#tombstone head canon

[gothicflowers]

First Date - Johnny Ringo

Johnny Ringo x Reader

PG

He really likes you. You kinda scared him, because you’re kind and gentle. Everything he acts like he’s not… behind closed doors he’s the same way.

He tried to feel you out by making small talk every time he seen you. He didn’t want you to be afraid or intimidated by him.

He finally got the courage to ask out when he seen you where closing your boutique up late one night. He knew the cowboys where out in the town causing all sorts of hell so he offered to walk you home.

“W-would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow?” He stumbled through asking, it was adorable. Thank goodness he asked because you didn’t know how to.

You though you’d be going to dinner at one of the dinners. You where pleasantly surprised when you both arrived to a shaded tree with blankets and candles all set out. He will never admit it but he spent all afternoon preparing the food and setting the scene to be perfect. He brought Charcuterie and your favorite wine.

“This is fantastic, thank you johnny”

“I just wanted to make sure it was special for such a lovely lady”

Before you both knew it was midnight and there was never a pause in the conversation. Eventually you realized that morning would be soon and you both walked back to your home. Hand in hand.

Once at your front door you said goodnight and gave Johnny. Oh how badly you wanted him to come in but Johnny being a gentleman wasn’t going to.

“Goodnight darlin”

“Goodnight Johnny”

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Tombstone for 8. 🧇What is their comfort food? 6. 🙉 What is the worse thing they could hear from someone?

Tombstone loves chili. It's warm and spicy and full of comfort. You can mix in sour cream and Fritos and it's just perfect for sitting around on the rainy days he enjoys. plus its easy to have a lot of it and it is shareable.

Tombstone never wants to hear that all the work he has done in his life is/was pointless. He is proud of being able to rise to the top from the bottom where he started and feels that the whole city is better off for the actions that he has taken.

(questions from here)

[mothiir]

penance

the black templars discover human women. Nothing nsfw, only vaguely lewd, with canon typical violence and religious themes. Possibly will follow up with a smut if the spirit moves me

alternative summary: where is this strumpet so I might detest her with my own eyes

—

—

Isaiah takes his helm off to inhale the sweet scent of battlefield smoke. The sky is ruddy with dawn, and the last of the heretic cities is nothing more than smouldering rubble, the would-be rebels against the Emperor’s Will either dead or soon to be. Those too young, or too elderly, to have served a meaningful part in the uprising may yet find redemption as Chapter serfs or servitors — after all, there is little point to justice if there is no mercy to go alongside it. 

Sweat gilds his high cheekbones, and drips down his nape. Taking a moment away from his brothers to say his private prayer of thanks to the Emperor is one of the small ways Isaiah keeps his sanity during these long campaigns. He would fight and die beside his brethren with pride — and yet if he has to hear one more of Reuben’s jokes, he may consider —

No. No, none of that, not even in the privacy of his own head: he must be grateful, always. Mindful and grateful of the Emperor’s blessings. Reuben is a blessing. A hardship, yes, but so often blessings take the form of hardships; of lessons to learn. Reuben is an excellent soldier, and an exercise in patience. 

Perhaps it is the thought of Reuben’s damned puns that drives him further than usual, or the desire to admire the sight of a battle hard-fought. Either way, Isaiah ends up a good five hundred feet from camp before he quite realises it, crunching over charred bones and burned, unrecognisable standards.

Then: a sound. Thin, high, and vaguely organic. At once, he replaces his helmet, Captain Ezra’s words echoing in his memory: boy, there is no point prancing around like the main character in a holo — the enemy does not need to see your pretty face, and nor do I.

Anyway. The noise. His scanners alert him to a life form, hidden behind a pile of corpses. Humanoid. Rabbit-hearted, and trying very hard to remain unseen. 

He upholsters his bolter, and stalks forwards: a faceless, merciless instrument of the Emperor’s wrath. 

—

The clouds hang thick and red, like they have absorbed all the blood spilt today, and the heat is oppressive. A thunderstorm is coming; you taste it in the air. Soon, the rain will extinguish the last of the flaming rubble on this planet you once called home. It will fill the empty eye sockets of those who died for the delusions of your rulers. It will wash the land clean. 

And you doubt you will see it. 

As the Templar yanked you from the rubble, your shoulder had popped from its socket with a sick, wet crack; you had only kept yourself from crying out by biting into your tongue. Now your right arm hangs useless by your side, radiating bright veins of sheer agony. You daren’t make a move to cradle it, to ease your discomfort. 

“Your world is guilty of the crime of sedition,” intones the Templar, his voice as final as a tombstone falling into place. “Your leaders rebelled against the Divinity of the Emperor, and —“

”And I should die for it,” you manage, through lips gummed together with dried saliva and ash. “Because we let it happen.”

He pauses. The subtle tilt of his helm could be curiousity; could be an invitation to continue; could be nothing at all. But you are not dead. Not yet. Something in your chest is kindled, and you remember when you were little, at a school now nothing but ash, how your teacher would complain: that girl, she always has something to say.   

“We let it happen,” you continue, not sure if you are arguing for your life or begging for martyrdom. “We saw the upper echelons turn to Ch — the accursed powers.” Thou shalt not speak the name of the beast, you remember reading somewhere, lest thou invite it in to feast. “And we did not stop them. We worked away, heads bent and faces averted, and we obeyed orders, and the rot spread and ruined our world. I — I thank you, for your cleansing fire, for your — for His mercy. For bringing the Light of the Emperor to this place.”

You cannot curtesy, not in this shape, and so you drop straight to the ground, knees smacking into hard stone. You bare your nape, awaiting judgement, awaiting the blade, your heart singing against your ribs, that desperate song, that too-late plea: oh I want to live. Emperor above, let me live. 

—

“That is a woman,” says Reuben, like he has never seen one before. 

”Yes, Reuben, that is a woman.”

“In our dormitory.”

”Yes,” Isaiah says. ”She is in our dormitory.”

As this world lacks any proper infrastructure — due to the intensive bombing campaign needed to bring it back to the Emperor’s Grace — the Astartes have retired to their battle barge, as Marshal Ezra Rothenberg plans their next movements. 

Isaiah is honoured to consider himself part of the Edessan Crusade. There are more than two thousand of his brothers dedicated to the continued extirpation of Chaos from the Edessan system: a task that was predicted to take ten solar years, and yet is proceeding far ahead of schedule — due, in no small part, to the enthusiastic participation of the new recruits Guilliman so kindly provided them. If Guilliman hoped that the Primaris Marines would take the edge off the Black Templar’s well-known zealotry, he was swiftly disappointed. Within a few days of arriving, the only way to differentiate between the new recruits and their more seasoned brothers was size. 

Isaiah shares a barren dorm with Reuben, and three other brothers. They sleep on plain metal bunks, with a rough woollen blanket and a thin pillow. Other Chapters, Isiaiah has heard, are so decadent and spoiled as to have duvets — which are sacks of feathers — and sometimes even something called a mattress? Absurd. He pities his fellow Primaris Marines, shipped out to such degeneracy. He hopes that they can cultivate an appropriate sense of duty and decorum in the older generation. How can anyone value such petty things as comfort when the Emperor’s enemies still draw breath?

You are sitting on Isaiah’s bed, the blanket around your shoulders, your eyes wide. You have not spoken since he brought you here — barely whimpered when he popped your shoulder back into place. 

“…what is her purpose here?” Reuben says. He sits on his own bunk, opposite Isaiah, his afternoon reading (a hagiography of one of the more exciting saints) sprawled forgotten on his lap. 

“Chapter serf,” says Isaiah. 

“Do we need more serfs?”

”Yes. We do. The ones we have are — uh —very devout — “

The pair grimace. The fact that the serfs spend so long in prayer is to be admired, but it doesn’t often leave them much time to perform their duties. Isaiah is sick of doing his own mending because Serf Osric and Serf Jean are once more faint from fasting and all-night vigils to the glory of the Emperor. 

“Did the Marshal allocate her to you?”

Isaiah pulls an interesting series of expressions. ”Not…exactly,” he allows, unwilling to lie, and yet not wanting to admit the truth. “But he has been…busy, of late.”

”Yes. Busy. With crusading against the Emperor’s enemies.”

”Too busy to be concerned with this sort of thing,” Isaiah says, hesitantly, dangling the bait before Reuben, waiting for him to take it. Reuben leans forwards to better observe you. Isaiah feels a strange twist of pride when you don’t cringe from his regard, but meet his dark eyes with your own, your chin tipped up, your fingers curling into the blanket. Then you suddenly seem to remember who you are, and where you are, and drop your head in supplication. 

“Yes,” Reuben says, slowly. “Far too busy to be concerned with this. Don’t want to bother him.”

Isaiah utters a fervent prayer of thanks to the Emperor, feeling only a little guilty at thanking Him for his brother’s aid in deceiving their Marshal. But it wasn’t really deception, was it? They weren’t lying to him at all — they just weren’t telling him! Completely different. 

“Exactly! It’s beneath his concern.”

”She’s beneath his concern!”

In total accord, both Templars grin at each other, before hurriedly smoothing their faces into expressions of solemn piety. 

“Yes, brother. I am glad that the Emperor has seen fit to deliver unto us a — hang on, can you sew?” Reuben says, addressing you directly. You glance up at Isaiah, then stammer:

“Y-yes my lord —“

“Excellent.”

Reuben kicks up and off his bunk, rummages in the steel box that contains all his worldly possessions, then throws a wad of fabric at you. It unfurls into a dozen pairs of socks that look very much worse for wear.

“Start with those. Then my tunic needs restitching — the Emperor’s Most Holy Iconography is starting to get a bit tattered. Then —“

”Brother Reuben, you cannot hog the new serf —“

”I am offering her the chance to redeem the sins of her forefathers and mothers with holy labour.“

“Well, yes,” Isaiah protests. “But the holy labour cannot just be confined to your menial tasks—“

”Why — do you have menial tasks that need attending to?”

”Yes!” Isaiah says, thinking of his own increasing pile of ragged undergarments. “You can mend Brother Reuben’s socks, and then you must attend to my laundry —“

”And then she can mend my tunic —“

”No, then she must pray,” Isaiah says, belatedly remembering the importance of even the most lowly baselines in adding their voices to the Emperor’s endless praises. “And attend chapel —“

”Where Marshal Ezra may behold her?” Brother Reuben says. “The serf that we do not strictly speaking have, as she has not been allocated to us?”

Ah. Yes. He had forgotten about that.

”She must pray while she works,” Isiaih amends. “And abase herself before the Emperor’s mercy.”

”Yes. But pray quietly.”

”Do you know the appropriate psalms to recite while conducting your redemptive labour?” Isaiah says. You chew your lip.

“The correct litanies while uh…mending the socks of the Emperor’s chosen may have not been included in my education,” you say. Isaiah sighs. Truly, you came from a blighted world. 

“You will learn them,” he says. “The Emperor will guide your tongue. If you fail to learn them then it is a sign that you have not received His Grace, and in that case fear not — we will deliver unto you the Emperor’s Mercy.”

“She will learn them,” Brother Reuben says, with a fervent and touching belief in humanity’s dedication to the Emperor.

 Or, perhaps, a fervent desire to have socks without holes in them. 

—

And so it goes. The Emperor sees fit to decree that the brothers that share Reuben and Isaiah’s quarters remain on the planet to build a chapter monastery there, taking advantage of the natural resources that are now free for use. No new brothers are installed in the dormitory — a great shame, of course, but it does have the benefit of ensuring that Brother Reuben and Isiaiah do not have to face awkward questions about your presence. 

Isiaiah has never been in close contact with baseline humans before, save the serfs aboard the fleet, and he knows that it is his duty to ensure that you are free of Chaos’s taint, and suitably devoted to the God Emperor. As such, he ensures that you have the appropriate reading material, and tests you to ensure that you can recite the benedictions. The first time you stumbled over an incorrect word, he had sighed deeply and sorrowfully, reaching for his bolter. Brother Reuben had dragged him to the side and explained — in hurried whispers — that humans do not have the same eidetic memory as Astartes, and the misstep was not indicative of a lapse in faith but simply a sign of your humanity. 

Fascinating. 

There are other baseline issues that surprise both brothers. They sleep perfectly well on their hard metal bed frames, and their serfs often deliberately braid thistles into their blankets in order to better scourge their flesh for the sin of being mortal. You, however, suffer greatly for the first few days. You end up with deep purple shadows beneath your eyes, and you wince when performing even the simplest of tasks. 

“I am sorry my lords,” you stammer, when Isaiah confronts you on your constant yawning. “It is just — I am cursed to be a woman, and thus I do not have the fortitude that you have, and my body is frail and weak and cannot find rest in the blessed conditions that you enjoy.”

Reuben magnanimously permits you the use of a blanket and two of the pillows left by his brothers. Isaiah thinks that pandering to your body’s frailty could well be slowing your path to redemption, but he bows to his brother’s greater knowledge. 

