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fl3shm4id3n · 1 year

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𝓑𝓵𝓾𝓮 𝓢𝓴𝓲𝓮𝓼

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝'𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨. 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ɴᴇᴛᴇʏᴀᴍ x ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ! ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴏɴɢ: ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇʟ ʀᴇʏ- ᴄɪɴɴᴀᴍᴏɴ ɢɪʀʟ

Tw: Teenage love, mentions of passed bullying, weapon mentioned (spear), mamas just want what’s best for their kids, Tonowari being a loving father, Titanic reference, confession, kissing.

Author’s note: I thought of spicing things up a bit, they will be more conflict later but not too hard because I am rooting for Neteyam and Y/n. Also comment some ideas for the next part, idk how long this series will turn out, but I'd like to see what you guys want to see next. I hope I’m not moving too fast, I just really love where this is going. I also forgot to add the masterlist on the other fics, I’ll be sure to add the link.

P.s. I apologies for late tagging people on my taglist, its my first time doing a taglist and I go back to my other posts and check the comments to see if anyone else would want to be tag. Also for some reason some of the people I tag won’t pop up, sorry :(

Masterlist

Neytiri knew something, she knew that her eldest son had began to catch feelings for someone. The thing is she had no idea who her son was falling head over heels for. She wanted to know who it was and find out fast because the curiosity would consume her, if he ended up lying to her, she would not be happy than she already isn’t. Neytiri was still mad that she had to leave her home, it still irked her that her family will now have to live differently then what they were used to in the forest.

She wanted to keep a close eye on him but she would be invading his privacy, her mate was already hard on their kids, she didn’t want to be that kind of mother, but if it was for the sake of her children, so be it. Neytiri will give Neteyam some space, allowing him to tell her when he is ready.

Even after that talk with her mate, Ronal was still worried, she feared that her child may be taken away from her from an unworthy mate. She wanted her child to be happy but with the right person. It was hard enough that y/n could not mate before eywa light rest of the people due to her being different. Ronal did not like to call her child a human, humans were demons that destroy beautiful things for their own benefit.

Y/n was strong, yes she may not be a na’vi but she is a strong girl who deserves to be a Tsahik in the future, but she knew that the responsibility will lay on Tsireya due to being the oldest. She hopes in finding out who this person was sooner rather than later, before it is to late. Every time Ronal looks at Y/n, she sees her as a baby she once held for the first time, her small body covered in red, her baby. Ronal would do anything in her power to keep her baby happy.

You had finished getting ready for the day, instead of going for swim, you decided to go practice with your spear. You wore a top that was made of rope, seaweed and some pearls that hanged. For the bottom you wore a small skirt around your hips made out of light and dark net, you tide a cloth under you to cover your intimate parts. You tied your hair up to keep it out of the way, when you were using your weapon.

When done you left to the beach, the day had been going smoothly. Some kinds were running around playing in the water, the fishermen had come back from the ocean with fish, everything was normal. You stopped in a small spot that was bit farther away from the beach, it was like a training ground of yours and your father’s. You both would come here to practice on how you could use a spear. On your thirteenth birthday he gifted you the spear he made for you. You loved it very much, you didn’t allow anyone to touch, the people who could touch it was Tsireya, your mother and father. You didn’t trust your brother with your spear, he’d probably break it or something.

You were throwing your spear as hard as you could, you wanted to go farther than you already were. Your father has taught you how to use a spear from a young age, due to it you had got some muscle, you wish you were more muscular like him. Also not to mention what you can do with a blade, when your mother found out that your father gave you a blade at a small age, she nearly popped a blood vessel. Ronal was very protective of you, she feared that anything could harm you due to not being a na’vi. Tonowari had a talk with her about you learning how to fight and such, he knew that one day they will not always be their to protect you, he wanted you to be a warrior and to fend for yourself when they were no longer around.

After what felt like a while, you managed to throw the spear farther away hitting a palm tree near by. You began jumping of joy, you finally manage to do it. “Good shot” you stopped to turn, seeing the oldest forest boy. You felt your face feel a bit warm. “Oh, thank you, I didn’t know you were here” you said as you walked over to the palm tree to get your spear. Neteyam walked closer, just incase you need help with pulling out your spear.

You got a good grip on your spear and pulled hard enough, taking the spear out the palm tree. Neteyam watched as his mouth dropped, you were strong, of course you were, you’re the daughter of the Olo'eyktan. You smiled at him seeing his face. “What?” you giggled which made him change his face real quick. “Oh! Nothing, you’re just... really strong” he said shyly looking away as he rubbed the back of his neck. You smiled at him “well, you can thank my father for that” you said walking back to your spot having him follow. “Would you like to try?” you asked making him nod, no questions asked.

You had been showing Neteyam how hold the spear properly, you didn’t mind having to position his arms the right way, you loved being close to him. Neteyam was trying to do what he was told but he was distracted by you, how close you were. When you’d instruct him how to properly hold it and positioned him, he felt butterflies in his stomach, he also couldn’t help but look at you, you were just so beautiful. “You ready?” You asked as he then snapped out of his trance and nodded. “Okay, now throw it as fast as you can” he did as he was told. The spear landed on the sand, a couple feet away from the palm tree.

