds, his voice filled with sincerity. He pauses for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin. "And as for being the town bike...well, let's just say that's a reputation I'm grateful to have left behind. You're the only one I have eyes for now."

His words were truthful, and it entices a smile, knowing he was serious even in your playful banter.

“Good. Cause I’m not sharing my soon to be husband.” You murmur into his hair.

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, a surge of warmth spreading through his body. He returns your smile, his eyes gleaming with love and contentment.

“You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his voice laced with affection. “I'm all yours. Body, heart, and soul. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather spend the rest of my life with than you."

Your other breast, that was left unattended to, starts to leak from being so engorged. As if weeping that it didn’t get any attention.

Joel notices the leaking breast, a flicker of desire in his eyes. He watches as it leaks and dribbles down your torso, leaving a sticky trail.

"Hmm...it seems like this sweet girl is in need of some attention too," he comments, his voice low and husky. He gently cups your breast, massaging it gently. "Can't have you leaking all over the place, right?"

A whimper leaves your dry lips. “Such a greedy man.”

Joel chuckles softly, his eyes meeting yours with a heated gaze.

"Can you blame me, sweetheart? You're simply irresistible," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing teasing circles on your breast. "Every part of you is so alluring. I couldn't resist if I tried."

You roll your eyes in a playful manner. “Just save some for the baby.”

Joel's smile widens, his eyes softening as he leans in to plant a gentle kiss on your lips. "Of course. Just because I can't get enough of you doesn't mean I'll deprive our little one.”

"We'll just have to find ways to share you, hm?" he whispers, nuzzling his face against your neck. "But rest assured, I'll never let either of you go hungry."

You hum as his facial hair scratches against your soft skin.

Joel's stubble brushes against your skin, it’s roughness adds a delightful contrast to the softness of your neck. He nuzzles further into you, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

"You're just so damn irresistible," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "The way you react to my touch...it drives me crazy.”

Joel's body presses closer to yours, his need evident as his arousal grows stronger. He groans, the sound a mixture of pleasure and frustration.

"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?" He mutters, his voice husky and breathless. "The way you affect me...it's hard to hold back sometimes."

You grin cheekily. “Keep up baby. You have a good few decades left. I’ll have to keep you on your toes, eh?”

Joel laughs softly, the sound a mix of amusement and affection. "You cheeky little minx," he teases, his eyes gleaming with adoration. "I should be the one keeping you on your toes, given I'm the older and wiser one. But I reckon keeping up with you will keep me young in spirit."

You laugh. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Joel chuckles, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Years of experience, sweetheart. You learn a few things along the way." His fingers lightly trace across your cheek, a tender gesture that complements his teasing words.

"Besides, when it comes to you, I always have something clever to say. How else am I supposed to keep up with your wit and sass?"

“I just hope little Tilly doesn’t grow up to have your sense of humour, cause then we’ll be in trouble.”

Joel grins against the soft skin of your breast. “Ain’t that the truth.”

[erosiism]

GENSHIN MEN AND…

prompt: HOW THEY WOULD REACT IF YOU SACRIFICED YOUR LIFE FOR THEM

character(s): diluc, zhongli [part one] childe, ayato [part two, out]

warnings(s): angst ofc—mention of blood, my first post on tumblr so my writing style may be a little icky, inaccuracies since I haven’t looked up genshin lore for a hot minute 

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read

DILUC

There’s a lot of things you haven’t told him yet. Things you wished you had told him—but everything’s fine, because in this single action you are willing to do for him—your feelings will come inevitably with it and it’s a torrent of emotions that you’re about to burden him with.

He’s been your childhood friend for seventeen years now. All those times you have seen him, smiling, his merry laughter carrying over the breeze, his lips purple from sampling grapes, to the time where that very laughter and smiles disappear to smoothen into a stone face. After the death of his father, Diluc has become reserved, cold, and rather distant. Bitter.

You two were close, once.

You two had a bond that many could not quite interpret— it was as clear as day that you both trusted each other fully, but each always had secrets to hide. Some say proximity is the reason why both of you got close — your manors were near to each other, but truthfully, it was as simple as it was: you two had the same social standing. Both you and Diluc were, for each of their families, supposed to be close for the sake of future alliances and unions, but the friendship soon turned genuine, only for it to crumble under the weight of guilt and grief.

Only for it to crumble on the day Crepus died.

You still remember it vividly; in all its sickening, gruesome, heart wrenching detail. You were fortunate enough not to witness it, but etched in your memory, all you can think of is Diluc’s ravaged expression when he trembled before his father’s corpse.

You were helpless then. You could have extended an arm, you could have done something.

You didn’t.

But now would be different. You know the archons have it in for him when the incident happens the same way it happened with his father: via a carriage incident. 

You laugh then at its bitter irony.

Bandits come, a whole load of them, and this time Diluc fights while you are there helpless once again, trembling when you hear the clash of swords and arrows. When you hear his claymore smash against flesh. You don’t have a vision. Diluc has. You don’t have any particular skill in handling a sword; Jean has tried to teach you once, but it has failed. Your brain may be quick and witty, but your steps aren’t. 

The bandits have delusions. The archons really are cruel.

You see it before he does. There’s a burst of electric power that he's battling, the elementals clashing with each other—you’re still lagging behind, barely missing the whizzing arrows that skim your flesh, your heart wrenching as you see Diluc’s pained expression. You know what he’s thinking of, and it isn’t you. His memories are reverting back to his father’s death. His birthday. And perhaps that’s why his usual sharpness is wearied down.

You see the sword about to plunge his back before he does.

You scream to tell him.

Your body moves before anything.

Your fingers fumble to clasp the fabric of your clothes, before you tug him out of the way. You feel the weight of a sword against your back; you feel the way it slices through your skin before it presses against your flesh. You taste blood on your tongue, before a myriad of colors burst out; crimson, carmine. All the shades of red. You wobble then, choking out blood, before you stumble. You hear a few slices; razor, swift sharp ones. Then the last of the assailants falls down, and you are made aware that your decision has been the right one.

Diluc has survived. 

You stumble. You feel your body hit the ground. Murkiness runs your vision.

“[Name],” you hear a soft, whispering voice carry to your ears. You try your best to cling onto the words. But pain is burning within you—it’s ironic, how they feel more scorching than Diluc’s flames have ever felt. You try your best to swallow down your pants and your pained noises, but it ends up slipping from your mouth in broken, mottled syllables.

Your blurry vision makes out a face.

He cannot be Diluc. He’s crying. And the last time you have seen Duluc cry is when—

Oh.

“Don’t cry,” you say weakly. “Don’t cry, Diluc. I’m sorry I wasn’t of much help.” You try to reach out to his cheek. You regret it a split second afterwards because blood stains his cheeks wet from tears. You end up smearing red all over his face.

“Why?” Diluc says, and it sounds guttural, like the words have been punched out from him. “Why, [Name]?” You hear a flurry of footsteps behind. You assume it’s some surviving witness who has gone to call for backup. But you doubt you’ll survive.

You don’t even know why. To begin with, you aren’t even sure if you are in love with him. The swirling butterflies that flutter about when you see him tells him you are, but society’s expectations push those down. You have been in love with him for as long as you can remember; you have loved him. You have annotated every inch of him down to your memory, every contour, every bit. In your dreams he visits you, smiling sweetly. And you try to remember him when you wake up, trying to pretend that he’s still there, that he’s no longer bitter. 

“I don’t know.” Your words come out broken, punctuated by the gurgling of blood from your windpipe. 

It’s a half truth. You love him. You don’t know if you do.

“I’m sorry.”

Diluc is sobbing now. It’s uncharacteristic of him. You are brought back to the night when you saw him break down in front of his father’s corpse. And you aren’t yet a corpse: your heart is still beating faintly, your lips are still moving, your body is still trembling. “There’s a lot of things I wanted to tell you, Diluc.”

“Don’t die,” he pleads fervently. His lips graze your forehead, then—and before you know it, he’s embracing you, his tears wetting your shoulder. His begging is childish. Does he not know that the Archons have long abandoned their people? Does he know the sky is empty, and that no amount of pleads can bring a person back to life? You doubt so. “Don’t die, [Name]. I love you.”

He loves you. You smile. He loves you. Words have never felt so sweet befor, and it curbs the bitterness of death upon your tongue. “I love you, [Name]. I love you, so don’t die.”

He loves his father too. But still his father had perished. Similar to you.

“I’m so happy to hear that,” you smile weakly. Your finger starts to fall. “I’m really happy to hear that.”

You don’t have enough time to say those three words back, but it’s fine.

Your actions already did. 

ZHONGLI

note(s); reader is an adepti, takes place during archon war

A God has seen their fair share of grieving. So have Adepti. Some come with age—it’s normal for mortal alliances to die before those who are immortal, after all. There is also the Archon War, which has already torn away Zhongli’s beloved companion, Guizhong. And everyday he chokes down the bile in his throat and continues to annihilate and fight. He’s always been built for this, after all, he’s an Archon. He’s a ruthless one at that, known for his brutality and his power. And everyday he looks at you and can only pray again and again to Celestia, that you remain alive.

Guizhong and you have both been his favorites since you two have met. It was Guizhong and you first, before Zhongli met you. Both you and Guizhong were best friends; almost; like sisters and brothers. Guizhong was gentle and sweet, reprimanding at times. You were sweet too, but could be more uncouth. Strong language littered your sentences at times, and Zhongli would see it then; the way Guizhong tugged at you to scold you, or the way you would smile at her. Brother and sister.

Naturally, when Zhongli grew close to Guizhong, he grew close to you. It was funny to see that you hardly knew much about history, though Guizhong clearly loved it. And so it was almost a cycle. Whatever Guizhong taught Zhongli, he taught you. Guizhong had remarked a few times, what an incredible person he was to make even you listen to facts you had earlier called boring.

(“You mellowed a lot, Morax,” Guizhong had told him once. “[Name] mellowed you. You really do care alot for him, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”)

Gods aren’t meant to be mellowed. They are meant to be powerful. Strong enough emotionally so as to not bat an eye when it comes to deaths.

But everything falls apart when Guizhong dies.

He sees you fall to the ground, sobbing and sobbing and crying at the loss of your beloved sister. He sees the way  you touch her statue, turned to stone, cradling her face and wishing you were touching soft skin, instead of cold stone. Not sister by blood, but sister in name. He sees the way you break apart after that; Zhongli feels a human sense of emptiness and pain that comes with her death.

It’s all right, he told himself repeatedly. In his grief he has started to flood himself with reassurances. I still have [Name]. I still have [Name]. I still have [Name]. 

He sees the way you lose yourself in battle after that. Your attacks become sloppy, you become more careless. You become more injured. Zhongli never bothered with your skill. You were talented and strong enough. But now he finds himself protecting you the times you stumble, the times you start to choke out sobs during battle, the times you go wild and bloodthirsty against those you assume have contributed to her death. 

Guizhong has said once that he loved you. Zhongli never bothered to think about that. He assumed he would know it himself, when time came. He didn’t need to worry about being in what mortals called a relationship—he would get this war finished with you, become a mortal, and love you freely. It didn’t matter if you didn’t love him. Zhongli could love you at a safe distance. It would all be all right. 

He never imagined your declaration of love towards him would come so easily and devastatingly.

Zhongli sees you struck by a burst of elemental power before anything. He sees the way you shoved him inside; he sees the irony. He was so preoccupied with watching you. He hadn’t seen the enemy crawl up to him or nearly kill him. Like how he was watching you, you were watching him. And now his care has killed you.

“[Name].”

There’s an avalanche of emotions. First, he’s furious. He will leach out the killer and will inflict a thousand times more pain on them. Second, he’s heartbroken. He’s terrified of losing you. He can feel your life ebbing away with each passing moment, and he has seen enough wounds to know no healer can save you. He feels your pulse thrumming beneath your skin and he knows you’re dying.

You smile. It looks more like a grimace. “Just survive this goddamn war.”

Zhongli isn’t sure if he will. He feels like he might kill himself, that he might lay his body down next to yours, so that after death your souls would be intermingled, of sorts. It sounds romantic, but there’s absolutely nothing romantic about your death. He does what the Gods are not supposed to do. He feeds into his humanity; he cries.

“Afterwards, just live as a human. I don’t know. Be a dusty collector of antiques. Be a funeral planner or something strange like that. Just live, okay? You look like you want to die.”

You continue to ramble on. Your sentences become connected with each other. Your eyes start to flutter. Your words become faint and faltering.

“I can’t live with you,” he whispers. “First Guizhong, then you…” it’s all his fault. He should have seen it. He should have been more aware. He should—he should…

It’s too late. You’re dead, and he mourns just like a human; sobbing, aching, and dying a little inside.

For a brief moment Zhongli isn’t a God. 

hope everyone liked it! it’s my first post so im apprehensive haha be sure to like/reblog & leave a comment if u can

[coopswhxre]

Word's Mean Nothin'

Boyd Crowder x (Fem)Reader

Word Count: 3,224

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie

Synopsis: Boyd confesses his feelings for you and things get a little heated.

This is my first time writing anything for tumblr, so please be nice XD

It had been three weeks since your sister Ava allowed Boyd Crowder to stay in the attic of the home you both shared. He had kept to himself, spending his days reading the Bible and listening to the radio. Frankly, you preferred it that way; seeing his smug face was the last thing you wanted after all the trouble he'd brought upon Ava.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, you decided to enjoy your coffee on the porch, relishing the crisp air, only to be startled by Boyd sitting on the bench by the door, his expression one of deep thought.

With a sigh, you considered him for a moment before turning to go back inside.

"Y/N," his voice was low as he called out your name, his gaze fixed on the woods beyond your property. "Would you sit with me?"

You paused, your foot hovering over the threshold. "Why should I?"

"Please…" His eyes met yours—wide, hazel, and piercing. To your surprise, they seemed to shimmer with what looked like genuine remorse.

"You've got two minutes, Crowder," you conceded, walking over to take the rocking chair opposite him.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossed defensively as you leaned back. "Well, I ain't got all night, Boyd."

"I've been thinkin' 'bout these past few weeks, what my daddy did to your sister… to you." He gestured towards your shoulder, where a bullet from his father, Bo, had grazed you, sending a chill of remembered pain through you. "I know I can't undo what happened or clear away the bad blood between us, but I need you to know, I'm sorry."

Your gaze hardened, not quite ready to accept his apology, yet you couldn't help but notice the earnestness in his tone—something you hadn't expected from Boyd Crowder. The silence lingered for a moment, punctuated only by the distant calls of evening birds and the soft creak of the rocking chair beneath you.

"Why now, Boyd?" you finally asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "What's changed?"

Boyd sighed, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. "I've had a lot of time to think, up there in that attic. 'Bout my life, the choices I've made, the folks I've hurt." He paused, his voice faltering slightly. "I've realized if I keep goin' down this path, I'll end up all alone. I don't want that. Not anymore."

You watched him, trying to decipher if this was another one of his manipulations. Boyd was known for his silver tongue, and trust was not something easily given, especially to a man like him. Yet, there was something different this time, a vulnerability you hadn't seen before.

"And what 'bout Ava?" you pressed, the concern for your sister surfacing. "What assurances do I have that you won’t put her—or me—in danger again?"

Boyd nodded, understanding the weight of your question. "I can't give you guarantees, Y/N. All I can offer is my word to do better. I wanna protect Ava, not cause her more pain. I hope, in time, you'll see that."

You remained silent, mulling over his words. The evening chill began to seep through your clothes, reminding you of the fading light.

"Time'll tell, Boyd," you finally said, standing up from the rocking chair. "Words mean nothin' without action. You better prove yourself, or you're out."

As you lay in bed that night, the conversation with Boyd replayed endlessly in your mind. His voice, earnest and somber, seemed genuinely filled with regret—a side of him you hadn't seen before. But deep down, you suspected Ava was his true motivation. Boyd had always harbored a soft spot for her, even during her marriage to his brother.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the radio playing upstairs, its volume carrying through the quiet house. With a muttered curse, you threw off the covers and made your way to the attic to tell Boyd to turn it down.

Reaching the attic door, you knocked sharply before entering. The sight that greeted you made you gasp—Boyd, just out of the shower, clad only in a towel around his waist, his skin damp and his hair slicked back. For a moment, you faltered, taken aback by the stark contrast between his usual rugged demeanor and the vulnerability he now displayed.

"Boyd, the music—it’s too loud," you said, striving to keep your voice steady despite the distraction.

"Oh, sorry bout that," Boyd replied, his tone apologetic as he reached for the radio, turning it down immediately. "Didn’t realize it was carrying through the house."

You nodded, your eyes inadvertently scanning the sparse, dimly lit attic. It was clear he lived simply here, with just a few personal items. The vulnerability of his living situation, combined with the unexpected intimacy of the moment, softened your stance just slightly.

"Thanks," you added, pausing at the doorway. "And Boyd—about earlier… I’m thinking about what you said."

Boyd’s eyes met yours, hopeful yet cautious. "I appreciate that, Y/N. Really, I do."

You were already halfway out the door when Boyd's voice halted your steps. "Wait, Y/N," he called, his tone hesitant yet earnest. You paused, your hand on the door frame, and turned back to face him.

"I just… If you've got a minute, I'd like to say a bit more," he said, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. The soft light from the single bulb overhead cast shadows that played across his features.

You sighed, your initial irritation fading into a cautious curiosity. "Alright, Boyd. What is it?" you asked, leaning against the door frame.

He took a deep breath, searching for his words - eyes searching the dimly lit attic before settling back on you. The air was thick with tension, his usual confident demeanor replaced by something more tentative. "I know this ain't the time or place, and maybe it's not my place to say, but…" His voice trailed off as he took a cautious step closer, his expression earnest.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms defensively. "Boyd, if you've got something to say, just say it."

He took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on you. "It's just… these past weeks, being here, seeing how you handle everything… it’s made me realize a lot more than just my mistakes." He paused, swallowing hard. "I’ve come to… care for you, Y/N. More than I should, given everything."

The confession hung between you, startling in its sincerity. Boyd looked vulnerable, almost afraid of how you might respond. "I know I don't deserve a chance, not with my history… but if you'd ever think it possible—"

"Boyd, I—" You started, your mind racing with conflicting emotions.

He stepped forward, closing the gap slightly, his presence overwhelming. "I know it's a lot to ask. I don't even know what I’m asking for. Just… don’t shut me out. Please."

The intensity in his eyes, the raw honesty in his voice, it broke through your defenses in a way you hadn't anticipated. You were about to speak, to chastise him or perhaps to dismiss his words, when impulsively, Boyd leaned in, his hesitation melting away in the moment.

His lips met yours, and for a brief second, the world seemed to stop. The kiss was tentative at first, questioning, as if he was still seeking permission. But as you stood frozen, surprised by your own stillness, something shifted. Maybe it was the isolation of the attic, the soft hum of the now-quiet radio, or the genuine remorse he had shown earlier; whatever it was, you found yourself not pulling away.

The kiss deepened slightly, Boyd's lips firm yet cautious. His hand, tentative at first, found its way to the small of your back, pulling you slightly closer. The warmth of his body contrasted sharply with the cool air of the attic, and you could feel the dampness of his hair, the remnants of his shower, as his fingers gently brushed against your cheek.

The softness of the moment, the gentle pressure of his lips against yours, was disarming. It wasn't rushed or fraught with the intensity of passion often depicted in stories; rather, it was a slow burn, a flicker of something new.

As Boyd finally pulled away, the slight catch in his breath was audible in the quiet of the attic. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of regret or rejection. What he found instead was confusion.

Boyd's gaze was unwavering, his brow furrowed slightly as if he was trying to read your thoughts.

"I… I'm sorry if that was too much," he whispered. "I just needed you to know, to really know, how I feel."

The weight of his confession, the unexpected intimacy of the kiss, left you silent for a moment. You were still processing, still trying to align this new Boyd with the one you had known, always calculating, always a step ahead.

His eyes held yours, searching for a sign of how you might react next. The tension was palpable, a mix of anticipation and fear. You took a moment, your own confusion swirling with the unexpected emotions stirred by the kiss.

After what felt like an eternity, you made your decision. Stepping forward, closing the gap Boyd had just created, you reached up to touch his face gently, the touch sent a shiver down your spine. Boyd looked at you, his eyes wide.

Without saying a word, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his again. This time, there was a certainty in your movement, a decision made. Boyd responded almost immediately, his hands moving to your waist as you wrapped your arms around his neck. The kiss deepened, and you invited him further, parting your lips.

Boyd's response was immediate and intense. His tongue met yours, exploring softly, cautiously at first, then with growing confidence as you responded in kind. His fingers pressed into your waist, pulling you flush against his warm chest. The heat from his body enveloped you.

The world outside seemed to fade away as the kiss grew more passionate. You could feel Boyd's heart racing just as fast as yours, his breath mingling with yours, creating a rhythm that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. The soft hum of the radio now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by the sound of your joint breathing and the occasional creak of the attic floor beneath you.

As the kiss finally broke, you both stood there, forehead against forehead, trying to catch your breath. Boyd's hands remained on your waist, not willing to let go just yet, and you made no move to step back.

Boyd finally spoke, his voice husky and low. "Y/N, I—"

"Shh," you whispered, placing a finger on his lips. "Don't. We don’t need words right now."

