#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

[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.

[punishing-eden]

The Untruth Beneath the Crescent...

Not beta read

Jiyan x Reader (ft. Geshu Lin)

Summary:

Jiyan's involvement in the battle at Northfall Barrens has been retold many times, and has become a beloved hero to the people of Jinzhou. All, expect for you.

Tags: Canon Divergent, unrequited (Jiyan), tw: angst, (Mild) Kuudere! Reader, romantic or platonic is up to your interpretation, reader is NOT Rover, a bit of cultural references.

══════════════════

"Medicine can heal illnesses and broken bones, but never a broken heart..."

Jiyan looked down at the medicine carrier his mother gave him.

The offerings of wine and rice were placed neatly by the alter of the Knell Square. The tranquil sound of the waterfall acted as white noise that isolated the area from the rest of Jinzhou.

A fresh wisp of smoke from the incense burned, whipping up in the air. Normally, Jiyan would simply ring the bell, but for this occasion, the incense will be suffice to tell them, his fallen comrades, after many months he's home.

Jiyan stood in a respectful silence in front of the altar. The black marble plaques that bears all the names to those who had fallen.

Then he took a glance at you, who, was tending a certain black plaque. You wiped away at the accumulated dust with a piece of cloth, showing the engraved name painted in gold, Geshu Lin.

Jiyan slowly approached, he can already feel the tension building. You held, somewhat, a distained for him, for what, he doesn't truly understand.

It was after a few minutes, Jiyan decided to speak first, "... It's been quite a while, [Y/N], how is mentor doing? "

You snapped your head up when you heard your name.

Jiyan's gaze was soft. A contrast, to his usual scowl, and stern look at the battlefield. As least, that's how your father described Jiyan after he took over the Midnight rangers.

On that thought, your brows involuntarily furrowed.

"My father is fine," you simply said, and continued to clean the tombstone, "his rheumatism is getting better."

A look of relief plastered in Jiyan's face, "I am glad he has been doing well."

You simply nodded at Jiyan.

"... If I may, I would like to treat mentor to a meal sometime..." Jiyan asked, "and, I would like to catch up with you too."

You gave no immediate answer. You placed your offerings in front of the tombstone. Even though you often would get confused looks from other people, and that Geshu Lin's remains were not found, you still do it because you respect him so much.

"It's really not nesscary, General," you finally said, hiding the pain in your chest. The pain of losing someone you hold so close to your heart still hurts after three years. And, it hurts even more to know how the people of Jinzhou sees Geshu Lin as someone who is reckless and selfish, Havoc and demanding, even though the stories were told to keep biases at bay.

"I don't want to keep you away from your duties," You added with a hint of deattachment in your voice.

Jiyan pursed his lips. He knows that you are in pain. He can see it on your face, the way you would clutch at almost anything when you see him. The deattachment of your attitude pains him too.

"[Y/N], I..." he said but you cut him off.

"Don't-" you said, taking a step back to readjust yourself to keep your emotions at bay, "I don't need your sympathy."

Jiyan paused. Brows furrowed, out of frustration. He has tried many times to make you feel better, but nothing seems to be helping you move pass your grief.

He let out a sigh, with a subtle frustrated edge.

"I wasn't going to do that," Jiyan said.

He grabbed his medicine carrier and took out a small packet of herbal pills; wrapped in a yellowish textured paper and binded with a string to secure the opening.

"These are for you," he said and held it out.

"I know you still have difficulty in getting a good night's rest. I concocted these myself. My soldiers uses these to get better sleep at their camps, and I hope you could too."

Your skeptical facade fell, "How do you know that I have a hard time sleeping?" you were thoroughly surprised by Jiyan's gesture.

"Mentor mentioned it to me in a letter," he answered.

A sigh escaped your lips. Of course, your father was Jiyan's mentor back in the day. Pretty much, Jiyan would know a lot about your father's worries.

"Thanks," you said, your voice was still deattached, but it sounded a little less hostile, "I appreciate it."

Reaching out, you accepted the small packet from Jiyan's hand.

Jiyan's lips turned upwards, and his gaze softens. He was glad that, at least, you did not turn him down on everything.

There was a moment of awkward silence between the both of you.

"..." you stood there, feeling the awkwardness.

"I should get going. Goodnight, General," you said, keeping things polite.

Your body turned and began to walk back to the city centre. Watching you walk away, Jiyan looked at the tombstone with Geshu Lin's name on it. Then he looked up at starlit sky. The moon that was illumating the square was in full, and the memories of his interaction with the pervious general replayed in Jiyan's mind. His soft features harden on that thought.

He tried to brush off the memories, believing it could be muddled by his experience with retroactive rain clouding his judgment about General Geshu Lin.

All alone in the Knell Square, Jiyan place a hand on his chest to calm his beating heart. There is no use to ruminate on the past. What was done has been done.

A sign left his lips as he rubbed his temples, if only you can see the same way. If only you knew what had actually happened back then. But, at the same time, Jiyan knew if you were to know the truth, about what had happened on that day, your heart would break even more.

"There really is no way about this..." the general muttered to himself. He wish there could be a quick fix for this, like a pill that could take a fever away. Yet, the words of his mentor replayed in his mind, "Medicine can heal illnesses and broken bones, not broken hearts, Jiyan."

He remembered, back when he was a medic, he witness a lot of grief at camp base. Back then, he was naive enough to believe that a relief of physical symptoms of a heart break, it would subsequently heal the feelings of grief.

Now he understands, it doesn't work that way.

For now, he would play the bad person, for your sake. He knows you were hurting, but at least, him being the bad person would hurt you less.

To be continue... (?)