“Nice shot, soon you’ll be able to master a spear, you’ll be a...pro?” you said a bit confused, trying to use the word he used the other day. Neteyam chuckled seeing that were tying to use the word. “I’m not as good as you” he mentioned making you smile at up at him. You got a good look at his features again, you loved seeing him, you wouldn’t mind staring into his eyes for the rest of your life.

You then walked over to were your spear was breaking the trance you had on him. “Have you gone to your lessons today?” you asked retrieving your spear. Neteyam shook his head “no, not yet, shall we go?” he asked as you nodded, walking over back to him and leaving together to where the rest of the teens were.

As you both walked towards the small group, you heard a deep voice call out to you. “Y/n” you turned to see who it was, it was your father. “Coming!” You shouted back, turning to look at Neteyam “you go, I’ll catch up.” You said towards the tall na’vi in which he nodded and left towards the group, you walked over to your father, spear in hand “yes father?” you said looking up at the gentle giant. “Come, lets go for a ride, we haven’t gone in a while” you nodded, following him.

You both approached to his skimswim, Tonowari got on first then he helped you hop on, you sat in front of him holding tightly onto your spear and held onto the handle of the saddle. Then you both took off, the ride was silent but you like having a moment like this with your father. He’s a scary looking giant but he was gentle at the same time, you’d referred to him as a gentle giant a couple times since you were smaller. The skimswim dived underwater, taking you both down with it. It made you smile, since that the creature felt playful today. Your father looked down at you smile, making his chest warm up seeing his child happy.

It reminded him when you were a child, the first time you were scared of the creature but you warmed up to it. Since then your father would take you on rides with his creature. When you went back up to the surface for a breath, you laughed “that was fun” you said petting the skimswim, making the creature wag its tale for being praised. Tonowari then asked “so, tell me, what are your thoughts on the Sullys?” he asked as you looked up at him. “They seem very nice, well, Neytiri is a bit scary like mother... don’t tell here I said that!” you playful warned your father making laughing at you. “I won’t” he said. “But, Neteyam, he is really nice to me, well all the sully kids are nice to me including Jake, but he is the sweetest.”

You said feeling your face heat up, your father noticed this, he knew that look very well. He had that same look when he began to catch feelings for his now Mate Ronal. He hummed then talked “y/n? If that boy makes you happy, don’t let him go” he said catching you off guard. “Hm? what do you mean?” you asked a bit confused. “I know that look, you have the same look when someone is interested in another, I was young once too.” Now you understood, he was referring to your feelings towards Neteyam.

“You approve of him?” You asked curiously, he smiled down at you “just a bit, he still has to prove himself though, so far he is doing a great job” he said, this made you happy, seeing that your father seems to be approving of Neteyam. “Thank you father” you said smiling at him, he pulled you into a hug, in which you hugged him back gladly.

Neteyam was wondering where you were, the lesson was over, he was worried that you had got into trouble. Then he saw you with your father on his Skimswim approaching, he saw that you father told you something before you got off and swam towards the group, then he saw your father take off. “We were wondering where you were” your brother said as you finally reached them. “I was with father that’s all” you said.

“Well, the lesson of today is over, so everyone is just going to do whatever” Lo’kak chimed in, giving his brother a look, making Neteyam glare at him. “That’s alright, you guys have a great teacher” you said refuring to your sister. “What about me Y/n?” Ao’nung asked giving you a look, in which you pretended to think for a moment “you’re alright” you said making the group laugh, in which your brother let out a dramatic gasp. “My own sister thinks I am alright? How outrages” he said chuckling.

Everyone swam back to shore, going their separate ways. Only leaving you and Neteyam, it was silent until you spoke “so, do you want to do anything?” You asked looking up at him. You noticed how he had a little smile on his lips “I mean, I did promise you a ride on my banshee” you got excited now “shall we do that?!” You asked, and he responded “if that’s what you want, then yes, lets do it” he said as he took your hand, now taking you were his banshee was.

When you got to where is beast was, you were nervous, you had never seen such a beast. “Don’t look at him in the eyes” Neteyam warmed you, in which you looked away from the beasts face, not looking at its wings. They reminded you of a skimswim but instead of being in the water, they were from the sky. Neteyam got close to his beast, petting him and calming him down. “Want to pet him?” he asked as you nodded, walking closer towards him, he took your small hand and placed it on the beasts head. You softly pet him, feeling him purr under your touch. “Wow” you said fascinated by the beast. “Cool right?” Neteyam asked as you nodded while still petting the beast.

Neteyam got on his banshee and latched into him using his queue, then he turned to you and helped you up onto the banshee. He placed you in front of him and guided your hands to hold into the settle. “Ready?” he asked as you turned to look up at him “I was born ready” you said, Neteyam then gave the cue to his banshee, then the beast took off onto the sky.

You held tightly onto the handle and closed your eyes, afraid that you may end up falling. Neteyam took a note of this, then he wrapped his free arm around your waist and help you tightly close to him. You felt your face heat up at the feeling of his arm. After a couple minutes, you opened your eyes and looked around. Seeing how high you are in the sky, you felt fascinated seeing how close you were towards the clouds and near the blue sky.