As the tension in the room shifted from apprehensive to charged, you took Boyd's hand. The air in the attic felt thick, almost tangible with the turn of emotions. Leading him to his bed, you were acutely aware of every sound—the slight creak of the floorboards, the distant call of the night, and the rustle of the towel as it shifted against Boyd's form.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. The soft light from the single bulb cast shadows that danced on the walls, adding to the intimacy of the moment. You could see the outline of Boyd's form under the towel, the tension in his body, and the undeniable evidence of his desire.

Boyd stood before you, his breathing deep and uneven.

You reached up, your fingers gently touching the edge of the towel at his waist. Your eyes met, and there was a silent question in yours, a pause as you gave him a moment to decide.

Boyd's hand covered yours, his grip firm yet gentle. He nodded slightly, a wordless agreement, a surrender to the moment and to whatever it might bring. You pulled gently, and the towel fell away, leaving Boyd exposed.

You let out a soft gasp, your eyes widening in both surprise and desire as you took in the sight of him. His swollen tip, coated in glistening precum, called out to you and you couldn't resist. Your mouth watered with anticipation as you enveloped his length with your lips, savoring the velvety texture against your tongue. He groaned and grasped tightly onto your hair as he pushed himself deeper into your mouth, never taking his piercing gaze off of yours.

You moaned as his hand guided your movements, taking him in deeper and savoring the feeling of being completely filled by him. The sound of your moans vibrating around him was like a symphony to his ears until he suddenly let go, creating a soft popping noise as your lips released his member.

"Damn, Y/N," he gasped. "If you keep that up, I won't be able to return the favor." He laughed hoarsely, that toothy grin of his shining in the dim light before his expression turned dark. "Lie back, baby." The intense heat between your legs threatened to consume you at his words, and you couldn't help but melt at the way the word ‘baby’ rolled off his tongue.

You followed his instructions, shifting towards the head of the bed and easing yourself onto the soft pillows. He moved over you, taking in the sight of your body spread out beneath him, his arousal pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts.

His lips trailed down your neck, his warm breath sending shivers across your skin as he pressed himself against your thigh. You let out a gasp as he tugged at the neckline of your singlet, exposing one of your erect nipples. His tongue darted out to flick at the sensitive peak before taking it into his mouth, gently sucking and nibbling.

"Boyd…" you moaned, overwhelmed. "please, more."

Sitting up on his knees between your open legs, Boyd’s fingers gripped the waistline of your shorts, slowly pulling them down. Your heart raced as you felt the cool air against your bare skin. He tossed you shorts aside, eyes filled with desire, as he took in the sight of your glistening cunt.

You clenched your hands in the sheets, your breath hitched as you eagerly awaited his next move. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

Boyd leaned in closer, his face just above your quivering core. You felt his breath against your most sensitive spot, making you squirm. His finger traced your outer lips, teasing the entrance of your heat.

And then, finally, he slipped a finger inside, pushing gently against your tight walls. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your entire body that left you gasping for breath.

"Fuck, Y/N," His voice a mix of lust and awe. "You're so tight."

His fingers delved deeper into your core, twisting and curling to ignite a firestorm of sensations that sent shockwaves through your entire body. Your hips eagerly moved in rhythm with his movements, yearning for the release that felt so tantalizingly close.

As he worked his fingers, his lips met yours in a fiery kiss. His tongue matched the rhythm of his skilled digits inside of you.

Just when you thought you couldn't handle any more pleasure, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you longing for more.

He spat into his hand and slicked it over his pulsing member, preparing himself for you.

Your heart raced as he slowly positioned himself at your entrance, pausing to meet your eyes.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, your body begging for the connection that was moments away. And then, with a single, powerful thrust, he entered you, filling you completely.

A gasp escaped your lips, and a wave of pleasure washed over you as you held onto him tightly. Your inner muscles contracted around his length, drawing him in deeper.

Boyd let out a loud grunt, his teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut as he adjusted to the tightness of your walls. His hands fisted the sheet on either side of your head as he paused for a moment, collecting himself.

Slowly, he began to move, setting a rhythm that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through both of you. You met his thrusts eagerly, your hips moving in tandem with his.

Your breaths became heavier, your bodies glistening with perspiration as the room filled with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the occasional curse from Boyd.

Your hands gripped his back, nails digging deeply into his skin as you pulled him closer. The friction was exquisite, and you could feel the aching need building within you.

Boyd's eyes were locked onto yours, his face a mask of raw emotion. He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a fervent kiss as he thrust deeper. You moaned into his mouth, your body responding to his every move.

Your climax was building, the pressure growing with each thrust. You could feel it, the tightening coil of pleasure, threatening to unravel. You dug your nails into his back, arching your hips to meet his. The sensation was too much, and you cried out as you peaked, your orgasm washing over you in waves.

Boyd watched you in awe as he continued to thrust into you. The sight of you in the throes of orgasm was more than he could take, and he quickly joined you, his body shuddering as he released deep within you, ropes of hot cum painting your walls white.

Your legs shook with the aftershocks of your orgasm as you melted into the bed. Boyd's weight rested on top of you, his face buried in your neck as he caught his breath.

You ran your hands through his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers. "That was…" you began, the words barely escaping your lips.

“Somethin’.” Boyd finished your sentence, his words muffled against your skin when a knock at the door made you both jump.

Boyd quickly rolled off you, grabbing the towel from the floor and wrapping it around his waist. You straightened yourself on the bed, pulling the sheets around you, heart still pounding.

Dear god, you'd forgotten all about your sister downstairs!

Boyd cracked open the door just enough to peek through, and Ava's voice floated in, laced with a hint of amusement. "Y'all planning on making that racket all night? Some of us have a busy day tomorrow," she teased, her tone light but carrying a knowing edge.

A sheepish grin spread across Boyd’s features. "Sorry, Ava," he called back through the slightly ajar door, his voice a mix of embarrassment and mirth. "We'll keep it down."

"Better," Ava replied, her voice now softened with laughter. "Just remember, thin walls in this old house."

[onskepa]

Hello, this is my first request so excuse me if it's misunderstanding

So, I had a dream about neteyam x human reader who is a woman. Reader it's paralyzed from the waist down, like Jake. But the only difference is that she doesn't and won't have an avatar. Usually, she doesn't leave her room so when Neteyam comes over, he has to carry her everywhere so she thinks she's a bother. He assures her that carring her it's not bother and it's rather adorable to see her tiny frame in his big arms.

Thank you<3

Helloooooooooooo darling~!! Quite the dream you have XD

Alrighty! Hopefully this comes out to yours and everyone's satisfactions~! enjoy~!

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

Susyang

The story of Jake Sully, the sixth Toruk Makto, the Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya clan, has been share all over pandora. How he arrived in such a weak form but managed to rise and defeat the sky demons.

Susyang, a human girl was born in Pandora. She along with another human named spider. But there is a large difference between them. Spider is very strong, athletic, and can freely move where ever he desires. Susyang? She cant.

When her mother was pregnant, things were fine until during her birth. Things did not go well. During her birth, her mother passed away, and the birthing complications affected her lower half of the body. Was never told what went wrong but susyang's chance of walking was taken before she could even open her eyes.

Forever to never use her legs until her last breath. Strapped in a wheelchair to move around the lab, and forever to be inside. Pandora is already dangerous enough for a human to move around. Susyang hold no chance to last an hour.

But she makes the most of it, reading so many books about pandora, watch the scientists do their daily work. Would even chat and talk about interesting plants or animals they found.

One of her favorite things to talk about are the native people. The na'vi. How she wishes to meet one. Norm did his best with his avatar body, while happy, susyang still sees norm through his blue body. To meet a real one, to interact and play. Wouldn't that be a dream...

"Wait another human kid lives with you?" little kiri asks to spider. Everyone was eating some fruit they collected and enjoying a bright sunny day. Spider nods, "yeah, she is really nice and super smart!". Interested at peak, kiri asks more, "why hasn't she come out with you? is she smaller?". At that, spider's smile falls a bit into a sad expression.

"She cant" he replied. Lo'ak turned, his eyebrows forming down, not understanding. "What do you mean she cant? are there enough masks?" he asks, spider shook his head no. "It is not that, its just....she cant leave so easily like me. Her legs don't work". Lo'ak and kiri immediately know what he meant.

Their father has explained his time as human, how he was limited to his wheelchair because of his dead weighted legs. Sadness and pity took over their emotions, "well what if we come to her instead? We can play with her and so she wont feel lonely" kiri suggests. Spider liked the idea and already the three began to plan things out.

The following day, everything was normal in the lab. Susyang was reading a book when spider came into her room already setting the wheelchair in front of her bed. "Hey, come come!" spider was very energetic and seemed to be in a rush. Raising her eyebrow, susyang looked at spider, "why? is something going on?". Not really answering her, spider carefully lifts susyang from the bed and gently to the chair. Quickly securing her legs, spider wheeled her out of the room in high speeds.

The sudden action startled susyang, making her squeal a bit. "Spider! hey hey! stop it! where are you taking me!?" feeling a bit scared she is under spider's mercy. Spider didn't reply as he strolled her to the entrance of the lab.

Suddenly coming to halt, susyang who was closing her eyes opened after a moment. Spider went in front of her and extended his arms wide with a huge smile. "I want you to meet my friends! this is kiri, lo'ak and neteyam sully!", susyang opened her mouth wide in shock. Her head lifting up to see their massive height. True na'vi! in front of her!

How badly she wanted to say something, but all came out was tiny squeaks and cute noises. The na'vi kids giggled at her noises thus making her blush in embarrassment. "She is so cuuuuuuute~!" kiri coos as she gently squishes susyang cheeks.

Lo'ak played with her hair, getting the feel of her soft texture while neteyam bend down to her level and smiles softly at her. Susyang blushed a bit seeing him. But she had to keep her cool no matter what!

"spider told us a lot about you. We decided to come and play with you" neteyam says. He carefully observed her actions, the tiniest hint can say much about a human. "u-umm th-thank you!" she smiles sweetly, feeling lucky and thankful for spider.

Neteyam got closer, opening his arms, susyang looked at him, "n-neteyam...!"

"Neteyam please I beg of you to not drop me!" 15 year old susyang clung tightly on the back of 15 year old neteyam. The boy chuckled, making sure his friend was holding tightly as he climbs higher on the trees.

Today neteyam planned things out for susyang to enjoy. After meeting each other, they became inseparable. Connected at arms, both neteyam and susyang were just really close to each other.

Despite susyang insecurities, neteyam is always there to cheer her up. Making sure that she belongs in pandora just like spider. Which is why neteyam has a nice surprise for her. With the help of his father and brother, they build a gift susyang would love.

Arriving at the north river, neteyam cleared the way to reveal something to susyang. "No way, is that...?" susyang says, looking at what is in the water.

A boat. A simple boat fitting for na'vi size. But it was beautiful, was decorated with lovely carvings and full of beautiful flowers. "Oh neteyam...this is beautiful!!" susyang says with emotional joy in her voice. With a huge sigh of relief, neteyam relaxed. It was two weeks of hard work to create it, with every carving was dedicated to susyang, in hopes this would be a better travelling method for her.

Carefully and gently, neteyam lays susyang on the boat, where it is softly cushioned with fibers and leaves. Making sure she is secured well, he hops on, and with a paddle, he begins the journey.

Settling in a peaceful silence, susyang takes notice of the small details of the boat, touching it as if it was made of glass. There is clear evidence that it was done by love and care. It made susyang appreciate it all more.

Looking up at neteyam who is steering the boats direction, she smiles in adoration. Her dear friend had spent so much time to make sure she is comfortable and safe while being out in the forest. It made her feel a bit....guilty. Had her legs work, perhaps she would have been as free as spider.

Arriving at their destination, neteyam picks her up bridal style. "How much further is it?" susyang asks, "not far, almost there" neteyam answers. What else is there to show? Susyang knows every corner of the forest after so many years.

Few minutes later, they arrived in a small hut, above the trees but near the river. It was lovely, cushioned softly, and everything was close at arms. The shade was perfect, the view was perfect. All was perfect. "What is this...?" she asks silently, but neteyam heard her. Placing her in the middle of the hut, he gestures to the whole area, "this is is for you. Me and the others worked on this so you can enjoy the forest, way better than being stuck in your room".

Neteyam smiled brightly as he explained, feeling quiet accomplished and proud. Anything to make his dear friend smile. But then he heard sniffles and weeping. Looking down, he sees susyang crying. Quickly bending down to her side, he cradles her in his big arms.

"What's wrong? does it hurt? did I do something wrong?" he asked, worry heavy in his voice. Susyang only cried louder, letting her salty tears fall from her eyes. Now neteyam felt really panicked. Was it not to her liking? Was it too rough the cushions? Not enough space? Was the items too far away? Each second passed and neteyam's inner worries were rising.

"y-you....!! and th-the others.....!! did all this for m-me.....!! I am s-so sorry for making you do this....!!" was all susyang could say without it being a mess of tears. His ears perked up at that, why is she apologizing?

"susyang....no no, there is nothing to be sorry for. Why would you say sorry? You haven't done anything wrong" neteyam says gently. Stroking her back, trying to sooth her. But her tears keep falling without stopping.

"n-no...!! its because of these stupid legs!! I c-cant do anything! I always have to rely on someone and I hate it! I cant even have an avatar of my own! stupid legs! I am weak! pathetic! I am nothing but a burden to you and everyone else!"

This was the first time neteyam heard her confess like that. He understood that not having functioning limbs can be a burden but never to this extent.

Cradling her in his arms, he gently rocks side to side as means to hopefully calm her down. Placing a small kiss on her head, he waits it out for her to cry it all out. Perhaps it was the pent up frustration that needed to be released. Keeping your emotions all bottled up is never a good thing.

"sssshhh....you are not a burden susyang. Not to me, not to anyone. You are everything to me, nothing about you is a burden. I enjoy spending time with you and I enjoy doing these things for you. When I hold you, feeling your tiny body against mine, I feel like I can protect you. From any danger in this world. And I am happy with that. Your happiness means everything to me".

Those words struck susyang right in the feels. Making her stop crying at once. But instead of sadness, her tears were replaces with that of tears of joy.

"w-what? why are you crying again!?" neteyam asked with more worry again. Susyang laughed and put her whole body weight on him. "I am not s-sad silly.....!! I am just happyyyyyyy!!" she cries while smiling. Neteyam always seems to find a way to get to her heart.

As she let her happiness show, neteyam just gives her more kisses and laughs a bit. As long as susyang is happy and comfortable. That is all it matters to him.

Aaaaaaaand that is all for this one! idk if this is a bit too long but who cares! Hope you liked this one! until next time! see ya!

Susyang = fragile

[evilfloralfoolery]

Lights, Leather, Action! - Part 3

Confessions, caretaking, and carnality ahead.

Grimm is far worse than he believed himself to be, but not too unwell to make sure Indigo knows exactly how he feels. In many different ways.

There's some ultra sappy AF caretaking fuckery in here and some spicy times, too. I couldn't keep them off of each other, okay?

_________________________________

Grimm does not so much as protest, but dutifully follows, allowing himself to be led past the lobby and into the elevator.  The man is clearly exhausted, but there is something more. He offers no protest, no attempt to do things for himself, allowing Indigo to carry his duffle bag and basically walk him to the front door of the impressive penthouse that spans the entire top floor.  

His father may enjoy courtly life, but Indigo finds an odd sort of comfort in city living, high above the rest of the world.  A different manner of seclusion. 

The 32nd floor is quiet in comparison to the bustle of traffic and nightlife below thanks to specially designed windows and acoustical considerations for placement of the floor itself.  

But Indigo isn’t paying attention to such things at the moment, not with his beloved looking far worse for wear than he would ever admit.  However, that doesn’t stop Grimm from crossing the distance that separates them and all but pinning Indigo to the wall with his superior weight and frame. 

Grimm’s stubble-shadowed visage hovers just above his own, the roughness of his palms catching on the soft fibers of Indigo’s shirt, 

“Kiss me like you mean it.”  

He needn’t ask twice. Indigo cradles his face between his hands and rises onto his toes, holding nothing back.  No protests are issued when Grimm sweeps him into his arms and carts him to the couch, where he deposits him gently on the cushions.

The hoodie is unzipped and tossed aside, revealing that absurdly appealing harness crisscrossing his chest in a leather “X” with a ring in the center.  Either Grimm had forgotten to remove it in the hustle to extricate him from the club or its presence was purposeful.

Most likely the latter.

The boots and jeans follow, leaving him standing in nothing but that damnable harness and a pair of black boxer-briefs not nearly as short as his stage clothes, but every bit as tight.  

“Gonna show you what I really wanted to do to you.” 

Grimm kneels on either side of his body, slides his hands to cup Indigo's face, and draws him into slow, indulgent bliss with only the touch of his lips.

“You know how hard it was for me not to do this?” Grimm flicks his tongue over Indigo's bottom lip. “I wanted to eat your fucking face off.” 

“As did I,” Indigo says between breathless kisses. “I could think of nothing else.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

But it isn't the undulating promise of Grimm's hips that sends him over the edge. No, that would be when his partner halts with an abrupt gasp and ducks into the crook of his elbow with a desperate “-uuhKGISSSH–u!” struggles through another heave of breath and follows it with a shuddering “UHSSSHHu! –hhk’GISSSSCHHiiuuh!” 

“My gods, bless you. . . ” 

Indigo grabs at the leather crisscrossing Grimm's chest as if it is the only safeguard to keep him from shattering. But that does not stop his body from nearly relinquishing control without Grimm so much as touching him.

“Oooh, Indy. . .” Grimm's gaze is heavy-lidded carnality. “Goddamn, I need to fuck you.” 

“Yes. Yes, you do.” Indigo tugs those second-skin undergarments down and Grimm kicks them into the abyss, making short of Indigo's pants as well. 

One dark eyebrow raises. “You're not wearin’ anything under these.” 

He snaps the strap of a shirt stay against Indigo's thigh and Indigo chuckles low in his throat.  “I had to rid myself of them after your little private dance.” 

“You did, huh.” Grimm kisses him with a slow, lingering exploration of his mouth. “Fuck, that's hot.” 

He turns the tables, flopping into the couch and dragging Indigo into his arms so that it is now half-naked Indigo doing the straddling.

Indigo groans as Grimm sinks inside of him, shivers and digs his nails into Grimm's shoulders. Hands roam down the sides of his thighs, fingers slipping between elastic of the shirt stay garters. 

One hand slides into Grimm's hair, fisting a handful of the dark silk with a decisive grip.

Energy sparks between them, Indigo's eyes flaring to bright blue in contrast to Grimm's embers of smoldering honey. A wisp of blue fire races down the tips of his fingers, dancing for a moment upon Grimm's bare shoulder before flickering out of existence. 

The roll of Grimm's hips beneath his body is the driving force that tips him into surrender yet again, Grimm following in his wake with a growl that bleeds into a languid, unrestrained groan. 

Grimm collapses against the arm of the couch, tugging Indigo down with him, and exhales in ragged relief.  “Shit, I needed that.” 

“As did I,” Indigo murmurs against his chest.  

The stays holding his shirt have given up on holding it taut and he slips out of the thing, leaving them to dangle almost comically from the garters still encircling his thighs.  To hell with being proper. 

Long moments pass before Grimm speaks again, his voice a dark rumble beneath Indigo’s ear.  “Gotta take a swim in the tub before I pass out.”

Indigo chuckles. Grimm’s fascination with his rather impressive bathtub will never cease to amuse him.

“Lie here,” he says.  “I will draw you a bath.”

“Us,” Grimm corrects him and Indigo smiles. 

“Of course,” he says. 

____________________________________________________________

The bath is a short but sensual affair with Indigo slipping into place behind Grimm, massaging his shoulders and neck until the other man groans with relief and relaxes into his embrace. 

“You gave yourself quite a workout,” Indigo says. He rubs another knot in Grimm's forearm into submission until the muscle yields. 

“I did, huh.” Grimm practically purrs when Indigo brushes his damp hair aside and releases a muscle at the base of his skull with targeted pressure. “Fuck, where'd you learn how to do this shit?”

“All a part of my formal training in the healing arts,” Indigo says. He feathers a trail of kisses down the slope of Grimm's neck. “Let's get you dry and warm, shall we? I do believe some hot tea is in order.”

Grimm does not protest. He rises to his feet with relative ease and dries himself off with the proffered towel whilst Indigo fetches a robe from the closet.

“Put this on.” Indigo presents him with the thick black material and Grimm's eyes widen just a touch.

“Holy shit.” Grimm shrugs the heavy fabric over his shoulders and slips his arms inside.  “Where'd you get this?”

“My artisans made it,” Indigo says.  He ties the belt around Grimm's waist with an extra tight knot. “My, but it does suit you.”

“Yeah?” Grimm glances at himself in the full length mirror. “Damn, I guess it does.” 

The thick material drapes his body just right, the oversized sleeves tailored with embroidery.  Although it is a mere bathrobe, Grimm appears regal. 

Indigo will never tire of admiring him.

Grimm pauses in toweling off his wet hair and Indigo recognizes the shift in expression immediately.

Gods, the man is only moderately damp at this point and still, his sinuses chose to betray him.