(C) Punishing Eden

══════════════════

Author's notes:

>:3

I want to spice up some drama in Jiyan's life, because i think there isn't enough of it. Lol.

I personally think, Jiyan's feud with Geshu Lin is an interesting one, and I wish the story quest could explore it more, because, I feel like they didn't really explain what exactly the feud between the Retroactive! Geshu Lin and Jiyan. I mean, I can write a whole paragraph about this, but I don't want to clutter the notes up.

Like, the story quest could be from Jiyan's subjective point of view about the beef. But, I guess they are saving this when Geshu Lin comes out.

-Punishing Eden

[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."

[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.

[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)

[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 ᵐᵃ���ʰᵉʳ, 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.

[neuroticreno]

Big fan of your hc about Myron being a vault city citizen, do you wanna share more on it? No biggie if you don't wanna!

you have no idea the beast you have unleashed, anon.

ALRIGHT FAIR WARNING HERE it is. an extremely lengthy explanation and i've been meaning to share it here anyhow :] take this doodle of him as well for a little extra

As a preface, this headcanon is entirely for funsies (and autism). Some bits may seem like a stretch of the imagination, but it's fun to give him some kind of backstory, so take it all as you will.

I use dialogue from Myron's talking head segments, as well as the floating dialogue seen when Myron is in active combat (how canonical the combat dialogue is may be up for debate, but for the sake of this…essay? we'll say it's true).

To start, let us briefly examine Myron's character. Notably, the parts that relate most to this essay.

Myron is intelligent. To give him credit where credit is due, he is smart and thoroughly understands the subjects that he talks about. The people around him know this as well, and remark on it too (mostly at how wasted his potential is). He cares little for the well-being of others, especially slaves, whom he views as objects, and mutants are worth even less to him. He also has a very high opinion of himself, often referring to himself in the third person and boasting about his intellectual capabilities (calling himself a genius, a God, etc. etc).

So, we know he has not lived in New Reno for his entire life, only being there roughly a year or so. As he puts it, he came across the Mordino's way back when, so where was he before that? Just wandering the wastes? Or perhaps coming from another settlement?

Myron, compared to any other companion in the game, mentions Vault City quite a bit. Even more than John Cassidy, who has been tending to a bar outside the Vault City walls for a presumably long time. Though he shares the same distaste that many others do for the city, he also possesses what feels like insider's knowledge that the average wastelander would not have.

A lot of this knowledge presents itself when Myron's intelligence is threatened. If the Chosen One is smart enough, they can engage in a dialogue with Myron and demonstrate to him just how much they know about Jet and its chemical compounds. He will snip at the Chosen One for asking too many questions and interrogate them, asking where they learned all of this stuff anyway. Their understanding of pharmaceuticals is on a similar level to his own, which he may take as them learning it from the same place. Makes sense, considering during combat, Myron will mention he has not been in a fight since the fifth grade. Nowhere else in the game beyond a stray tombstone in Golgotha is any school mentioned or found. One can assume that Vault City would be the only settlement nearby with an established education system, thus reinforcing his belief.

Should the Chosen One pry him about a cure for Jet and suggest endorphin blockers, when asked where they could find such a thing, Myron will suggest Vault City first. He explains they have a 'pretty good' medical warehouse, and laughs when they want to try it as an option, saying they would have more luck getting a radscorpion to part with its tail than getting Vault City to give up anything. The city is widely known for its medical advancements, but Myron could have more of an idea of just how extensive their medical know-how is, having experienced it firsthand. Myron also proclaims that he is a 'natural', 'self-taught', and possesses 'none of that bullshit Vault City 'purer-than-thou' 'tude', which is funny since he spouts off his own 'purer-than-thou' 'tude every time he opens his mouth. Of course, he may have some level of natural intellect, but the rest of it likely stems from an education.

He also remarks that the citizens are a 'Buncha "genetically pure" humans. They got their noses so high in the air they'll drown when it rains'. Again, pretty humorous regarding his own high-and-mighty sense of self.

We can look at his propensity to look down upon slaves/servants. In Vault City, slaves are integrated enough into society to call for a Servant Allocation Center. Where citizens regard them with little to no respect, Myron, having grown up in Vault City, likely followed that ideology, too. The city's negative view of mutants could also explain his own distaste for them.

Myron also makes a lot of Dungeons and Dragons references, which is really just a funny haha 90s pop culture thing at the end of it, but it is fun to imagine that, at some point, he might have had his own little group when he was younger. This bit is just speculation for the sake of entertainment.

All of this raises more questions though; why did he leave? How did he leave? And how did he make it to New Reno without dying on the way there?

As for why he left, we know that Myron does not appreciate being hindered or being told what to do. Working for the Mordino's, he will complain that they only want him to focus on Jet when he wants to make new drugs instead. He complains as well about the lack of respect, so he could have left Vault City for similar reasons. Perhaps his talents were recognized, and he was allowed to experiment more in the field of chemistry. However, Myron could have found Vault City's restrictions less than ideal, giving him the incentive to leave and find somewhere with more creative freedom (he can leave New Reno for the same reasons, anyhow).

How he left and how he got to New Reno is difficult to explain. Myron has virtually no survival skills, and it is a considerable distance from Vault City to New Reno. Hitched a ride with a caravan, maybe? Him managing to escape a settlement covered in laser turrets and guards is also unlikely, but perhaps there was some kind of weakness he was smart enough to exploit and slip through.

Any additional thoughts on this bit would be appreciated :]

[lonelym00n]

The Red Means I Love You

Amber Freeman x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Ghostface is running around and you don't know who to trust. Amber reassures you that things will be okay.

Warnings: Typical canon violence with descriptions of blood. Please read with caution! Follows the events of Scream V. Also, Angst!