When you looked down, you saw how small the village looked smaller, the air felt good going through your hair, it felt as good as when you go swimming. You slowly let go of the handle then stock your arms out on both sides, wanting to feel more of the wind. Neteyam was confused at first but he saw how relaxed you were, he still held onto your waist keeping you safe while his other one held onto the banshee.

You didn’t even notice the time, it was going to be dark soon, the sun was setting. You had landed on a small mountain near the village, seeing the sun set. It was beautiful, even better with the person you were with. “I had fun today” you said looking at Neteyam who had a smile on his face. “I am glad” he said looking down at your small face, he just loved looking at you, he could just stare at you all day, forever if he could. He had a feeling that he needed to say, if he didn’t say it he’ll probably regret it later.

“Y/n, I have been meaning to tell you something” Neteyam said shyly, now your face turned into one of curiosity. “What is Neteyam?” you asked as you felt his lard hands taking yours into his. “For the last few days, I’ve been having feelings, feelings I’ve never felt before, ever.” He took a deep breath, he felt like a fish out of water now, getting nervous. “Whenever I look at you, I feel like, I am at home” he said, his words made your face feel hot. “I see you y/n” he finally said it, he felt the weight on his shoulders fade, but he felt like his stomach drop, fearing rejection by the one who he wishes is his mate.

Your face felt even more heated, he saw you, Neteyam Sully saw you like you saw him. Still a bit in shock at his confession, you broke into a smile. Squeezing his hand lightly and spoke back to him. “And I see you Neteyam, the moment I first set my eyes on you, I see you” you said seeing his face turn into one of relief. “May I...kiss you?” He asked shyly looking down at your small hands. You smiled at his shyness, softly lifting his head “Of course, Ma Neteyam” You said softly locking eyes with his.

Neteyam leaned down, placing both his large hands on your small face. You came closer towards him, closing your eyes, feelings his warm lips touching your cold ones. This felt nice, this felt right, you placed your smaller hands on his large ones that held your face. You stayed like that for a bit before slowly pulling away from him and looked into his sun colored eyes. Then he whispered only for you to hear.

“Ma Y/n”

Taglist: @byunpum, @moony-artemis, @aonungs-tsahik, @rennyramen, @somewereinthegalaxi, @em-asian, @fanboyluvr, @mashiromochi, @eternallyvenus, @teenagemuffinlampcalzone, @ssophiebirkas, @fanficblogs,

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dancingtotuyo · 10 months

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Build You the World

Joel Miller X Reader

Rating: PG-13 (Language)

Warnings: fluffiness, just fluff

Summary: Joel was stupid. Saying sorry the only way he knows how, Joel built you something.

Pre- Outbreak/ No outbreak because I want them to live a happy undisturbed life together.

Notes: We take a break from our regularly scheduled Narcos/Javier Peña content to give you this teeth rotting fluff piece about Joel Miller. Cross posted on AO3

Words: 1286

Series Master List | Author Master list

Joel sucked in a breath. Supplies scattered on the floor around him. The industrial fan blew the hot Texas air into his hotter garage. Sarah rode her bike around the driveway, purple fairy wings strapped to her back. She chatted on and on, no doubt caught up in a make believe land. He needed to take the training wheels off her bike. Maybe tomorrow he would have time.

Joel’s gaze drifted back over the supplies he’d bought at the hardware store this morning. Sarah had asked what he was making as her little legs struggled to keep up with his long strides. She’d noticed the unusual components he gathered. These weren’t for a job or the back porch he’d been working on all summer.

“Secret project” he’d winked at her and thankfully, she’d accepted it.

He hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He’d handled the whole situation badly. It was 2 am before Joel gave up the tireless pursuit of sleep and drawn up the plans. He currently wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. He was a contractor. He did big projects like framing houses and decks. His fine carpentry skills left a lot to be desired.

Joel pushed those thoughts from his head. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

One lunch break, two first aid breaks, (a splinter in his thumb and a skinned knee for Sarah) and a nap (Sarah’s) later, Joel had all the pieces shaped and sanded. He couldn’t help but admire his handy work. Sure it was a simple design and yeah, it wasn’t assembled yet, but he’d made this. He just prayed it all fit.

Sarah colored at his workbench. She’d woken up not long ago and was still quiet from her nap. “Daddy, what are you making?”

“Top secret, baby girl.” He winked at her, pulling the wood glue and clamps from the cabinet.

She sighed in exasperation turning back to her coloring book. Joel hummed along to the classic rock station. His tshirt clung to his body wet with sweat. At 5:30, the temperature was just beginning its slow descent. He started to assemble to the first side, praying he’d made all the slots the correct size. That had been the most tedious part, ensuring it would all lock together properly.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. Are we going to have dinner soon?”

“Soon, I want to get this first side put together first.”

Sarah sighed, her hair floating up and then falling back over her eyes. Joel chuckled, kissing her forehead. “Why don’t you go grab a cheese stick to tide you over?”

“Okay.” She slid off the stool, running inside.

It slid together with relative ease. Only a few profanities dropped from his mouth when he dropped something or spilled the glue everywhere.

He was jerryrigging the clamps when Sarah squealed, darting out of the garage. He glanced up, just able to make out the blue sedan that pulled in behind his pickup. Your blue sedan.