Grimm struggles through a shaky heave of breath and unleashes a catastrophic “-hhhkgUHHCHISSHHiiiuh” into the towel.  “Fuck.” He shakes his head. “Sorry about your towel, Indy.”

“Nonsense.” Indigo kicks said-towel aside and slides his palms along Grimm's jaw, cupping his face in his hands. “Bless you, love.” He brushes a gentle kiss over Grimm's lips. “If you've anything to apologize for, it would be this.” 

He presses himself against Grimm's body just enough for the other man to bear tactile witness to his rather obvious arousal.

One dark eyebrow arches high. “Goddamn, Indy.” Hands grab his hips, pulling him flush with Grimm's more massive frame. Teeth nibble the shell of his ear in tandem with the rumble of Grimm's impossibly deep voice. “I love it when I make you hard.” 

Indigo slides his arms around Grimm's neck. “I am mad for you.”

“Hmmm.” Grimm purrs like thunder. “I've got somethin’ for that.”

_____________________________________________

After seeing to it that Grimm is dressed in something other than his usual flimsy black pajama pants and no shirt, Indigo climbs into bed beside his partner.�� Surprisingly enough, Grimm had also dutifully drank the tea Indigo prepared. The mixture certainly wasn't the most palatable, but it would ease his symptoms.

“Fuck.” Grimm groans as he settles beneath the blankets. “Can't tell if my body hurts from dancing or this shit.”

Indigo brushes Grimm's hair away from his forehead. “You do have a bit of a fever."

“You think so? Hmmn.” Grimm rolls onto the side opposite of Indigo and yanks a handful of tissues from the box atop the nightstand. 

He cringes against a knuckled finger and clamps several squares of white over his mouth and nose. “-uhhh–CHISSSHU! –GKSSCHH!” 

Indigo's gaze softens. “Bless you.” He tugs at Grimm's sleeve and the other man curls willingly into his embrace. 

“Thank you,” Grimm mumbles into his pajama top.

Gods, the poor, miserable bastard.

Grimm would never admit to the extent of his unwellness, but he needn't bother. With just a touch, Indigo can perceive it for himself, a useful gift inherited from his mother.

Another tissue-muffled sneeze. And another, barely able to be confined.  

Indigo impels a handkerchief into his grasp and tucks it between Grimm's fingers just in time for him to smother a shuddering “uuhRRIISSCHUH!” into the soft fabric.

“Bless you, Grimm,” Indigo says with a tone that is torn between sincere compassion and a rather hopeless adoration. 

How utterly irritating.

“Hnngh, thanks. I'm so done,” Grimm says.

 His voice is roughened into something more akin to hoarseness than a bit of extra gravel and Indigo wraps himself around Grimm's body like a living blanket. 

He cannot get close enough.

Grimm, however, sighs with the first signs of relief and settles comfortably into Indigo's rather binding embrace.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Indy.” Grimm's words are a low, congested rumble against his chest. 

“I will always care for you, Grimm.” Indigo’s voice is soft, almost fragile. “Always.”

Grimm nuzzles his chin, kisses the curve of his jaw line, and holds him tight. “Fuck, I love you.” 

“And I love you, my dear one. So very much,” Indigo says. Whispers might be more accurate. 

“Indy. . .” Grimm tugs him into a brief, lingering kiss and the softest vocal hint of reciprocal surrender slips from his lips.

The tightness of Grimm's embrace fades into a heavy drape of limbs as sleep claims him.  Just how he didn't succumb to it far sooner is a mystery. 

Gradually, Indigo allows himself to relax, the warmth of Grimm's body lulling him into some semblance of a restful state. 

(TBC...)

[ccruelgods]

Ookay here we go. thunder saga analysis

post-monster Odysseus seems to be really, REALLY not willing to put his heart into being a monster. even with the siren—(which, also, i was pretty damn confused when i heard her say daughter instead of son in suffering.)—and her friends. he doesn't really want to drown them, but he's already learned the hard way about what happens when you let goes live, he's lost polites and majority of his crew already because of this!! another thing I like is the creative liberties used here, iirc in the original Odyssey it was Circe who told Odysseus about Scylla, because it was her who turned her into the 6-headed beast ( in some adaptions of the story at least ) , and told him that there was no way to defeat her and that some of his men would die nonetheless, but Odysseus finding out from the Siren instead and making the sacrifices himself really supports his new mindset.

another large thing is how discordant yet synchronized Different Beast is. there's so much happenings and yet it all flows together perfectly. ulysses ( odysseus ) is guiding his men into the same mindset he has despite it being extremely unhealthy. and just like i saw someone else say, he doesn't really feel like/want to kill them.

in Scylla, i really REALLY like how before we're entirely introduced to her character, she seems to be taunting Eurylochus, goading him into confessing what he was holding back since Puppeteer. Odysseus' lack of response to the confession is also something, because either he's just thag shocked or he's just that focused on planning to get past Scylla that he doesn't bother even caring about that. Pushing aside the problem for another day. The "You're quiet today./Not much to say" dialogue is also part of this—Odysseus knows what he has to do. Why risk getting more connected to them?

Mutiny is my personal favorite out of the Thunder Saga—hold your complaints, I have good reason. This is the peak of the tension that's been brewing since Luck Runs Out. Maybe even Remember Them—in Full Speed Ahead Eurylochus is clearly pretty opinionated about the fact that they would (allegedly) be better off charging with swords swinging. And now, not only did Polites approach cost them multiple soldiers, it cost them Polities himself, and the worst thing of all, it cost them their safe trip home due to Odysseus' pride not letting him just leave. This is the breaking point between two brothers and it's obvious.

Eurylochus makes a number of good points here—"You Miss your wife so bad you'd trade the lives of your own crew/If you want all the power, you must carry all the blame". Odysseus wants to be captain, he wants to be the one to call the shots, so he has to carry the blame of anything that happens because the crew is following him. And it's the same crew that has to rise against him and stop him from killing his closest companion. And how? How are they supposed to trust the man who just tried to kill his brother-in-arms? What if they're next?

Even despite this, both Odysseus and Eurylochus simultaneously reach their breaking points. Odysseus with attempting to kill the other, and Eurylochus with sacrificing Helios's cattle due to their starvation and desparation. And on top of that, Eurylochus doesn't even notice the weight of his actions until Odysseus points it out. Eurylochus echoing Odysseus' "Just a man" declaration is what puts the final nail in the coffin, because Odysseus finally realizes the severity of things again. They're all suffering, and he can't really do anything about it. Another ironic fact—Helios is Circe's father. Eurylochus just has shitty luck with the Helios bloodline, huh.

Thunder Bringer is another heartbreaker—even though 70% of it is Zeus seemingly bragging.... Odysseus is again forced to choose between lives. And like Zeus told him before. "The blood on your hands is something you won't lose/All you can choose is whose." And he's forced to again, against his will. And in his grief and desparation and just pure desire to get back to his wife and son, he chooses to sacrifice his entire crew, Eurylochus included. Even if you could justify it by saying that the crew couldn't have done anything without their captain, the choice isn't justified. And that's the beauty of The Odyssey, Odysseus, and EPIC : The Musical. It's realistic. There's no justification for most of the actions, and Odysseus has to deal with that.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

50 - News From the South

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 16k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, disturbing and graphic imagery, character deaths, illness and disease, mentions of rape and sexual assault, trauma

Notes: An intermission bonus chapter set over a period of many months, covering previous chapters and future chapters. Various different and new povs to establish a plot basis around Westeros. Not every pov switch is made in a chronological order on the timeline. Does not feature Jon and the Reader. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“Ser Barristan, I believe none here could dare question your honour.”

He could not have been prepared for what was about to unfold when those words had come out of your mouth. Things within the Red Keep had been tense longer then only the short hours since King Robert had passed, but now that intensity sat tenfold within the throne room. You had entered to the injured side of Lord Eddard Stark as both held that matching look with blazing expressions.

Something was to come and Ser Barristan had not the knowledge to guess it. When he approached you, you did him as well with but a paper sealed in your hand. You met his eyes when handing it, and he had long since regretted not recognizing it earlier. He had asked you before the King left for his hunt if something was troubling you, and you had been reluctant to answer. It was that very look you were giving him that said, whatever was about to unfold held part of that answer.

Looking down to it, there was no doubt of what it was as he informed the Queen Regent. “King Robert's seal. Unbroken.” Glancing back, you had stepped back to Lord Stark's side as he read forth what his late Kings final words were. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm. To rule as Regent until the heir come of age.”

When Queen Cersei had requested she see the letter, Ser Barristan had not thought anything strange yet. It would make sense, Joffery while almost seventeen, was still by all legal standpoints, a child. There was nothing wrong with such a deceleration and yet both sides of the room behind and in front of him seemed to radiate a feeling otherwise. The words and actions which came next only proved it. Ripping the paper she almost huffed a laugh. “Is this meant to be your shield, Lord Stark? A piece of paper?” As he reminded her that those were the Kings words, he was taken back very much as she so callously declared with ease, “We have a new King now.”

She continued to speak, telling them that if the two of you before the throne were to swear fealty to Joffery, the Queen would allow Lord Stark and yourself to simply return to Winterfell. But not only was something not right with pushing away both he and you with ease, there was something Ser Barristan knew was about to go very badly the moment the words left Lord Stark's mouth.

“Your son has no claim to the throne.”

Joffery yelled in an instant that he was a liar, but it was the expressions of you both. Steadfast and sure of yourselves you two stood tall against the power before you, not flinching to what you both clearly thought was right. It made him hesitate when the Queen demanded of him. “Ser Barristan seize these two traitors.”

He didn't move with much intention, hesitant of his duty knowing it had to be done but something inside him said this was wrong. Something was not right more then what was being said. Eddard Stark had instantly urged to the Gold Cloaks who shifted towards him, “Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man do him no harm.”

Ser Barristan had looked to you, but you only saw behind him the boy on the Iron Throne with something red blazing behind the green in your eyes. Something not that of a stag, far more that like a she wolf you stood as. Neither you nor Eddard Stark were liars or thieves, he was a man bound by honour and you carried the weight of your fathers fist of justice. He had known you since you were a girl, but you did not stand there looking as unprepared for life as you had at three years old.

Swords were drawn behind him and still he had not moved. Joffery yelled, “Kill them, kill both of them, I command you.” You raised your head, something far more sure in your eyes as you met that of your cousins and Ser Barristan felt the tension rising to something unsustainable in this calm.

Eddard Stark raised his own voice with a command that this room so desperately needed to listen too. He stood as Kingsguard, but as a man, something was telling him the truth lay on the side he was being ordered to arrest. “Commander, take the Queen and her children into custody. Escort them back to their royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.” The watch had all shifted into position, and one last plead of reason came. “I want no bloodshed. Tell your men to lay down their swords, no one needs to die.”

But in the seconds that followed, Janos Slynt had commanded his men, and in an instant, the Stark guards were all attacked. Around he stood watching the chaos, you and Eddard had moved to the others side instantly protective of the other even through your mutual shocked confusion, and just as fast, it all finished for you both.

When you had turned to face the Stark, Janos Slynt moved and rather violently grabbed you before hauling you away from Eddard, aggressively holding you at bay with a knife to your throat. Only feet away, to many's surprise, Lord Petyr Baelish snatched a dagger which sat at the Starks side and held it to Eddards own throat as well.

The Gold Cloaks had hauled you away from Eddard Stark, dragging you separately to the Black Cells as chaos around continued to erupt. But it was not the voices within the throne room or the Red Keep which drew his attention next.

It was a voice which had been nowhere near that day, and without shifting to any sight of someone coming behind him, did Ser Barristan hide away the small letter which had sent him down such a memory in the first place. “I'm not sure I have ever seen you sleep, Ser Barristan.”

Glancing to his right, Tyrion Lannister had made his way to where in the dead of night, Ser Barristan had found himself contemplating far too much. Looking back out to the city of Meereen, the knight only commented in return, “Not much sleep to be found in my line of work. Too much to be on the lookout for.”

For a man of such short stature, Tyrion was not without the ability to make up for it in speaking more words in a day then some did in an entire year. “Can't imagine what could be on your mind. Let me guess, is it that our Queen has returned from her unprecedented journey. Or perhaps it is the sickness spreading through the city making her priorities seem rather misguided? No. The most likely answer I suspect of what is keeping you up, is the boy.”

He attempted to rationalize it to himself, “It was dangerous and foolish to be anywhere near them.”

But it seemed the Lannister was not quite as convinced as the others were of Ser Barristans conviction. “Ah, now you are sounding much like Daenerys. If I recall, Ser Barristan, on many occasions you implored him to leave the city for his own safety. Strange you would blame him now.”

Eyes slipping closed, he withheld a deep sigh of regret. It was a horrid sight, one which their Queen had not even gone to see herself when informed. Only commenting with irritation that now Rhaegal and Viserion were free from their chains in the catacombs they were being kept. It bothered many, her lack of reaction to such a horrible event, and not a single soul spoke up about it.

Until it slipped from his mouth in the safety of such silence. “It would have been mercy if Rhaegal had eaten him alive instead. No one deserves to lay suffering like that for days. An awful way to die.” If Ser Barristan allowed himself, he still might have been able to hear the screaming of Rickard and Brandon Stark.

Daenerys at least, had not laughed when hearing of Quentyn Martell's death, but part of him worried if no laughter was more dangerous. Her father had been called the Mad King for a reason, he was paranoid and utterly lost in his loss of sanity by the end. He did horrible things because putrid voices in his head whispered that traitors were all around him. But was no reaction out of sanity worse then too much from insanity?

Tyrion was blunt about it, “The Martells will not be happy.”

Once more, he found himself taking the path he's always known. Sticking to his duty. “The Martells are all the way in Dorne. Unless they plan on marching here anytime soon, we have more pressing matters to worry about.”

Once more, he only spoke a truth and it frustrated him that it seemed as if Tyrion knew the questions on the inside of his mind. “He was a the son of the Prince of Dorne, and he died trying to tame one out of, what? A love for Daenerys? Sounds like a pressing matter if you asked me.”

It was nothing that time but honesty, he knew Tyrion didn't believe what he himself had just spoken. “He didn't do it out of any love. The boy did what he thought was his duty for Dorne, and now he died for it.”

“I cannot imagine she will be given much welcome there once she sets her eyes west. Even less once the rest of the realm starts to hear things. Which in Westeros, they always do.”

Ser Barristan reminded him sternly, not sure though if it was Tyrion or himself he was speaking to personally. “We don't serve those in Westeros. We are here because we serve Queen Daenerys. If we think her support in the Seven Kingdoms is weak, then it is our duty to fix that.”

Tyrion had one question though. “And if we can't, what then? I don't imagine leaving everything behind for a losing cause would be the last years Ser Barristan Selmy wishes to spend his duty towards.”

The raven scroll hidden on his person weighed a thousand pounds. He was currently acting as the Queen's hand. It was his duty to inform her of this, so why did he read it alone and why was it still hidden on him long after Tyrion had left him for the night?

But as he looked back to the night he could still see you, much more specifically, the first time he had met you. A small girl for even one of three, the most carefree he had ever and would ever see you. When not with your father or uncle, you had quickly attached yourself to Ser Barristans side. He would in the privacy of the open cliff sides of Dragonstone, pick you up to give you a better view of the sea beyond as you would speak in quiet tones instead of the excited girl dragging him by the hand only hours previous.

You never returned back to that excited girl, but remained the quiet one who always did what you were told no matter what. You always did your duty and never with anything selfish behind it. Some days, he wished you would, just to show him there still was a girl capable of being happy underneath your burdens. But then you were gone before he'd ever have that chance to find out.

It was not news to any at the time which hurt but to him. You were the niece of Robert Baratheon, as far as Daenerys was concerned, you being dead was only good news for her cause. The lightness in her eyes matched that when he had told her of King Joffery's death too.

“Without her in my way, I have one less significant enemy today then I did yesterday.”

You were the enemy, it was as simple as that. Then and now, his Queen was a woman who gave forth no care for when her enemies were slaughtered. But, the letter from across the Narrow Sea? He kept it to himself.

He was as conflicted as he was heart wrenchingly relived. Someway, somehow, you were alive. Somehow you had survived being butchered by the Boltons and the Freys. You had helped Eddard Starks last remaining son reclaim Winterfell and the North, you and him were allied both with Stannis Baratheon and held some sort of peace treaty with Aegon Targaryean, and your Northern King had brought the wildlings south of the Wall in another peace treaty.

Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son Jon Snow, was crowned King in the North and you married him as his Queen. It seemed, things were happening back in his homeland which spoke of far less confidence for Daenerys pride in her cause, then she seemed to understand.

You and this Jon Snow had reclaimed the North, and made nothing but alliances in peace with what should be adversaries. Daenerys was building a body count, and sending back a boy prince of Dorne with a body so burned only a sheet was what any saw of him as they put him on the ship. And still Ser Barristan wondered, had she forgotten that little girls name Drogon had burned to death, and if she did, was he ready to face the truth of what all of these signs were adding up to? If you were the enemy, why was he hesitant to tell the Queen he was sworn to, that you were alive?

What would the Queen he served now, think if she were to learn that he was the very one who helped you escape Kings Landing with your life in the first place?

Or worse, how would she react, if she were to find out Ser Barristan still never regretted it?

Selyse Baratheon rarely wished to think of that night.

The lost feelings swirling her mind and the Lady Melisandre whispering in her ear what needed to be done, almost as if she would do it one way or another. She had managed to pull and pull at just at the right strings that she said yes. Selyse had said yes in a moment of desperation, and chaos had erupted from that very moment from then right up until in the early hours of the morning when the gates of Castle Black opened from the south.

The begging of her young daughter turned to screaming pleads and Selyse had been in tears trying to not hear it, trying not to go out there and see it. It wasn't until those pleads turned to true terror did she realize that this is what she feared she would become. Ser Davos, despite his own twisting turmoil had enough in him left to turn and haul Selyse from jumping into the fire to cut her daughter free herself, as she begged for it to stop. It had been men of the Nights Watch and the wildings both who put a stop to it, but it was far too late for no damage to be done. Shireen was still alive, but for how long she had wondered.

It was then the very large white furred direwolf which came sprinting up to where the scene had settled. Arguments of why the Lord Commander was no where to be found to have stopped any of this interrupted by the startling aggression of the direwolf growling, barking with something feirce behind it's intention. By the time the men who followed the wolf to investigate returned, they all quickly understood why the bastard boy had not been there to stop this before it got to that point.

The next days were no better. Confronting the truth of what she had done. When you had approached the small little pyre meant only to burn the already dead, you had done Shireen the decency to wrap her in a sheet. You hadn't wanted your baby sister to be remembered that way.

It was a strange feeling, that she was not regretful for not arguing to let the Lady Melisandre stay. She did not miss her, not after seeing the truth of what she was. But that did not mean Selyse never thought about her. For years she was someone Selyse thanked the Lord for sending to them. Now she could ask him, was sending her a test of her strength, and had the events of those horrible days proven she succeeded for him or failed?

Losing Shireen felt like her punishment, but then again, Selyse couldn't stop but wonder why if he sent the Lady Melisandre to them as a force for good, why was Selyse's heart less heavy and troubled without her any longer? The worst part, was that it was not the first time Selyse had doubted her presence in their lives.

You were dead. Or, you had been dead and none yet knew you were once more alive. Further and further into faith did she let herself fall after the dust settled. She had spent years denouncing you as a traitor with a thief of a traitor husband, but then Stannis had came to her. He didn't say anything, he knew letting her read the words of the raven scroll said it all.

It was strange after you were gone, it was as if her and Stannis could only cope by falling further into such belief and yet the more they did, the less and less sense did the Lady Melisandre make. The more her insistence's and goals seemed to not align with what Selyse thought their Lord would want. They soon were to part on the waters to Eastwatch by the Sea, and it was that night which Selyse had not forgotten. The night she went to go see her.

Already, she was not comfortable with the manner in which the Lady Melisandre was content with not hiding any of her nude form in front of her as she bathed. But then Selyse kept seeing, and more and more did something return which she had long told herself was not a right she had anymore. She was to give up her jealousy and insecurities on the matter, their Lord had wanted Stannis to have Lady Melisandre in that way. A way in which he had not looked at Selyse in for many years, if ever. But as she stood there, it became harder and harder to not wonder would Stannis have wanted Selyse more if she looked like that.

But she wasn't here to talk about that, and try as she might, Selyse was pushing through such insecurities to eventually find the core of what she wanted to discuss. Eyes naturally drawing to the brazier, her attention was drawn back to the Lady Melisandre's voice cutting through the quiet. “When I looked into the flames this morning, the Lord spoke to me. He said, tonight, you will have your last good bath in a long while. Make it count." Not quite grasping the point she was getting at, Selyse hardly gave a false laugh to follow when she explained, “A joke. Not a very good one, I'm afraid.”

Dismissing as best she could without giving away the degree of uncertainty in her head, “It was. I- humour isn't my strength.”

“That's because most jokes are lies. And you are devoted to the truth.”

Once perhaps Selyse would agree, but in that moment she was not so sure. It would feel some days as it she could not recognize herself while the woman was there. Pressing a little bit however, it in fact exposed the vast difference between their approaches. Selyse saw no reason to lie about the Lord of Light or his power, and yet it was what followed which led to those cracks of doubt in her forming more and more.