A/N: guysss... I did a thing... I'll just let you read and find out.

Title + fic inspired by Madds Buckley's song, The Red Means I Love You

If someone had told you a few days ago that you’d have to watch your close friend take a bullet to the head, you’d have slapped them across the face and added them to Mindy’s ever-growing list of potential future ghostface suspects. 

In retrospect, you suppose you were naive for thinking that you’d make it through Woodsboro High without falling victim to someone deciding to take up the infamous killer’s mantle. You should’ve suspected that it would happen eventually, especially considering that three of your best friends were related to survivors from the years prior. That fact alone painted a bright red target on your back and it was only a matter of time until an eight-inch hunting knife sunk into you because of it.

Did some higher deity sew the stars together to seal the fate of you and your friends? Were you destined to die at the hands of the ghost that haunted the little town you’d lived in all your life? Some part of you thinks that yes, this was meant to happen, because a tiny voice in your head always figured the friend group you’d become a part of was doomed from the day it began to form.

Everyone else in Woodsboro had it easy, their parents were present and the killings that plagued the town only existed for them in the form of the notorious Stab franchise. The same couldn’t be said for your friends.

Put a handful of Woodsboro High’s most traumatized students into one group and what do you get? The perfect cast for the next series of killings. Mindy tells you as much when you and the rest of your friends are clustered together in her living room, trying to identify who among you was responsible for brutally attacking the others left and right. 

As if being friends with people who are related to the survivors wasn’t bad enough, you learn from Tara’s older sister that she is connected to Billy Loomis, the original ghostface himself. More than being connected, Sam’s his daughter. You have half a mind to notify your parents to start picking out your tombstone now.

You barely listen as accusations fly around the room. How could it be possible that you were in the same room as the killer right now, when you’ve known everyone here your whole life? You were having a hard time processing the fact that one of the kids you’d played in the sandbox with in elementary school had grown up to become someone so sinister. 

Distantly, you hear Mindy conclude that Sam must be the killer, that it made the most sense because of who her father was. She storms out of the room and after a beat, you stand up on shaky legs and murmur a goodbye to the remaining occupants of the Meeks-Martin living room. Your head was reeling and you needed to get away or you’d break down and lose your last semblance of sanity. 

If there is a God that exists, they must hate you, because you break down anyways. Just outside the house, you’re hunched over, a hand clutched desperately at your rapidly rising chest. Despite your best efforts, you’re unable to chase away the dread and terror that have nestled in and made a home in your torso. 

Too wrapped up in trying to calm your irregular breathing, you don’t hear the familiar clunk of boots swiftly making their way towards you.

Though your vision is blurred, you’ve spent enough time around Amber to recognize her presence almost instantly. She’s bent over you concernedly, and you think she’s speaking to you but you can’t hear her over the accelerated pounding of your heart that has arisen from the lack of proper oxygen intake. 

Her body firmly encompasses your own and your senses are overtaken with everything Amber. If you were able to breathe, you would’ve sighed at the feeling of security that blanketed over you. 

Amber’s hands grasp yours and she presses your joined hands onto her chest, where her heart steadily thumps beneath. At the feeling of it, you will your own heart to match its rhythm. It takes a while for it to slow down but once it does, you faintly become aware of her sweet voice reminding you to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out. 

She looks relieved when you finally descend back to reality. “There you go, baby. You’re okay. I’m here.”

You throw your arms around her and sob into the embrace, struggling to ignore the burning in your chest. She rubs your back and shushes you quietly. 

“Amber, I can’t do this. I’m scared.”

She presses a chaste kiss to your forehead and pulls you in closer, resting her chin on the top of your head. “We’re gonna be okay.”

You mumble into her chest, “How can you be so sure?”

Practically smothered in her embrace, you remain completely unaware of the ominous look that has blossomed in the dark brown eyes that you love so much. 

“You trust me, don’t you?” 

You nod, albeit a bit hesitantly.

“Good. I’m going to protect you, I won’t let anything happen to us.”

It isn’t lost on you that just as there is with everyone else, there’s a slim possibility that Amber could be the killer. But out of everyone, you know her the best. Ever since she had asked you out, all shy and nervous and very un-Amber Freeman like, the two of you had been inseparable. She weaseled her way into your everyday thoughts and in turn, you became the center of warmth that thawed her previously cold heart. No one could deny that you and Amber balanced each other out perfectly. For the first time in your life, you found someone you could trust enough to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with. If you could trust Amber with such an intimate and fundamental piece of your soul, you could trust that she wouldn’t be silently plotting your death, right?

Wrong.

Just like Liv’s skull cavity, your heart shatters at the abrupt finality of Amber’s bullet. 

Chaos erupts at the spray of Liv’s blood and the crash of her still-warm body hitting the ground. Sam and Richie scatter as Tara knocks Amber’s next shot off course. 

The only thing you can think to do is run, so you do. You clamber up the stairs and dive into the hall closet. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the pitiful sounds desperately trying to slip past your lips. 

You feel utterly broken, like the piece of your soul that you’d given to Amber was cruelly snatched out of your body and crushed in her murderous grasp. You want nothing more than to scream and wail until you yell yourself hoarse, but you can’t give up your hiding spot. As much as you’re sure that the pain of betrayal outweighs any cut from the blood-stained knife, you don’t want to find out if there’s any truth to the comparison. 

You hear two sets of feet making their way up the stairs, one stomping heavily and the other flailing uselessly. You aren’t one-hundred percent sure, but you think the pained whimpers you’re hearing belong to Tara. Which means Amber was likely the one accompanying her.

At the thought of your girlfriend, you recoil further into the closet. You can feel your whole body shaking in fear. 