Nerves coursed through him. He reached for his beer. It was warm and flat now, barely touched. Sharp power tools and alcohol don’t mix well. He ignored the taste, taking another gulp. After last night, fear and shame filled him.

Sarah held your hand, talking a mile a minute as if you didn’t kiss her Goodnight last night. You laughed at something she said, but he heard the way it doesn’t quite reach. The first thing he noticed were the dark bags under your eyes and the red rings around them. Guilt flooded him. You need sleep more than ever right now. He felt the exhaustion radiating off of you.

You attempted to make yourself more presentable before gathering the courage to come over. The shower helped, your hair still damp and curling. The mascara kept running so you left it.

You round the corner with Sarah. Joel can hardly look at you. To be fair, you don’t really want to look at him either. You don’t want a repeat of last night but you can’t ignore the situation at hand either.

You finally call up the courage to look at him. You’d grown proud of yourself for learning the ins and outs of Joel Miller in the two years you’d known him. You could read him like the bedtime stories you read to Sarah, silly voices and all, but right now the pages of him blurred. Maybe that was just the tears you fought back.

“Sarah, do you want to grab your fairy wings to show-“

“Yes!” Sarah didn’t allow her father to finish. She was gone through the door in a flash of dark curls.

“She’s been excited to show you. Can’t believe she wasn’t wearin’ ‘em.” His Texas drawl popped out sending shivers down your spine. He forced a smile.

You wanted to return it, but other things pressed your mind. You weren’t good at diversion.

“Joel.” Your lip quivered and you hated yourself for it. You felt out of control right now.

He sighed. “Come here.” He cocked his head back stepping further into the garage.

The fan pushed air through your hair and skirt granting mellow relief to the heat.

“I’ve been working on this.” He swallowed presenting his scattered workspace. He read all nerves but there was the briefest sense of pride too.

Pieces of carefully shaped and sanded wood laid about in piles. You caught sight of what he’d put together. “Porch railing?”

You failed to see the connection. Not to mention it looked too tall and narrow to be for the back deck. And what was with the arch? Was he trying to build a trellis? He’d been talking about putting in some raised beds for you and Sarah.

Was this some kind of joke? An “I’m sorry?” It hardly accounted for one.

“No, it’s a-“ he sighed, running a hand through his curls. He needed a haircut. You had planned to take the clippers to it last night until things went awry.

He picked his notebook up off the work bench. The leather bound one you got him for Christmas. You were convinced he didn’t use it. It sat on his nightstand and you were sure if you’d picked it up, you would see a dust outline. He handed it to you.

You could tell he hadn’t used it much but that didn’t really matter. Your breath caught, all else forgotten the moment your eyes landed on the page. It was rough, dotted with measurements and notes, but it was clear as day all the same.

Tears built up for a whole new reason.

“I stayed up all night working through the design. It's nothing extravagant, but it’ll be sturdy… and safe.” He stuttered.

You traced the design with your finger. All the doubts from the past 24 hours, gone just like that. “You designed a crib?”

“It’s cherry wood. I know that’s your favorite.”

“You designed a crib for our baby?” You stepped into his bubble. You couldn’t believe it. Of everything you anticipated tonight, this was not on the list.

“Baby, I’m so sorry for last night. I was a jackass-“

“Joel Miller, Shut up! You’re building this?”

You looked at him like he hung the fucking galaxy, and his heart settled. He knew the two of you would be okay.

“Yes.”

You kissed him, arms thrown over his shoulders, tears streaming down your face as the nightmare turned into a dream.

You would hear his apology out in full later, lord knows you deserved it after last night, but right now, you just wanted to celebrate. Celebrate him, your love, and the little bundle of joy to join the three of you in 7 short months.

#joel miller #the last of us #fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #fluff

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burningvelvet · 1 year

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random excerpts from lord byron’s diaries that feel like tumblr posts from the 1800s

“My mind is a fragment.”

“I am too lazy to shoot myself.”

“Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked—but not inclined to go any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a ‘loup garou,’ a solitary hobgoblin. True.”

“Sleepy, and must go to bed.”

“Whether ‘Hell will be paved with’ those ‘good intentions,’ I know not.”

“Got up—redde the Morning Post containing [..] a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual.”

“I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and fortunately there is nothing to do.”

“Last night, party at Lansdowne House. Tonight, party at Lady Charlotte Greville's—deplorable waste of time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted—nothing acquired—talking without ideas:—if any thing like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on which we were gabbling. Heigho!—and in this way half London pass what is called life. Tomorrow there is Lady Heathcote's—shall I go? yes—to punish myself for not having a pursuit.”

“What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of Seed which may be spilt in a whore’s lap – or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream – might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Buonaparte.”

“Oh that face!—by te, Diva potens Cypri, I would, to be beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy.”

“I have found increasing upon me (without sufficient cause at times) the depression of Spirits (with few intervals), which I have some reason to believe constitutional or inherited.”

“I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d., 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?”

“Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it?”

“Redde a little—wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says is bad company. ‘Be not solitary, be not idle.’—Um!—the idleness is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to wither them,—and yet—and yet—always yet and but—‘Excellent well, you are a fishmonger—get thee to a nunnery.’—‘They fool me to the top of my bent.’” (Quotations from Hamlet)

“I wish I could settle to reading again,—my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into reality;—a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne—the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.”