Climbing out of the water she was bathing in, Lady Melisandre walked to her cache of potions and vials, explaining the truth of her deceptions. “Most of these powders and potions, lies. Deceptions to make men think they witnessed our Lord's power. Once they step into his light, they will see the lie for what it was. A trick that lead them to the truth.” Moving along a shelf, Selyse stood as some of them were explained to her, but it wasn't until one vial did the doubt become quite loud. “And a drop of this in any man's wine will drive him wild with lust.”

It would be so much easier, she wanted it to be such an easy answer. But when Selyse asked, “Did you use it with Stannis?” She knew the truth was as necessary as it was hurtful.

“No.”

Once more her eyes drew down to her figure, was this what her husband wanted, Selyse wondered. Was the key to filling their marriage with lust as never had really existed between them, to only be found in the body of another woman? Selyse in truth, did not appreciate the manner in which Lady Melisandre approached her.

The sympathy did not feel real. It felt much like her days when you were young and Selyse would coddle you when you would get upset about things you were too young to understand. Gently cupping the side of her face, she was told, “Don't be upset, men never crave what they already have. It's only flesh. It needs what it needs.”

One part of Selyse inside snapped. Demanding to know why was it her flesh which Selyse's husband needed, and what did she say to him to convince him that was left out in what was told to her afterwards. The other, tried to justify it.

Don't doubt her intentions, Selyse told herself. Trust the lord sent her for a reason. She whispered the words to herself, but this time they did not feel as if they were what Selyse believed in their entirety. “No act done in service of the Lord can ever be called a sin. I thank God every day for bringing you to us. And Stannis to you.”

Finally, she found the strength in her to say it. As unsure as she was about it, she found the point she came to discuss. “He wants to bring Shireen with us. I think that would be ill-advised.” It could be debated now and then if Selyse meant it, what she had said. “My daughter has heretical tendencies, as you're well aware. I don't know if her doubt is real or simply meant to spite me, but whichever the case, she should stay home.”

Did she really not wish for Shireen to come because of her tenancies, or in truth, did the idea of bringing her young, sheltered, only remaining daughter to a place such as the Wall, simply fill her with fear? What dangers would Shireen be forced to experience in such a place?

Grabbing both of her hands, she played well. “I understand how you feel. But that is impossible. You don't need powders and potions, my queen. You don't need lies. You are strong enough to look into the Lord's light and see his truth for yourself.”

Guiding Selyse to the brazier, it was those next words which Selyse now, thought of all too often. It was those, which were what made Selyse not argue, when you sent the woman away for good. “However harsh it is. However hard for us to understand. You don't need my help, but I will need yours soon. When we set sail, your daughter must be with us. The Lord needs her.”

Selyse looked into the fire that night, and did not, in fact, see her daughters death. She did not see her as being the one to allow it. She did not see the guilt she would bare the rest of her life for her failures as a mother. No, all Selyse had seen in the flames that night, was a memory. The image of the final time she had seen her daughters alive and together and happy.

The manner in which you had jumped down from your horse and knelt down to catch just as Shireen threw herself at you, both so excited to see one another and how you never looked brighter on Dragonstone then how you smiled then. Cupping Shireens cheeks and pulling her in to press a kiss at the top of her hair in another hug. Selyse only saw what she had lost in those flames.

She could recall so easily a day in Castle Black, coming down to where Shireen had been with the wildling girl. Sending her and Sam away, turning to her daughter the moment they were alone and sternly warning her, “You need to stay away from that girl.” Asking why, Selyse had been short, assuming it spoke for itself. “She's a wildling.”

Yet Shireen gave only an answer that of a child could come to with such ease. “Her name's Gilly. She's nice. I'm teaching her how to read.”

Perhaps once Selyse would have found it in her heart to have thought good of such a thing. She knew her young daughter had been teaching Ser Davos and it had a positive impact then, but she could not see passed what felt like so much darkness stacking up on each other. Selyse didn't mean when she could come off as dismissive, but in the many months since she had lost you, she knew it was becoming less and less common to find that softness left in her to give to Shireen.

Flipping through the books sitting out mindlessly as she explained to her, “She's a wildling. Your father defeated her people, he executed their King for treason.” Passing her by closely with a low tone, muttering to her, “They could strike at him, by striking at you.”

Shireen's answer was soft, innocent, and naive. “Gilly wouldn't do that.”

They all knew she didn't know. Ser Davos had told her of you when the raven came, but he had not said how or the details of why. Stannis had not said, and neither had Selyse. Shireen was a girl, telling her such details would give her nightmares beyond what she'd ever had, it gave Selyse them for a long time.

But it hadn't made it easier, it hadn't made it any less difficult to handle. For every boy Selyse had lost, it was natural. It had been the fault of her own body's ill. Shireen knew you had been killed that night, and that you had been pregnant. She had not a clue that you had been butchered like cattle, and your unborn son with it. She had not a clue the whispers of a body so soaked in blood it was said the grey's and blacks of the dress on you, had been so stained it looked a deep red.

She had not a clue that it was whispered you had been so cut open from your womb that the stories spoke that you died within seconds. Shireen had no idea that they would never be able to bring your remains to your families proper home in Storm's End, because the Freys left not a single scrap of your body left behind to find.

So she turned to Shireen that afternoon. Short and stern, something dark in her eyes which told stories that dismissed the manner her daughter so easily trusted people. You couldn't even trust the men at your side, after all. “You have no idea what people will do.”

She not looked further into those days. Because Shireen did find out, and it was a fruitless hope and prayer that Shireen had enough left in her to have known her mother had begged and pleaded to take it all back. Shireen found out, and then you had come riding in through the gates with the Greyjoy that very next morning.

You had come back, but now it was Shireen who was gone for good. Though, now it felt difficult to recall that. While you were not dead again, you weren't here. Selyse understood why you and Jon had to do this, but she hoped it would not make her an outcast within her new home.

So far though, it seemed as if as strange as it was, as quiet and stand offish Selyse could be, those of the North who knew you well, were well used to such mannerisms. None pushed her out of things because of her quiet, more stern nature and some like Maege Mormont, had laughed with ease saying things such as, “Suppose now we know where she got it from.”

Jons sister Arya, loud and eccentric as she was, reminded Selyse a bit of Shireen. Some of her happier days, Shireen too was mischievous, clever and quick on the draw. Arya seemed much more abrasive then her own daughter ever was, but not something Selyse did not know how to work around. She clearly felt a void here now that her brother had gone, as Selyse did you.

Selyse was quiet but stern, and it worked rather well with Arya's loud brashness when things needed to be done. Selyse had for many years been the Lady of Dragonstone and with the help of her brother, ruled her husbands castle and small island villages as he worked in Kings Landing. Winterfell was far larger, but they found some form of synergy as time passed.

Arya would seem surprised Selyse was not put off by her nature, but she had commented to the girl one evening, “I raised two sullen and stubborn daughters. At least you listen.”

In return, Arya had looked away awkwardly before muttering in between bites, your name. “Did you ever get mad at her for not growing up to be a proper lady like the other girls?”

Selyse had to think for a good moment, but in truth she knew what that answer was. “Once earlier in my years raising her perhaps. But not terribly. Her attitude was one problem, but quickly I learned she did not have many interests in the things her septa wished for her to do. But if she did not wish to do those things, Stannis didn't force her. He preferred she spent her time learning under his wing then forcing her into things she hated, if they would not benefit her education.”

She hadn't said anything of it, but she could see cogs behind Arya's eyes turning all the same.

But still she would think. Did the Lady Melisandre know what was to come for Shireen? Was what she saw in the flames the ones which she would ignite around her daughter? What could she have done or said to convince Stannis not to have brought her?

More then once she had suggested sending her to Storms End, stay with to Alester. He was Shireens uncle and would have been thrilled to keep his niece safe in his company. But now she wondered, was the Lord testing her and she failed? The woman knew Shireen would be needed, what had she seen in the flames which she had not told a soul? Had she seen her daughter up on that pyre? She seemed shocked at the idea Stannis was defeated in battle to his end, but confident to bring him back with this.

Selyse knew she could not rid herself of her own blame, but part of her also felt used. As if Lady Melisandre never truly respected in Selyse's belief, and manipulated her into buying what she said without question.

Now, left with her only daughter and you had gone beyond the Wall unknown when you would return, and Selyse feared she would be alone once more should the worse come to pass. She knew what sacrifices needed to be made to ones own happiness or well being for this fight, but it was a hard ask to be left without either of her daughters for the remainder of her days.

It was all rather loud, the thoughts in her head. All Selyse could do, was hope as the months ticked by, you and Jon both would return home soon.

Until that was, the day Arya came to her chambers and suddenly both of them knew they had something far more pressing to do in their days to come then merely wait for you both to return.

Ser Davos Seaworth was once more reminded of his King's stern nature as he spoke of the Targaryean King down south.

“They would be fool to underestimate him.”

Walking at the side of King Stannis, Ser Davos felt both rather used to it and yet unfamiliar to a once normal place. Serving you and Jon was a very different experience, there was more charm amongst the Northerners, and the rowdiness was not a determinant to their cause, but somehow added to their unity.

But now, his place was once more at the side of the King he was sworn too. Winterfell was not his home, nor did he have any reason to stay despite finding companionship amongst the men there. It helped perhaps, that now Stannis had a firm cause without the back and forth flipping between kings and kingdoms to fight against. Here, he had one purpose. Prepare the Wall, and his men for what was to come.

Currently though instead of where his command was garrisoned at the Nightfort, the King once more found himself in the ranks of Castle Black. Working through plans and decisions specific to the Nights Watch and coming to agreements between him and the new Lord Commander in Edd. They were not leaving anything up to chance anymore, but that did not mean his Kings attention was not drawn away many times with news from the South.

Having received a raven discussing the movements of Lannister forces, it seemed all attention now was converging towards Aegon. For a good while, the remainder of the Kingdoms were in a mess. Riverrun had been stomped out in their final fights as forced led by Ser Jaime Lannister ended their remaining sieges, forcing the far inferior number of the River Lords to finally renounce their sworn loyalty to their late King and instead to the Iron Throne.

Now, the Lannisters were forced to turn their eyes to Aegon.

He had taken Storm's End which swiftly was being followed by him taking the Stormlands, no doubt due in part to Stannis ordering the remainder of his army North, giving the Targaryean ample opportunity to conquer without the early defeat of loss. It seemed the Lannisters considered his claim to be a lie, and the bravado of nothing more then a green boy of summer. Stannis, seemed to disagree. “My opinions of him aside, underestimating him at this point is unproductive to their fight.”

Ser Davos could tell that such an opinion did not seem to be very favourable, but he suspected it was more then the sort of ire held for those in the war previous. “What makes you think that?”

The answer from Stannis however, was simple. “They underestimated Robb Stark at every turn, and he spent three years humiliating them with defeat after defeat. They have less then half the forces they begun that war with this time, and to the realm, the fight for the Iron Throne appears to be a two sided one now. Lannister or Targaryean.” Shaking his head a bit, Ser Davos could almost sympathize with those back South.

Voicing as such, “Not sure how happy everyone is going to be trying to pick a side for that one. Not as if either family has a record which speaks highly of them.”

Glancing around, if he could say one thing, Davos would note that much of the organization put in place previously by Jon was standing strong. Knowing too well, had it been still under the likes of Ser Alliser Thorne, it surely wouldn't be in the same state. It appeared, the Nights Watch had to murder a second Lord Commander to finally learn that lesson.

It was admirable though, that even now faith in him had not wavered.

Thoughts drawn back to Stannis as he spoke. “If the realm still stands once winter is over, we can turn our attention then to putting my Kingdom back together properly. I will deal with Aegon then.”

He had let Stannis's forces leave, but that did not mean it was beacuse of peace. After all, the negotiation was made between Aegon and Jon. The King which he had an actual peace treaty already established. He was simply doing Stannis a kindness on behalf of Jon. But clearly, Stannis was sure to keep the boy in his attention. Letting the ball drop now, would only mean taking on Aegon then would be much harder.

Ser Davos, like most of them, knew not of the dragons flying in the east.

“I can station a thousand men at each castle, though I do wonder why it is you seem to be so confident resources can be shared between your men and my own.” Once Jons place of work now Edd's, the three men all looked at the layouts made of the Wall and areas surrounding it.

Edd had an answer to Stannis's question, saying it almost in passing. “Can thank Jon for that if he ever comes back.” Davos could see a slight raise in Stannis's eyebrow in a silent ask but the Lord Commander either did not notice or barrelled passed it anyways. “Was his deal he made with the Iron Bank, almost hoping we don't make it so I don't have to spend every day until I die paying it off.”

Davos counted himself grateful that of everything to come easy to him learning to read, numbers was as simple as any of it. There were only ten of them in different combinations and he didn't have to sound them out to figure out what the whole of their printed version meant. Looking over some of the papers, Davos too knew he was well acquainted with how the Iron Bank works. “You won't pay it off in your lifetime, or the Lord Commander after you or the next. The Iron Bank doesn't care how long it takes for you to pay them back, only that you do. The longer it takes in fact the better, build more interest up that way.”

“Know a lot about it?”

Edd and Davos both looked at one another with almost a degree of amusement as he titled his head. The hint of an exaggerated grimace forming on the elder mans face. “They run on predictability, what they know will be stable for the long run. They knew making a contract with Jon he wouldn't be paying it back any time soon, they were counting on how much interest they would build up in the long run.”

Stannis cut through, changing directory right back to the original discussion. “Resources won't be as much an issue. The more men guarding the Wall, the more it tells them the likelihood you will have the capability of holding up your end of the bargain.”

It seemed however, Edd held the same curiosity which had started the discussion about the dragon earlier that day, but from Davos. “So how do you know they won't just change their minds and start funding the Targaryean now that you're up here?”

The answer wasn't one Stannis answered, but one he and Davos both knew was written in blood.

Jon Connington could tell the frustration was mounting in Aegons shoulders, it was obvious.

Less and less as this went on did he look a boy anymore, but a man, a King struggling for his own cause. Lord Varys had not been kidding when he had informed them at the start of this journey back east, that Westeros will not be easy to take in the state it is in.

When confronted about his promises to have prevented making this any harder, the clever tongued eunuch had a simple defence and a detectable jest in his tone. “And when should we have struck, my Lord? When Robert Baratheon lived and would have seen our dear King and his army of sellswords thrown into the sea for his name alone? Or when Robb Stark was dominating the South in years of war as Balon Greyjoy invaded the North tearing the country into pieces?”

What was more frustrating, was that Jon Connington knew he had no argument against it. He had trusted the spider this far, there was no reason to doubt that now. But he let the best of his irritation take out on him anyways. Leaning in with more of a gruff mutter, “At least if we had done it when originally talked about, we wouldn't have already lost two whole Kingdoms.”

A huff left him as if with knowledge being explained to that of a child. “There isn't a family in all of Westeros which would side with Euron Greyjoy. If being Ironborn wasn't enough, his reputation speaks ill for itself. When our King sits on the Iron Throne do you think it will be a difficult choice for the people on whom to overpower?”

Gods be good, Westeros has changed too much since this was a place Jon Connington last had called it a home. The sheer fact of the Iron Islands engaging now in two rebellions was news all in and of itself, they were hardly better then those wildling savages. Enjoyed bloodshed and violence to an unseemly degree and had no organization beyond their ships. Not great warriors they were.

Balon took the North because it was empty and open as the Lannisters hid away from the Stark boy's army. What had Euron done since then? Nothing of importance, nothing which would truly effect Aegons fight. He did not care for Lord Varys' paranoid whispers of magic and whatnot though. He heard far too much of that from the King in the North. Asking him to believe such nonsense, a ridiculous and superstitious people.

Aegon though, Jon Connington was beginning to wonder if such words were beginning to weigh on his mind. They had been standing on the beach in Storms End when it happened. It was light and hardly stuck, but gently in the grey sky it had begun to snow. The distance in his eyes as he did so, and the hesitant look when asked what was on his mind only to have him talk around the real answer.

He had to take the Iron Throne, Aegon did not have time to think about scary bed side stories Jon Snow had told him about. Every now and again he would spot him looking at the North on their maps, or looking in the distance trying to see what was too far away. He never spoke of it, but it was on his mind, Connington knew it.

And it frustrated him as much as this war was weighing down on Aegon. Both were tense, but only one of them had to keep it together to keep the other standing. He still had time after all, he still had years to be that for him.

Aegon hadn't even said a word throughout the entire meeting. Hovering over his maps and not moving an inch as his mind and jaw were as set on something as could be. Connington was surprised at the choice in words Aegon made to speak, interrupting the back and forth between the two men. “If the choice is that easy Lord Varys, why is it we could not secure the Iron Bank for our campaign? As far as I am aware we approached far before they reached out to Stannis Baratheon.”

Choosing his words tentatively, Varys looked to Connington before directing full attention back to Aegon with clarity. “You must remember where your family comes from, your grace. What your true name stands for. The Bravvosi are a very sensitive and wary people towards Valyrians.” Aegon did not shift whatsoever, and Connington could not tell what that meant. For over a month now, any mention of family had been in discussion of the Martells. It had been even longer then that since the boy at all made any mention of his father. “They are descendants of slaves of the Valyrian Freehold. Their homes were destroyed by dragons, and were treated and used rather cruelly by their Valyrian masters. They would not trust you anymore then they do not trust in your aunt.”

Once more Aegon did not move, and Connington found it increasingly strange he was struggling to read the emotions of a boy he helped raise his whole life. He knew Aegon better then this. Interrupting whatever thought may come first, he spoke with a shortness. “When Daenerys sits with him on the Iron Throne, Lord Varys, I imagine such power will change their minds rather swiftly as to who they would be wise to support.”

Only raising his expression in an almost mocking, he seemed to disagree and once more Aegon allowed the ensuing argument to start as Lord Varys found a knowing tone. “In my humble opinion, I would say your estimation may be bordering on unrealistically ambitious. Having her sit by our Kings side may prove to be the quickest way to draw away support to those who would rather see him thrown back to the sea. They do not answer your requests for an audience when it was only him, and but with a woman such as her?” A slow shake of his head dropped his tone. “I dare not think the money they would be willing to offer to our enemies then.”

Leaning forward across the table, Conningtons voice dropped. “I would watch yourself, Lord Varys. Get used to spouting such opinions and you may find yourself in rather hot water once they marry.”

It was as if Varys knew something he didn't. The manner in which he didn't seem to find himself phased by such words. “Is that set in stone? Declared somewhere I do not know of?”

“We have been planning this since-”

Loud and commanding, Aegon cut through both of them with a heavy sigh to follow. “My Lords, this is not about who I am to marry. If my aunt wished to be part of this, she would be here supporting my claim. But she is not.”

Looking with a pleading, Connington urged him once more to be more cautious then this. This was the best plan, with both of them together the people would so obviously rally around the return of their proper rulers. “Aegon, it is best-”

“Leave us.” His eyes though, were only on Connington. Only he was being asked to leave the room.

Aegon did not blink nor repeat himself, as Lord Varys stood with a collected confidence in his place in this meeting, but yet he was being asked to leave? What whispers was the spider putting in their Kings ears about this? But it was not his place to argue with him.

Swallowing roughly with a twitch in his jaw, Connington gave but a small bow and a low, “Your Grace.” Before parting ways, the guards closing the doors behind him and leaving the two of them to discuss whatever it was they were plotting without him.

When had this started he thought, when had Aegon not sought his council first? When did that begin to change when their whole lives together he was the one there for the boy. He knew the bloody answer though, it was the same time in which Aegon also had begun letting part of his mind become preoccupied with that of the North.

Door slamming shut to his chambers, and the first thing reached for was not to remove the armour across him but to pour whatever wine sat on his cupboard. A grimace as Connington let it all slide down his throat in one go, until shaking it out and letting the bottom of the goblet thud against the wood once more. Some days he wondered how easy it would have been to die the manner in which he had told the world to convince of his death. Certainly he was frustrated enough to see the benefit in drinking ones self into a stupor.

If he could throttle that bastard King he would have. He and Aegon did not get along terribly well, but enough that they found kinship in their words to debate time and time again. That first meeting, Connington already did not like him. He had the audacity to stand there and yell at the true King of Westeros as if he were a child in need of lecture. Blaming him for things which he had barley been born during.

Nothing King Aerys did was Aegons fault, and nothing Prince Rhaegar-

Hands splayed out along the surface still, Connington stood up straighter, head tilting slightly as he put pieces together. The bastard too had yelled at Aegon for faults of Rhaegar, but that was just it wasn't it? Using something which looked on the surface raw and painful only to turn it into something to manipulate Aegon with.

Pushing off, his feet carried him into pacing about his chambers. Guilt was a powerful motivator, and there were many ways to manifest it. Dawning on him that if Jon Snow were to set the stones of doubt of Rhaegar to him, it would begin to falter his ability to stay focused. Then fill his head with lies and tales of monsters to distract from what he was doing.

Some said bastards were born from sin, of course this one couldn't be trusted. How though he thought, was he supposed to convince Aegon of this now? He would dismiss discussions of the North in their meetings, shut down speculations around intentions of the King in the North and his wife.

His insufferable, Baratheon bitch of a wife, he thought callously.