He is perturbed by how much you rest — as much as six hours a night, if you are permitted to sleep continuously. Once again, Reuben explains that this is normal for the baselines. Besides, if Isaiah wants devout serfs, he is more than welcome to once more entrust his care to Osric and Jean. 

Isaiah stops questioning your rest hours swiftly. He does not want to go back to the days of having to convince a flagellant to polish his pauldrons. Without the brothers seeking them out, the old serfs seem happy to spend most of their time in the chapel, or wandering the halls while caning themselves and loudly declaring the Emperor’s benevolence to all. 

Yes, Isaiah wants to say, we know He is very benevolent and very merciful. He also wants you to do your damn jobs. 

The first real challenge occurs ten days into your time aboard the barge. You drop to your knees before Isaiah, assuming the penitential crouch you always take on when you address either of them. The sight of you prostrate at his feet — spine a neat curve, head bowed, hands clasped — always makes Isaiah’s stomach warm and twist. He enjoys seeing you so keen to atone, so eager to please the Emperor, and to receive  His mercy. 

“My lords, I humbly beg your permission to take a moment to clean myself �� I have not managed to do so since leaving my accursed planet, and I fear that I dishonour your presence by performing my duties while unwashed.”

”You have washed yourself,” Isaiah says, frowning. He’s seen you wipe your face and underarms with a wet rag, and you wash your hands every time you go to the bathroom (a sensitive experience for all concerned, given that one of them has to escort you to the nearest convenience, and the other has to stand watch to ensure no one sees you).

”Yes, but — a shower, my lords, that is what I am asking for.”

Isaiah sniffs the air thoughtfully. True, you do smell a little sourer than you did previously, but he has lived with far more odiferous people; Brother Reuben during his ‘bathing too frequently is decadent and an offence to the Emperor’ phase for one.

(That particular penitence had been ended when Marshal Ezra had thrown Reuben bodily into the icy plunge pool and announced to all that the Emperor suffered enough on His golden throne — the Templars did not need to add their stench to the tribulations He endured.)

”Humans require more maintenance than Astartes,” Reuben allows. “It cannot hurt to permit her to bathe.”

Still, they do not want to risk taking you to one of the communal showers, nor do they want to send you off to the serf quarters. Several of their brothers are already suspicious of their suddenly-improved attire, and the last thing either of them want is to face questions about your presence — or, worse still, a request to share. So Isaiah fetches a large copper tub used by the medicae for those too unwell to stand upright to bathe, and fills it with water, and Brother Reuben donates one of his scraps of yellow soap. 

“Th-thank you my lords,” you say, from your usual prostrate position; then you stand, a little unsure, eyeing them almost expectantly. The tub is set in the middle of the dormitory; Reuben is reading one of his favourite scriptures, while Isiaiah tends to his bolter. ”Uh — is it okay if I —“

You gesture at your smock. Isiaiah blinks at you. 

“Are you asking permission to bathe? I have said that you may — do not waste my time with needless questions.”

He turns back to his bolter, wiping the sacred oils onto the stock, murmuring the appropriate incantations to appease the machine spirit within. A flurry of fabric; a splash; a pained squeal. 

“This water is ice,” you yell, and Isaiah, startled, looks up. 

His hand remains looped around the bolter, polishing up and down, up and down — but he finds he cannot tear his gaze from you. The water comes up to your waist, but the rest of you is bare, your flesh goosepimpled from the cold, your arms clutching your torso. Your elbows press under your breasts, pushing them up, where they glisten under the harsh dorm lighting. As you shiver, one nipple flashes.

Brother Reuben stares as well. 

“Emperor preserve me,” he mutters, and Isaiah comes to his senses, turning his eyes aside. 

“Woman!” he says, sounding only a little strangled. “Cover yourself!”

Another splash. When Isaiah peeks up — just to check that you have ceased to offend the Emperor with your naked bosom — he is gratified to see that you are neck deep in water.

”S-sorry my lords,” you say, teeth chattering.

”You are a Chapter Serf of the Black Templars,” Isiaha says hotly, his grasp tightening on the bolter, his strokes growing surer and stronger, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm. “You must act in a way that is fitting for your station! Do not flaunt yourself so! You must conduct yourself with - with decorum, and modesty. Be demure! Mindful!”

Isaiah, a little breathless after his holy vitriol, looks to Brother Reuben for moral support. Reuben is looking fixedly at his book. 

“I saw nothing,” says the other Templar. “I am blind to that which does not beatify the Emperor Himself. The nudity of a serf has no bearing on my day’s prayer. It is as insignificant as the passage of a beetle along the floor.”

”Is that why you are reading your scripture upside down?”

Reuben does not look up, even as he turns the book the right way around. 

“Brother Isaiah, if you polish that gun any harder it is liable to blast a hole in the wall.”

”It is not loaded, Brother Reuben,” Isaiah snaps. “I am conducting my daily worship to the Machine Spirit.”

”Is that what you call it?” Reuben mutters, and Isaiah elects to ignore him. 

—

“Where did you obtain the uniform for her?” Isaiah says, the next day, his voice hushed. It is just after morning prayer-drills, and the pair are walking back to their dormitory to change, before their lunchtime prayer-drills.

”I — just from the other serf’s laundry,” says Reuben, casting a quick look around. The halls of the battle barge are more akin to that of a cathedral than a space-ship, with huge domed ceilings, and statues placed at regular intervals in well-lit alcoves. Isaiah normally takes great comfort in the stern regard of his immortalised forebears, but for some reason today he feels their gaze like a brand, like he is a neophyte and they are watching him commit some secret and terrible sin. 

“They do not fit her,” Isaiah says. Reuben frowns. 

“What do you mean?”

”I mean — “ Isaiah pauses for a moment, struggling to find the words. Emperor grant him Reuben’s lack of observational skills — truly, his brother is a sterling example of blind faith. “I mean…this morning. When she bent over to pick up the scripture. Her skirt. It — moved in a way that displayed her rump in a way that is most unbecoming to a serf.”

Reuben exhales, his jaw ticking minutely. “Oh? I did not notice. I do not make a habit of looking at the serf’s rear end.”

”I was not looking at her rear end!” Isaiah whisper-shouts. “It was…just there. Wiggling.”

”Wiggling?”

”Yes, wiggling.”

”Is our serf distracting you from your duties, Brother Isaiah?” Reuben says, in a tone of concern so genuine it feels like mockery. 

“No! I just — it would bring shame upon our crusade if our serfs are not modestly attired.”

”I quite agree. However, I would argue that our serf is very well attired. Covered up almost to the throat.”

”Almost,” Isaiah says. “When she bends over to wash her face in the morning, if you stand at the incorrect place in the dormitory, and you have the misfortune to be looking for a book on the other side of the room, and then you find yourself looking downwards at the incorrect moment so you may observe the flagstones, you will be cursed with a view straight down her sleeping smock — and you will see both her breasts, exposed quite fully! It is revolting. A blight upon the Emperor.”

”How hideous! We must of course remedy this at once.”

”At once.”

”However,” says Reuben, as they round a corner, approaching their dormitory. “In order for me to avoid benighting mine eyes with such a distasteful view, I would much appreciate it if next time the serf washes her face you were to demonstrate the precise angle that I should avoid standing at. For I only wish to see what is pure and just in the eyes of the Emperor, and in order to do so we must have a full understanding of where to avoid looking.”

Isaiah pauses for a moment. After all, is it not his duty to guide his brothers when they seek to avoid sin? “Yes,” he says. “I will ensure that I show you most where you must not stand, and where to avoid casting your eyes. And — if I may make a suggestion?”

”Of course, brother Isaiah.”

”Perhaps it is not the uniform. Perhaps it is the way the serf has learned to stand and bend. Coming as she does from such a depraved world, riddled with heresy, it is natural that she does not know the right and proper way for a servant of the Emperor to move. Perhaps we should ask her to bend over a few times for us, and thus we can best advise her on how to avoid unnecessary…wiggling.”

Reuben grins at the thought of guiding a sinner onto the path of the righteous. “Yes, brother Isaiah. I do believe we should.”

[ruizpizzaria]

FAZGANGG ROLL OUT ( FNAF MOVIE RAMBLES + EASTER EGGS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ) PT 1

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD ! ! ! !

ok first off i cant put into text or words about how i fucking insane i am about this movie so uhm ahahaha im not gonna or i might explode my head off and end up looking like cc's foxy's plush. THIS MOVIE WAS THE MOST LOVINGLY LOVING LOVE LETTER TO THE FANBASE AND I COULD NOT BE MORE NUTS ABOUT IT

SO IM GONNA WRITE ABT ALL THE LIL EASTER EGGS I NOTICED DURING MY WATCH OF THE MOVIE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ( many more rewatches to come )

UPDATE : PICS ADDED ! ! !

MATPAT AND CORYXKENSHIN CAMEOS ( NO MARKIPLIER D: )

do i even have to say anything about this??

MATPAT SERVING THEORIES SO HARD HE GOT HIRED AS A WAITRESS

CORY BREAKING ANKLES AS AN UBER DRIVER

the theater went ballistic yeah

SPARKY THE DOG CAMEO / FINALLY CANON LOL

MAN OH MAN WHATT I DDID NOT EXPECT THIS ONE.

In the movie we get a full glimpse of a disassembled sparky suit in parts in service -> max gets stuffed inside this suit later on or a suit next to sparky

the diner that matpat works at is also called Sparky's ( lol foreshadowing )

this is still pretty unreal to me.

FNAF BOOK LORE PLAYS A BIG PART IN THE STORY

There's a scene towards the end of the movie where Abby is hiding from foxy and runs to hide behind some arcade games -> reference to the sequence where Foxy is chasing Charlie in the silver eyes (lighting is almost one on one too)

The animatronics realize they're getting manipulated by afton /spring bonnie when Abby shows them the truth through a drawing depicting spring bonnie's true nature -> reference to Carlton showing the dead children that spring bonnie / afton is their enemy through drawing spring bonnie as their killer

CARL THE CUPCAKE

i just find it kinda funny that the guy eaten alive by cupcake was named carl seeing as how carl was cupcake's fanon name

also he can defy gravity too ig

THE SHIRT CARL ( ONE OF THE GOONS WHO CAME TO TRASH THE PLACE ) IS WEARING HAS A PRINT OF FNAF 6'S DRIVING MINI GAME

Chica's magic rainbow from FNAF world gets its own branded ice cream parlor chain :

EVERYTHING ABOUT ABBY HANGING OUT WITH THE FAZGANG.

Spaghetti and Pizza analogy

this one is a bit more obvious but I like how its used as away to illustrate how mike had to choose giving up abby or cc ( i refuse to call him garrett he is either evan or chris. )

Hospitalized Vanessa Theory

Now that Vanessa is hospitalized could she be filling the roles of cc or mike in fnaf 4 ( mainly cuz of hospital hallucinations )-> shes traumatized by the animatronics and could hallucinate back to her days in the hospital ( if she wakes up or if its a dream sequence or something not sure ) ; also could also work since she's afton's daughter

LIVING TOMBSTONE END CREDITS LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

point where i died in the theater and ascended

so yeah yk id say the trap was sprung successfully

I am the most normal about this movie

[rottenpumpkin13]

sephiroth wavering between his loyalty as a soldier and his true desires is gold since he’s canonically brainwashed in ever crisis but he still hates his job. i can imagine him doing this every time the others try to get him to break some rule.

genesis: sephiroth let’s sneak into the training room!

sephiroth: no that’s not allowed

sephiroth: it sounds fun though

sephiroth: wait but this explicitly goes against protocol #4577

sephiroth: but fun time with friends :) i like fun!

sephiroth: no this will go on my permanent record

sephiroth: …. well maybe i

genesis: RULES WERE MADE TO BE BROKEN YOU MOTHERFUCKER

You know how canon mentions they used to put apples on their heads and throw swords at each other to pierce the apple? Imagine how that tradition started:

Sephiroth: No, I really don't think breaking the rules and going against SOLDIER honor is a good idea.

*Lazard enters*

Lazard: Ah, Sephiroth. Professor Hojo wanted me to remind you about maintaining perfect discipline. No unauthorized activities, no frivolous behavior, and absolutely nothing that goes against what he taught you.

*Lazard exits*

Sephiroth: I'll put this apple on my head, and you two throw swords at me.

Angeal: You will die.

Sephiroth: Make sure my tombstone says 'fuck Hojo'.

[fluff-n-cookies]

Shigaraki hates you.

-----

notes: canon typical violence, written with fem reader in mind (I did not explicitly state the gender), Shigaraki is a warning of his own, major character death, idk man, I'm feeling angsty, can be read as platonic or romantic.