After a few more long minutes, you can hear the familiar creak of Amber’s boots on the hardwood floor. She’s calling out your name and you press your hand harder against your mouth to completely silence the sound of your breathing. 

Her search becomes more frantic and the clunking of her boots begins to pick up speed. You reach around blindly in search of anything you can use to fend her off.

Just as you tighten your grip around what you think might be an umbrella, the closet door flies open. You swing with all your might, but Amber moves quicker, grabbing the umbrella and disarming you.

She quirks an eyebrow and chuckles at your failed attempt to hit her. She motions for you to stand.

 “Come on, down to the kitchen we go.”

You make no move to get up, paralyzed at the sight of her donning the ghostface robes. 

She groans, “I can’t have you ruining the plan. Let’s go.”

Her commanding tone does nothing to move you. You’re rooted to the spot in fear, wondering what fate is waiting for you down in the kitchen. 

Amber growls and you flinch backwards as she steps into the closet, towering over your seated form. 

“You’re being such a pain in the ass.”

Her hands wrap tightly around your waist as hoists you up and tosses you over her shoulder. You struggle futility, but there’s no chance you can escape the strong arm wound snugly around your midsection. 

Amber carries you easily down the stairs and you wriggle around faster, knowing from your frequent visits to the house that you’re almost across the threshold that leads into the kitchen. 

You’re placed onto the ground and firmly shoved to the other side of the island. Before you can even think to move, the steel barrel of a gun is pressed into your forehead. It’s Richie on the other end of it, and only then do you realize that Sam is laid out on the ground, a hand pressed into her side, where blood is trickling out despite her efforts to stop it. She looks up at you with sorrow and terror and you’re sure that your expression reflects hers like a mirror. 

Amber takes the knife that Richie offers to her and makes her way to a different corner of the kitchen. She jumps gleefully, and if things weren’t so fucked up you might’ve found the sight endearing.

Though the gun blocks out most of your vision, you see two other women in the kitchen. 

Gale Weathers and Sidney Prescott. Shit, even they managed to get trapped in this nightmare. 

Richie, seemingly pissed that you aren’t giving him your full attention, grips your jaw with more than enough force to leave a bruise. Your resulting moan of pain is insignificant to him.

“Leave her alone!” Sidney yells out and Amber’s knife presses threateningly into her throat, swiftly silencing her.

Richie laughs menacingly, “Sid, when are you gonna finally realize you aren’t in control here?” 

He turns towards you and frowns angrily.

“You know if it were up to me, you’d have been dead at the start of this thing.” 

A glob of his spit lands on your cheek and the gun is pushed further into your forehead, the force practically moving you backwards.

You’re scared, the most afraid you’ve ever been in your life. Your hands are trembling and you stutter, completely unable to come up with the necessary words to plead helplessly for your life. 

“Pathetic,” Richie growls out. He looks in Amber’s direction, “I don’t know what you saw in her honey.”

“She usually has a lot more fire in her.” 

You meet her gaze for a second. Amber’s eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide with what must be psychotic pleasure. 

You open your mouth to finally say something, but the sudden smack of the gun across your face shuts you up. You cry out and lift your hands to your face instinctually. Your head is pulsing at the unexpected pain.

While Amber’s distracted with Richie’s assault on you, Sidney makes a grab for a knife sitting on the countertop.

Her actions don’t go unnoticed. Amber reacts with the speed of a demon and plunges her knife into Sidney’s gut. Gale yells out as Sidney crumples to the ground.

With both Sidney and Gale momentarily incapacitated, Richie knocks you backwards, sending you carelessly stumbling back and straight into Amber’s arms. He turns towards Sam, while Amber pins you against the counter.

“Get rid of her Amber, we need to start staging the bodies. Fast baby, we don’t have much time.”

She hums, not bothering to verbally acknowledge him. You shiver as your eyes lock together, hers still full of straight mania. 

Her arm lifts up and she moves slowly, tracing the blade against the smooth skin of your face. You try not to gag at the coppery smell of blood that is being carelessly smeared across your face.

She smiles softly at you, creating a confusing juxtaposition with the wild expression that fills her eyes. 

Amber leans in to whisper almost lovingly in your ear, “I always knew you’d look so pretty covered in blood, baby.” 

You can’t stop the tears from leaking out of your eyes. You’re so distraught, it’s nearly impossible to think straight with how overwhelmed you are. How could this Amber be the same Amber that had admitted to being nervous the first time she told you she loved you? 

“Amber, please.” You begged brokenly, hoping the girl you loved so dearly was still somewhere inside the maniac that stands in front of you.

Her gaze softens just a hair and you nearly cheer at the glimpse of your Amber. 

“I’m sorry. You know I’d keep you around if I could.”

The relief exits your body. Your heart drops deep into your chest at the words.

“You said you’d protect me.” You feel desperate, there had to be something you could say to snap Amber out of this state.

She pouts and brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I did. Richie wanted you to be the opening kill, but I stopped that from happening.” 

The special smile that she always saved just for you spread across her face, “I even convinced him to leave you to me tonight. I’ll be the last person you see, won’t that be nice?”

Your jaw trembles with the newfound knowledge. Amber spared you, but only to prolong your life so you’d die by her hand. Your resolve finally breaks, and you are fully encased in dread. 

In a strange mirroring of the day’s earlier events, you begin weeping loudly. Amber’s arms wrap around you in an attempt to comfort you. 

She deposits a kiss onto the top of your head.

“I know you don’t understand it, but I’m doing this because I love you.”

Her arms tighten around you and you’re suddenly blindsided by excruciating pain. Amber’s knife is slowly pushed deeper and deeper into your body, your insides twist around at the intrusion. 

As you yell out in pain, she shushes and gently praises you, repeatedly whispering how much she loves you. 