Jon Connington was a fool, wasn't he? This was not only about vengeance for thirty years past, this was the vindictive remains of Robert Baratheons blood to rid the Seven Kingdoms once more of House Targaryean. If Jon Snow was the manipulator, you were the one plotting it. Of course you would wish to wear Aegon down, weaken him so his enemies could take care of him for you.

Leaving the only good, benevolent rulers the ones in the North. And oh what a surprise, you also just so happened to be the heir of Stannis Baratheon. The only other man here with a true claim to the Iron Throne. It was all a ploy, use Aegons kindness against him to sneak your way into power once more by sicking your bastard husband on Aegon to fill his head with falsehoods.

Jon Connington was sure of it, he only had to figure out a way to convince Aegon of it too.

By the time he had sat carefully on his bed, he had the windows covered and checked the door was locked and bolted thrice now. He would live in his armour until he was sure he was alone. Before peeling off the final covering over his arm.

It wasn't so much bigger, but it was indeed, not as small as a patch of grey. Sooner or later, it would begin travelling down to his hand and then up his arm. He had to convince Aegon and soon, Jon Connington did not have time to let his King figure out this deception on his own. Before the greyscale took his mind first.

He had given Jon Snow the benefit of the doubt because of you, because you had come down to manipulate him into guilt about Rhaegar's actions against his family. A perfect couple you both were, willing to lie and manipulate just to swindle your father onto the throne which one day would be yours. He would not be surprised at this point either if Stannis too was to find himself manipulated out of your way.

Pretending you were dead, and now pretending your husband had been dead to spook the Northerners into worshipping you both. Aegon had allowed Stannis to pull his forces out of the Stormlands because of his peace agreement with Jon Snow. He couldn't imagine what you and the bastard were preparing for up there.

But as Jon Connington knelt to the ground, he pulled out the cache stored away full of the anythings hoping for a miracle. Not much was written to cure this, but he would try everything until he lost either his life or the remainder of his mind. He had to try for Aegon.

He couldn't let the vengeful pursuits of the Starks and Baratheons to get in his way, he had to finish what he started. But Aegon had pushed him out of the meeting that day, so what else was he being tricked into believing without Conningtons knowledge? He did not know.

He used to not think of what fate became of the girl Lyanna Stark, because she was just that. A girl who died with the paintings of Rhaegar as a monster. He once thought she was of little blame, but now he doubted it.

Perhaps Lyanna Stark was as much a lying snake as her nephew and his deplorable wife are.

Arianne Martell knew that the sun shined bright down on the lands of Sunspear and yet not a shred of that light was found in any hearts of the people that day.

The bells tolled and echoed across the halls as silence was given with a bow each time she had passed someone. Not often she found reason to adorn herself in black, but it it sat heavy on her person even in the striking heat. It had the last time too, but this time, somehow her dress made her feel as if it was sinking her feet into the ground to be swallowed by the earth.

Long had she lost track of the time she had spent standing there, but her eyes had not blinked despite seeing nothing but the same image. Most others had come and gone by the time she found the courage to go see him, and those whom came after did not stay by her silent side. She did not blame them, it was a pain to all, but only three of them felt it so deeply.

Trystane was still young, hardly even old enough to begin growing facial hair but he looked as old as she felt when he stood beside her that day. He hadn't known what to say, and by the time the tears wished to fall on him, he had left. Unwilling to cry in front of the sister who was still holding that all in. She hadn't blamed him for it, she would have too were she his age.

Others had come and gone, Ellaria Sand and her daughters, Arianne's young cousins included. Elia was Trystane's age but she had suffered a great loss too, as it was only years ago. In those days, it was Arianne who stood where she had. Beside a daughter unsure how to feel that she too, was not permitted to see the final visage of her loved one before his funeral proper. When Oberyn Martell's body had been brought home to Sunspear, the only ones who had seen the truth were his brother Doran and his paramour Ellaria, the later having witnessed the horror firsthand.

This time, Arianne spent the entire time standing there wondering if she should defy tradition and peel back the coverings to see the truth her father had told her was not for any eyes of his loved ones. She knew then when he had told her against it, it was worse then she had imagined. The truth of his wounds.

Returning home from the Stormlands for this news was devastating. Gone to seek the truth of one claiming to be family, and returning to find the death of another. Quentyn Martell had travelled across the Narrow Sea to seek the Targaryean girl, and if once she was unsure what to think of it, now she felt another. She felt something she suspected, was not unlike the red rage which seeped into the blood of many Martells when their loved ones were wronged.

Some will blame one thing, others will blame elsewhere but there was only one truth.

It wasn't until the sounds of feet echoing across the way and the distinct sound of something being rolled along with it did she know her silence had to find a voice this time. They had spent too much of their lives not speaking, and it had to end now.

Prince Doran Martell, Arianne's father was brought to be placed beside his daughter and only when the retreating footsteps echoed away did she speak. Her voice distant and faint but solid and sure. “I used to wish I could hate him.” Doran said nothing but to let his daughter speak. “I would look up to the star of Nymeria at night and hope he could see the same, and tell him however far away we were, that he will not rob me of my birthright. Over and over again I would tell him that, no matter how much he could not hear me. Even when you told me the truth, I was still angry.”

Her fathers voice was always calm. It was smooth as a knife slicing through warm butter sitting in the morning sun, and it had hardly ever been comforting. Perhaps there was still shreds of but a girl in her heart, but it felt as such now. “We are a stubborn people in our blood, and it took me a long time to learn it was me who held that problem, not your mother. She had not forgiven me for it, and now never will. If I won't blame her for it, I will not blame you for the same.”

As even toned as he, Arianne's voice hardly picked up to echo within the empty halls against the distance of bells. “You made wrong choices and paid for it, as did my Uncle, as did I. Blaming you won't take any of it back, nor will it change that you did not do this to him. She did.”

“Arianne-”

Not picking up her tone, but the sternness in it was all to similar to that of Oberyn she knew. “We can blame each other all we like, but there is only one truth father. I had a little brother until the days he set off to find her. And when he did, he returned to us under a sheet. Had he not gone to her, Quentyn would still be with us. I could still stand here and accuse him of robbing my birthright, and wishing you could have been honest with me earlier, but we can't. And I will not blame us for it, we have done enough of that.”

Doran's voice vibrated in a confidence through her chest, finding it's way to her heart. If for only moments, it helped ease them temptation to uncover the sheet to see for herself. “Every year since Elia was taken from us, I have spent my time with guilt. What more or different should I have done to protect her, but it was Oberyn who reminded me of the truth. We could stand here and argue amongst ourselves, or we could turn our eyes to the ones who did it to her, to her children.”

A sorrowful look crossed her face, one which even only from the side did her father catch. “He didn't look much like her.”

Doran however, felt not shaken by that thought it seemed. “He never had. Rhaenys did, though. Eyes, skin, hair all looked exactly like Elia had when I held her as a babe. She would write me, saying that Aegon had their purple eyes and silver hair, and it upset her to think that they would love him more then her daughter. The truth is not so different now is it?”

He had not looked how she expected. Her claimed cousin. Skin pale as the rest of them, eyes which turned from blue to purple depending on the sun and light shining around them, and a hair dyed a striking blue to hide the once secret. Arianne had not questioned why he kept it, but when asked why such a colour, it was his answer that felt like family.

“The Tyroshi have such drastic colours in their hair. That was where I would tell people my mother was from, and it was to honour her.” Arianne had wondered if that meant the one he still held onto was her, she had desperately hoped so. She did not remember what Rhaegar Targaryean looked like, but not once did his name ever come out of Aegon's mouth.

Only Elia, only Rhaenys. In a moment of quiet before she had left, he looked more of a boy then a man fighting to be King when he had said it. Looking at her with a sad smile, “I never knew what she looked like, my sister. I never met any of my mothers family, never knew what they looked like either. If I imagine my sister could have grown up to look as you do..” He had hesitated, brows narrowing not in nerves but in something painful she now understood. “Perhaps it would be of some comfort.”

Comfort was not found here though. Comfort was not what Arianne would ever use to describe anything of her home in such hours. Comfort was for those who had not been taken from their families with such cruelty and horror. Comfort was for those who wished for their lives to be comfortable, and that was not the life of those looking for justice.

Her father it seemed, could read her more then she expected. Cutting through the quiet once more. “I have kept you in the dark, as you have I. We cannot do that anymore. I have spent too many years letting you think I wished to push you away, and I will not waste the rest of mine doing it anymore. You are my daughter, I need you by my side. As equals.”

That was all she ever wanted. Her whole life she wished to be seen as such by her father, and as much as she wished she could be a child upset it took to this to let it get there, she wouldn't waste that time on such childishness. Her voice was low, something hinting at an anger. “They said the beast had snuck up behind him. As if hunting him down like prey. One of them flies free in her skies too. Who else has burned like my little brother?”

Her father had the right answer. “What did he say of her?”

Her answer was truthful, and as unsure as he was. “He didn't need to say anything. He's afraid of her, and that tells me as much as the complete truth.”

A choice was going to have to be made. One plan to the next, they all had to be on the same understanding, one united front. Arianne's plan to crown Myrcella was one she had believed in before it was stopped in its tracks, but she was no fool to the other side presented. None could prove or disprove that Aegon was Elia Martell's son, but he believed it, and if a scrap of possibility said he was right, that was enough.

Myrcella was a good kid, smart and bright and better then the mother she was said to look so similar to in every way, but if the realm were to be asked? There was only one side to pick. In due time Myrcella had every right to be Arianne's sister by law, but Aegon was her cousin by birth and blood.

Elia was her aunt by birth and blood. And it was her memory the Martell's fought to avenge. It was her which Oberyn had died to avenge. And even moreso, there was another fact to consider.

The realm would choose Aegon over Myrcella, but the realm too, would choose Aegon over Daenerys.

The Lannisters who killed her aunt and uncle on one end, and the Targaryean girl who killed her brother on the other. Who would the Martells side with? Arianne would say neither, Arianne would say blood protects blood. And her father had agreed.

So father and daughter stood there, looking over the sheet covering Quentyn Martell's body, burned so horrible by dragonfire that she could not even look upon his grown face one last time. Once she had refused to allow him to rob her of her birthright, but Daenerys Targaryean's dragon had robbed her little brother not only of his life, but the mercy of a quick death.

Targaryeans were dragons, but Arianne was a Martell. There was no light or burn brighter then that of a sun, and as winter would one day enclose on the lands, it was her responsibility to ensure the sun shined bright and protective over her people. It was a dragons nature, to burn it all away to cinder and ash.

She had never wanted Quentyn dead when she thought he wanted to take her place as heir to Dorne, but Daenerys Targaryean would come to Westeros and burn the lands with dragonfire and invade their people with blood to take what she thought was her birthright. They soon would hold the final funeral for Quentyn, but the sun would soon illuminate brighter then ever before. After all, Aegon was not cruel and he was the blood of her family.

The Targaryean girl was a dragon, and the Dornish had never been defeated by dragons before. They would not start now.

Ser Yohn Royce did not mean to sit there with such ire, but it was all he had left.

His patience had worn thin, and there was little he could do to stop what was coming any further, he had done all he could without compromising all he held dear and he had to hope he did enough. Now, all he had left was the hope he was a good actor, or liar. Depending on which they would see him as should it be discovered too early.

The day was surprisingly bright for how cool the morning air begun. The three of them sat there and the sight had yet to stop being so utterly pitiful. His Master at Arms could only work with so much, and this was next to nothing compared to where his own sons had been far before this age. Yet there he sat watching meek Robin Arryn get beat every which way by the boy sparring with him. At the rate he had been going, he was shocked the boy had enough in him to pick up the bloody thing.

“Sword up. Attack my lord, attack- don't cross your feet.”

Ser Royce looked at the sight, and dared not to peek to his side. He knew he was at odds with the man, and it was easier to play dumb and begrudging then contemptuous and suspicious. A huff left him as Robin once more tripped over his own feet at another parry. “My sons have had swords in their hands since the time they could walk. This one..”

If there ever was an understatement, Petyr Baelish had won it's greatest feat. “Lord Arryn will never be a great warrior,”

Interrupting with ingidnance, Ser Royce almost rolled his eyes at the pomp in such a claim. “Great warrior? He swings a sword like a girl with palsy.” Just as he finished speaking did a squire approach the benches where they sat, handing Lord Baelish a note.

Don't look he told himself. The man had eyes on the back of his head, and even if he didn't, there was no doubt the pair of blue eyes attached to dark hair would seek him out should he glance out of place. He was no fool, he knew even something as simple as a seating place was strategy to the slimy man next to him, and it was not out of the possibilities that Alyane Stone was here to watch what Lord Baelish could not.

After all, he was the only one who had not come around to trusting Petyr Baelish. He had been the only one of Lords of the Vale to protest against giving Littlefinger another chance to serve as Protector of the Vale in Robins name. He still protested it, but he at the time, was a fool.

He was as much a fool then as they thought he was now. It was why they watched him, they did not trust fools. Well as it turns out, he learned from his mistake and did not trust either of them back. Had one asked Ser Royce over a year ago if he would look at Alyane with such suspicion he would have taken offence.

The man did not believe the story she told, but he did fall prey to her name and her tears. Now realizing, it had always been an act. She no doubt had lied for him, and if Littlefinger hadn't told her what lie to tell, then she was always just as manipulative to come up with the very same he had separately. Neither option made Ser Royce comfortable.

He did not like Lady Lysa, but she was the widow to Lord Jon Arryn, and he had to respect her to respect the memory of the man he did greatly respect. Flung herself from the moondoor was the story father and daughter told. He thought it was no better then hogwash then, and he still thought it now. But then Alyane had told him who she was with utter tears and he fell for such acts.

Were he to brave a look at her now, nothing close to tears sat in her eyes. She was well postured, and prim and proper, a true lady and as watching of a hawk as ever. He'd known many a bastards in his time, and none he met were quite as formal as Alyane Stone.

What had the years in the Vale done to the crying girl he met that day? Did that crying girl ever exist?

Ser Royce dared not think of Eddard Stark would say. In a horrid way, he was glad he was gone. No one should see it end up this way, none wanted Petyr Baelish to be the one any grows up to follow in the footsteps of.

So he sat there, ever the disapproving brute watching the boy fail once more as Petyr glanced at her as he tucked the raven scroll away. Returning to the conversation before. “Some boys develop more slowly. He's still young.”

Arguing back right away he commented, “He's thirteen. Boys have been known to go to war at thirteen.”

Petyr Baelish insisted however. “He has other gifts.” When Ser Royce asked what those would be, the answer was all the more work to not act as if it meant anything suspicious to him, “The gift of a great name. Sometimes that's all one needs.”

Offering his hand out to Alyane, the two begun to step down onto the grass as he led her away from the fight. Ser Royce followed in toe, knowing once more, if he did not play as he needed, either one of them would sniff his intentions out.

They were leaving young Robin at the Runestones to be ward under House Royce, but the man was not mistaken. They were dumping a problem at his doorstep hoping to clear up their obstacles, and clog his time and effort up away from poking around them too much. So he agreed to take the boy in, but that did not mean much.

Petyr Baelish and Alyane Stone were not the only ones with plans none else knew. She played her part though, respectful and kind as she turned to him. “Goodbye, Ser Royce and thank you for all you've done for me.”

A small nod back, “I've done nothing more than my duty, my lady.” And that was it. Duty to be a fool and a host and once they were gone from his home his duty was to once more do the honourable thing. The right thing, even if it too, had proven to be the deceptive one.

Lord Baelish played his part well too, they both did. He taught her to play as well as he. “I have no doubt that upon my return, Robin's skills will have improved immeasurably.”

Glancing back to the boy, Ser Royce was almost sure he somehow, had gotten even worse in the minutes they spent looking away from the scene. “He'll be safe here. As for his skills, I make no promises.”

The carriage leading them away was said to be taking them to the Fingers. He doubted that. He knew more then doubt, he was sure of it. For everything Petyr Baelish did to keep his plans close to his chest, all it took was one little slip to unravel the workings of a webbing of lies. One single raven scroll put into the wrong hands by accident and a mystery had unveiled.

Afterall, he had wondered that day, what on earth did Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton have any sort of business sharing correspondence with Petyr Baelish. In the privacy of night, was the only time he read it. He trusted no eyes but his own in that moment and for good reason. News travelled, but why on earth was this news coming from her to him?

Why was Barbrey Dustin the one to inform Petyr Baelish, that you had married Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son, and King in the North? And why he wondered as he read it, did it entail the name of a girl. Daisy. Who was she, and why was Lady Barbrey telling Littlefinger that Daisy could not get any of her girls anywhere near Jon Snow before the wedding. It had taken place the eve of their return from Dragonstone, Daisy had not the time to try.

What in seven hells did any of that mean?

Well, looking into things when he had as many names on one raven scroll as he did, was not something that was going to be terribly difficult. Maester Coleman had copies of many raven scrolls coming in and out of the main rookery, and when asked if any had come from Winterfell he had only a fair few. Those fair few, were the words of a girl named Daisy.

He had asked the man if anything seemed out of the ordinary from such letters, and he said no. But not before one thing, saying that Lord Baelish and Alyane both kept requesting that Lord Robin be given sweetmilk to handle his outbursts instead of essence of nightshade. It was odd the Maester commented, that small does of the later left the body after some hours in small does, whereas adding drops of sweetwine to milk would build up in the bloodstream. But that the requests had stopped just as plans to send him to the Runestones had been made.

How strange it was that such an oddity had ceased, around the same time Littlefinger seemed to find interest in learning that Jon Snow had married. Even more strange it was, the raven had said the girl Daisy could not get any of her girls near him before, so imagine Ser Royce's surprise when he learned the profession this Daisy worked, was running the Winter Town brothel.

It was easy then, figuring out at least part of it. The most standard reaction was what Littlefingers plan had hoped. Get a whore into Jon Snows bed before he marries you, and what likelihood was there that a wedding at all would occur in such an aftermath.

Ser Royce had never spoken to Eddard's bastard son before, but he had been beginning to suspect, this was not a mystery for one man. By the time the raven came for him, the sigil of a direwolf on the seal, Ser Royce knew that he had to be more careful then ever.

Two men never having met one another before, thousands of miles apart, had to piece together a mystery which was playing out right in within both of their homes. But that was months ago. Petyr and Alyane were leaving right now, and the Fingers was not where they were going.

It felt an insult to Eddard Starks memory to say it, but was certain, she was heading North with as ill intentions as the day she pretended to cry a sob story to garner his sympathy into hiding her in the Vale in the first place. She had lied to him from day one and she only got better and more clever about it, but Petyr's kind of clever was not to be admired. Any learning from the likes of him, was to be considered just as dangerous.

He could only hope his raven found Jon Snow with enough time to prepare. Ser Royce hated how much he did not trust Alyane, but it had to be said. Were Alyane Stone accompanying her father on a journey to the Fingers, he would not care.

But, it was Sansa Stark who was travelling with Petyr Baelish to Winterfell.

Theon Greyjoy could define himself as a man motivated by regret.

Each day he spent in Winterfell should have felt more and more like home but it didn't, in fact it fell far too much as if it grew emptier each passing one. He did his duties, sat in on council meetings, but there was nothing which truly put away that feeling deep inside that he had made a mistake.

He was angry, of course he was. Twice now you had left him behind, when a little over three moons past, did it mark a year since he and you ran from these very halls together. Grabbing you to jump from the battlements and run into the wolfswood below as the sounds of yelling and barking increased to gain on you. You and him knew then, you wouldn't leave the other behind. Not now, not after every horror you both were forced to endure with agony.

Theon had seen and known things which were utter nightmares and you had as well, and such knowledge of that did not make leaving that bond behind easy. If he could pin point the worst of it he had ever known Ramsay to force you to endure, it would be an easy mark on such a map of horrors. It felt just as surreal now as it did then. That such a threat used only to scare you to comply had come to pass. Theon hadn't dared think what happened between you and Ramsay to push him to force that threat into fruition.

As he stood walked down the steps now, the silence in here was calm and serene. Nothing like the heavy one in Maester Wolkan's study.

If any knew what to say, none dared break the rooms silence. It was deathly quiet in the most horrific of manners, and even worse so, you were the one between the three of them which looked the most dispondant over it. You had from the moment Theon was dragged into the room.

It was no mistake what he walked in on to some degree. In a morose manner he was almost getting used to that being the normal procedure. After the worst of it, Ramsay would send him your way to ensure you always looked clean and proper despite what was done. He'd only ever send Theon right after such events, knowing there was no hiding what occurred in the immediate aftermath. He was smart enough at the least, to know when to keep you away from the watchful eyes of the Northerners around at your worst.

A threat was one thing, even knocking you around in front of them was the other, but sometimes Theon would walk in on things he dared not imagine. Whatever occurred when he walked in that afternoon was long since done, but still you had not even been allowed to dress. Yet Ramsay was already keen on making his way. Telling him to bring you to Maester Wolkan before you caught something. He hadn't known right away what he meant, but he figured it out. As did Wolkan.

You didn't have to even answer his questions for them to put it together. Asking if a bite wound he was tending to on your calf was from a hound, your silence spoke that answer, and the subsequent wounds Wolkan tended to afterwards said all that was needed to be said.