-----

You, you were just so... annoying, if he recalls correctly. the worst classmate a boy could have.

you were stupid(ly kind),

and spent most of your time chatting his year off during recess (gracing him with your wonderful voice and compliments),

in general, you were just... you (in the best way possible)

so why did it hurt so much when he ran to your house almost directly after disintegrating his whole family. why is it that you had to be the one to answer the door? why did he have to be cursed with hurting you?

he watched as your body reduced to dust after you tried to calm him down. by holding his hands.

he ran away not too long after that.

he likes to visit the school you both went to often, when All for one isn't looking. he even found your grave in the local graveyard. he places the little buttercups that would bloom in spring on your grave. the same ones that you would make little flower crowns out of and place them on his head. then declare him to be the best friend in the world.

he never says anything during his visits to you, simply reading and rereading your name on your tombstone. he'll then leave. and he'll come back.

but even here,

even in hell,

he'll still think about you.

ever wondering if maybe, just maybe, he'll climb his way up to you in heaven.

-----

blurb, the dabi fic is coming out ya'll don't worry.

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 1.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 4.6k

aegon wasn't as badly injured from Rook's Rest like in canon in this AU, he has a few burn scars near his torso but wasn't crippled / bedridden.

this is for my 100 followers poll. it was supposed to be a oneshot but will be a mini series in 3 or 4 parts. this is my first time writing aegon and it will also be somewhat of a character study.

thank you for 100 followers and everyone who participated in the poll. love <3 thank you @randomdragonfires for beta reading, mwah mwah.

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn

its been so long - the living tombstone • nobody - mitski

chapter specific warnings: awkward sex, p in v, virginity loss

Every day felt like a new restraint, a new button added to the collar choking around Aegon’s neck. He had done it– he had freed the realm of the false queen, his half-sister– and lost almost everything to do so. When did it end? When did he get to relax and run the realm as he saw fit, since they so intended to have them at the helm. He wore the conqueror’s crown, wielded his sword and bore his name and yet he couldn’t do as the conqueror actually did. Rule. He felt more like a dog than a dragon these days; but that was just a pattern in his life. They wanted him when they needed him and he was to shoulder their burdens as eldest son.

His grandsire kept breathing down his neck to secure another wife, another heir, another alliance brokered with another pompous house. 

“Listen to me, Aegon,” Otto began, his fingers laced together as he sat at his desk. He had summoned Aegon to the Tower of the Hand– he was summoning the King, rather than the King summoning him. Somehow, his council had let Otto weasel his way back into the position of Hand, Aegon’s mother in tears, pleading for it. There wasn’t anyone else fit for the job since Criston had died– and he was never really fit for it anyhow. “We must move quickly to provide you with a new wife. The realm won’t remain stable if we tarry in producing an heir for the throne.”

Aegon sat in the seat across from him, feeling more like a child than a King. He twisted the signet ring on his pinky finger. “It’s too soon. It would be an insult to Helaena.” he replied, not looking up at Otto. Helaena had only passed a few moons earlier and the wound was still fresh for all of them. Aegon never loved her like a wife– how could he, they were too different, too young– but he cared deeply for her as his sister and the mother of his children. Even thinking about taking another wife this soon felt like a betrayal. He would be like his father then.

A small huff and a rustling of papers was heard– Aegon was still too distracted by his signet ring, the thin light filtering through the half drawn blinds, causing a small glint off of the bronzed metal. He didn’t want to look up to see the expression on his grandsire’s face, he knew it was one of disappointment. Aegon couldn’t remember the last time that someone hadn’t looked at him with contempt, disappointment, melancholy. 

“You must understand. You have a duty to the realm–” 

“Fucking duty– don’t speak to me of it. I’ve done my duty for enough lifetimes. I let you put me on the throne and usurp my sister and look where that’s gotten us? Everyone is fucking dead, Otto. Jaehaerys, Maelor, Helaena, Aemond,” he paused for a moment, lifting his head up to meet the Hand’s gaze head on, “Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey– do I need to proceed? The majority of our bloodline is wiped out because of you and your ambition.”

Otto snorted, standing up from his desk slowly. He grabbed a decanter of wine, pouring them both a goblet. “You misunderstand. Everything I’ve done has been… for our family’s legacy– for the realm,” he placed the glass stopped back into the carafe, “Don’t you dare act as if I am not hurting for the loss of family– but war is war, boy. People die. It is unfortunate that… the ones close to us did. But we can’t live with our head in the clouds any longer, there is a realm to run and the crown comes with responsibilities. A wife and heir are one of those paramount responsibilities.”

“I have an heir. I still have one remaining child– Jaehaera is my heir. I deem it.” he spoke quickly, staring at the goblet of wine. He had reduced his intake of alcohol since the war ended– but the need for it was always there, always aching. He suddenly felt parched. Giving Otto a haughty stare, he took a sip from the glass, feeling his muscles instantly relax.

“Don’t be daft– have you so quickly forgotten what happened when the King last named a female heir?”

“It wasn’t that Rhaenyra was a woman, Otto. People would’ve learned to adjust if…” Aegon took another sip, clearing his throat, “If she hadn’t been infatuated with her freak of an uncle, you would’ve been able to control her easier, hm? It's always been you and mother behind the crown these past two decades– not me, nor my father.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Otto griped back, gripping his glass, “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about. Rhaenyra–” he stopped, taking a breath, “Rhaenyra is dead. They’re all dead, you’re right. But there is still the whole of the Seven Kingdoms requiring a leader, especially now. A leader with a united front with a queen and babe. I won’t argue further on this matter.”

Aegon acquiesced. He would rather deal with Otto’s venomous viper tongue talking him into things he didn’t want to do now instead of his mother visiting him hours later in hysterics– he couldn’t bear it. Alicent was more of a mess now than ever. “Fine. I leave this in your very capable hands,” he stood up, swiping the whole jug of wine, “At least find me a pretty one.”

–

She was plain, unbelievably plain. Long, curled brown hair desperately in need of a trim, a poorly tailored dress that needed to be more fitted at the waist, stature too small and unremarkable to stand up to anyone of importance. Oh, and picked cuticles, the spots of red eking out from her nail beds. Mayhaps she and his mother would get along just jolly, then. She was to be his prospective wife and bear him more heirs. He wanted to shove it back in the council’s face and say he has an heir, his only living child, Jaehaera. Melancholy and withdrawn as she was, she was his heir.

The council disagreed, allowing Borros Baratheon to shove his last unwed daughter at him like a piece of meat that no one wanted.

Her eyes wafted up to glance at him, every move of hers uncertain, cautious. She was so deathly aware of each minute gesture, her posture having to be adjusted to straighten every few minutes. 

Lyanna Baratheon wasn’t of prominent knowledge and reputation like her sisters, aptly named ‘the Four Storms’ – she didn’t remind Aegon at all of a stag or a doe, but rather something more diminutive and easily killed, like a prey animal. Mayhaps a rabbit– it would be an apt description, as she had giant eyes, brown –almost black– in their hue, a shiny glaze over them as she stared at the ground. Every so often, their eyes would meet, brown to violet, and she would look apt as Aegon thought she was.

A rabbit begging for its life.

Borros Baratheon stood beside her, murmuring something into her ear. He was a boorish oaf of a man who couldn’t even read– Aegon wasn’t the brightest star in the sky when it came to matters of literature, that’d always been his brother’s realm, but atleast he could fucking read. He thought it quite hysterical that his house sigil was that of a Stag when Lord Borros reminded him more of a boar. Mayhaps he should change it. 

As he continued to whisper to his daughter, her expression went from sordid to panicked, then back to sordid. She wasn’t very good at masking her emotions– she would need to learn if she were to survive at the Keep. The tips of her fingers twitched slightly and she was obviously holding herself back from tearing into her nail beds. 

“Lord Borros,” Aegon broke the tension, “Perhaps I should show your daughter around the gardens while you speak with my grandsire. We have the most beautiful gardens here and I’d imagine that Storm’s End wouldn’t have something quite as grand,” he glazed over Borros’ blank stare, “due to the storms, of course.” 

Lord Baratheon adjusted his doublet, which was far too small for him— did the Stormlands not have a proper fucking tailor? — and nodded, “Yes, that would be amicable. It would do some good to familiarize yourself with one another before the wedding in a week’s time.” 

Aegon’s throat felt parched. He knew that they were speeding things along but he didn’t anticipate it to be this fast. Grabbing a bottle of wine from a nearby servant, he descended back to Lyanna, intent on whisking her away as quickly as possible. Not because he found her particularly interesting, rather the opposite, but he needed an excuse to get out of the room. The insistent thrum of his pulse in his neck was all too loud. His arm looped under Lyanna’s, “Come, my lady,” he hummed, trying to seem like he was somewhat collected and kingly and not on the edge of chugging the entire carafe of wine and smashing it over the next poor fucker’s head. “To the gardens.” 

He practically strung along the poor girl, who hurriedly agreed and tried her best to keep up. “Y-yes, your grace,” she mewled, her feet tapping on the ground at irregular rhythms as she hung onto Aegon’s arm, bouncing against the stone walkway toward the gardens, “King’s Landing is… very beautiful, my king– your subject must be very pleased.”

As they descended the cobbled steps down to the garden, Aegon eyed her warily, “Did your father tell you to say that?”

“N-no, not exactly–” 

“He did. Anyone with half of a brain and a working nose knows that this accursed city smells of shit. You shouldn’t lie, my lady. You’re quite bad at it,” he took a small breath as he looked at her expression– the poor thing was on the verge of tears. “You will get better in time,” he continued with a slightly softer tone, “This Keep is full of great liars and you don’t seem… too much like your father. I am sure you will pick up quickly. How old are you?”

“Nineteen, your grace.” 

Aegon resisted giving a derisive snort, instead uncorking the wine bottle and tossing the stopper into the grass, “You’re quite young, then,” he took a swig, feeling the bitter tasting liquid coat his mouth, “All the better for heirs. Or so I’m sure that we’ve both been told.” 

In truth, some would consider her a bit late in age to be married– but Aegon didn’t care as long as he wasn’t robbing the cradle like his father did to his mother, or Daemon to Rhaenyra. He was twenty-six himself and tried to remember what he was like when he was nineteen; he couldn’t exactly pinpoint an exact memory. It was mostly a blur.

“I am… hopeful to provide you with many healthy heirs, my king,” she replied, her words sounding rehearsed. She is as poor of an actress as she is a liar, then. She paused for a moment, looking at her hands, “I… do not wish to replace the late queen, her grace, Helaena– I merely wish to fulfill my duty to the realm and my family– I am terribly… sorry to hear about Helaena, my king. As well as your prince brothers. War is a terrible thing.”

Aegon blinked profusely a few times. Her words after her pause sounded genuine– mayhaps she is capable of thinking for herself. She seemed… softhearted, even if a bit naive. He regarded the bottle in his hand for a moment, swishing it around. No one had really apologized to him for his losses– the enumerable amount of them he’s gone through these past few years. They all bowed their heads and wouldn’t meet his gaze, as if their blood was all on his hands. Mayhaps it was. He swallowed, his mouth pursed in a thin line, “... War is indeed a terrible thing, my lady.”

They walked for a few hours around the garden, talking about various things. Aegon still found her quite boring and uninteresting to look at– she wasn’t ugly by any means, and could be considered pretty, but she was just so terribly plain that it bored him to tears. Her speech was all faux and he tried to eek out any genuineness to her words through different subjects– all to no avail. It seemed the sore subject of Aegon’s family was the only thing to break her from her carefully crafted script.

Eventually, they parted ways– for the better, he thought. She was a fine match, a fine age, a fine vessel for his seed to produce a royal heir and whatever other innocuous thing his grandsire needed from him. 

What a terribly dreadful life he’s let himself sink into.

That night, he drained two bottles of Dornish Red, falling much into the same state of mind he had when he was nineteen. Wandering to the Street of Silk, he whored and drank himself into a state of sloven mania.

In the midst of his drunken ramblings, he wondered if he could ever find someone who would truly love him or if his opportunity had already passed.

– 

The wedding followed in the timeline that Borros and Otto had set– as quickly as possible. The council dipped into the coffers to make it happen, it was to be an extravagant event, a new beginning for the realm. Artisans, fine bakers and cooks were all hired to make the wedding a facet, stringing up red, green, yellow and black banners, making dozens of delicate pastries and even cooking six turduckens to line the tables.

It was all lavish and opulent– and Lyanna could not feel more out of place. The past week at the Keep had been a whirlwind of planning, gown fittings, flower picking. Her sisters were there in attendance, speaking up more than she on what to pick. It was fine with her, as she couldn’t bring herself to care for it. The gaudiness of it all made her feel ill. 

She had only met with Aegon the one time, the first time. Lyanna felt she made a terrible impression— she was so nervous that day that she’d vomited twice that morning, all while her father screamed at her to get it right, to say exactly as he told her to. For the most part, she had done just that— played the perfect little puppet for him and said all those empty words that meant nothing. 