She rips the knife out of your gut, just to harshly plunge it back in once, twice, and a third time. You feel sick at the squelching that sounds out each time the knife enters your stomach. 

Blood dribbles out of your mouth as you groan in pain. 

Hazily, you notice that she’s covered in your blood. Your vision is darkening and you feel yourself begin to dwindle in and out of consciousness. 

Amber takes note of this and leans closer, her lips nearly touching yours. 

“You did so good for me, love. I’ll make sure they cast someone beautiful to play you in the movie.”

With a final whispered confession of love, Amber places a gentle series of kisses to your bloodied lips. She stabs you once more, and lowers your body carefully to the ground as she pulls the knife out one last time. 

You lay there, unable to move even if you wanted to. You stare up at the ceiling, it spins around and around and around. 

Your ears are ringing. If you could think clearly, you reckon you’d wonder what you did wrong to end up in this situation. You don’t think there’s any possibility for things to have ended differently. Fate was cruel and unforgiving, but at this point you have no choice but to lie in the bed that it has made for you.

The pain is gone, replaced with the silent weight of nothingness. You feel yourself drifting away, and you welcome the feeling. Maybe your next life would be kinder to you.

Unfortunately for you, your peace never comes. 

Instead, you find yourself opening your eyes disorientedly. You let out a sharp hiss at the blinding white lights that glare back at you. 

Once you’ve adjusted to the light, you finally make out that there are a couple figures crowding around you. 

“Wha-”

It hurts to talk, as a matter of fact, everything hurts. 

“Alright, alright you’re okay. My name’s Dr. Ford. You’re gonna be in a lot of pain for a while, so let’s take it easy.”

You stare back at the man in disbelief.

Somehow, despite all the odds, you survived.

A/N: ta da!! I'm actually planning a part 2 to this that follows our dear reader through the events of scream vi, so stay tuned! Heads up, it won't actively be about an Amber x R relationship cuz... well you know :'(

Fellow Amber stans plz forgive me for not feeding y'all more regularly.

[voltrixz]

hey I’ve been meaning to ask this… as a fellow Shocker enjoyer who couldn’t get through all off TSSM and therefore missed out on some Sinister Six dynamics — what is the appeal of electroshocker to you? Why do you ship them? Like, I mean this as a genuine and positive question!! Please rant about your guys I really want to be in on the excitement/fun :3c <33

/pos /nf

GRINS RLLY WIDE AT YOU. Thank you for this opportunity, wipes away a tear...

Also woops this got rlly fuckin long, lemme just toss a read more here

Ok so I always like to play with relationship dynamics and tbh. I think electro and shocker have some rlly interesting potential. I always like putting my fave characters in a metaphorical chamber and watch and experiment.

For electro and shocker obv they're my faves and from what we seen in the first s6 ep, they do actually temporarily work together, their powers work similarly and shocker takes the lead and electro follows. So first off it is about their powers/names, I've seen people mix the two up and such and it made me giggle, like hm yeah, despite their personalities being very different.

Also there is one scene where a couple of the s6 memebers are walking through thr sewers and shocker asks doc how they're gonna find spiderman but electro pipes up to respond, say8ng here's how and shooting off a bolt of lightning. (The fact he immediately gets scolded and sent off is so funny)

^iconic moment to me. Was he like. Trying to show off?? If he was its rlly funny because yeah I think he kinda was??? Like this cool experienced guy shows up (and also heh. Hehe. He kinda bad? WHO SAID THAT)

But yeah def think theres a sliver of an admiration thing, funny as shocker just sees him as an amateur but willing to help him later. Would have been interesting to see shocker help electro get better with his powers (like that one fanart i reblogged) AND SPEAKING OF SAID FANART

Clutches my head and falls to the ground. About that fanart I very much do think electro would get jittery/flustered from how close shocker is becuase well. Being made out of literal electricity means not a lot of people can be that close to you AND SRGH. You know that guy is starved for physical contact. And while I don't think it's actually like. ? Canon or whatever, or just a popular hc but I like to think shocker's suit is immune to Electro’s electricity or at least he doesn't get hurt by it (would make sense his suit was made to handle his gauntlets which obv are powered by electricity) and idk. That closeness in training slowly developing into subtle touches and just being physically close with each other ARGH . Makes me crazy.

Also now leaning more into hc stuff. DRINKING BUDDIES ELECTRO SHOCKER AGEGRH. Then getting closer through drinks at shocker's bar argh. Electro becoming more of a regular argh argh, shocker warming up to electro and even the rest of the sinister six argh argh. (Forever crazy over the idea of shocker warming up to the s6 arghh)

But also hrm. Hrmmm. Stares off into the distance. I also do think like they are gonna be in situationship hell or something undefined like they're def friends it's def smt more but it's just so??? Too many things in the way I would say. Shocker is loyal to tombstone, Electro is loyal to doc. Shocker will clearly prioritize his job, that's his way of living. Electro was just tossed in here and trying to deal with it. They both have pretty bad tempers, one just has way more of a handle on it. It's like ARGHH. This shit gets messy!!!!!!!

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 4.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

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: 3.5k

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

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, infidelity

this comes from the inside - the living tombstone • oblivion - grimes

warnings: p in v, creampie

Being close with another person can be such a precarious thing. Not just in emotional closeness, but physical as well. 

Lyanna never much liked being touched, not even as a child. She would shy away from courtiers pinching her cheeks, from her mother’s outstretched arms, from her father’s heavy hand upon her shoulder. Being touched felt like a burden of sorts, as if someone expected reciprocity from putting their hands on another. 

She never wished to give it in return. 