Once more, Reek stood in a shaking quiet barley having the courage to look. But on the inside, Theon had the stunning realization that you weren't going to last much longer. Ramsay hadn't even yet married you and he had- he couldn't even think such words. There were many unspeakable things done to him, done to you by Ramsay and yet Theon finally found the worst of it.

Neither of you said a word as Wolkan prompted you to a number of ailments, and Theon dared not try and question what each one was for. He didn't want to know. You had no life in your eyes, you looked at neither of them and any words spoken were cracked in a painful sounding strain of a whisper as it that was all that was left of your will.

He did know however, you begged for death in your eyes. He should've gotten it over with sooner, he should've done it when you both first arrived at Winterfell. It wouldn't even matter now he supposed, there was little which was worse then this.

“If there's some part of you that still wants to atone for what you've done, you'll just slit my throat in my sleep before that day comes.”

Theon didn't, and part of him that afternoon stood there worrying his lack of action had made your life more of a nightmare then it previously was. You said no more in Wolkan's study, no more as you left into the halls, and once you had found a cold spot up on the battlements, hardly dressed for the snow falling around, you continued to say nothing. Not as the sun was up, not at the supper the Boltons forced you to play pretend at, and not as you were finally graced with the privilege of going to sleep. Knowing as you walked there, you could hear the judging giggles of Myranda who no doubt knew all about what happened by then.

Theon didn't see you until the evening the next day, when you were walking silently arm in arm with Lady Walda. The younger woman carrying the conversation with little input from you. There was more emotion of you that day, but a pain in your eyes that was drawing closer and closer to killing yourself. You had more strength then Theon, if he was forced to do what Ramsay had made you do the day before, he would've done it already.

It was that same evening did Theon see her. He had on more then one occasion during his time in the Dreadfort, but not often since their move to Winterfell. She was once more dressed in black and a thin lipped frown that likely lived on her every waking hour. Lady Barbrey Dustin was meeting with both Boltons by the time he came upon them. Forced to Ramsay's side when you were spending time with Lady Walda. Roose Boltons insistence no doubt he thought. Getting you to play nice with his young wife would make the lie sell easier when the time came.

Roose and Barbrey seemed close, cordial but friendly in a manner Theon knew was not the norm for the man. They spoke of things that didn't matter to Theon, but they at one point as his back was turned, spoke of you. To them of course, he was only Reek. And back turned or facing their way, Reek was a creature, not a person.

“It's foolish if you ask me. You risk those hearing of her by allowing such freedom.”

Roose Bolton was sat back in his seat, as usual the only one without a drink in hand and was a calm as ever despite the silent but agitated Ramsay next to him. “She has never attempted to run, she does not speak to any she is not permitted to. What else would you have us do with her?”

Barbrey answered without hesitation. “Lock her in her chambers. She shouldn't be allowed to roam even the castle grounds. All is needed is one to hear about her and the people will rally to her side.” It was still strange to think that the realm all thought you dead. Theon was forced to see you tortured every day as you wished you were dead.

Not blinking, Roose raised but one eyebrow. “The North will rally to her side, when we present her to them with an heir. She is not to be hidden away forever, eventually people will find out. We are simply waiting until the right moment to do so when we already have more allied to us then against. Anything they hear before then is rumours and hearsay.”

Little emotion was found in Barbreys tone or expression but at the very least something vaguely associated to compassion might have been a trace found in her words. Her glare found towards that of Ramsay. “Rumours are one thing, but if in the time I have been here even I have heard about whispers of those hounds of yours, then others might be inclined to hear and spread it as well-”

“I'm sure you'll make your point eventually.”

Not receptive to Ramsay interrupting her, she let a pause sit in the air before more of a hiss spat out towards him. “You wish to defile the girl before wedding her, fine. But have even a shred of decency and keep such acts to a whore in a brothel. She is still our Queen.”

Theon did nothing because Reek wasn't supposed to react in anyway.

Roose let his gaze flicker towards his rattled son, the later gripping the goblet in his hand so tightly were it made of glass it would shatter. Normally, no one said a word about the things Ramsay was doing. His voice was tight but fooled none in the anger being held back. “My hounds are girls, my lady.”

Barbrey was as quick on the draw as Roose was to let it happen. “If I am not mistaken you need at least one or two males in order to produce a new litter of bitches, do you not? I'm sure such a beast was fully equipped for the task in your mind.”

The air was tense, Barbrey wasn't even defending against what was done to you, just that it would look bad should people know about it. You were as much an object to be abused as Theon was. No one here cared about the inhumanity of it all. Of course some of the Lords knew you were alive. The ones who sided with the Boltons or were doing so not of their own volition, but they couldn't do anything about it as much as the common people could.

Theon wasn't even sure if Harald Karstark, who seemed to have have a grudge against you for unknown reasons to him, would think this was even remotely acceptable behaviour. But all the three in the room were doing, was sitting in a study bickering about it as if it was an inconvenience.

Air thick only as long as it took Ramsay to huff a fake laugh. “Now now, my lady, the poor girl is my bride, how could you say I'd ever allow such things to happen to her. Or do you need her word on it?” Only glaring his way, Ramsay continued with ever growing confidence. “Shall I bring my lovely bride in here, drag her from her sleep and have her ensure you not a soul, man or otherwise has touched her since coming into our care?”

It was all a ruse no one bought here. They all knew you would never confirm what he had done in any capacity, not here, not to people who wouldn't help regardless. You would say he was your betrothed, that you loved him and were happy Ramsay took such careful protection of your well being in these trying times. You would play along because admitting the truth would mean accepting it was indeed, happening to you.

And after this, Theon wasn't sure you would ever admit a thing Ramsay had done to you.

“Ramsay.” Roose's tone cut through the thick tension in the air. “I'm sure the Lady Barbrey only means to ensure your bride's reputation is not sullied due to false reports. Some whose ears it may reach might not take well to such allegations more then others. Regardless of their own position.”

Both Boltons knew too well who they were talking about, but Theon at the time had not put it together. But the elder Bolton was all too aware the risk it posed should a certain bastard hear even a shred of such rumours.

Though, much time later Theon would admit, even when both Boltons were dead and gone, neither you nor Theon had brought up that event for sometime. Not to yourselves, not to each other, and certainly not to Jon. For how much he knew of what happened to you, the truth was, Jon had only been told perhaps a third of it, and none of which were close to the worst.

But even now, Theon couldn't stop seeing it. He should've gotten you out of there so much sooner. He should've gotten you out of there the day Yara tried coming for him.

Had he not been in such a terror, Theon would've gone with Yara, and make her and her men rescue you before they left. Get you out of there before Ramsay had ever touched you.

Instead as the sun hidden by winter grey skies tried peeking through the middle of Winterfell, Theon thought of much but tried further not to think about the hounds. He could only think that being angry you had left for what was right, made him in such a drastic field of wrong.

Theon knew what was coming and he still got mad at you for leaving to fight it anyways. The sheer fact that you had found enough in you to do such a thing, after such horrors beat any spark out of your soul made Theon feel guilty for the way he said goodbye. Or didn't.

He knew what was coming, and the moment you came to speak with him about it, he was short, dismissive, angry, and overly formal to end the conversation. He knew you were leaving so he wanted you to simply leave. You didn't bring him the first time you took off, why would he expect any better that time?

It wasn't about him, he knew that. And Theon felt more and more unwell as the months passed. The North was closing in on six months since you and Jon and gone beyond the Wall and Arya had done a significant amount of work to ensure the people that you both were still alive.

She'd stand up from where she took her place in Jons seat, short as any but with that loud voice she could deafen a room with and remind them that they thought her dead for five years. She had crossed the Narrow Sea and back and she was still alive, so they had to have faith in Jon and in you that six months was nothing.

“Jon said it could take them three months to get to the Frost Fangs, meaning it will take another three to come back. They'll be home soon, and they will bring Bran home with them. They'll bring back your children, Lord Howland, Meera and Jojen. They promised, and has Jon ever broken a promise to you before?”

Arya was good at defending her brothers honour, as Theon was terrible at having faith in you.

For everything said between he and Yara, everything that happened, you were the only sister he cared about. You were the sister he wanted to see come home. Yara had told Theon not to die so far from the sea, well Theon wanted to tell you not to die so far from the only home that matters.

But, as it turned out, Theon only had one place he wanted to express that guilt within. He hadn't been down here yet, in all his time back he hadn't been down there. Each step echoed within the vast halls, and by the time each statue passed of faces he did not know, Theon felt himself growing nervous. The moment he passed the statue of Brandon Stark, Theon knew the one to come was the brother he was buried next too.

It looked so much like him. The statue of Eddard Stark. The sword carved for his hands looked like that of Ice, the sword he long thought would take his head before Winterfell felt like a home. Stern and serious as he always was, and Theon knew Jon was right. Ned Stark was a better father to Theon then Balon ever was.

Balon died, and Theon never went home. Never wanted to come back for him. But he did stand in the crypts looking at Ned and felt that pull. Hoping he understood all he shamed his memory with, was not forever a stain between them. But his head was a mess and he just wanted to apologize for it all.

Take back how much he wronged the family who took him in like he belonged, how much he wronged you for letting you leave thinking Theon did not care you may not come back. He was still just as much a fool as Balon thought of him the first days back on Pyke.

You were the one thing Theon truly had left, as much as everyone else around him tried to make make amends between each other, you were the only one who never questioned Theons place back in your life. He was there and you never wanted him to feel he deserved otherwise. And he was stupid enough to let you go beyond the Wall thinking Theon was actually angry at you for it.

You weren't abandoning him the way Yara did. But the night was quiet and he knew there was plenty of time to sulk. Only, Theon could leave it to Arya to come barrelling down the halls of the crypts of her family shouting his name.

Pushing where he made a home for himself sitting against a wall, Theon shot his arms out to snatch her by her forearms as she panted for breath. An urgency in her eyes and wide as her tone was short and serious. The words should have been ones of good news, but yet they came out in sound of fear and the face of a girl who knew what was coming to her doorstep. But this time, Theon knew why.

And he couldn't sit there feeling sorry for himself anymore.

[gardenofnoah]

your god came to you bloody and you fell to your knees

a little priest au for my dearly beloved, for my signs of God and other Devils collab (which you should totally join!!!). i tried something a little different with the style of this one...let me know what you think <3

wc: 2k tags: smutty smut smut, sacrilege, reader is not human (fallen angel but not really)

The old book told him that only those who had fallen from grace would be cast down from heaven. Angels ripped of wings–mouths that would never again speak of the divine. The abandoned blessings of a God that had so painstakingly created them. Purity and holiness strong-armed into something unsightly and obscene–an abomination of truly biblical proportions.

Yet there you were at Nanami’s feet. 

You’d slipped from the old wooden rafters, hitting the cobblestone below with a wet thud, like a calf falling from its mother’s womb. Wings still fully intact, fluttering uselessly behind you. Writhing in your agony, you crawled toward him. 

“Father,” you cried, dragging yourself toward him on splintered nail beds and bloodied palms, “Father–”

He took a step away from you, and then another–unsure of the scene in front of him, and weary of the unfamiliar coil in his chest–the one he’d been warned of, the black snake of temptation. But even broken and flailing in whatever viscosity you’d been covered in in your descent, there was no denying the pull of you that called to him. The realization that he may lack the strength he’d, until now, thought he had came distant and went on just as quickly as his eyes trailed over you. 

If it was a test from God, he’d already failed. 

The notion that you could be the image of gluttony before him carried significant weight–yet it was not heavy enough to keep Nanami from washing the film from you, however undevout it might have proved him to be. If every action had a consequence–if he was truly to be a man of service, after all–then surely to run his hands along your flesh, unmarred from the film of earthly sin, would not be such a bad thing. The consequence could not be so cruel if it was true that it was his duty–mandated by the oath he took–to extend his hand to you. That in doing so, he would not turn away from the God that he’d sworn his life to. Surely no angel could have fallen so far. Surely no angel would have come here to him. 

You spoke quietly and his body followed, like that of a moth to the light of a flame. You could not have been here to corrupt him—to touch your face did not burn him. 

“Father–” you croaked, quiet and rasped from your efforts, “please, it hurts–”

“Beloved,” he murmured back, wiping the thick sludge from your cheek, “what have you done?”

_

The water that trailed down your skin was enough to subdue you into a quiet, or maybe it was out of necessity–Nanami did not know if your silence was out of peace or of pain, as the drops crackled against your the film that encased you and dissolved it in a plume of foul smelling smoke. Unblemished you were underneath, and it was another blinking light to him–you could not possibly have been sent here to ruin him.

But as he raised the cloth to rid your wings of the slime, you let out a sigh as he touched the thin membrane, and he found himself chasing the sound. He’d only blinked and there you were, arched into his touch as he mouthed up the curve of your neck, panting and whimpering at the feeling of your silken wing under his fingers. Something called to him, a far away warning–and he dug his fingers into the flesh of his own thigh to break the spell. Bewildered, bewitched, blinking at you as if he’d only seen you now for the first time. 

“You are–” he swallowed thickly, fighting to come back to himself, “what are you?”

Blinking slowly at him, unperturbed. “You have a notion, Father?”

Like you’d called him to, he found himself moving in again–found himself stuck where he’d started, his tongue catching droplets that dripped from the wrist you’d slung over the rim of the basin. Something sickly sweet bloomed behind his teeth and told him he was damned. 

“You are no angel,” he murmured against your skin with as much certainty as could be mustered, “and yet–you cannot be a demon and remain in this house of God.”

His eyes snapped to yours at your snort, knowing at once that all along he had played to your hand. No longer were you a pitiful thing, scraping your knees against the stone to earn his mercy. Now, you held the answers, and he’d remain on his knees to beg for your indulgence. That he was sure of. 

“Do you speak only in absolutes, Father?”

Unwilling to bear broken proximity and equally unable to respond, your patience could’ve been a gift to him, if it hadn’t felt so oppressive. 

“I know that the path of righteousness is a clear one.”

Your responding laugh was a brand to the softest part of his body. 

“Father,” cooed in his ear like a secret, “your God could not be so kind.”

As you stood from the water, seemingly tripling in size and looming over him with wings outstretched, Nanami was bathed in the understanding that he was never in control. His eyes trained on every curve of your body, every droplet that trailed down your breast– knowing with certainty that what would follow would require his complete submission to you.

Knowing that you’d had it from the minute you’d called to him. 

“You ask what I have done,” your wings reached up and over the two of you, closing him into the world you commanded, “as if you have not called me here.”

All of the knowing you’d dangled above his head, now dropped unceremoniously into his own mind–the truth wasn’t nearly as devastating as it should’ve been. At once he knew he’d been the one to fall from grace. You’d merely come to collect his debt. And yet, he could not bring himself to grieve, as he’d never known a divinity like this one. On his knees, it was he who crawled to you, lowly bent to kiss your feet.  

“You will ruin me,” rasped and pathetic, against the arch of your foot. If he’d only looked up at your bared teeth, he’d have known how true the sentiment was. 

“No more that you have.”

He’d never again know an ache like the one in the pit of his stomach as you’d reached for him, and to go willingly only worsened it. Nanami made peace with the idea that if this was the hell that awaited him, he’d be cast down willingly. If the price for entry was a pleasure so sublime, he’d give every earthly penny he’d ever earned.

Settled over his open mouth, he drank from your sex like it could be the only thing to save him–the ache spread to his teeth and danced, burning, behind his eyes, but there could be nothing to thwart him from this. He’d never known an indulgence so human as this, yet the silken heat of your folds against his tongue was ingrained somewhere deep inside him, and every broken cry from your lips was something owed to him. Outside of his body, he was a voyeur to his own trailing hands, buried in the soft give of your flesh that he knew could not be human but felt that it was, until his fingertips met the slip of your wings and he was reminded again. 

A pleasure so sharp it could have been pain spread through him like you’d lit him ablaze, and he found himself closer to an edge he’d no reason to approach, as untouched as he was. And yet as he closed his fist around the papery thin flesh and pulled, it was as if he’d sunk himself inside you to the hilt. You rewarded him with a cry of the name he hadn’t yet told you and another obscene flood of arousal that flowed down from the corners of his mouth and soiled the neat fold of his roman collar. 

“More,” he groaned, pitiful against your heat, writhing in his own pleasure beneath you, “please, more–”

Suddenly you were gone from him, and mindlessly he chased you, stumbling across the stone beneath, still so damp from you–

“Does it feel good, Father?” he could only know the heat of your breath in his mouth, so close he could just lean forward and be swallowed whole by you, “your lust–the greed in your veins. Is this not what it means to be devout?”

“Yes,” he could’ve sobbed, head bowed forward like it was your forgiveness he’d sought after, “yes, please, I need it–”

Your chuckle was as patronizing as it was knowing, as it lit up everyone of his nerve endings. He knew he’d give you anything. 

“Bare yourself to me, then.”

The movement was unconscious and swift, and then he was splayed out over top the remnants of your arousal, offered up to you like a lamb to slaughter. Sweating, unable to still the incessant twitch of his hips in search of a pleasure only you could give him. Hungry in a way he’d never known in all of his years. 

Your appraisal could not have come without a price, and he closed his eyes to the shame that flooded him. But, merciful as you were, it was short-lived–you stepped to him and sank down, and you could’ve just as well reached inside him and pulled out the very matter of his being. 

It was an unbearable heat you sheathed him in—one that slithered up inside his rib cage and coiled around something raw and animalistic there, only to bring it to the surface and let it devour him alive. He writhed with it, unable to stop the curl of his spine or the snap of his hips into yours as he thought only of the wet silk of your insides. He could come up with no reason why he’d hoped so fervently for a heaven after death, when he’d been spared something far more luxurious, still alive. 

It spread like a slow moving poison until it consumed him entirely. The vice of you around him, the wings that still caged him in–it coated every synapse in his brain, dulling every other sense but to feel, and every other thought but to take, though he could hardly call it a poisoning if he’d drank from you so willingly–

“Is it so awful to give in to temptation, Father?” 

The time for morality had been long gone, and Nanami could only shake his head, moaning broken praises and half prayers to a God that watched on in horror, and still he could not think of a single reason he’d ever denied himself this pleasure. He’d never–he’d never–

“Give yourself to me,” you purred in his ear, taking great care to drag the edge of a feathered wing tip over the curve of his throat.

With only one more devastating roll of your hips, you shattered him completely–body lurching up in search of the comfort of yours, only to be met with wings that pinned him in suspension, dangling him in some blessed agony he’d hoped to never leave and to never experience again, for all it did to turn him inside out. Visions of the true divine came to him in a burning revelation–answers to questions he’d never uttered out loud came and left him as he spilled himself into you until he was reduced to the most basic function of dragging shuddering breaths into lungs that could seemingly no longer expand. 

When he opened his eyes to find himself alone, he could feel no surprise. Nor was he startled to hear a now familiar, echoing laughter against the halls of the cathedral as he let out a low curse and dragged his naked, aching body off of the cold stone. 

It was another unearned indulgence to allow the smile to spread slowly across his face as he pulled his robes back into place.

Perhaps he believed in acts of God after all. 

[kagekitsuneoflight]

Hazbin Hotel criticism has been done so much by so many people about very real and serious things but I’m throwing my hat in the ring because this is something most people don’t talk about often.

Hazbin is boring and it misuses it’s setting and biblical characters/inspirations. Or rather it doesn’t use them in a way that’s actually interesting.

For a show about heaven and hell and blatant Christian setting it sure does seem to only take the aesthetics. And not even the visual aesthetics. It’s not even clear on which branch of Christianity it’s drawing from.

This is going to be done with a casual tone and it’s not very well structured because I am not being paid to write about my grievances.

Adam’s motivation as a villain is so shallow and flat. You’re telling me he’s doing this for funsies? For a laugh? Adam was made in God’s image. What does this say about the guy. For a show whose themes is about going “not everything is black and white!” It sure does make him (even visually) black and white. Which is just sooooooo. Boring. Here’s an actually interesting idea that also makes Lucifer more interesting. Adam was cast out of Eden, which was paradise on earth, all because of how Satan (aka Lucifer) tempted Eve (and thus Adam) into sin. So why not make Adam’s enthusiasm for rampaging through hell so that he’s wrecking a Lucifer’s hellish paradise in revenge? If Adam had to suffer then so too should Lucifer. It’s *Lucifer’s* fault after all.

Lets not even get into how Lucifer and Satan are technically two different people. It’s a common thing. But still if you went with Lucifer’s actual story where he’s being so jealous about humanity that he went out of his way to RUIN it all for them. it gives him more depth then him being Depressed. And loves his daughter.

It opens so much more that you can do with *both* characters. It also makes Charlie’s motivation to redeem sinners carry a more personal weight than just. Doing it because it’s right. Her dad was the catalyst! She’s taking on the sins of her father! Make her LEARN that as his child, she does not need to feel responsible for what he’s done. (And, hey, maybe have Vaggie be the one to teach her that! You know, the Angel? The one who would best be able to teach how to change from sin? And not just be “haha fuddy duddy no fun allowed” character.)

Saint Peter is in the show. Saint Peter is there. I am not going to get into Saint Peter because the implications and questions it poses is going to make me insane. And he’s probably only there because of how ingrained it is that *he’s* the one who greets you at those pearly gates. He’s pop culture Saint Peter and not the actual Saint Peter.