She was meant to see Aegon at least three more times before the wedding, as there were a few dinners arranged between their two families. He had been absent for all, his mother citing that he was unable to attend for various reasons but nothing overtly specific.

Alicent Hightower was a nice lady— she was warm to Lyanna, talking to her at the dinners when no one else had bothered. She was the person who Lyanna felt most comfortable with in the Keep and was grateful that she was to be her good-mother. Alicent was a bit frayed at the ends from the loss of her other children; she was haunted, her eyes constantly red-rimmed and murmuring prayers under her breath. 

The morning of the wedding, Lyanna was summoned to Alicent’s solar to get ready. 

She knocked on the door, “Your grace— it’s Lyanna.”

“Come in, my dear,” she called out, a maid opening the door to let her in. “How are you feeling this morn?” Alicent was perched on the settee when Lyanna came in, and immediately rushed over to her, taking the young girl’s hands in hers. 

“Quite nervous,” Lyanna responded, her hands quivering ever so slightly, even under the warm touch of Alicent. “May I speak plainly, your grace?” 

“Of course,” she ushered Lyanna to the loveseat and had the maid pour them both tea, then promptly shooed her out. “It’s just us now, speak your mind, sweetling.” 

“I-I am afraid that… Aegon will not like me. I fear I didn’t make a good first impression— he seemed quite bored of me.” 

Alicent took a sip of her tea, giving a small sigh. “I will do you the favor of not sugarcoating words and speak plainly like you have done with me. Aegon will not like you,” she pursed her lips into a thin line, twisting the signet ring on her finger, “Aegon is a creature of debauchery and sin— and you are a good, pious girl. You are like oil and water.” her brown eyes met Lyanna’s, her expression softening. The two women had a fast camaraderie, praying together each morning in the Sept. “You… may not love him, or even like him— but there is a duty upon you to fulfill. It is a burden we carry as women, my dear. We are always behest to the men in our lives,” she stopped, her eyes glazing over with a far-away look, “I don’t mean to be discouraging. You are a… good hearted young woman and I believe you can channel that into something positive as the Queen.” 

Lyanna felt her stomach quivering at Alicent’s words, her skin flushing. “I… appreciate your plain speech, your grace. I just… do not wish to displease him.”

Alicent’s mouth twitched at each end as if she were mulling something over. “It will be hard to please him, my dear. You are nothing like the women that usually please him,” she wiped a hand down her face, “You remind me so much of myself, Lyanna. Pushed into something you are… ill-suited for. You’re a sweet and kindhearted girl and I don’t wish for you to tear yourself apart on the inside and feel as if you’re not good enough for him– you are, you are too good for him, too pure, too-” Alicent took a measured breath, “You are not what he wants and you never will be, my dear. It will do you well to know that now rather than years later. There is always someone else in their eyes– women like you and I do what we can. I pray you will find things that keep you happy.”

Lyanna picked up her tea cup with trembling hands, taking a sip. There seemed to be more to Alicent’s words than them just being about Aegon– but she didn’t want to push it. Dipping her head, she thanked her good-mother-to-be once more.

– 

“Wake up, wake up!” a voice boomed, rousing Aegon from his haze as a carafe of cold water was poured on him. The girl latched to his cock like a leech let out a shrill scream and scrambled away.

“Fucking hell– who the fuck?” Aegon slurred, blinking profusely half a dozen times before his vision came into focus. It was one of the Kingsguard, one more behest to his grandsire than him– and his grandsire, Otto, who had the now empty container of water in hand.

“Wake up, you ingrate,” Otto growled, grabbing his grandson by his collar, hoisting him up onto his feet, smacking his cheek gently. “Your wedding is in two hours and you’re passed out in a whorehouse. You’re the king, for the Seven’s sake– I thought you left this debauchery behind, atleast have your whores at the keep instead of being in these pits of sin.” 

“You can put a number of different hats on a bear, you know,” Aegon slumped against the wall, “Many kinds of hats; a hood, a felted dante, a linen coif, a cowl, a straw hat, a jester’s garb– heh, that’d be quite funny–” 

“Is there a point to your drunken babbling, Aegon?”

“Yes, ah– you can put many types of hats on a bear and change its look but at the end of the day, its still just a fucking bear,” he straightened out his stained tunic, “Point being– you can stick a crown on my head, put a sword in my hand and put me through a war to keep me on that fucking throne but guess what, grandsire, I am still just a bear at the end of the day.”

Otto stared at him, brow furrowed. “You aren’t a bear, you’re a dragon and a king, so act like it. You are getting married in two hours and you look like a sloven mess. You’re lucky that Borros is as blind for power and recognition as he is or he would take his daughter back to Storm’s End and you’ll be stuck with the next best choice.” 

“That boring rube of a girl was my best choice? I must be fucked, then, either way.”

Otto and his Kingsguard dog dragged Aegon back to the keep, and observed while maids scrubbed him clean, red and raw. He was put in a nicely fit green suit, his House cloak strapped to his shoulders. It was a whirlwind of events that led up to the doors of the Sept being opened and Aegon ushered in.

His stomach churned and he felt sixteen again, forced to wed his sister. He remembered being hardly conscious throughout the ceremony, fumbling over his cloak and practically smothering Helaena in it.

He looked down the aisle at Lyanna, who was dressed in a pale yellow dress with long, flowing sleeves. She had a high collar with black lining and antler embroidery all over the garment. It was actually well fitted this time, likely thanks to his mother, and it turned out she actually had a figure, with plush hips and a well-endowed chest. Her brown hair was half up, half down with an assortment of intricate braids– it reminded him of how Rhaenyra used to wear her hair and he wondered who thought to style it like that, and he wondered if he was the only one who noticed.

As he walked down the aisle, he saw his mother in the front row– she was crying, thumbing a pendant in the shape of a Seven Pointed Star. 

The ceremony was a blur to him, as he put the cloak over her shoulders and sealed their union with a kiss– a chaste one. She tasted like lavender tea. As he pulled back, he noticed that her eyes were rimmed with tears, and he felt the familiar sting of tears in his own eyes.

The feast was much the same, as he drank himself into a numbing stupor. He only had one moment of clarity, as some of the rowdy guests began to poke and prod at Lyanna, talking about the bedding ceremony. She looked visibly uncomfortable, picking at her nail beds under the table. Something about the sight of her discomfort and pain stirred something in Aegon that he couldn’t name– maybe he was feeling sentimental from the alcohol, but a surge of possessiveness flowed through him. He wasn’t known to be possessive, much the opposite in fact. But the egregious actions of these men pawing at his wife– their fucking queen, mind them– making disgusting insinuations. If she were a whore, it’d be different– but she was so… innocent, so coerced in all of this just as he was, it felt wrong. 

Aegon snapped, slamming his cup down, “There won’t be any fucking bedding ceremony,” he growled, “My wife and I will be retiring to our chambers– alone. And if… any one of you lays another paw on her, you will lose it.”

Lyanna stared at Aegon, those huge brown eyes wide. Her lips were parted slightly as he once again strung her along the halls to his– no, their– chambers. She was shaking.

Once in their chambers, he let go of her, uncorking another bottle of wine and taking a swig. “I presume you think that this is where I will fuck you, hm? Stick my prick in you and make an heir and we will all live happily ever after like a child’s storybook.”

Lyanna stared down at her feet. “It… it would be… the duty of husband and wife to consummate–”

“Fuck duty! I’m not going to fuck some weepy eyed maiden because my old fuck grandsire said so. I don’t have need of you in that way.”

Her hands were trembling as she unlaced the back of her dress, her movements autonomous– she was doing what she thought she should be doing in this situation. She began to undress, slipping her gown off and leaving her in her silken shift, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. The sight of her body, soft, stirred something within him for a moment, like a spark trying to ignite kindling.

“We don’t have to do this, Lyanna,” he murmured, using her name for the first time. He put down the wine bottle. “We can wait.”

“N-no! Please, I want to– please,” Lyanna whispered, practically pleading for it, as if she wanted to get it over with. “Please.”

Aegon rubbed a hand down his face. “Get on the bed then. Lie on your stomach.”

She did as she was told, laying flat on the bed on her stomach. She clutched some pillows as a lifeline.

He knew he should warm her up, he knew that they should want to touch one another, he should want to see her face– but he didn’t. He couldn’t bear to look at her face, or touch her for longer than was necessary. He barely shimmied down his trousers before he began poking at her entrance with a half-hard cock, partially trying to give her a moment to get used to the sensations, and partially trying to find where he was supposed to stick it– he knew, of course, he’d fucked his way through King’s Landing and then some, but he hadn’t fucked many maidens, and especially not when he was blind drunk.

Eventually, he hit home and slid into her, his movements slow at first. He could hear her whimpers and knew they weren’t of pleasure. It reminded him of his wedding night with Helaena where they’d both cried– all the memories of that night came flooding back, causing him to falter.

Lyanna looked back at him, her eyes puffy and red, “I-Is it over?” 

Aegon swallowed sharply, cringing as he stared at her. The moment of arousal he had– purely from stimulation alone– was gone now, his half-hard erection deflating completely. “Fuck– yes, it’s over.” he didn’t have the heart to tell her that it in fact had hardly started before it was over– and not in the good way. He pulled out of her, taking in a deep breath as he walked to the water basin and soaked a cloth with warm water, offering it to her. “Wipe yourself– it will help with the… pain… and blood.” 

She took the cloth, wiping away the remnants of their half-fulfilled consummation. “I-I’m… sorry,” Lyanna whispered, sniffling, “I know I am not what you want.” 

His mouth was pulled into a thin line as he turned away. “You’re right. You aren’t.”

They fell into bed next to each other and Aegon’s mind was swimming as he tried to sleep. He didn’t know what he wanted. He never wanted any of this– he just wanted to be a kid again with no responsibilities, with all of his siblings, even Rhaenyra– he would’ve… he would’ve been nicer to all of them, he wouldn’t of picked on Aemond, he would’ve gotten to know Rhaenyra better, he would’ve played with Helaena’s bugs, he would’ve taught Daeron all of the secrets of the castle. He would’ve told his grandsire to fuck off when they were to crown him and had Sunfyre char him to a crisp and given the crown to Rhaenyra.

He would’ve been loved then.

He just wanted to be loved.

[koipudding]

jing yuan has just sentenced his friend to life in prison. life.

in the most torturous of places on the ship… and his other friend, wrinkles and silver hair… comes back wrong. comes back with dark hair like how he was fifty years ago, and a smile that doesn’t quite match the glare in his eyes.

jing yuan has killed and has been killed. he’s been brought back from wounds he should not have healed from, and dehydrated from his own tears.

he remembers the blood, the warm liquid when he killed mom—master— and tried to send her off alone, when Yingxing and Dan Feng were off, busy with work, and the trio had sent Baiheng off earlier during that decade.

he remembers the day he saw her again, a few hundred years later, still the same and still somewhat fond of him.

he tries to forget, he indulges in a few vices just to try and push it away, what harm can it do? his mind is already eroding and he has someone who will take his spot if he somehow perishes for good (he doesn’t know if he can even die at this point. dan heng stabbed him and yet he recovered like it was nothing. he doesn’t feel anymore.) so why bother? he asks.

why bother trying when all he does is suffer and feel a dull ache that never leaves?

the death of jingliu is in the back of his throat, burning whenever he feels the exhaustion of his position linger.

the death of her lover, her best friend, bai heng is in his knee. he feels it most when it rains.

the death—the sentencing—of Dan Feng, and the imprisonment of Dan Heng is in his left wrist. the pain of writing the decree, the pain of forcing himself to let Dan Heng go.

the pain of Yingxing’s death is in his right wrist, but Blade’s appearance stirs something in the left shoulder, right inside his shoulder blade, something rots. his glaive suddenly feels heavy, and he forgets what Jingliu taught him.

his parents’ disapproval weighs down his shoulders. it hurt carrying those books, lifting those weights to make it into the Cloud Knights.

He forgets what joy is like. he has his moments of laughter, but somehow it feels wrong.

dan feng is gone. yingxing is gone. laughter feels wrong without them, feels bad without them, like eating a fish. bones dig into his throat and pierce his tongue.

“…it’s raining.” he whispers.

“there is no rain on the Luofu.” Fu Xuan whispers silently.

“…It is raining.” he whispers with such… conviction Fu Xuan nods.

“…indeed it is.” she doesn’t know what to say, not even the omniscia can help here, not when the General is so picky about what mask he wears in front of her.

“…” she opens an umbrella over his head.

“…”

it goes still over the tombstones. just the four plaques and small flask of booze and the finest moon cakes he can offer. it’s that time of year, right before fall.

“General!” March runs over with Yanqing, the two have been training with Yunli…

he wipes away his tears… but caelus and stelle still see. Dan Heng sees.

“…jing yuan.” he whispers.

Dan Heng can feel it, the tombstones, the etchings in the plaques, he knows this place, having visited in his past as Dan Feng when Baiheng had died.