“As to opinions, I don't think politics worth an opinion.”

“Tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to my ears—to be redde on the banks of the Ohio!”

“This journal is a relief. When I am tired—as I generally am—out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.”

“Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos. I won't—it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) what?—the gods know—it was intended to be called poetry.”

“I will not be the slave of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head—how it aches?—the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him?”

“If I had to live over again, I do not Know what I would change in my life, unless it were for not to have lived at all. All history and experience, and the rest, teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and that what is most to be desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give us but years? and those have little of good but their ending.”

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wildpeachfarm · 2 months

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Just saw a thumbnail for a commentary YouTuber commenting on the ‘dream vs Connor’ situation, and it was awful. The comments however seem to be proving that the greater internet is finally starting to see all these fake CCs for what they are, and also how horrid the treatment of Dream is. So I guess that’s nice, cause YouTube is where the core fanbase is for Dteam and seeing a majority of them on their side right now is amazing.

Irrelevant CCs continue to prove one thing. They’re irrelevant for a reason. Their entire content is based on shitting on someone els-which is fleeting, and adhering to a mob that will turn its back on them the second they make a mistake. And none of them can handle being in dreams shoes, cause they get just a teeniest taste and cave immediately.

They couldn’t make the drituation stick, and the gogcident seems to be more on George’s side now, everyone is airing out petty grievances against Dteam, and they’re all looking like fools. I could cry. We’ve waited for days like this. The Brighton bastards pissed off the commentary YouTubers, which is NOT something you want to do. I never thought I’d see the day. Twitter is still Twitter, but everywhere else is starting to realize things.

Caiti shot herself in the foot by taking this whole thing public, and her friends solidified the beginning of the end for her by doing what they did. George may have “lost” on Twitter, and some of his “friends” may have publicly turned on him, but her career is done. She lost her passion and outside of Twitter, no one really believes a word she says.

Who knew it’d take a misguided, reactionary 19 year old to catapult the general public opening their eyes to the vitriol Dteam has been facing for years? And her friends airing out their petty grievances was the nail in the coffin. I said continuously during my four years in this fandom that the tides will change for Dream, and people will be making exposés on how the internet treated him. I don’t think it’s quite that time yet, but we are getting close.

I feel for Caiti in the sense that losing your passion for something you once loved sucks. I’ve been there and it’s awful. But she brought it upon herself the second she removed her autonomy in the situation and didn’t even listen to George’s response. That is the bare minimum of what she should have done, and she didn’t, so she created her own end, albeit probably unintentionally.

To the anon doom posting about Sapnap leaving George, go back to Twitter or TikTok. That energy isn’t wanted here. If Sapnap and George didn’t leave Dream during the drituation, they’re not going to leave George when he makes a mistake. They’ve all clearly stated they love each other, and having known each other for over a decade, it would take a lot to lose a friendship that deep and with that kind of longevity. We were walking on eggshells for a bit, but that’s his brother. Take your doomposting elsewhere.

Sorry this is more of a ramble; had a lot to say and needed a place to go with it. Appreciate my morning tea, always.

One last thing.

It will never be Dteamover.

Proud dteamolo right here. (With the caveat of Sam cause he’s never wavered from those boys)

-L :)

always a pleasure to hear from you L!

And yeah I am surprised to hear that apparently youtube is taking Dream's side with the connor stuff (so far?) but I will take a win no nonetheless!

Crazy how much this has spiraled but at least people are giving dteam at least a TINY benefit of doubt now

#ask #anon #anti drummyache tag

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pluralthey · 9 months

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is there a good place to start if we want to learn about idletry? im very interested in the story and all the bits and pieces revealed so far but i dont know if youve like, stated the basics both about the characters-in-story and how you’re releasing the comic

hi there. unfortunately, idletry became a passion project very abruptly and many details were added very quickly without regard for how long the project would take. once i did realize how large the project was, i decided that i would not even kid myself on the idea of holding in spoilers for the next 5 years, and those two factors combined make the information available very chaotic and slapdash -- somewhat intentionally.

i don't even have the comics tagged separately for easier access among the idletry content -- although, i could go back and give them a separate tag.

i can summarize the story and say that it's about a funny little talking honey badger/tasmanian devil named jessie gaylord who has for the last 10 years of her life been on heavy psychiatric medication in an attempt to mitigate a pervasive delusion that the world is a fictional story. she also has a notorious aggressive streak. these medications work primarily by leaving her so tired that she sleeps most of the time.

the story begins when her medical team has run out of typical medications to try, and they must order an older, more aggressive type of drug which is not commonly used anymore, and has a lengthier process to manufacturing and approving the drug. during this time, she is not on any medication, and she becomes more urgently fixated on convincing people that the delusion is true.

she ends up attempting to contact the writer, who is referred to as God, and she receives a response. she immediately attempts to write the story herself, and she's granted the ability to do anything within the story so long as she can write it out. (the intricacies and limitations of this power have been elaborated upon in a bunch of fragmentary posts, so i won't try to condense it here)

at the end of the first act, she kills the first writer and becomes the new God of her world. the rest of the story is about what she does after acquiring omnipotence, and it heavily features a character named fate -- or shiloh, as jessie calls her -- with whom she enters an intimate relationship.