Since moving to the Red Keep, she has changed— in more ways than one, of course. She quite liked being touched now by her good mother, Alicent’s touches were soft and warm. Mayhaps it was because the queen mother was there to hold Lyanna at her lowest, and she found some comfort in her arms that she never derived from her own mother. 

Then there was Aegon. His touches were… confusing. He seemed much at war with himself, like a stray dog wishing for affection, a scratch on the cheek or pat of the head, but didn’t know how to ask, how to convey he wanted it. His proposal to Lyanna of exchange of pleasure for nurture was a strange one, to be sure. 

It must’ve been the wine, that would be why she had said yes, wouldn’t it? 

Certainly not the fact that her husband seemed… jealous. Jealous of a Dornish prince putting his hands on her and making her laugh. Aegon, being the same one who had said she wasn’t a beauty that men go to war for. Aegon, who couldn’t even flow in the same atmosphere as Lyanna for weeks. Aegon, who fucked a whore the morning after their wedding and many days besides. 

That Aegon— was jealous? 

The notion of it seemed humorous to Lyanna, as if she held some great power over him, reducing him to his knees before her. 

All for a touch. 

In truth, it was more than just a touch. He had fallen asleep with his head in her lap, snoozing softly. Lyanna wriggled down, trying to get comfortable. As much as she detested Aegon, at least she thought she did, she didn’t want to wake him. Not when he seemed so at peace with his pathetic prize. 

He was a heavy sleeper. She managed to lay on her back comfortably and adjust his position to where he was strewn across her stomach and chest. Lyanna watched him for… who knows how long, being lulled into some sense of relaxation by his weight and warmth on her, coupled with his rhythmic breathing. He was like a living heavy blanket. 

Her fingers threaded through his hair, smoothing small circles upon his scalp absentmindedly, as she fell asleep herself. 

When she awoke, he was still there— albeit, shifted slightly. He clung to her like a second skin, his leg thrown over hers, his arms draped over her chest haphazardly, still deeply asleep. Lyanna’s breaths fanned over his hair, his head resting under her chin. Whatever spell she had been under the night before had (almost) worn off, the novelty faded. 

Gently, more gentle than he truly deserved, she roused him. “Aegon,” she murmured, “Aegon, it's morning— I must get ready soon.” 

“Morning…” he hummed drowsily, lips pressed to her neck unknowingly. “No… I will sleep more.” 

Lyanna rolled her eyes; it was like dealing with a child rather than a King. “Laze around if you must, husband,” she began to pry him off of her. “But I have duties to attend to.” 

“Duties can wait, wife,” he blinked, supplanting his chin upon her chest and looking up at her in a way that made her heart wrench. He looked Gods awful pathetic, like an abandoned puppy. “Stay longer, please.” 

“… I have things to see to, Aegon. I don’t wish for your mother to be cross if I’m late to break our fast together.” 

He let out a huff, rolling off of her. “May I at least stay until you leave?”

“I suppose. You can help dress me. Do you know how to dress a lady?” Lyanna asked, getting up from the bed to open her wardrobe. 

“Ehm— I know how to undress a lady.”

“My Myrish silk from last night begs to differ.”

“Well, you have too many layers, too many loops and ties. This is why whores are so much easier, they’re practically already naked.” 

Lyanna shot a glare at him. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me that you frequently lie with other ladies.” 

Aegon came up behind her, a bit taller than her by a head, poking his nose into her neck. “Why? Are you jealous?”

She scoffed. “Jealous? Jealous like you were of Prince Qyle?”

“I don’t get jealous,” he grumbled, backing away from her and folding his arms over his chest. “I just don’t think it was appropriate the way he was touching you— like you were a whore.” 

“You love that word, don’t you?” 

“Mayhaps. I quite like other words, too. Slut, cunt, bitch— the list goes on.” 

“You’re truly an ignorant, beautiful creature, Aegon. It’s a wonder to me that you survived infancy.” 

“You think I’m beautiful?” 

Lyanna let out a snorting laugh, it was undignified and unladylike— but real. Even more real than the laughs that Prince Qyle evoked from her the night before. She stayed turned away, sorting through her clothes. The noise she emitted, raucous and loud as it was, made Aegon smile for half a moment. He quite liked when his wife laughed— and he had been the one to do it this time. 

Aegon ended up not helping her dress, as he took one look at the configurations of a corset and left. 

That was fine by Lyanna, in all truths. She descended to the Queen mother’s chambers and broke her fast with her, as was her daily routine. Somehow, in the middle of their eating, their conversation turned to the topic of sex. Lyanna didn't feel much embarrassment talking about most things with Alicent, as she was a good conservationist– but sex was one of the things Alicent was… hesitant to talk about, all things considered, and Lyanna wasn’t exactly an expert. 

Poking into her soft boiled egg with her spoon, Lyanna listened intently to Alicent.

“You’re the only one I would talk to such things about, dearest,” Alicent hummed, dragging her utensil through her own bowl of coddled eggs, “I never much liked it with… the late King. ‘Twas my duty, after all. I can only hope that, ehm, Aegon makes it less painful for you.” 

“... he does fine, I suppose,” Lyanna murmured, prying the soft white of the egg from the shell and balancing it on the spoon. “... truthfully, we haven’t…” she rolled her shoulders to enunciate her meaning, “Laid together in a way conducive to making an heir– not since the wedding night.”

The queen mother perked a brow, crossing one leg over the other. “So you are doing such things in… other methods?”

“Only once– last night, in fact,” Lyanna admitted softly, poking the bite of egg into her mouth, wiping away an errant drop of yolk from her lip– to which Alicent was watching intently– “After the banquet. Was Aegon… jealous as a child?”