“…They wouldn’t have wanted you to linger here.” he whispers, dragging the General away.

“That’s right!” yanqing looks so.. earnest. “General i—i didn’t know them, not like you but… i think they would’ve wanted you to… forgive yourself.”

his throat burns, the knee spasms and his wrists ache.

“you’re right.” he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t try to pretend.

“…perhaps you can show me what you and Yunli have taught March.” he pats his student’s head as caelus and stelle dig through the trash cans nearby.

It’s so easy for him to be oh so passive. He’s lucky to still have people who guide him back.

i’m sorry if i got anything wrong. this isn’t necessarily complaint with canon as it’s emotionally, not factually fueled. i did this for a good time and i’ve been in the feels for a bit.

[val-creative]

Fictober Day 26: “you were the first”

Lydia/Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice Movies)

For @fictober-event Day 26 prompt!

Type: Fanfiction | Fandom: Beetlejuice (All Media) | Ship: Lydia Deetz/Beetlejuice | Warnings & Triggers: Past Implied/Referenced Underage, Canon-Typical Behavior, Mild Language.

---

"Didja really hafta pop me like a balloon back there?"

Leaning over Mr. Maitland's town-model of Winter River, Lydia nods purposely. "You wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Exactly like Rory wouldn't. I see that now," she monotones. "Besides... I don't like red."

The nasally snort of amusement comes from below.

"Hell, I remember when ya used to. Running around in your red frickin' spiderweb cape ya would wear all the time." A mini Beetlejuice sighs, perched up on a model-tombstone and chin-handsing.

A tingle of a memory crawls in Lydia's head, but she can't grasp it.

"Prettiest little thing I damn near ever saw... always bugging me and calling me and wanting to visit the Netherlands with me... the pair of us, causing chaos, having tons of blood orange milkshakes..."

At the expressionless look, he grunts. "Huh. Ya really forgot that."

"Sorry," Lydia says honestly, not entirely sure why she feels bad.

Beetlejuice snorts and spits at the ground. It comes off more as hiding his disappointment of all things. "I figured as much.... I mean, not to get all sappy and what-not, but... ya were the first one I had."

She squints, curious.

"The first?" Lydia repeats, watching an unfamiliar emotion cross him.

"Friend."

The tingle spreads, and forms clearer, and Lydia discovers herself grinning absently at the memory of Spooky, Lydia's favorite tree, and Disasterpeace Theatre. "Aw, Beej... that's so sweet," she murmurs, and then Lydia clamps her fingers tightly over her mouth, wide-eyed.

Beetlejuice cackles in delight, slapping his knees and hopping off the tombstone. "There! There's my girl! I knew ya were still in there!"

"Oh, the hotel!" Lydia gasps. "Hotel Hello! You took me and Dad and Delia!" she insists excitedly. "It was like a straight out of Dracula... ohh, I can't believe I forgot so much from when I was younger..."

After a moment, Lydia frowns.

"Come on now. What got ya down, babes?"

"I told you that I wanted you out of my life," she admits, and Beetlejuice shrugs, his moss-covered face relaxing. "I didn't mean it--well, I did mean it at the time--but I didn't remember everything--"

"Don't sweat it," Beetlejuice interrupts, chipper. "I've 'eard worse."

Lydia leans herself onto her knees, folding her arms and setting her head on the table's edge with them. "Could we start over?" she asks.

"Of course! Anything for the gal I've got my heart set on!"

She blows air out of her lips loudly. "We're not getting married," Lydia says, shaking her head. "Besides... I don't want to marry anyway."

Beetlejuice winks, making Lydia's mouth quirk up.

"That makes two of us."

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Please put me down for Tombstone for 5, 7, 10, 12.

What is their worst memory?

Its a even split between when he almost drowned at the age of 10, the time he got shot the first time, or when he first got his thicker skin. 

What’s one thing they’d destroy if they could, and why?

If he knew who his father was hed love to destroy his grave. For leaving him. For ruining more than one life. 

What trait immediately draws them to other people?

Their reliability and their control. If they are very reliable and able to maintain a level of control over themselves, he is interested in getting to know them. 

Who do they trust the most? Who do they trust the least? 

Himself, hammerhead, and then peter. In that order right now. And for least? Of people he actively talks to? Tinkerer. never know whats his plan.

(Questions from this post)

[jeannereames]

do we have any idea of what hephaistion actually looked like??

Hephaistion’s Image

I finally have access to my books again, so tackling this much-delayed query. The short answer, unfortunately, is…

We haven’t got a bloody clue what he looked like.

Curtius tells us he was larger in physique/taller than Alexander, and nice-looking (3.12.16), but in a manly way (7.9.19). Lysippos and Philon both made portraits of him, and Aetion painted him into his “Marriage of Alexander and Roxane.” After his death, other Hetairoi at court commissioned portraits of him to please Alexander. None of these images survive.*

We have just ONE named statue of him, originally from Pella, now in the Thessaloniki Museum (photo mine). Even though it’s labeled, it’s a generic image. It’s not what he looked like. All other statues called “Hephaistion” are guesswork.

The difficulty with ancient portraiture is that, too often, busts/statues don’t come down to us labeled. If enough do, we can create a “portraiture tradition,” which means certain distinguishing features became standardized across (virtually) all images, allowing us to identify an individual. Then we can look at unlabeled statues/busts and say, “Yeah, that’s ___.” **

Another problem is the tendency for Greek sculptors to make shit up. Recall that at certain points in history, portraiture didn’t exist. Nobody making busts of, say, Homer knew what he’d looked like. All those statues labeled “Homer”? That’s just what later sculptors thought he ought to have looked like, down to the closed “blind” eyes. Folks, we’re not even sure Homer was blind! This mythologizing is related to another tendency in Greek sculpture called “idealizing.”

So, some quick art-history terminology … we have three basic ways of talking about people in ancient sculpture: idealized (and mythologized), a portrait, and a likeness. The latter two are not the same. A portrait means a recognizable person (those standardized features), but it may differ according to workshop style or be partly idealized. (The Akropolis head of Alexander below is partly idealized; it’s Alexander “prettied-up.”) By contrast a likeness looks like the person, warts and all. Portraiture was FAR more popular. It’s no different from the various filters you can apply to photos today before posting them on social media. A likeness is the plain image the camera takes before you “fix” it.

By the Archaic period into Classical Greece, we see a drive towards accuracy in anatomy, but aiming for what they considered physical perfection. They’d use Olympic (or other contest) victors to model (male) bodies, and the face would be a generic ideal young man (ephebe). This will be oval with smooth cheeks, a round chin, straight nose, small bow mouth and high, smooth forehead with level, almond eyes. The hair is tightly coiled and close to the skull.

This ideal ephebe is the ancient version of a male model. If you walk around the National Museum in Athens, you’ll see dozens of faces just like it, especially on the gods. Btw, it wouldn’t photograph that well—features aren’t sharp enough—which is why our modern canons of beauty have morphed a bit.

Art historians (or even just those of us who’ve spent decades looking at these statues) are decent at picking out these “generic” faces. I’m giving you a few below, so you can see. The first is Hermes, the second the Marathon boy, and the third is the Getty head of “Hephaistion.” This is why we say that’s not a portrait.+

Now, go back and look at the image of “Hephaistion” on the dedication bas-relief above. You’ll see why we say it’s generic ephebe-style. To understand why, it’s important to know how these stone-carving workshops operated.

It takes time to make these. So, if you want a tombstone or dedicatory plaque, you don’t walk in and order one from scratch to be delivered next week … or even next month. For something wholly original, it takes months, and you’re expected to pay accordingly. Only the very wealthy can afford individualized portraits or statue groups. By very wealthy I don’t mean the ancient equivalent of “He drives a jaguar and lives in a gated community.” I mean the ancient equivalent of “He has chauffeurs and lives on ten acres with private security.” See the difference?

Workshops kept a stock of pre-cut stones for shoppers to choose from. These were what most people purchased. A nice, high-end figured gravestone is still one of these standard images. They’d have them for hoplites, young mothers, girls, teen boys, etc. etc. So also with dedicatory plaques (as ours for Hephaistion). These also had certain typical elements, like a horse (recalling Hero the Horseman, a common figure in Thracian and Macedonian art), or the pattela plate in the woman’s hand for an offering, etc. Buyers would visit a workshop to see what they could afford. It would then be personalized with an inscription. Only the wealthiest could afford to personalize an image.

Our dedicatory statue (SEG 40: 547) has an inscription that reads, “Diogenes, to the Hero Hephaistion.” That’s kind of short, suggesting the purchaser didn’t have oodles to spend. I find two other things interesting on this statue, other than the quality, which is good if not super-exceptional. First, I note that the spelling of his name is Attic, not Doric. I explain why this matters in my article “Becoming Macedonian.” The other interesting thing is the fact the dedication comes from a man…but it’s a woman on the statue making an offering. Maybe this is meant to be Diogenes’s wife or mother, but it’s one reason I think it a pre-made statue. If it were personalized, we’d see Diogenes, not Ye Generic Matron.

Another clue is the date: between 330-320, but it MUST be on the lower end as Hephaistion died late in 324 and wasn’t declared a hero until just before Alexander’s own death in mid-323. Assume travel time for news to spread and we’re looking at very late 323/early 322 or later (the dating of the stone could be off a bit). Nor was Hephaistion standing there as a model. Ergo, the purchaser chose a generic ephebe.++ And no, we have no idea who Diogenes was. Not the cynic philosopher (who died in 323 in Corinth, around the same date as Alexander, supposedly).

So, we’ve no statue we can securely call Hephaistion that’s even a portrait, never mind a likeness.

A few other statues are commonly tagged “Hephaistion,” one from Kyme (top) and another from Alexandria (bottom). Both are paired with an Alexander, but the faces of the two Hephaistions don’t look alike. One (Kyme) has a long face, big nose, very down-slanted brows, and small flat ears; the other (Alexandria) has a small nose, oval face, even eyes, and big flaring ears. If you look at the Alexander found with each, you can detect the workshop styles, and if the Alexanders do show identifying features associated with his portraiture, the Hephaistions do not. In fact, the Alexandrian statue is sometimes labeled “Demetrio,” as its identification is disputed.

Just pairing a statue with Alexander does not an Hephaistion make. 😉

The Alexander Sarcophagus from Sidon presents a different sort of problem. The middle male figure on horseback on the long-side battle scene, and the figure on horseback behind the lion on the other long side have both been identified as Hephaistion. But that identification depends on the sarcophagus belonging to Abdalonymus, who, according to some stories, got his position as King of Sidon from Hephaistion. The Alexanders on the sarcophagus are easy to spot, but off to the side. A Persian figure is centered, as is this other Greek male. If it IS Abdalonymus’s sarcophagus, Hephaistion would be a good guess. But Mardonius has also been reasonably proposed as the sarcophagus owner, in which case, that’s probably not Hephaistion.

Even if it is Hephaistion…we have the same problem. It’s a very generic ephebe face. (It would have been made years after Hephaistion was in Sidon, btw.)

A few other images out there have been proposed, but largely argued down. I still like the oversized bronze head from the Prado Museum. It’s more clearly somebody’s portrait, and it’s the one I had in mind when I went looking for a model for the (old, original) cover of Dancing with the Lion. But it’s been more securely tagged as Demetrios Poliorketes. One big problem is that, not only is it unlabeled, we don’t even know where it was found. A number of statues are purchased in the back allies of Istanbul or Thessaloniki or Rome or… (you get the idea).

I’ll address a final image that’s been more recently proposed: the non-Alexander figure (below, left) in the stag-hunt mosaic from the House of the Abduction of Helen, in Pella. It’s possibly from the same workshop as the lion-hunt mosaic from the House of Dionysos (second below). That lion-hunt mosaic is Alexander and Krateros, which identification is about 95% secure. Why? We’re told about a bronze group dedicated at Delphi that’s this very scene, completed by Krateros’s son for his father in honor of a specific event from Alexander’s campaigns. Copies of a famous work made in other mediums are remarkably common. In fact, I’d bet the “House of Dionysos” in Pella belonged to Krateros the younger, or that family anyway. It dates to exactly the right period.

Now, the stag-hunt mosaic is in a different house, but there are links in style between the two Alexanders (e.g., the petasos). The non-Alexander figures kinda resemble each other, but less clearly. (No, the axe in left stag-hunt guy's hand is not associated with Hephaistos. It is associated with a Thracian god, Zalmoxis.) Is stag-hunt guy a second Krateros? More likely it’s meant to be the owner of the house. Given their placement and size, those houses would have belonged to Very Important People. E.g., Hetairoi families. And everybody wanted a piece of the king—like taking a selfie with celebrities today.

Once more, just because Alexander appears with another person in a group, you cannot leap to the conclusion that person is Hephaistion.