she has a happy loving family composed of a father named adam, a mother named evelyn, and an older sister named emily. there is a later minor subplot about a cult following who worships her after she becomes God, and this cult is initially organized by an ant called samanthuel -- or samwich, as jessie calls them. these are usually the other characters i mention and i am too lazy to link them right now

the comic itself is currently being written. the script stands at around 51,000 words at the time of writing this as i work on the second act. after it's written, i will let it simmer for a few months and then write a second draft to start to relieve the story of its bloat. depending on its length at that point, i will either need to write a third draft, or i will start drawing the comic.

chances are, during the second draft, i will start to thumbnail or sketch scenes which receive little to no editing, as i know they will likely remain relatively unchanged even through multiple drafts.

the sketch strips are to tide me and an eager audience over in the meantime, but they've sort of dried up as i focus all of my attention on finishing the first draft and taking care of a puppy that was kind of just forced onto me.

i've made a couple of full-length comics before and they have taken years. it is, unfortunately, just the nature of the process. for idletry, i plan to self-publish the comic. i've never published something in print before, so that is the most daunting part for me.

the plan at the moment is to crowdfund this, but, to be frank with you, i no longer pay rent, and i care very much about having this comic as a printed book. i have no issue with paying the cost of printing out of my own pocket by the time it's done and am even anticipating that outcome ahead of time, despite having a pretty reliable audience by now.

i'm on the fence about releasing a digital book version, as i very much want to retain digital color versions of the pages that are more vibrant, but due to the explicit adult content of the story, i don't want it to be free-access.

tl;dr: it's about a lesbian incel with anger issues who's given omnipotence.

i'm still working on the story because i want it to be good.

i'm planning on printing it as a physical comic book once it's done.

#idletry #not art #ask #asks #as a frame of reference your average actual words-on-paper novel is 60k words

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manicrouge · 4 months

Text

Episode Four: New Beginnings

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 12/02/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Money is rolling in, as are the enemies. Price makes a purchase in an attempt to apologise and cover his tracks.

[𝙲𝚠]: religious mentions, suggestive content, mentions of PTSD, suicidal ideation, threats of violence, blood, gore.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 10.5k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so deeply sorry this took so long to come out... I hope this is enough of an apology for my absence !! There may be typos because this is admittedly very long although I have done my best to read through it. This is now the longest part... whoops.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

She was as unforgiving as the harsh tide in the sea.

Whenever she has her mind set to something, he knows she will not change. Not for him- not for anyone. So, the night after, when Kyle was safe in his bed with no more threats coming his way, he felt little shock as she walks through the door of his office. He offers her a look and nothing else, turning his eyes towards the book settled in front of him.

His cigar hangs out of his mouth, grey smoke filling the air as he runs his eyes over the figures they have made. Surprisingly, he notes the sudden increase in just today- the blessing of the horse and Fisher’s death has proven to be beneficial in one regard.

‘I can’t believe you,’ Kate begins, closing the door behind her. ‘The detective is here for the guns.’

‘I know,’ John affirms, keeping his eyes turned down towards the page, ‘heard everythin’ Kyle said; I was in the room when he said it.’

A scoff escapes her as a bullet does from the chamber of a gun. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tugs at the string of her silky blue nightgown, approaching his desk. Pulling his eyes from the page, he takes the cigar from between his lips and sighs.

‘I know I’ve messed up—’

‘You’re lying to them,’ Kate states sharply, ‘he looked up at you with a swollen, bloody fucking face, and you lied, John,’ she sharply says. ‘That detective is going to figure out just exactly who has the guns if you don’t fix this mess.’

John leans further back into his chair, tipping his head up towards the direction of the ceiling. It’s bruising, of course it is. To have looked into the eyes of one of his practical brothers and know that it’s his fuck up that got them all there in the first place.

But, that's the business.

‘We… I can’t get rid of the guns now,’ he confesses shortly.

Her grip on the back of the chair in front of her tightens as she clutches it. Part of him wonders if she’s dreaming of that chair being his neck. It’s a stupid thing to wonder; of course it is. Her fury is written all over his face, he sees it. Sucking on her teeth, she lowers down as her shoulders bunch up, and when she opens her mouth, he notes that she’s clenching her jaw.

In response, he brings his cigar back to his lips for another favourable puff of nicotine.

‘You’re getting rid of the guns.’

‘Not with Fisher’s men doing the rounds. They almost killed you this morning,’ he says, being sure to maintain a low tone as he addresses her.

‘I don’t care about Fisher’s men, John,’ Kate snaps, ‘I care about our own. Kyle is lucky he only got away with a broken nose- but what if that isn’t the end of it? What if they get Simon or Johnny- or me?’

‘They won’t,’ he says, ‘I’d kill them before I left anything like that happen—'

‘It already has happened!’ Kate exclaims, throwing her hands in the air, ‘Kyle got caught out and he got hurt bad. And all for what? A shipment of guns you were doing fine without until you got your hands on them? You don’t need those, you’re capable enough as it is.’

Her words are far from praise.

‘If you keep going like this, John, people are going to get hurt.’

‘Fisher’s men want me dead,’ he says, ‘you know, when I got out of the trenches, I thought I’d seen the end of all this shit,’ he confesses, ‘I thought, when I got home, things would go back to normal. There would be none of this ‘cause everyone realised how bad things can really get- I thought they’d appreciate the fact that they got to come home.’