Now you might be wondering “what about Lilith she’s clearly going to be the antagonist in the second season.” Yeah she can still have that. We have no real basis on how much she’s done or doing. The only real motivation we have is that she wants to stay in heaven.

(My theory (aka what I think would make Lilith interesting) is that Lilith originally planned to try and outnumber and out power hell so then she could try and take paradise for herself. But obviously the yearly exterminations put a damper on the plan. I bet she was *happy* to be with Lucifer. I bet she loved her family. But she’s in hell. She’s in hell and the queen and her subjects do not respect her (if they do not respect charlie or lucifer, then they will not respect her) and when you have known what paradise on earth is, well you’d want it back. Originally you might’ve planned to take your entire family with you. But you just can’t manage it. Your husband is wallowing and tells stories but he takes no action. You start to resent him. Your daughter has heard his stories and has taken on his naïve hopefulness and maybe that’s what you loved about your husband when you fell into sin with him, but now it just reminds you of what you had and what you cannot reclaim and she looks *so much like her father* you start to resent her too. It’s Lucifer’s fault that you’re here. It’s Charlie’s fault that you stay. And then something changes. You strike a deal. You get to stay in heaven. The paradise you want.)

In a good world this is what Lilith’s motivations are. Which is a lot of words for saying Charlie should have this final “the child shall not bare the sins of the father.” Moment during her confrontation with Lilith. (This would have been something that was slowly built up during the show.)

Charlie shouldn’t be trying to redeem sinners in an attempt to apologize for her father’s actions. She should be doing it because it’s the right thing to do. (You know, for a main character, she sure does remain rather stagnant.)

What else did I want to point out the flaws for.

Ah right ass backwards way that Sinners apparently get redeemed. You are making a show about Catholicism you better get the absolute basics of it down. (We don’t know the breed unfortunately.)

Yeah so like. It should be remorse. You should be seeking out forgiveness for your sins. Not doing one selfless act and then getting killed immediately. And you can have! A very very interesting way of discovering this! You can have Charlie thinking that sinners need to become Good. (And you know, What Is Good.) She could confuse Goodness with Niceness. She could think that so long as they just Stop Being Bad, they get into heaven.

You can have Charlie lean into the whole Fire and Brimstone levels of Being Good. And then have to unlearn that! Angeldust (just using him as the example) Isn’t a sinner because he does sex work and drugs. He is a sinner because of whatever he did to get into hell. He needs to feel remorse for his *actual* sins, and seek out forgiveness before he gets redeemed. (from heaven, ig. Who the fuck is god anyways is god going to be a twink. is there a god? if not then wHY IS SAINT PETER-)

(TAKE NOTES. This is a great way to explore a character’s backstory beyond what’s told via Word of God (a la vizzie) and squinting at the aesthetics and motifs of a character and guessing what they did.)

Being redeemed through remorse can also carry a conflict! Let’s take one of the most morally reprehensible characters on the show. Valentino. Let’s say he has a sudden change of heart. Not a halfassed one. (It has to be REAL to make it an actual conflict). He realizes that what he’s done is vile, evil and reprehensible. He seeks out forgiveness. It is granted.

Because the only forgiveness you need (for Christians) is the forgiveness from god. (or heaven?? Ig?????)

Is there no sin that is beyond forgiveness? Is there no one beyond redemption? Is that whole all encompassing love from god schtick actually real, not clickbait?

I don’t know. Hazbin Hotel doesn’t want to get that deep into it. Because they just want to do a Heaven Bad????? Hell Good???? Or maybe???? Both are Bad and Good??????????? Story.

There is a lot more that I can nitpick and offer criticism to, or simply go “hey wouldn’t this be better?” To with this series. Because I think the concept can work really, *really* well. But it falls so flat on its face that it’s become concave.

[theprayerfulword]

September 21

Titus 2:9-10 Urge bondservants to obey their masters and to try their best to satisfy them. They must not talk back, 10 nor steal, but must show themselves to be entirely trustworthy. In this way they will make people want to believe in our Savior and God.

1 Corinthians 6:20 For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s.

Matthew 5:16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

Proverbs 31:30 Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.

1 Corinthians 5:8 Therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

1 Peter 4:8 Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.

May you not be afraid of the words you hear from people influenced by the enemy of God, speaking threats against you and defying your King, for the Lord will give you the victory and with your own eyes you will see the enemy's defeat. Isaiah 37

May you bring the word of the enemy which comes to you and lay it before the Lord, acknowledging His might and glory, confessing your need and distress, and honoring God by making your request known as you turn to Him for rescue and deliverance. Isaiah 37

May you see that suffering such anguish of the soul was for your benefit, for in God's love He kept you from the pit of destruction; therefore you will walk humbly before Him all the years of your life. Isaiah 38

May you willingly and joyfully carry each other's burdens and thus fulfill the law of Christ’s love. Galatians 6

May you test your own actions so you can rejoice in how God has matured you, without comparing yourself to someone else, for we are each responsible for our own conduct. Galatians 6

My child, you must walk in obedience to Me. You may be quiet enough to hear Me and close enough to know Me, but your will continues to resist Me. It is simply the carnal nature you carry within you that is contrary to what I would have you do. What you do is not evil of itself, but it is disobedient to what I lead you to do. The issue is not what you do, but why you do it. Do not be discouraged, My dear one, for I am choosing the path which is designed to make this show up for you to see. I am leading you in discipline that will allow you to overcome the resistance you deal with when your spirit chooses to obey Me, but your carnal mind does not. Continue, My loved one, persist. Proceed to follow Me, one step at a time, even though you do so imperfectly now, for you will grow and increase in wisdom and understanding. Let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, fully obedient, lacking nothing, for I will cause all things to work together for good since you love Me and have been called according to My purpose. Consider it all joy, My precious one, when this is dealt with in so many different ways, for the grace I give to you is seen by more and more people, causing them to give Me glory and honor through praise as they see the work I do in you. For even as the carnal man is decreasing, your inner man is being renewed and transformed day by day into My image, causing the light affliction you feel now to produce an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comprehension. I am rejoicing over you as you exercise yourself in this spiritual workout, My willing one. Even when you stumble or fail to complete an assignment, I am there to lift you up and set you on the path again, for I know your heart is toward Me and you will not turn back. It is not your strength I delight in, My faithful one, but it is your loving determination and eager desire to please and obey Me. That, I will always respond to with loving care.

May you be willing to share the good things of the world with those who instruct you in the good things from the word. Galatians 6

May you chose to sow your time and strength to please the Spirit, for from the Spirit you will reap eternal life, if you do not become weary in doing good and give up before the proper time to reap the harvest. Galatians 6

May you do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers. Galatians 6

May you never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to you, and you to the world. Galatians 6

May you fulfill your vows to God as you praise Him in Zion, for when you were overwhelmed by sins, He forgave your transgressions; therefore all men will come to Him Who hears prayers. Psalm 65

May you be blessed by God's invitation to live in His courts, where you are filled with the good things of His holy temple, for He answers you with awesome deeds of righteousness. Psalm 65

[sanslovesblog]

Unraveling Madness: San's Dark Secrets Pt. 4

Summary: You're a brilliant psychiatrist, but you were no stranger to internal conflicts. You had accepted the task of treating Choi San, the psychiatric ward's most dangerous patient due to his violent episodes. Despite skepticism from other staff members, you believed that beneath his destructive exterior lay a vulnerable human being, yearning for understanding and acceptance.

Trigger warning: death

Teaser | Master list | Pt 5

Throughout his tale, Choi San's voice grew steadier, his eyes beginning to lose their haunted expression. There was a sense of catharsis in finally sharing these long-buried memories, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. You listened intently, offering occasional words of understanding and empathy, allowing him to take the lead in the conversation.

As the session drew to a close, Choi San felt a newfound sense of hope beginning to stir within him. He told you about how, as a young boy, he had been forced to watch his parents being brutally murdered by a group of thugs. They had been after something valuable that his father had hidden in their home. In a desperate attempt the father tried protecting the valuable that was hidden while Choi San's mother protected him, she had sent him out to play with a neighbor's child, not realizing it would be the last time he ever saw her. The memory still haunted him to this day, the sound of their screams echoing in his ears like a macabre lullaby.

You listened intently, your expression one of both empathy and horror. You nodded along as he spoke, understanding all too well the depths of trauma he had experienced. As he finished recounting the harrowing tale, you reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Choi San," you began, your voice gentle but firm, "I cannot even begin to imagine the pain you must have gone through. It's incredible that you've managed to survive this far, let alone find the strength to share your story with me today." Your words brought a small, yet genuine, smile to his lips. "You are incredibly strong, and I am so proud of you."

You paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I want you to know that I am here for you, Choi San. Whatever you need, I will do everything in my power to help you heal from this. We will face your demons together, and we will overcome them." Her words filled him with a newfound sense of hope, and for the first time in a long while, he felt truly heard and understood. The weight of his past began to lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of lightness and relief. He felt lighter, more at peace with himself. He knew that the road ahead would still be long and difficult, but he no longer felt alone. The darkness that had once consumed him was beginning to recede, making way for a brighter future.

As the session came to a close, Choi San thanked you for your patience, understanding, and support. He left your office with a newfound determination to confront his demons head-on and begin the process of healing. Over the next few weeks, he continued to make progress in therapy, learning healthy coping mechanisms and developing a stronger sense of self. The nightmares became less frequent, and the voices in his head grew quieter.

One day, as they were discussing his progress, Choi San felt compelled to share something else with you. He told you about the guilt he carried, the belief that if he had been a better son, a stronger boy, his mother might still be alive. You listened intently, offering words of reassurance and perspective. You reminded him that he was only a child at the time, and that his mothers' love for him could never have been diminished by the actions of others.

Over time, Choi San began to see things differently. He started to understand that his mother would never have wanted him to live a life defined by the pain of her loss. He realized that he had spent so much of his life trying to be the perfect son, the perfect survivor, that he had forgotten who he truly was beneath all the trauma. With your support, he started to embrace his own identity, to find joy in the small moments of life that had once eluded him.

@skzline | @janetsarttrove | @vampzity | @xoxkii | @idfkeddieishot | @evidive

[hidden-poet]

I saw a bunch of quotes from the book and this boys inner monologue is truly terrifying 😂

I actually wanted to ask you if you think the movie did Coriolanus character justice to the books?

So I never read the book fully, just seen lines from it. But based on what I have seen on reddit discussions, is that he is so well put together, manipulative and charming on the outside; that you could never guess how disturbing his thoughts are... I see a good number of people saying that's how it's supposed to be, because the book is from his pov, whereas the movie is from the audience pov (hence that's how others around him see him in the book). So since we don't hear his crazy ass thoughts in the movie... could you see him as an unhinged villain from the very beginning of the film without hearing his inner monologue ?

Just wanted to hear your thoughts on this 😊

I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

basically I think that the book and the movie were two different Coriolanus's. The movie portrayed a man who was hungry for power above all else. While the book portrayed a war-traumatized boy who was pushed and manipulated to be the President Snow we come to recognize.

The movie deliberately portrayed him as a someone to root for. They wanted him to be likable, and they wanted you to sympathize with him. It was something that the book never allowed the reader to do.

This is perfectly encapsulated right from the first scene.

In the movie it opens upon An anxious looking Coriolanus with the weight of his father in his hands (the compass) surrounded by rats. He is very much imaged to be the leader and provider of the Snow house (despite Tigress doing it all).

This image of 'the man of the house' is continued throughout the first scene. He denies breakfast on his big day saying "save it for grandma'am". Offers to spend on prize money on "a new dress" and "chocolate" . Not wanting his Grandma'am to waste a flower on him. all these character building blocks were absent from the book.

We see a hard working poor man who has toiled for the best grades to get the money to support his family. Only for it to be ripped away from him at the last second with the announcement of the mentoring project. The audience will now give more leeway in his decisions to cheat.

He is shown to be very loving and supportive of his family. You want him to get the plinth prize whatever the means over the boy shown in the book.

Because the boy in the book only worries about himself. He has two breakfasts and then eats at the school. He is upset with his Grandma'am because she punctures his hand while giving him the rose. He is upset with Tigress because his shirt is missing. He was upset of the thought of her 'selling herself' for him, not because she's his cousin but because it would sully the name of Snow. The name he carried. The boy goes to goes to school well knowing that at the end of the day he would be a mentor.

And that is all JUST in the opening scenes.

They are so many other scenes that push movie Coriolanus into a typical masculine anti-hero to make him more appealing to the audience.

The majority of thoughts that were running through book Coriolanus could not have been present during the actions of movie Coriolanus.

In both the movie and the book Coriolanus shared the charming, and manipulative qualities, but they come off differently.

Book Coriolanus manipulatives people by kissing their ass basically. Movie Coriolanus is shown to be a lot stronger. He manipulates by being a smooth talker.

By making movie Coriolanus into this likeable anti-hero, the film makers greatly diminished both Lucy-grey, and Sejanus characters!!!

They come at a cost to his character development which was a peeve of mine.

Tom Bylth also played a huge role in deviating from the book material. Tom Bylth is handsome (and girls like fictional bad men) yes but so is Coriolanus in the book. Moreover, Tom Bylth played Coriolanus with a gentleness that should have been selfishness.

We often see him in the film reaching out and giving soft hot gazes to people. We see him lay a protective hand on Lucy-grey during the bombing of the area and push Sejanus in front of him while running from Bobbin in the arena. These actions are not indicative of book Coriolanus inner monologue.

Their desires are also greatly different. In the book we only ever hear someone call him 'president snow' mockingly. In fact, he even says himself says he only wanted a paper-pushing job that pays well. It wasn't until Dr Gaul at the end, that we see a real motive to be president of panem. In the movie we see a real hunger to always be at the top.

Book Coriolanus was a pathic and cowardly boy. And in fairness I don't think that the movie would have been nearly as successful if they had followed that route.

That was a long tangent but to summarize your questions;

Did the movie character do justice to the book?

Lawrence's portrayal of Snow was excellent, but nothing like the book.

Did he do the character Coriolanus Snow justice- yes.

Did he do Suzanne Collins Coriolanus Snow justice-no.

Could you see a unhinged villain at the start of the movie without his monologue?

No. And we weren't suppose to.

[passivenovember]

Hey! Just wanted to drop by and say your writing is absolutely stunning. You have this innate ability to drag the reader into your writing.

I just finished skinshed and my god the opening chapter was a masterpiece (as was the rest of it). The way you described Billy’s fear of his father, those constant check ins ‘his daddy starts breathing again’ were spine chilling - that slow build tension was incredible.

I was wondering what your view is of Billy and his attitude towards himself - do you think it’s all self-loathing, do you think because he is so overly sexualised he believes that that is all he’s good for, do you think the abuse has hardened him or really he’s soft but trying to protect himself etc etc - I’d love to hear your thoughts (also if you have any fics that you delve into this specifically in please tell me I will consume immediately - though I do plan to read everything anyway 😅)

((FIRST OF ALL I'M CRYING. I'm at work, getting sniffly at my desk over this because you are so unbelievably kind to say this. Thank you. You didn't have to go out of your way to make me smile this hard, but you did. And now I feel like I could punch through a wall or maybe save a school bus full of children if they were careening off a mountainside, or something. Not that I would ever hope for that, but you get my drift.))

This is such a good question!

I'm going to start with "Yes, AND," because in my writing, I love to explore all of these avenues. Billy is all of these things and more, and everything you mentioned is accurate to what we're shown on screen. It's accurate to real life, too. Anyone who's been through abuse like that knows that your anger, sadness, self-loathing, and hope have layers and shades and different textures to them. Nothing is stagnant, when you're an abuse survivor, and things can change by the second depending on what you're experiencing. Sometimes anger looks like sadness and vice versa. Sometimes the texture of those emotions is sharp enough to cut your hands open, and I think that's what we see happening with Billy.

Everything he touches is covered in his blood, it's staggering to see.

He doesn't know how to handle his sadness, so he hammers it into the shape of rage, and he's afraid of himself.

I mean, in season three when Vecna (a creature who is known to show people what they're most afraid of) approaches Billy to be his foot soldier, the thing that Billy sees is himself.

Billy is afraid of his anger.

He's afraid of his sadness. He's a child who is carrying the weight of the world and he's being crushed under the pressure.

From what you mention above, though, I think Billy is soft at his root.

He shows several times (mostly in season three) that he's got a good heart under all the shit he's done to hide it. He's a crier. He paints a layer of vibrato over himself to mask how easily he bruises, but if you throw kindness on him, the armor washes away. It erodes. And as we see in the Battle of Starcourt, he will sacrifice himself so that others can live.

On the flip side, for me, is that the thing about Billy is he's in survival mode. When El travels into his mind in season three, we're introduced to his past. We see that he's spent years taking the brunt of horrific abuse and until the day he died, Billy was constantly being scraped against the pumice of his father's anger. Everything about his experience with Neil tore little holes into him that never fully heal, when he's alive, so he bleeds easily. He folds with almost no pressure.

At his root, I think Billy is afraid of being seen.

I think he's afraid of what he'll do if someone looks at him and sees past the layers he's built to protect himself.

And that leads to him hiding behind the sex-pot persona, and perpetuating his father's actions with Max, and I think it kills him. I think Billy hates himself, but he doesn't know how to stop. He doesn't know any other way, and he never got the chance to learn.

That's what makes him so tragic.

--

As for works where I explore Billy as a character, Ive got a few that come to mind.

Self Loathing: If Snow Loves the Trees and Fields

Anger: I Know Why The Bird Takes Flight

Sex'd up (but still angry lol): punisher

My writing has changed a ton over the years, but if you read the older stuff, I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

--

Thanks again for reaching out. This made me want to write so much fanfiction lol

[clefaiiiry]

can i ask why you didn't like the zed comic? i read all of it but didn't come out of it with any particularly strong feelings other than that it was cool to get more zed backstory!

There's two main things I hate about the Zed comic and then a lot of nitpicky things I dislike.

TL;DR: Buildup and charactersation for Zed is good! Kusho twist is bad, Yevnai is also bad.

Full ramble under the read more,

The twist ending with Kusho actually being alive the whole time is the worst decision they could have made for the story they were trying to tell, in my opinion.

They set up Zed as someone impulsive, he rushes in without thinking because to sit idly while considering course of action only enables more suffering. But in acting so rashly, he only causes greater misery. Zed's characterisation in the first five issues is really strong, it makes him compelling, while also serving to characterise Kayn as the child a man like that would raise.

Zed starts from nothing, is given a good life with a good father that he does not believe he deserves. His own fear and self loathing is what causes the change and friction in his story. That makes him compelling! It makes his conflict with Shen interesting! It makes his parallels with his own son carry weight!

But instead of doing what he does based on a motivation carefully constructed over the course of five comics, Zed does what he does in service to someone else. He loses so much of what makes him interesting by making him a playing piece for Kusho to fuck around with.

Zed didn't do all the things he did because of his martyr complex, because he feels he must carry the stain of sin so others don't have to, he did them because he was told to do them by Kusho.

Killing Kusho is not a cruel, violent murder of someone he loved and respected, it's now an act of redemption to make sure you KNOW Zed is good, no nuance allowed!

It's leaves such a sour aftertaste that I just can't read the comic again without considering how drastically the twist impacts every facet of who we think Zed is. To me, it's not for the better.

Also Yevnai (Yes, I had to look back at the comic to double check her name) is boring and only exists to add conflict for Shen and Zed. You know! Because the conflict they already had wasn't interesting enough! Let's also make it a love triangle! She is not a character, she's a prop, and I hate it!

Nitpick round go:

Making Kusho the secret final boss all along also undermines Jhin as an antagonist, who's reduced to another pawn in Kusho's game of 'let's mess with Zed until he breaks,' or whatever.

According to comments by the author on Reddit, Marvel apparently forced A LOT of content to be cut, including a lot of stuff that would have made Zed far less redeemable. (including him killing Akali's father and innocent vastaya) Now obviously we can't know for certain how this would have panned out, but it's such a shame we didn't get to see the original vision because of creative differences and corporate meddling.

I don't like the art style, this is completely subjective, but it's over rendered and it's kinda ugly sorry.

WHERE IS KENNEN??? WHERE IS MY LITTLE RAT??? WHY IS HE NOT PRESENT? WHAT, IS THE NINJA PIKACHU TOO SILLY FOR YOUR COMIC, MARVEL???

[arainbowofchaos]

Forbidden Euphoria [Chapter 5]

As Jungkook's connection with you deepens, he gradually shifts from his playboy history to a more open and vulnerable version of himself, all the while accompanied by his enthusiastic canine companion, Bam.

Tags: Jungkook x Reader, Jungkook isn't monogamous, Jung-Hyun makes an apparition along with Bam :) (no smut in this part)

Length: 2.7k words

A/N: This chapter focuses on delving into a better comprehension of Jungkook. Although his actions aren't condoned, they are explored within a wider perspective.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

...

Jungkook has never been the monogamous type. At the age of 5, his best girl friend wanted them to be together. But he said no because he remembered how his father used to hurt his mother every night. He thought love always ended up causing pain to someone.