So, that’s a fast survey of images tagged “Hephaistion,” and why I say none of them shows us what he may actually have looked like.

This took a while to assemble everything.

(For more information on some [not all] of these, see Andrew Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics, U-Cal Press, Berkeley, 1993, 453-55.)

————

* The painting today called “The Wedding of Alexander and Roxane” by Sodoma in the Roman Villa Farnesina is a much, much later (1517 CE) re-imagining of what Aetion’s painting may have looked like. The ancient painting is long gone.

** For Alexander, his portraiture includes the anastole (cowlick), round chin, heavy brow, strong nose, “melting” gaze, and (often) tilted head and longer-than-average wavy hair like a lion’s mane. I can spot an Alexander anywhere. Ha. I was once in the Capitoline Museum, just idling along, when way down the aisle I spotted him, over 50 yards away. It was a heavy, Romanized style, but it was Alexander!

+ Both heads (his and Alexander) are forgeries anyway. Forgeries are BIG business in antiquities. Needless to say, museums don’t like to admit when they’ve bought a forgery, so you’ll next-to-never see one labeled as such. Gotta read the art history assessments to find out. If museums are convinced, they usually just quietly remove it.

++ Sometimes people ask me why one of these idealized ephebes couldn’t be what Hephaistion did look like, as he was supposed to be attractive? Well, it’s possible, but even very pretty people who we can tag as a portrait — I give you Antonoös — have distinguishing features. You can tell an Antinoös from a generic ephebe. Also, we have enough labeled portraits of Antinoös to create a portraiture tradition. We don’t have that with Hephaistion. So even if some generic statue currently labeled an ephebe were to be Hephaistion, we have zero way to know.

[we-keep-odd-hours]

(repost of a tag game, original post was getting really long)

Ten questions to ask a mutual

Instructions: prev asks ten questions and you answer them, then ask ten new ones and tag ten people to keep the chain going! I’ll go first

Tagged by @rock-n-macabre

Do you think Severen survived the end of Near Dark and he's probably just chewing on roadkill somewhere until he gets his strength back? I think he's the most likely to have survived; there's so much emphasis on daylight, direct daylight being the only thing that can kill them, that his death seemed...an odd way to go out permanently. Personally, I like to lean on 'they'll all be fine eventually, it just won't be a very fun recovery, plus transfusions don't work like that and Mae and Caleb are still vampires.'

Weirdest song you get stuck in your head? A rotating mix of atrocious pop music; sometimes it's just snippets of whatever I've been listening to recently. Right now I have "Father" by the Misfits stuck in my head.

What is an item you wish would become a fad? Common sense; selfishly I do wish goth would go mainstream again like it did for two minutes in 2014ish, just to make it easier to find dark makeup.

If you had to live in an era, what would you choose? None in the past; I think it'd be fun to visit, but between health concerns and other factors I really wouldn't want to move someplace else. If i HAD to....just like. A couple decades earlier, I guess?

Fav genre of music? Most of what I listen to falls under the rock umbrella.

Fav past time? Writing, reading, I'm bad at it but also like painting. My favorite time-wasting activities outside of my house are wandering art museums and this really nice botanical garden I'm lucky to live near. I don't consider it a time-waster because it's my therapy, but I spend a LOT of time at the National Aquarium too (not exactly local, but not a horrible drive).

Gators or Crocs? like...the animals? Crocodiles are one of my favorite animals, but I love everything crocodilia. I have a bunch of tiny alligators and crocs on my desk at work, and another that lives on top of the radio in my car.

Possums or Armadillos? the latter for the novelty; we have a lot of possums around here so I'm used to seeing them.

Tacos or Burritos? tacos

(whew almost there...Im reaching for Qs) - Best Bill Paxton movie? EVIL. oh man. oh no. Don't make me do this, as I blog on a Near Dark blog, with a word doc for a fanfic open, in my red/white/black flannel shirt, whlie drinking out of my Aliens coffee mug. I'm not making choosing one. My favorite role of his is definitely Severen though.

Okay for my ten I'm going to be entirely self-serving and try to get some meta and head-canon conversation going on in the tags again:

Thoughts on Eric Red's idea for a Near Dark sequel? (Mae and Caleb's adult, human, daughter has a run in with "kin" of the Hookers.)

Top five movies with vampires?

If YOU were going to pitch a sequel (time machine back to 1987, or else a book/comic/etc) what would you say?

Favorite scene that isn't the bar scene?

We know (canon) that Mae was turned around 1982, Jesse around the Civil War, and (kiiiiiinda canon?) Severen in Tombstone in the late 19th century. When/where do you think Diamondback and Homer were from?

Do you think if Caleb got over his selectively applied human moral code that he would have made an okay vampire, eventually?

Severen: ace/aro spec, or no?

Any scenes that were changed from script to film, or otherwise cut that you wish made it into the movie/were done differently?

What would have happened if Loy and Sarah were at literally any other motel that night?

Aside from her god-awful taste in boys, what's your opinion on Mae?

taggging @rock-n-macabre again, @hex6rcist, @mrsvansickle04, @babieswrld, @ltofoceania, @lupinedreaming, @lektricfergus @tragantia, @osmanthusoolong, and @starfolk7 who is actually normal about this movie but whom I made sit down and watch it, as I have done and continue to do every time I find out one of my friends has never seen it.

And anyone else who wants to join in.

[msookyspooky]

OMG YOU WATCHED LISA FRANKENSTIEN AND LOVED IT?! <33

I've been waiting for that especially since you've posted Gomez and Morticia (The goal of all goals) on your blog! It's an odd request but I still read and love your Set Up series so can we get a crossover with YN as Lisa Swallow's and the boys as The Creature? ( Cole Sprouse lowkey reminds me of young Skeet Ulrich which considering Riverdale it's no wonder)

Wait cause no this is such a good idea I cannot pass it up I got so much work to do but I REALLY wanna write for this! (I got so many request I'm trying to do in my inbox but uh...This is my current hyperfixation srry)

I wish I could draw better to make zombies of them fhjaafg ♡♡♡ If anyone wants to add onto this or request other characters please do (And anyone seeing this; watch Lisa Frankenstein I loved it)

🔪 Scream / Lisa Frankenstein Crossover 🧟‍♂️

Iⁿᶜˡᵘᵈᵉᵈ﹕ ʳᵃⁿᵈʸ ᵐᵉᵉᵏˢ, ˢᵗᵘ ᵐᵃᶜʰᵉʳ, ᵇⁱˡˡʸ ˡᵒᵒᵐⁱˢ, ᵐⁱᶜᵏᵉʸ ᵃˡᵗᵉʳⁱ

(Everyone is buried in this despite canon and set in the present. Fem!Reader TW: Corpse/Dead Body, Talk of Rot and Decay, Zombie BF)

🪦 Randy Meeks: Died 1998

♡ You loved his character in Stab. After you did some deep diving studying who the actual Randy was outside of the movie; you found his tombstone. (who would do this? Me and @f1nalboys Might do what Lisa did and write your name over his etched name *Meeks* on a piece of paper. Bc of course YN Meeks just has a nice ring to it)

♡ Heard you venting about life and fell in love in his restless but lucid slumber 6ft underground. Someone actually likes his character for more than comic relief? Someone understood him? They didn't think he was just the geek?

♡ After a terrible lightning storm...Guess who fumbled and broke through your window drenched in mud and decay?

♡ Is a little hurt you aren't head over heels for him in his current state. He accidentally cried even if his pride hates that he quite literally cried his own eyes out. He's used to not getting who he wants and...Well, he may not smell himself with his nostrils rotted out but considering his eye popped out; still attached to the retina and had to be pushed back in while you're covering your nose gagging; he understands even if it hurts.

♡ Takes a shower (I'd use Dawn. Bar soap or Dove ain't gonna cut it.) and wears your clothes or robe. He still smells like a dead body and has worms but he's trying. He's got a LOT of old stab wounds from dying in that van at Windsor...Holes...Things seep out so you might wanna get tape or something idk.

♡ Do not stress this undead man out if you mischaracterize a film; he cannot talk with a missing tongue to argue; it decayed decades ago.

♡ His dead, dull eyes actually have some spark of life to them when he sees streaming for the first time. So many movies he's missed out on! Give him the remote and you never gotta worry about him leaving your room while you're gone.

♡ He accidentally kills someone you definitely did not want killed after they smelled something awful in your room, went up there, screamed, Randy went to knock them out in a panic and accidentally kills them

♡ He feels awful about it and you both decide to hide the body and use their hand to replace his missing one (Fell off lol just dead things) and shock him back to circulation somehow

♡ If you do what Lisa did and let him do...Other things with a 'back massager'. He's so madly in love and yearning for you it's insane. But if you got a crush you're yearning for; he is rolling his eyes with a grunt at this being Sid and Billy or Sid and Derek allllll over again.

♡ Less corpsey he gets with each shock session; more he can't help his feelings for you. YOU have to be the one to admit your feelings to him though because what would you want with an undead geek like him? At least in his mind.

♡ Would cry his eyes out (Not literally this time) if you were killed and 100% would resurrect your body and take care of you like you did him

♡ Is as loyal as they come. Will worship you accepting him at his geekiest, dead, grossest versions of himself and you're still here

🪦 Stu Macher: Died 1996

♡ You found his tombstone as a dare to 'bring him back' like bloody mary....No duh, it didn't work. But Stu was still aware of it in a dream like state sorta way. You didn't believe in that stuff rolling your eyes at people badgering you on where you lived.

♡ A car hits a power line and the line of electricity zaps his grave and he goes home just to see...Holy shit, you own his house!

♡ He thinks he's still the playboy man slut he was in life that can get anyone he wants so he's really offended you aren't wanting him to kiss you. Why!? Cause he has worms and his lips are a little dry from sinking into rot, he's a little bit dirty with body fluid stained clothes and he smells like a dead body? Picky!

♡ Is even more offended you're gagging and covering your nose demanding he bathe. Begrudgingly takes your dumb shower and your entire tub smells like dead bird and covered in dirt.

♡ When he comes out you see his face is very scarred under all that mud he had on him. Maybe the rumor he died via a tv crashing on his head and shocking him was true?

♡ If you piss him off...Well he can't kill you cause he needs you. But he WILL hack up a worm like a hairball just to gross you out out of pure pettiness.

♡ Just steals your clothes without asking. Lounging in your best clothes that can fit while he's leaking fluids. If not, he's stealing some guys clothes in your home. Catch him lounging in your Dad/Step Dad/Brothers/Friends best fit.

♡ Tries to steal your bed till you yell at him to get in the closet before someone sees. He guards your clothes and forces you to wear the sluttiest sexiest clothes you have...What? He's helping!

♡ He is soooooooo elated they made Stab! A whole movie with him portrayed in it by a good looking actor? He is over the moon watching it on repeat.

♡ Gets lonely easily...And bored! He's sighing to himself when you're gone and thinking how Billy is dead now and all the people he once knew, knew him as a murderer and were in their 40's. In fact, don't leave him alone long; its disastrous.

♡ Not able to yap HURTS HIM. Expect a lot of hand gestures and getting him a note pad to write on because he can't handle this

♡ Kills someone after you have an issue with them not even second guessing it. What? Problem solved! AND he gets a new body part to replace the one that rotted. Win win.

♡ He is very aware and depressed his manhood rotted off decades ago and that's probably the first body part he's going for. Especially a crush/boyfriend of yours. He can handle no ear or hand or even a tongue but his dick!? No.

♡ Sits in bed painting your nails while you rant about boys. He nods at everything when it comes to guys having their mind on one thing because well...Yeah. Especially in his case

♡ HE is the one smirking if he finds any massager and even if you want a back rub that thing is going lower. Just cause he doesn't have a peen rn doesn't mean his mind isn't in the gutter still

♡ He thinks your a girlfriend of his right away so casually without even asking you so; of course any guy coming near you is dead. Of course he's resurrecting you if you die because...Well he's starting to realize you're the only girl that doesn't scream when you see him so he's gonna hang up his player towel.

♡ Even fully restored he still has scars on his face and feels indebted to you that you don't care about his murderous ways or his face now. He takes care of you if you're dead and the roles reverse...Hell, he finds it hot you need him now.

Billy Loomis: Died 1996

♡ You were a bit odd yourself and found yourself studying the murders. Feeling conflicted about Billy because yeah he was an awful incel but researching his background you felt a bit bad he felt so alone and abandoned even with people around him. You clean off vandalism on his grave and talk to him for hours.

♡ A storm occurs after you have an awful day and cry to his grave 'I wish I was with you'...You meant dead. But well...

♡ That night lightning hits the grave and you wake up in bed to the god awful smell and his dead dirty face looking down at you. You go to scream and he covers your mouth with a cold clammy hand. Going to talk to you and a centipede falls out his mouth making you scream even louder.

♡ You almost knock his head off before he points to a picture on your desk you took of his grave surrounded by newspaper articles of his death.