Clenching his fist, he rolled his neck.

‘But everything we fought for, every man we lost, it’s just the same fuckin’ cycle. Someone thinks they know better- someone thinks that they should be top dog and then a fight breaks out. You weren’t there Kate,’ he says, ‘you know the racing business like the back of your hand, but you don’t know war.’

She stares at him, her hands finding the top of the chair again.

‘But I know you, John,’ she says, all the frustration in her mind coming out in a pitiful plea to be listened to. ‘I know you.’

All the fight in her is gone in the end, he notes the disappointment in her eyes as she lets go of the chair she has been holding onto so tightly and retracts her hands, moving them to fall against her side.

There’s a bitterness in the air, but there is nothing that reeks of ill-will. She offers him one more look before she turns sharply on her heel and heads towards the door of his office.

He knows better than to call out her name, he knows better than to attempt to apologise; in the end, is he really sorry for something he is willingly doing? Or are his apologise simply that of connivence> Had he truly been remorseful, the last thing he would have wanted would be to sit alone in the silence of the room listening to the door shut with click.

Yet, this is where he is and he doesn’t make any effort to move. Instead, he turns his focus back to the book of figures, retrieving the pen he settled down at the side of it. And in her absence, he finds himself reaching for the bottle of whiskey perched at the edge of his desk.

—

In the loneliness of the night, he finds that it is the prime time for the thought of sin to sneak in. Like an insatiable itch that can never be scratched. Every night has been the same. He strips of his clothing when he retires from his duties for the night and retreats to his shabby little bedroom.

Never one for luxury, only ever caring for money's advantage, not what it can buy him.

In his room he's left exposed, his underwear being the only thing protecting his decency from whatever is watching him. It's difficult to describe so he never really talks about it; whether he likes it or not, he is still the same old Captain he was when he was sleeping in the muddy trenches.

Before he sleeps, he lays in bed and smokes a cigar.

Whatever is in it helps ease his weary brain, the faults of the day he has just experienced being forgotten in a brief kiss from nicotine. She lingers in his mouth for a while, even when the stench of his cigar is gone.

Today has been particularly draining so he keeps his cigar in his mouth for a little longer than usual.

The thought of the barmaid is difficult to escape, even though he runs from it as fast as he can inwardly. Inners mean nothing; unless he acts upon this sudden feeling, there's nothing that can be traced back to him. No evidence, no criminal- and he is familiar with that. But, he can't help himself while alone with only himself to think of the flustered expression on your face earlier today. It's different from the mischievous glint he has seen in your eyes, and he's quite sure the pout on your lips is enough to challenge the fires that await him in the depths of hell.

He's melting at the thought, his body feels like water and his pores exude sweat as he attempts to quench his appetite with a kiss of nicotine- the very same thing that has kept him from formidable thoughts in the past.

Yet, you don't feel formidable to him. Much rather permanent.

It's your flattering purity, he's sure of it, and the dishevelment of someone who is clearly unfamiliar with how brutal his line of work with has his heart pounding against his chest. He feels like he's a teenager again, shamefully, unable to escape the emotions running through his veins.

His jaw is clenched as his mind persists on the thought of you- he's hardly seen you and he's thinking of you in ways that would even make Lucifer seem like a committed apostle.

It's not him either, typically, he knows better than to indulge in women; they only ever really cause issues. No one ever wants to commit to him for him either, it's always in terms of status and he's unsure if he's even selfish enough to indulge in desire all to put the life of a pretty lady at risk. And whether he likes it or not, giving his name to someone who isn't prepared nor deserving of the repercussions is not something he's particularly fond of.

He's done it to himself, he know he has. Even then, without the status, without the money, without his name, he's unsure whether anyone would want to stay with him.

He's a fool for even daring to think you would be any different; he's hardly spoken to you, he doesn't know anything about you. All it is is the help you gave Kyle and the panicked expression on your face this morning. Your bravery is admirable and your heart is grand- that much he knows.

Perhaps even too big to fit inside of your chest.

This is the whiskey talking.

Tipping his head back, he rests it against the wall behind his bed, allowing a grey cloud of smoke to spill past his lips, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His free hand rests across his stomach, and while lying against the mattress, he finds his hand taking the skin on the side between his fingers and pinching at it.

The sting is delightful- the tasteful sensation of living.

The delightful sensation of having some form of humanity.

Accompanied with the taste of nicotine and he dare might confess that it's the best he has felt in a long time. But he doesn't speak, keeping to pinching himself every couple of seconds as his eyes grow heavy. The mixture is deadly with the thought of you nestling firmly in his mind. His body is hot at the thought and he knows his thoughts are crude.

You're a stranger. You hardly know each other. Yet, the thought of how his hands fit around your waist and your defiance towards him has his saliva caught in his throat and his mouth dry. Despite such thoughts, he fights against them, using the same old discipline he had used on his troops in the war, telling himself that it's enough.

You know better than to fall into this shit.

So, he relents with the blooming thought in his mind all to find some source of peace in order to drift off and forget he ever thought of you in such a way in the first place. Moving further down his bed, he keeps the covers off of him, his body still beaming with heat. His tongue trails his bottom lip, the saliva drying down with a satisfactory cooling sensation as his eyes slowly grow heavy before they're shut.