Alicent cracked a small smile, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not sure that he was jealous in the way that some may think. He wasn’t so much envious of what others had that he wished to covet, but rather what others were, comparatively to him. Rhaenyra was his father’s favorite, Aemond was the better swordsman, Helaena more beloved by my father– he was always the odd one out.” she blinked profusely, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “Why?”

“He… followed me to my chambers after the feast and started spewing heinous accusations about Prince Qyle and I.” 

“And this… led you both to the bed?” Alicent took a long sip of her tea, her eyes not leaving Lyanna’s. 

“No– my boudoir chair, actually.”

The queen mother’s cheeks reddened softly. “Oh my– I cannot say that’s something I experienced. Was it… pleasurable at least?” 

“It was certainly enlightening– that he may not be as useless as I thought,” Lyanna paused. “That I may not be as repulsive to him as I thought I was.” she spoke a bit quieter then, the subject still tender to her, a wound not yet fully scarred over.

“It’s his blood.” Alicent replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“His… blood?” 

“The blood of the dragon– Targaryens have dragon’s blood in their veins, which runs thick and hot when situations become… precarious. It may be any sort of situation that might give you or I an adrenaline rush, good or bad– but for them, all my children included, it’s like igniting the spark to a wildfire. Some sort of primal, uncontainable thirst for… whatever it is that spurred them. For Aegon… he quells his blood with wine and whores,” Alicent frowned slightly at the notion, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a silent apology, “Jealousy could very well be one of the things that whipped him into a frenzy– mayhaps you should use such a thing to your advantage? Of course, I won’t condone adultery, my dear– but the illusion of interest in someone else may have Aegon more… inclined to lay with you.” 

Lyanna sniffed slightly, putting down her empty egg shell. “I wish he would just want it without me having to… set him on fire, or however it’s put.”

“Men are– for the lack of a better word– stupid, Lyanna. They are blind to the things they need the most.” 

–

Lyanna spent the rest of her week planning on how exactly to make Aegon jealous. She didn’t really understand how to put on such airs of that extent– acting confident was one thing, but feining attraction for another person was different, wasn’t it? She didn’t consider herself a massive flirt, either.

They sat in the dining hall, entertaining a visiting lord from the Reach, some Tyrell or Redwyne or other, who promptly gave Lyanna a bouquet of beautiful flowers. She was delighted at the gesture, not because she really enjoyed them, but because it would be easier to start her ruse. 

“Oh, thank you, my lord– these are gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous,” she hummed. She was wearing a green dress that, somehow, matched Aegon’s deep green tunic that eve. “How did you know that sunflowers were my favorite?” 

“Ah, your grace, the sunflower is my favorite as well,” the lord smiled heartily, chattering on and on about sunflowers. “It very much reminded me of your radiance, my queen.”

His audacious compliment earned a warm giggle from Lyanna, her face blistered with a blush– half of the blush was from real bashfulness, as she wasn’t used to receiving such compliments. She knew it was false, of course. She was more reminiscent of a plain dandelion than a sunflower.

The dinner consisted of Lyanna talking to him, making much smalltalk and overall, talking to him more than she’d talked to Aegon in their entire marriage. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her husband practically stewing, rolling around a brussel sprout around his plate with the tip of his knife, an inhuman heat blistering off of him in waves.

Apparently, to Aegon, enough was enough– his hand slipped from his goblet of wine, drenching the front of Lyanna’s dress. “Ah– my dear, I’m so very clumsy,” he crooned, “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” 

Lyanna nodded slowly as her husband looped his arms around her and led her out of the dining hall. She murmured some apologies to their guests, citing that they would return soon. Aegon led them down a corridor, not far from the hall, into a closed off enclave, where he closed the door. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he grumbled, spinning her around so that her back was pressed against the stone wall in the close quarters of what was basically a servant’s closet. “You’re egging me on purposefully.” 

Tilting her chin up defiantly, she spoke nonchalantly. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, husband, truly.” 

Aegon gave an unamused expression, his mouth wrought into a thin line. “I’m not even that drunk and I could plainly see you letting that… absolute peon of a Lord come onto you.” 

“So? He fancies me and gifted me a bouquet of flowers– I don’t see anything terribly wrong with that. It isn’t unheard of to pay homage to their queen, is it?” 

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and jaw. “I don’t– You– you’re so fucking frustrating!” he growled, raising his voice. Their noses were touching from their proximity, their breaths intermingling. It was the closest they’d ever been.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, to which the both of them froze. They came past the closet, then descended back down the corridor.

“This is scandalous.” Lyanna murmured.

“How? We are husband and wife, simply having a chat.”

“We are the king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not… animals– I’m sure that anyone who opened this door would see you… pinning me against a wall. I’m not sure much could be left to the imagination there, Aegon.”

“You really should get the stick out of your arse, wife.”

“Mayhaps it would do better up yours, then?”

“Careful, I may actually enjoy that.” he grinned, the expression lighting up his usually solemn face. Lyanna considered him quite handsome at that moment. 

“You’re vulgar.” she quipped back, biting down on the soft part between his thumb and forefinger gently.

A sound akin to a breathy moan came from Aegon’s mouth at her bite. “And you call me an animal? You’re fucking biting me, you cheeky minx.” 

“Yes? Well, if you are to drag me to your level– we are both animals then.” she stared at him with wide eyes and she wondered if he could feel the beat of her heart. It felt like it would abscond from her body at any moment. Her heavy chest fell and rose in weighty breaths. 

“That lord is quite wrong, you know,” Aegon whispered, his lips dangerously close to hers– they hadn’t kissed since the wedding ceremony, and even then it was a quick peck – his mouth quirked into a smug grin. “You aren’t a sunflower. You’re a sweet little rabbit. I quite like rabbit, you know. They’re delicious, succulent,” he paused, leaning forward and speaking against her lips, “Tender.”