♡ He thinks he finally has a person that's not a 'whore, bitch, or poser' in his eyes. A bit in love with you and is bitter you don't exactly want an ex serial killer from the 90's like that...

♡ He almost wants to kill you thinking of the betrayal till he sees his reflection and is completely defeated. Sunken dead eyes, matted dirty hair missing in places, longer haggered dirty nails, skin looking ready to fall off.

♡ He sits in your bathroom and you try to comfort him till you smell what smells like...Sewage and death and embalming fluid and your trying not to throw up.

♡ He takes a shower without being told to. Disgusted by his own rot and grime. His gun shot wound in the middle of his forehead a reminder of his failure almost 3 decades ago...Might have scrambled his brain a bit.

♡ He's a manipulator and user but he's not as...Tactless and spoiled as Stu. He feels grateful you offered him to stay despite the smell and the misunderstanding even if he's not happy sleeping on the floor or closet.

♡ He feels even more defeated when you tell him his Mom died in 1998 at Windsor College trying to avenge his death. He's beside himself over it and honestly just wants to crawl back in his icky coffin and die again.

♡ He wanders your home despite being told not to. Goes through all of your things. The lack of speaking doesn't bother him. Especially when it means he can hear you spill your guts more. He wants to observe everything.

♡ Like Randy he's pleased by the movies on streaming but not as obsessed as he was. Whether that bullet was like a lobotomy or just laying in the ground so long to 'think' in the afterlife; he's not the same guy he was in 96...Not completely. Is annoyed at his portrayal in Stab. His hair never looked like that! (Yes it did)

♡ He does kill someone when they bully or mistreat you. He feels possessive of you already and he just doesn't like assholes. He's the one that decides to steal a body part while you're staring in horror.

♡ He gets shocked and you see him a little less dead and a working body part now. So it becomes a thing for you both but you tell him 'Only those that deserve it' and he shrugs. He ain't following that but okay.

♡ Is pinning over you but hides it well. Enjoying just listening to you or watching you. HATES with a passion when you talk about guys but hides it with grunts and subtle glares.

♡ Is your ride or die when he hears police are investigating you for murder after he was the one killing them. I mean...What will they do? Re-kill him? He will do anything he can especially the more 'alive' he becomes to protect you.

♡ Once he's...Fully equipped he actually refuses to sleep with you. Still thinking 'virgins live, sluts die' like he use to. You have to tell him 'You know Sidney is still alive, right? That rule is dumb and not true.' he may get over it and sleep with you or it might still take time.

♡ He wants to go after Sid but also what's the point now? He's not exactly in tip top shape...Don't even tell him about Sam being rumored to possibly being his daughter by mega Stab fans. His undead brain will stop working.

♡ If you die he will resurrect you not out of convenience and want like Stu or devotion like Randy but more possessive ownership. You're his. Whether that's love or to control you (Both). Not even death will seperate you from him.

♡ Once he's fully recovered he has a migraine till that bullet eventually is pushed out by that one last shock and his body starts bleeding again.

♡ More than happy to be together away from everyone just you and him.

Mickey Alteri: Died 1998

♡ Everyone knows Mickey as the freak that was so obsessed with Stab and the original killers he imitated them. But what they don't realize is he killed even before Nancy found him. He was just wired different and it made him feel alive...How ironic now.

♡ You accidentally stumbled upon his grave after trying to find a different one. And...Why is it empty? Well, you had nothing to do with his resurrection just wrong place wrong time as a corpse is lumbering towards you from behind a tombstone with bullet wounds all over him.

♡ He wanted to snap your neck just to fell something again till his own leg fell off and he face planted on the ground.

♡ You of course didn't know he was trying to kill you. You still tried to get away before you saw him just sitting there and...Sighing? It wasn't a mindless zombie after you? Even worse; he grabbed your keys when you ran.

♡ Ask for them back and like a damn child he shakes his head with grunts. You swear to God you heard 'nuh uh' in his grunt. (Keep his leg away give me the keys or I'm yeeting your leg)

♡ Takes a shower at your house and like Randy all those holes are leaking...Icky stuff. He had more muscle before he died so his body mass shockingly is thinner but not as much as it should be? You're talking to a corpse it doesn't have to make sense. All you know is he just walked around naked and you saw disgusting things on the human body you never wanna know after death. You gotta make him wear clothes!

♡ You're in this awkward situation where...The dead guy has feelings and thoughts and is urging he wants to go home with you. Whether you say yes or no he knows your car and will find you.

♡ Sew his leg back on or give him a funny replacement like a peg leg and tell him deal with it. What are you? A surgeon?

♡ Little did you know the second you came for your keys and talked to him he claimed you as his just for being different than most victims. More eager than Stu, falling even faster than Randy, more obsessive than Billy and POSSIBLY crazier than the og Ghostface's...You're having a corpse that is already planning to make you his (Might even kill you so you have to be with him when he resurrects you like he was.)

♡ Other than killing and movies you're the first thing to make him feel something and he is not letting that go.

♡ Wears your clothes, watches your tv, listens to you talk, plans to kill anyone that fucks with you, watches you when you sleep, dresses you up.

♡ The first kill is a guy interested in you. You are his now! He doesn't hesitate to take a few body parts to have you sew on him. Finds the whole process endearing. He's nuts guys idk. You just gotta drill it in his head not to kill a family member, close friend or pet or you won't forgive him because he cannot have that. He wants your affection and attention so he'll be good when it comes to that.

♡ With each shock he gets more lively and bolder. Dancing with you and ignoring the worm that you don't know where it fell out of. Trying to cuddle you even if you gotta start smearing vicks under your nose. Won't hesitate to kiss all over you once he's not as rotten and tries to think of your pleasure before his.

♡ He never hides his obsession and will let you know with a hand on your throat not to talk about guys around him before lovingly caressing your cheek afterwards as an apology.

♡ If you die, not by him, he is furious and will kill anyone in his path before resurrecting you. He'll take care of you in the most yanadere way. You're his forever now.

[dreadfulgentleman]

what's the story behind knowing & living with the director of meet the robinsons

Time for a long story. I cannot shorten it.

In 2014-2015, I was miserable. I was working at WDW in FL at the time and going through the worst depression of my life. Everything bad that could have happened to me seemed to hit all at once. Losing my fiancee, losing housing, dealing with significant trans-related dysphoria, having work-related issues, having complications with unsupportive relatives, etc. The only thing keeping me going was the movie "Meet the Robinsons". More specifically, it was the character Bowler Hat Guy and the 'keep moving forward' quote that provided a crutch for me as I hung onto life by a single thread. Things came to a head when I thought seriously of taking my own life. I remember being in that moment, going through all the questions in my head of what would happen if I made that choice: What would happen to my stuff? What would my family think? What would happen at work? None of the answers to those questions mattered to me at all. It wasn't until I arrived at the very last question I asked myself that something changed. I asked myself, "If I could choose, what would I put on my tombstone?" Immediately my mind said, "Well, Keep Moving Forward, of course." But no sooner had I said that did I realize the irony of those words. How could I put those words on my tombstone and yet also take my own life? It made no sense. I thought, "What would the director think if I did that?" So I made the decision to put the knife down.

Several months later, I was dressed as Bowler Hat Guy to a Halloween party at Magic Kingdom. Someone came up to me very excitedly explaining that they were so happy to find someone who knew what MTR was. We laughed together and quoted the movie to each other and generally had a silly interaction based on fandom-sharing. Until suddenly she came right up close to me and said, "No, you don't understand, my cousin is the one who directed that movie." Well, of course, I freaked out. Immediately I clasped my hands against her shoulders and told her he and that movie had literally saved my life. I begged her to put me in contact with him in order to thank him directly. She said she absolutely would. Several days later and sure enough, there's the director in my inbox talking to me. I was starstruck. I told him why Meet the Robinsons was so important to me--how it had literally saved my life. As it turned out, he and his family were going to be visiting WDW the following month so he offered to meet up at a starbucks to chat. I was over the moon.

That starbucks meeting was three hours long. The entire time was chatting about how the movie was made, how he felt about it, how I felt about it, etc. I'll never forget that the first thing I asked him was, "What's BHG drinking in the playtime planet cup?" to which Steve replied, "What do YOU think is in the cup?" When I told him I had always imagined it was chocolate milk, he said, "Well, then, I guess it's chocolate milk." It was both a kind and humble thing to say as well as frustrating because that meant there was no canon answer (Ha!).

We inevitably left starbucks that day but remained friends on social media. A few days later was Thanksgiving. Steve's wife Heather found out that I was going to be alone that day so she told Steve they should both go out to dinner with me. So I was promptly invited to a pizza place with just the both of them. That dinner ended up being five hours long--I suppose we just had that good of a time! I was awestruck by their generosity and kindness. They felt like the real Robinsons, being automatically welcoming, encouraging, and supportive. I felt inspired by them and I was overjoyed that they had taken the time out of their vacation to hang out. When I walked out to the parking lot with them, feeling awed and humbled by how incredibly nice these two people were, Heather said something to me that I'll never forget. They both knew by now how many terrible things had occurred in my life up until then. They knew how much the movie meant to me. Heather said, "Would you like to be an Anderson?" Naturally, I cried on the spot and said yes.

The question at the time had simply meant to be one of general support and encouragement. But little did we know what would be coming next.

I was invited out to their house the following spring. It was only meant to be a week-long visit to see what California was like (I had never been before). Well, we were having such a good time that I extended my trip another week....... and then another....... and then suddenly the question was asked: "Would you like to just move in?"

So I did. I packed up all my stuff in FL and drove my car to CA just to be in their tiny guest room. A fresh restart in life. I legally changed my middle name to "Yagoobian" and we often joke that the five hour pizza dinner on Thanksgiving was my adoption interview. (Though for clarity sake, I'm on good terms with my actual relatives and this situation isn't meant to be a literal adoption scenario. My blood family and the "Robinsons" get along very well)

We are now in a bigger house where I have my own upstairs apartment and life is extremely akin to a real life version of The Robinson household. We're all artists so Steve is still working on movies, Heather sews and sometimes works on costumes/cosplay with me, I make short films (that sometimes Steve and Heather both help me with), and we thoroughly enjoy picking apart movies that we all watch together. We most certainly discuss MTR regularly and really enjoy looking at fanart or reading headcanons online (although it's mostly Heather and I, especially on tumblr. Steve unfortunately cannot be told most headcanon things for legal reasons, but we show him fanart all the time). I'm calling her out right now so you can ask her Robinson things if you'd like :P -- @bowler-hat-gal

This scenario sounds stranger than fiction, I know. And it is. I would never have guessed I would be where I am now. I often feel like I'm in the timeline where BHG had taken up the offer to live in the Robinson Household, being given the chance to restart his life and be happy. And I AM happy. I'm really glad to have found the place that feels like home.

All I can say is I'm so glad I put down that knife.

I'm so glad I chose to Keep Moving Forward.

[c-schroed]

In my head canon, there's one tombstone at the churchyard on the cliff near Whitby that forever bears the epitaph:

But I am captain, and I must not leave my ship.

And beneath it lies a poor sea captain. At rest.

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - chapter 8.

dark aemond x maid ofc

minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

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follow & turn on notifs at @huramuna-fics for my fic postings!

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

we're in the home stretch y'all! after this is the epilogue and then this story will be at an end! thank you for sticking with me through my second fic ever and my (hopefully) first completed one.

this chapter may seem a bit rushed in places but i promise its for a reason! aemond going through the grief of losing rosemary and it is taking a huge toll on him to a point where he really isn't living, but rather, living his life through snapshots. i hope i exemplified that correctly!

word count: 2.7k

warnings: smut, power imbalance, religious guilt, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

(don't fear) the reaper - blue oyster cult • its been so long - the living tombstone

Death was an odd thing for Aemond. He’d never experienced it really, not in any capacity specific to him. 

The death of Laena Velaryon changed his life in many ways, technically, but the idea of her death, her corpse floating to the bottom of the sea to become fish food didn’t stir any emotions within him.

But now— that feeling… It was odd.

“Brother, there’s been an accident,” Helaena had said. 

The next words that came from her mouth were garbled as his ears rang, a high pitched throbbing echoing through his skull. He must’ve said something alarming, as Helaena, who usually didn’t wish to touch or be touched, wrapped her arms around him as his legs failed, wobbling like a newborn fawn’s. 

He didn’t really hear much of the substance of what Helaena said– there was no way around it: Rosemary was dead. She was… dead? Dead.

“Her… body? Her belongings?” he muttered, his one eye glassed over in a wet film of tears. Gods, when was the last time he cried? 

“Burned. They found her… charred near flea bottom. She’s gone to the field– away from the rats and stags…” 

“Flea bottom? W– what was she doing there?” Rats and stags?

Helaena shook her head.