By the time he turned 15, puberty hit and he became more popular with girls. Due to persistent advances from one of them, he finally gave in. Even though he didn't find her particularly attractive or funny, strangely, this made him not care if he hurt her. Later on, he started dating another girl while still being with the first one, leading to the unintentional breaking of his first hearts. The thing is, he didn't want to get too emotionally attached. He had seen how bad it could be, so he didn't want to live like that.

At 17, he was simultaneously dating at least 6 different girls, engaging intimately with all of them. His friends dubbed him "the king." He simply thought, I provide them pleasure without harming myself. Although he cared for all of them, he lacked a desire to favor any particular connection.

At 20, his parents' divorce brought immense relief; he believed he could finally straighten things out in his life. He tried to commit exclusively to one girl. She possessed beauty, humor, and a strong love for food. They cohabitated, shopped for furniture, and cooked meals together. He convinced himself that he could embrace a more conventional path.

However, six months later, she caught him in bed with one of her friends.

Feeling alone and realizing she wasn’t available, he messed up.

Post-incident, he offered apologies and parted ways. Recognizing that committed relationships were not his journey, he vowed never to entangle himself again. This decision was born out of a desire to spare others pain and honor his own needs.

…

And then there's you. Your entrance into his life is like a gentle breeze, soothing and calming. Your dedication to work, clear objectives, and contrasting personality catch his attention right away. Your unwavering focus and determination despite challenges become a magnet for his curiosity.

His interest is piqued. He wants to know more about you, and he finds in each interaction an opportunity to get closer. The extra hours at the office are no longer a means of distancing himself but an excuse to be near you. You, who seem not to have someone waiting for you at home, become the focal point of his attention.

He truly desires for you to hold a positive opinion of him and to see him as a decent person. You stand out from everyone he encountered previously. Your dedication to your work and your clear life objectives sharply contrast with his own uncertain demeanor. This is why he holds you in high regard.

He's perceptive enough to see beyond your surface and recognizes your vulnerability, even though you attempt to appear strong at work. Your consistent blushing when he hints or gazes at you indicates that you haven't been treated kindly by men before. This upsets him because you deserve better. You're worth far more than he could ever offer. Yet, he's determined to give you the very best he can.

He would carry the weight of regret throughout his life if he missed the chance to be with a woman like you. That very first night at the hotel, he poured his heart and soul into ensuring it would be a memory etched in your mind forever. Never before had he encountered a woman so refined and precious. But then you caught him getting into the car with someone else, and he felt like he was 20 again, caught red-handed. He did warn you he wasn't single, but the way you hurried away showed him how much he was hurting you, and it hurt him too.

It was this sequence of events that led him to your doorstep, utterly intoxicated, with alcohol acting as his catalyst to summon the courage needed to see you. How does he tell a woman like you, I’m afraid of being alone and I’m a selfish jerk? He finds himself at a loss for words. Instead, he chooses to candidly share his need for personal freedom, even though deep down, all he truly yearns for is to find solace in your embrace for an eternity. The prospect of his own feelings terrifies him.

Yet, when you mention the possibility of being with someone else – that you might also look for another person – he loses his composure. You don’t understand; if he's going to sleep with other girls, it's to escape from loneliness and to avoid suffocating you with his constant need for attention. His intention is to prevent you from growing weary of him. While if you were to date someone else, you might find a person who's ready for commitment, and he fears you could quickly forget about him.

For Jungkook, these feelings aren't just casual. He's open to evolving, to becoming a better version of himself worthy of your love, even though he can't make any promises. His willingness to embrace transformation arises from a genuine desire to protect you from hurt, even if it means he might endure his own.

…

Jungkook observes your peaceful slumber, your slow breaths betraying your comfort. The idea of waking you up tugs at his heart, but he recognizes the necessity. He doesn't want to depart abruptly after the night you've shared, striving to avoid any perception that he's eager to leave.

"Hello, beautiful," he murmurs in a soft voice. His hand rests on your leg, a gentle caress aimed at rousing you. You emit a groan of complaint, eventually peeling open one eye. The morning tableau that meets your gaze is rather pleasant - Jungkook in his boxers, his abs and tattoos on full display. Your gaze doesn't hold back.

"Do you like what you see?" He playfully teases, evoking a bashful response from you as you bury your head in the pillow. Memories of the previous night flood over you, and a blush creeps onto your cheeks as you replay your conversations. It's almost surreal to think that it's you who experienced it all.

"I need to head back to take care of Bam. He missed me yesterday, poor thing," he reluctantly imparts. He'd prefer to linger with you, but his paternal responsibilities beckon. You don't want him to leave; he appears so youthful and innocent, his big round eyes reflecting disappointment as he prepares to depart.

He's the same man who mentioned wanting to see you and other girls. You wonder if he's really being truthful. Could he be using this as an excuse to meet someone else without hurting you? Doubts start to creep in, and you question yourself for being cautious. 

"Go, I'll be fine."

"You can come with me if you want."

You really do want to. The strong desire to know him better, to uncover his story, is clear. Even though you don't expect to change him, putting together all the pieces of the puzzle might provide some comfort as you deal with the situation.

The bus route takes you past your workplace, and you're taken aback that Jungkook leaves his hand on your thigh, even though you could encounter someone familiar at any moment. Thoughts cross your mind about whether colleagues might discover your connection, potentially leading to complications. Instances like these tend to further tarnish a woman's image. Nonetheless, you dismiss these concerns, believing that true feminism entails not being bothered by others' opinions, right?

You rest your head on his shoulder, hearing his soft chuckle full of affection. He plants a gentle kiss on your head, and you can't help but wonder why things can't remain as uncomplicated as they are between you two.

Upon arriving at his place, a large Doberman eagerly rushes to his owner, prompting you to step back and allow their reunion. The dog's barking directs your attention, and you respond by moving closer to give it a few affectionate strokes. "I was right, he's cuter than you," you playfully jest, a smile forming on your lips.

Observing the interaction, Jungkook notices Bam's enthusiastic response to you, mirroring the flutter in his own chest.

Feeling a sense of pride as he introduces you to his cherished canine companion, your thoughts drift to whether he has introduced Bam to others and how many others might there be.

As you gaze upon Bam, you can't help but wish for a way to clear your mind of these thoughts. Almost as if attuned to your inner turmoil, Jungkook's voice interrupts your reverie. "Bam only knows my closest friends. And even though you mean more to me than that, I want you as a friend too, if you're okay with that." He nervously scratches the back of his neck, leaving you torn between confusion and affection.

"I could be your friend," you reply, although you wish for something more than friendship. The distance between you two feels suffocating, urging you to take a step forward. You gently cradle his face in your hands, bridging the gap with a kiss that surprises him.

"But friends don't do that," you retort after a pause, playfully teasing. Jungkook's blush reveals his unspoken desire, and for the first time, you notice the hint of color on his cheeks.

Bam's energetic barking prompts you to decide, "We could go for a walk. Let’s make Bam happy too."

Jungkook agrees, recognizing the specialness of this occasion – his first time walking Bam with a woman. He's as delighted as his tail-wagging dog.

Together, you stroll to a nearby park, coffee in hand and Bam's leash in the other. Simple moments like these bring you both joy and relief, allowing you to escape the mounting tension from earlier.

"Do you want to discuss last night?" he inquires, his tone carrying a serious undertone. "What do you mean by 'last night'?"

"It was rather... intense. I've never spoken like that before."

A warmth spreads across your cheeks as memories flood back, leaving you breathless. You attempt to regulate your breath as Jungkook halts, guiding you to meet his gaze. "I don't want you to feel embarrassed around me. I love sensing you let go, and I'm curious about discovering more together. I think you might like it too.”

Interrupted by Bam's growling, you're momentarily speechless. You've never allowed yourself to be so vulnerable with someone before. But then again, no one else is quite like Jungkook.

"I've never been... into this kind of thing before. I guess I was... turned on by the way you talked to me?" you manage to say, stumbling over your words.

"Do you enjoy it when I tease you - when I put you down?"

The knot inside you tightens, warmth spreading – he's hit the mark, quite literally. But you can't admit it.

"No, it's just..."

A ringing phone interrupts your conversation, and you're very much relieved. Jungkook apologizes as he takes out his phone and answers quickly. You patiently wait for him to finish his call while playing with Bam.

"Hey... I'm outside, taking Bam for a walk."

"No, I'm with Y/N."

"I... I'll check with her."

"See you tonight."

Following this conversation, what Jungkook asks of you genuinely catches you off guard and leaves you unprepared.

"So...would you be interested in meeting my brother?"

As you agree, a mix of anticipation and nervousness swirls within you. You, who wanted answers about Jungkook's past, might finally be getting just that. 

…

After returning to Jungkook's apartment following your walk, you spend the entire afternoon nestled in the comfort of his bed. As the sun starts its descent, your emergence from the shared cocoon is accompanied by a lingering sense of contentment that hangs in the air like a comforting fragrance.

A revitalizing shower rinses away the traces of the day's closeness, leaving you feeling renewed. After slipping into fresh clothes, you step into the kitchen where Jungkook is orchestrating a culinary masterpiece.

His gaze meets yours, and a genuine smile graces his lips. "Make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon."

You settle into a cozy corner, your eyes tracing the graceful dance of Jungkook's movements as he works his culinary magic. The symphony of utensils and cookware, along with the soft melodies playing in the background, creates a soothing ambiance that envelops the space. This shared culinary endeavor becomes a moment of intimacy, a small yet significant step in your growing connection.

Just as the tantalizing aromas of the meal start to weave their way around the room, the door swings open, revealing another presence. Jungkook's brother, Jung-Hyun, steps in with a genial smile. "Hey, dinner smells amazing in here."

Jungkook's features transform, a mixture of surprise and delight playing across his face. "You're early, Hyun."

A chuckle escapes Jung-Hyun as he approaches you, his hand extended in a friendly gesture. "You must be the one colleague Jungkook can't stop talking about. I'm Jung-Hyun."

You shake his hand, exchanging a smile that carries a sense of genuine warmth. "Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N."

Jung-Hyun takes a seat opposite you, and the three of you engage in casual conversation. The atmosphere is easygoing, and Jung-Hyun's presence seems to complement Jungkook's, adding another layer of comfort to the space. As dinner progresses, the stories flow naturally, and you're intrigued by the glimpses Jung-Hyun shares about their childhood and experiences growing up.

In the midst of this lively exchange, you pick up on subtle cues - the way Jungkook's shoulders tense and his brows furrow whenever their parents are mentioned. It's as if there's a hidden chapter of their lives that elicits these reactions, unspoken stories etched into their expressions.

"Perhaps you should visit Dad sometime," his brother suggests casually. "He's been missing you."

Jungkook's response is swift and firm. "I'm not as forgiving as you are."

As the conversations ebb and flow, you're flooded with the urge to inquire, to unravel the enigma lurking beneath their words. Yet, you're mindful of not prying too deeply, not wishing to stir discomfort in Jungkook's heart. Graciously, Jung-Hyun senses your curiosity and offers his own insight. 

"Our father had a streak of violence - directed not only towards our mother but also at Jungkook. I'm the exception." The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, and you catch the apologetic look Jung-Hyun shoots his younger brother's way. It's a glimpse into the guilt he harbors, a silent lament for not having shielded Jungkook from the storm.

The conversation drifts onto lighter shores as dinner continues, anecdotes and laughter intertwining. Your fingers find their way to Jungkook's back, tracing gentle patterns of solace since learning about his past. It's a subtle show of support, a silent promise that you're here, willing to listen and understand, whenever he's ready to share.

As Jung-Hyun heads out, he plants a friendly peck on your cheek, a genuine smile gracing his lips. The warm touch lingers on your skin, and you can't help but sense his approval. Leaning in, he whispers, "Look after him, I'm putting my trust in you," and you respond with an instinctive nod - it's precisely what you've been hoping for.

The evening gently winds down, casting a warm glow through the kitchen. With just you and Jungkook, the room feels like a sanctuary of shared experiences and unspoken understandings.

"I hope this isn’t too much," his words are a soft murmur, carrying a vulnerable undertone.

Your smile in return carries reassurance, a reflection of your genuine appreciation. "Thank you for letting me in."

The tension that once clenched his shoulders seems to dissipate, leaving behind an authentic sigh of relief. His fingers intertwine with yours, the touch gentle and sincere.

In response, you give his hand a tender squeeze, conveying your unwavering presence and support. "Right here with you, Jungkook."

As you stand there, connected in both touch and understanding, he gazes at you with an expression that seems to reveal a fragility and youthfulness you hadn't noticed before. In that moment, you feel an overwhelming desire to shield him, to keep him safe forever.

[shazzaofdoom]

I am having Magnus Thoughts (tm) and I will once again make it everyone’s problem. (Spoilers ahead, mostly for Master of Prospero and Morningstar, but also just in general.)

The thing is, it makes me feral how Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero is basically an elaborate set-up for a Trolley Problem.

So, the trolley problem! I’m not going to explain it all here, but broadly it’s a thought experiment that asks: Is it better to take action to save many lives, even if your action makes you directly responsible for the death of a few? Or should you avoid actively causing death, even if through your inaction you allow the deaths of many? There are a few different versions with fun little twists, and it’s meant to make you reflect on the nature of moral reasoning. (Wikipedia it if you need more information.)

The Trolley Problem is not a comfortable choice. Sometimes there’s no clean distinction between good and bad: they come parcelled together, and you have to live with a stain on your conscience either way. On Morningstar, Magnus has to reckon with this discomfiting truth, and it is crucial to what he does after Master of Prospero, and so in turn how that feeds into his choices later in the Heresy. It also highlights aspects of his character that are often flattened together under the label of ‘arrogance’. So I am going to unpack this a bit, because when I woke up this morning my brain said I had to.

Master of Prospero touches on the discomfort Magnus feels about massacring innocent refugees from Morningstar so that they can’t spread across new planets and potentially destroy those as well:

‘There is one last dark deed before us.’ (p193) - Magnus knows it is not a noble act: though it is in the name of saving countless lives, it is not the act of a saviour.

‘I am sure,’ said Magnus. ‘Throne, I wish I was not.’ (p196) - Yes, he’s confident that this must be done, but he’s not comfortable with it: the lesser of the two evils is still evil. But it is still lesser as well, and a non-decision is also a decision.

‘I still hear the dead of Morningstar screaming’ (p199) - Bro :(

And the depth of his discomfort becomes starkly apparent in the audio drama Morningstar when it is revealed that Magnus has psychically altered the memories of his entire legion so they don’t remember being party to the Morningstar massacre. That’s, like, so incredibly messed up. But also incredibly interesting, because it shows the extent to which Magnus really can’t cope with the decision he made to turn around and kill thousands upon thousands of helpless people who were counting on him (among others) to save them. (I mean, fair. That's a big yikes.)

He says a couple of interesting things in this regard:

“I sought to spare all my sons the awful burden of that terrible necessity. But not a day goes by when I do not regret what we had to do to the people of that world” (14:18)

“For what father does not desire to spare his sons pain? I never told you because I knew how you would look upon me forever after, knowing what I had done” (14:47). 

First off, it’s pretty obvious that Magnus never really came to terms with the decision he made on Morningstar. He feels continued regret, and he’s really not proud of it. But on top of this, he didn't want to burden his legion with the ‘terrible necessity’ they were party to. So, his solution is to erase the memory of Morningstar from their minds (/facepalm). In doing so he can feel some relief: he suffers his own guilt for Morningstar, but not the guilt of burdening his legion with his decision - he is the only one who carries the weight of responsibility.

(Also, I will just point out though that it seems like Magnus has a general tendency to treat his legion like ducklings rather than, y’know, genetically engineered supersoldiers. I’m thinking specifically of p72 of Master of Prospero, where Magnus and the lads are trying to find survivors from a massive earthquake: “The Thousand Sons formed up on their primarch and Magnus did his best to shield them from the psychic horror and grief of the city’s people”. ) 

Anyway. This all illustrates what I think is a core dynamic of Magnus’ character. Of course, we have the old familiar flaw, trotted out for every character analysis: ~* arrogance *~ clapclapclap good job everyone we have summarised the large red man in one word, let’s all go home. Except this only goes halfway, and is missing the extent to which empathy or fellow-feeling or concern for others… something of that sort is often a significant motivator for Magnus. 

And before anyone accuses me of being a soppy apologist, I think this is important because it can be found at the root of a lot of his problems that he brings on himself (smh ilu, you disaster). It’s not a redeeming quality, because he tends to do a bad job of it. It’s the ol’ tragic flaw: too much of a good thing (caring) can be bad (whoops, accidentally sold my soul to Tzeentch). 

Oughhhh, ok, the Tzeentch thing is a pretty good illustration of this dangerous combination, even if it’s purposefully a bit vague in canon. It’s often pointed at as an illustration of arrogance, and fair enough: the big man thought he could outfox some kind of eldritch deity. The peak of hubris, sure. No arguments here. But, like. Remember why he did it. Remember that he wasn’t selling his eye/soul/whatever for ultimate power. It wasn’t for personal gain. He wanted the lads to stop exploding into tentacle monsters. That’s the Magnus contradiction right there: arrogant enough to think he can get away with saving people, and cares enough to massively overreach in his decision-making. (God, he’s so interesting, I want to crumple him into a ball and scream.)

His caring and his ego are two sides of the same disaster coin. Narratively, ‘care’ is often depicted as a weakness that can be exploited - not just in Warhammer, but in a lot of stories. What you care about is where you are vulnerable. Magnus is no exception - his desperation to save his legion made him vulnerable to temptation. But, it’s important to remember that the act of caring and power are also intimately linked: being cared for often correlates with vulnerability, and by implication it is likely that whoever has the power to care for you has power over you. (This is where we get problems with paternalism - and what is the Horus Heresy if not a series of dad-based problems?) In the end, it was the decision-making power that Magnus asserted over the fate of his legion that kind of, y’know. It didn’t go well. Arguably.

So, I do think that first and foremost, Magnus’ central problem is that he believes his own hype. Whoaa, the most psychic guy Prospero has ever seen!! Whoaaa, a Son of the Emperor!1! But flattening that out to simple ‘arrogance’ misses a crucial facet of this: yeah, he thinks he knows better than everyone else, but also he has read his Spiderman comics. He knows what comes with great power. Importantly, he also feels the weight of that great responsibility in an acutely personal manner. Not just as a leader who occupies a position of power that allows him to get things done, and not just as a representative of the Imperium, but as someone who can directly intervene to save people. 

(And like, as an aside, I know Master of Prospero is set up to kind of be this ‘oh, Magnus is more interested in excavating shit than saving the people’, but like. Damn, having that information sooner might have been useful. Work smarter, not harder. I’m an apologist about this very specific thing. Anyway, I always thought that was a bit weird, cos it does seem like Magnus is generally pretty into saving squishy little mortals, as we are about to see.)

Um, anyway, this is why Perturabo is a great foil to Magnus in this story. While Magnus is out doing his thing, Pert is in the fortress, saddled with doing all the maths and organising needed to get the Lux Ferem off the ground. When it goes wrong he stands there and goes ‘Well, fuck. Can’t do shit about that >:(’ (entirely reasonable, tbh, no criticisms here). Meanwhile Magnus has determined that he can do something about it (maybe) and is putting himself (and the lads) directly underneath a crashing starship (smh ilu, you disaster). 

Some important bits about saving the Lux Ferem:

On p132, Phosis T’Kar asks Magnus if they really can save the ship from crashing on the city, and he replies ‘I truly don’t know… But nor can I simply leave the tens of thousands of people aboard the Lux Ferem and in Calaena to their doom.’

Then after saving the Lux Ferem and being unconscious for a day and a half, Magnus says ‘I had to do something… I could not stand by and let so many die’ (p147). (Oh my god, I love narrative irony and I want to tear my face off). 

(He also says something similar on p150 of Fury of Magnus, after saving the civilians in the Observatory: ‘All I knew was that I couldn’t allow them to perish in the fire when I could save them’.)

Importantly, while he was going tearing underneath the belly of this whole-ass falling sky city, he’s thinking to himself on p133:

Had the Emperor ever dared so greatly? Perhaps, but He rarely spoke of the full extent of His reach. Would Magnus be the first of the primarchs to eclipse his father’s deeds?

Magnus tried to dismiss the thought as fleeting arrogance, but a thorn of it remained lodged in his heart. And who would blame him? What son did not aspire to be more than his father?

Which is the crux of his particular fucked up Molotov cocktail: The care says ‘you cannot stand by where you can intervene to prevent suffering’, and the ego says ‘you, and you are alone, are possessed of the unique genius to do this’. 

The thing is, if you genuinely believe you have the personal power to do (almost) anything, then (almost) everything feels like your personal responsibility, and I think Magnus feels that keenly. If he has the power to save the Lux Ferem, then he must. If he has the ability to save his legion from anguish, then he must. If it is within his grasp to project himself across space and head off a whole lot of nastiness, then… ok you get the picture. 

Magnus feels he is standing at the trolley lever, choosing to move it or not: if he chooses inaction when he could have acted, then the outcome is also his responsibility. He moves it when he believes the other track will be better, but the reality is, none of the tracks are really palatable. (And of course, the horrible flipside of this is when the Space Wolves hit Prospero and Magnus actually did try ‘not pulling the lever’.)

In the skies over Morningstar, Magnus the Red made a choice he couldn’t cope with, because not making the choice was even worse. And it’s so interesting.