It was unsure who closed the gap first, but their lips fused together into a ferocious kiss. They both tasted of a deep, rich wine. It was a fight of tongues and teeth, a battle where they both wished to devour one another– Lyanna’s hand tugged at his white curls, nails scraping against his scalp as he held her face in a vice-like grip, as if he was afraid she would dissipate from his clutches at any moment. His lips were soft, surprisingly, where she had expected them to be rough and chapped. His skin pressed against hers and the slight growing stubble upon his cheeks tickled her in kind, her lips perking into a smile as they kissed. 

The once silent closet became a cacophony of small sighs and gasps from both the king and queen. Aegon’s free hand trailed to the small of Lyanna’s back, resting right in the divots above her bottom, his fingers splayed out in exploratory fashion. His repose was short lived, as he grabbed the fleshy globe of her arse, emitting a pleased hum of surprise. They parted for a moment to breathe, as it was wholly necessary– if they hadn’t needed to breathe, they wouldn’t have parted at all, reveling in one another’s taste for hours.

“I forbid you to cut my dress, Aegon,” she whispered in a playful warning, staring at him with a look that couldn’t be described as anything else other than fondness. “I refuse to go through these halls with my garment sliced to shreds.”

“But you love it, don’t you? You quite liked it last night.”

“Aegon.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced, his hand retreating from her face to unbuckle his belt. The light of the closet was dim, close to none– the soft flickering of the sconces outside of the corridor bleeding in through the cracked door. She couldn’t see what he was doing, really, but she heard the soft grunts coming from him as his fist slid against his length. Giving her ass a playful squeeze, he used his other hand to ruck up her skirts, the pad of his thumb swiping down her underclothes. “Lovely.” Aegon practically purred, hooking his finger and sliding the wet garb down her legs.

The air was cold against her bare sex, causing her to shiver. She chased the warmth of his body as he adjusted himself, parting from her closeness for just a moment, making her all but whimper. 

They didn’t need words, despite their new trend of back and forth quips– and it was nice to not have to say anything. She let him take the lead, as he was more experienced than she. His legs were between hers, keeping them open as he glided his member between her folds, gathering the wet slick that had been ruminating since they came to the closet, then he slid into her. Lyanna stifled a gasp, the sensation still so unfamiliar– it wasn’t painful like before, as she was prepared for it now, but it was a feeling of stretching she wasn’t used to. 

Aegon, in turn, huffed a moan into her neck, murmuring something in broken High Valyrian under his breath. He sheathed himself to the hilt inside of her, resting both hands on her hips, which had the perfect little clefts for handles, he noted. He didn’t move right away, savoring the warmth and tightness of her, squeezing around him like she was all but made for him. 

“P-please,” she whispered, so quietly, into the shell of his ear.

He set a wonderfully slow pace, which only sped up with each kiss they shared, their tongues mingling and dancing to the soft sound of Aegon’s heavy stones smacking up against Lyanna’s core. Their cacophony became a full on symphony of wet, slapping noises, coupled with their borderline obscene sounding kissing as they moaned into one another’s mouths.

 It felt like something of newness for both of them as Aegon’s thumb came up to circle at her clit– Lyanna was experiencing a fullness and indulgence in having her husband slotted in her so deliciously. Aegon was experiencing something akin to euphoria at the fact that he was fucking someone who wanted him, whom he did not pay, and was not doing so out of duty. He had been a bit hesitant on the latter at first, but there was no way in the Hells that she was faking such debaucherous, beautiful little moans. This was sensual ecstasy and closeness that they’d both never felt before in their lives. 

Lyanna’s whining became more pronounced as Aegon’s attention on her clit came to fruition– she clenched around him like a vice, feeling a small dribble of wetness soak around his cock. This act alone brought Aegon to his own completion, the wetness of her slick now mingling with his seed as he spilled inside of her, deep enough to hopefully take root. He bit onto the lobe of her ear gently as he came, whimpering. 

Lyanna quite liked that sound– of her husband whimpering into her ear as he emptied himself. It made her put both hands on each side of his face and kiss him again– but soft, like his little whimpers. It wasn’t something born of lust, but something completely different. Something that they both really couldn’t name yet.

Coming down from both of their highs, Aegon quickly situated himself back into his trousers– but not before reaching two fingers to his wife’s folds and pushing back in the seed that threatened to leak from her.

“Aegon,” she keened, dangerously close to overstimulation as he gave a cheeky flick to her wrought-over clit. “E-Enough– too much…” 

“I couldn’t resist,” Aegon chuckled as he pulled her undergarments back up, snug once more against her. “I don’t suppose we are returning to dinner?” 

“Gods– I don’t think I can. I am still reeking of wine and I won’t be able to look them all in the eyes when we come back looking as if the cat just ate the canary.”

“Or the dragon ate the rabbit?” 

“... I am sure I can feign sickness just one time– what do you think? Mayhaps we should retire early tonight.” Lyanna flattened out her dress.

“... we?” 

“Yes– we.” 

“We as in… me and you? In the same room? Together?” 

“That is what ‘we’ means, Aegon.” 

“... I suppose I could be convinced.”

–

They did indeed retire early that night, but not before going for round two, then three. A thoroughly fucked out Lyanna rested in bed, her body riddled in hickies of Aegon’s doing, her fingers tangled in his hair. She was well and fast asleep, Aegon noted. 

He loathed to untangle himself from her– she was so nice and warm and soft… but something inside of him nagged. Something broken and heinous tugged at his humanity, willing him to get out of bed and dress, donning his usual thick black cloak.

Off to the Silk Streets. To sate the broken parts of him and to quell the incessant nagging within his head.

Your fault, your fault.