“I want her things– all of them. Have them brought to my chambers.” he grunted, unlatching himself from Helaena’s hold and beginning to pace. He looked over, seeing her discarded nightgown and swiftly picked it up.

The servants gave odd looks once all of Rosemary’s things were cleared out of her chambers and brought to Aemond. They looked at him knowingly– but he couldn’t care. The opinions of sheep meant nothing to a dragon.

His chest clenched as he thumbed over a blue blanket, Rosemary’s ever familiar scent entangled into the fibers of the quilt. Aemond didn’t know much about Rosemary’s mother and only scarce details she shared about the Vale, but something about the blanket resonated within him. Sitting near the dying light of the sun as it receded over the horizon, he traced the stitches outlining the depictions of little lambs and nightingales, flitting near the moon and stars, braided into an image that felt so very much like her. 

He expected her to slip through the passageway any moment now, murmuring apologies about her lateness and throwing herself into his open arms, peppering kisses along his skin– 

She couldn’t just be dead, could she? They were plaited within one another’s being, he hadn’t asked her for a dance at a ball, nor taught her how to properly wield a blade– he didn’t even have the chance to introduce her to Vhagar, to take her flying. Aemond imagined her face, lips parted in awe as they would skim the stars above the clouds. 

He wanted to share all of it with her, share more parts of him that he thought were recused so dreadfully far into the depths of his chest– he wanted to know her better. He should’ve gotten to know her more, know every freckle and stretch mark on her body and be able to map them without eyes, able to discern what she was thinking just by the wrinkle of her nose. 

He just needed more time– more time with her, to know her more. It was already such a beautiful thing to be so intimate with someone like they had been, but there was a block. A small barrier that kept them from being linked wholly and irrevocably. 

Not the sort of walls Aemond had within himself, no– those were self-imposed, defense mechanisms against further toil to his psyche, erected ever since Driftmark. Rosemary had a barrier that wasn’t of her own volition, but rather circumstances that she was dragged into. He placed her quilt onto his bed for the time being, eye roving around the room in thought. 

His eye landed on a vase near the corner of the room. It was filled with wilting, ugly, yellow flowers. They had been bright and sprightly just days before, shoved into his hands by his wife-to-be. Not his Rosemary, of course– Floris.

Floris.

Floris.

Brow furrowed, he walked to the flowers, plucking one of the petals and snapping it between his fingers. It left an ugly, powdery yellow-brown residue. 

The barrier revealed itself. 

–

Floris was sitting in her solar, feeling elated. The wedding was coming up soon and everything seemed to be perfectly aligned– not more bumps, hitches or maid-shaped indiscretions. 

She leaned back in her chair relaxing for a mere moment before the door flew open, causing her to jump. Her eye caught a flash of white before he was in front of her, kneeled down, clenched fists on either side of her chair.

Aemond, her betrothed. His hair was a mess, his one violet eye wild.

“Hello, my betrothed,” he hummed. Heat broiled off of him like a roaring fire, the veins in his neck popping, his vessels running through his calloused hands thrumming. “I’d love to have a chat with you.”

Floris backed up on her chair, her throat going dry. “A-Aemond– this is highly irregular,” she stammered, her tongue feeling heavy and thick in her mouth. “What… would you like to chat about?”

He shoved back off of the chair, sending it and Floris skidding backwards. “I’ve heard that my poor sister’s handmaiden, she was so beloved by Helaena, has passed,” he began to pace, his arms behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching with barely contained rage, “That is quite sad, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, quite.” Floris whispered, her gaze going to her hands. 

“Look at me.” he stopped his pacing, his one eye trained on Floris as she avoided his sight.

“... Aemond– you must… understand,” she continued, “... please.”

“Look. At. Me.” he was upon her again, standing this time, like a foreboding cloud. He just needed to look into her eyes and he would know– no need for a trial, no need for a jury or judge. Merely an executioner.

Her head raised, blue eyes meeting his one violet. They were rimmed with tears, her pupils looking like maddened slits. “I-I had to!”

It was all the confirmation he needed. His hand slammed forward, a dagger sinking into the velvet of the chair backing, just an inch from Floris’ head. “Tell me what you’ve done.”

“It… it wasn’t me– not… not all of it, truthfully,” she admitted, her voice marred with choked sobs.

“You’re pathetic,” he spat, “Tell me, who was the intelligence in your little scheme, since it obviously wasn’t you– you don’t have the gall.”

Floris’ throat bobbed as she cried, “T-That horrible man– L-Larys Strong. B-but, I didn’t… I didn’t kill Rosemary– I just… wished to scare her away. If she’s dead– it was his doing!” 

Aemond stared at her for a long moment, unblinking. “You will leave, Floris. You will leave the keep and go back to your father, tail tucked between your legs. Remember this, I am merciful in this only, consider yourself more lucky than Larys,” he backed up, dislodging the blade from the chair, lifting up Floris’ sobbing face by the chin with the point of it, “You will leave and speak nothing of this– if I ever even hear a whiff of her name coming from your mouth, I will kill you. I won’t grant you such a kindness of life again,” he nicked the soft skin of her chin, small drops of blood beading. He stowed his dagger and walked towards the door, “Consider this betrothal dissolved.” 

–

The Keep was bustling with activity for the week after Floris’ sudden departure – rumors swirled of her getting cold feet, her integrity as an intact maiden coming into question, and that she was fraternizing with Larys Strong. 

Larys, having caught wind of this, had some foresight that his nefarious doings had been uncovered. He returned to Harrenhal, effectively escaping Aemond’s retribution. Aemond was a bit agitated at the rat slipping through his fingers– but there was always time. Harrenhal was only a dragon’s ride away, he would get his soon enough. 

It all felt like a blur to Aemond, the tumultuous months after Rosemary’s death. Rhaenyra’s arrival, the trial, the execution of Vaemond by Daemon, the dinner, the toast– his father’s death, his brother’s crowning. Helaena woke up screaming many nights, demanding that the tunnels be guarded more sufficiently and she didn’t go anywhere without an escort– it was obvious to Aemond that she’d seen something that frightened her deeply. 

Aemond was to be an envoy for his brother’s cause– or moreso, his grandsire’s. Anyone with eyes could see that Aegon didn’t wish to be King, nor was fit for it. Flying to Storm’s End– he wished that his grandsire would’ve sent someone else instead. He had already disgraced himself to Borros Baratheon, and had no desire to see Floris again. 

It was raining, as was typical of the Stormlands. Vhagar growled uneasily underneath Aemond. “Umbagon gīda, uēpa riña,” he murmured, reaching up to pat her scales. Keep calm, old girl. “Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot sagon kesīr, tolī.” I don’t want to be here, either.

He landed outside of the ramparts, quickly seeing why Vhagar had been agitated. A small, adolescent dragon was fidgeting anxiously in the courtyard leading up to the castle. He didn’t recognize it, but guessed it was likely one of Rhaenyra’s brood. 

Stepping into the building, he saw him. Little Lucerys Strong– or Velaryon, if he was to be proper. 

“Prince Aemond,” Borros, the damnable oaf he was, shouted, “I assume you have come to ask for my banners for your brother, have you? Seems that Prince Lucerys has beat you to the punch, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, did he now?” Aemond hummed, his arms behind his back as he glared at Lucerys– who was no older than sixteen, “May I remind you that it ‘twas my brother, Aegon, who was crowned before the masses in the Dragonpit? My brother, the King Aegon, who wears the conqueror’s crown, bears his name and wields our ancestral blade Blackfyre?” 

Borros grunted. “That is all well and fine– but what is House Baratheon to do with Valyrian names and titles and swords? I can’t very well pick my teeth with Blackfyre, now can I? What do you have to offer to me? I suggest you speak quickly, as you’ve already disgraced my house once by sullying my daughter’s reputation.”

Anger seethed within Aemond, his fist clenching and unclenching. “We have my brother, Daeron, to offer as an option for betrothal to one of your daughters.” 

Lucerys shifted uneasily next to Borros, his hands fiddling with a piece of parchment.

“Lucerys has already offered himself and his brother, Jacaerys, to marry two of my daughters. Your brother, Daeron, is no older than fourteen. One of my daughters could marry Jacaerys within a fortnight– even if Daeron was older, how am I supposed to know that your side of the family won’t spurn us once again?”

Fucking hell. 

He felt shamed by the boar Borros– all the while, Lucerys couldn’t help but to stifle a chuckle. Just as he did at that damnable dinner. He felt his blood boiling and he had to stifle the urge to mount Vhagar and burn this castle to the ground.

The next hour was a blur. He remembers mounting Vhagar after Lucerys mounted his little whelpling– he remembers… the storm, the droplets feeling like shards of ice against his skin. His heart was beating in his ears, his taunts in High Valyrian to the boy prince sounding like echoes from someone else’s mouth. He felt like a puppet to his own savagery, the entire chase pulling from something animalistic and cruel within him, like the song of a swinging blade.

It was a sickening sound, truly. The sound of Vhagar’s jaw snapping that poor hatchling to pieces, little Lord Strong scattered over the bay. It was a sound Aemond wouldn’t forget. 

He had to imagine that Rosemary was ashamed of him, wherever she was in the afterlife, if there at all.

–

Aemond had become a shell of himself, two years of the war passing by like granules of sand filling an hourglass. The humanity of him recused back behind those walls once more, his body working through the autonomy of the primal fire that coursed through him.

He didn’t feel alive. 

He wasn’t, really.

Quite a few assassination attempts on the Red Keep were thwarted from Helaena’s plea for increased security. Guilt swirled in Aemond’s gut– it was repercussion. Punishment for what he’d done, what Vhagar had done.

He went into a self-imposed exile to Harrenhal, citing it as a military strategy to hold the fortress– but in reality, he felt he was a dead man walking. He may as well add the ghosts and curses of the ancient stronghold to his list of crimes.

The only moment of clarity he’d had was when he executed Larys. Aemond dragged the crippled man from his hiding hole in Harrenhal, and let Vhagar’s flame bathe him. It wasn’t a sizable meal for Vhagar, but satisfying nonetheless, for a moment– before he felt nothing once more.

The witch– Alys. She flitted around Aemond, whispering in his ear like a buzzing fly. He did lay with her, but would never spend inside of her. It felt like he was just going through the motions, trying to stoke a fire within himself that was long snuffed out. She didn’t feel anything like Rosemary– she was bony in all of the places where his Rosemary had been soft. After they would couple, he would send her away before she even had a chance to wipe herself off.

At night, he dreamed of her. Rosemary. Her warm hands cupping his face, murmuring sweetness to him, like a siren’s song, like the call of the void.

Then Daemon came upon his ugly bloodwyrm. 

A duel, then. 

“We’ve both lived too long, uncle.” he shouted, mounting Vhagar. 

“On that, we agree. You’ve lived too long since you killed Lucerys in cold blood.”

“Mayhaps I will arrange a meeting for you two, then, uncle?” 

It was a battle of gnashing teeth and flames, the glint of Dark Sister seen– 

His death, he was staring it in the face. His death had a face, too– Rosemary. She whispered in his ear every night that they would soon be together. This must’ve been it, her ghost telling him of their reunion soon to come.

He opened his arms, welcoming his uncle’s thrust of his blade– 

Darkness.

It was cold, cold… waves washing over him like he was bobbing across the surface of the lake.

Rosemary– where was she? Was he dead? Please, let him be dead. Let the nightmare be over.

The washing of waves came over him more, the tide ebbing and flowing over his body, pushing him. His head throbbed and he couldn’t move his arm– his extremities were cold, but his head… felt lighter. 

Opening his one eye, it was clouded in red. Red. Oh, good. He’s gone to the Hells. 

“Ser?” a voice called, sounding so far away. “Oi, Mare, come help me. He’s bleedin’ out.” 

“Gods, he ain’t look too good, Jon. Think he’s gonna kick the bucket before we even get ‘em off the stones.” 

“Leave… me…” Aemond somehow croaked out, his voice sounding like he had gargled rocks. “I’m meant… to be… dead…”

“Seems fate got more in store for you, lad,” one of the men said, “I’d be damned by the Seven themself if I leave you here to die on the shore. I ain’t going to Hell without trying, eh?”

Aemond felt two pairs of arms lift him up, their murmurs coming in and out of focus. 

“We’re gonna get ya to the town tailor, lad. Ain’t no maester from the citadel, but she can right a stitch better than any– and ya needin’ a stitch or two. Miss Marigold will fix you right up.” the other said, still not totally convinced.

The jingling of a bell was heard– all Aemond could see still was red. “Marigold! We’ve got a live one for you– he’s hurtin’ real bad.”

The scent of lavender wafted over him like a balm as the seamstress stood over him. She made a choked sound, a sob– and a finger wiped the blood from out of his eye. His vision came into focus and the ever familiar visage of his love– she was there. She was real. She was… alive? Alive. 

“Rosemary?”

“Aemond?”

A small, quiet voice was heard. “Mama, who’s there?”