His breaths are loud, primarily through his nose. His fingers twitch against his side, maintaining a pattern of allowing himself to drift off before pinching his side just to make sure that he's still very much where he believes he is.

And it's working.

Until he hears it.

It's faint at first, but he hears it.

It's as though a starving dog is located on the other side of the wall as there's this sound. It's slow at first, perhaps his brain is slowing due to his exhaustion or perhaps they're growing tired of the same act that has been following him around since the trenches. It starts from the top of his head, and slowly, it trails downwards, the sound similar to the clinking of a shovel being dragged across gravel.

Then, they get impatient and it's as though they have a spurt of energy when he finally succumbs to the temptation of resting for the night; they know if he did have the energy, he would have gotten rid of them a long time ago. There's someone there, that's what his mind is telling him anyway.

And as he falling into sleep with the image of you standing beside a bloody Kyle, he finds that he isn't overly concerned if he never opens his eyes again after that moment; he caused both the damage to Kyle and the look of distress on your face.

He'd deserve it.

—

There was blood on his hands again. It was there, staining his skin, the feeling of shredded flesh settled beneath his palms as he writhes and fights against the urge to pull away; he's the Captain. He is supposed to know everything- he is their leader and if he falls, then it will be he who punishes the rest of his brigade for their weakness.

There was a stewing anger in his veins as he blocked out the calls from an artificial accent over his shoulder. He swallowed the urge to tell them to leave him alone- to let him handle things; he didn't need a yank telling him what to do. He hadn't for the long four years of the war before they joined in, and he sure as shit wasn't going to fold there.

'Move, you're gonna kill him. You don't know what you're doing,' a brooding voice demanded, grabbing him by the shoulder.

John didn't budge, he stayed and look at the weeping man lying on the ground in front of him, keeping his hand against the bullet would in his knee and thigh as he huffs out a short breath. How could he be expected to do something so careless?

'Captain—'

'Shut it,' he snapped sharply, 'I don't need you telling me what to do, yeah? Do me a favour and go and find out where Garrick is,' he firmly stated, not bothering to look at the man standing behind him as he shrugs his shoulder.

There's a huff, he catches it through the howling guns shots and the sniffles of the man lying on the ground in front of him. His brow is wet with sweat and his hands are soaked with blood as it poured out of the wound. Fortunately, he heard the wet squelch of mud and the calling for a name, allowing him to look back at the man on the ground.

'You're almost outta here, Blake,' he said firmly, 'just have to wait this out and then you'll never have to think of coming to the trenches ever again- you have my word, my promise.'

Despite the snotty, muddy state that the man in front of him has gotten himself into, he offered Price a shaky smile as he reaches his hand forward, placing it on top of Price's red hands. He squeezed his hand tightly, remaining curt with the shake of his head.

'Thank you for everythin', Cap'n.'

—

Over the passing days he gets an idea in his head which sprouts whenever he’s in the Hindsight. It’s a difficult idea to address, even when he has a glass of whiskey in front of him, and most of the time, he finds himself trying to come to terms why he has even conjured up such an idea.

Kyle is slowly getting better, he’s been sure to see to it while keeping his eyes out for the detective, the knowledge that the man is looking for the guns only worsening his mood as he attempts to find some for of way to keep the guns from the grubby little hands of that yank. He has half the mind to blind the bastard and toss him into the docks for injuring his own brother in such a terrible manner.

But he doesn’t.

Rather, he remains reserved and cool knowing better than to make anymore enemies during this time; truthfully, the threat of the Fisher’s is frightening. Fisher’s business spans the entire country and with the attack on Kate, their silence afterwards has been treated with caution.

Of course, he knows his men are the furthest thing from stupid- it’s him who they want. But, he knows better than to make the assumption that they’ll stop at him because, in reality, he knows anyone marked with the hat of a Blinder will be treated as though they are John Price and there’s nothing he can do to fight against that. The framing of the murder is unfortunate, and the longer he and the others have sat with it, the more he’s grown convinced that it’s the work of another group- more specifically the Adams’.

It arrived just after the betting business saw an increase in it’s profits- after news spread that Johnny was going to bless the horse. They might be bigger than their business, yet, that means jackshit and he knows it does. The big guys can squash the small competition when they please- he’s seen it before and he doubts it will be something that will stop. However, the big guys dislike getting their hands dirty, so, instead of doing it directly, they send their little lapdogs to do the dirty work.

In the Adams’ case it was killing Fisher and leaving a razor blade at the scene of the crime- tying the Blinders directly to it.

He’s unable to quite process why the workers would think he’s responsible for such a crime; while he has done some abhorrent things in his life, the last thing he would do is put a deal to risk. The deal they had was something he absolutely wouldn’t ever want to risk and by killing Fisher, it made life harder, not easier. His life is on the line and there’s virtually nothing he can do to make the situation any better… unless he can find the perpetrator of the crime and prove his innocence- but what type of criminal would ever care enough to do that?

And as he’s sitting in the pub, watching as you pour the drinks for the group, he looks around and takes notes of all the money sitting in his back pocket. He’s a rich man- too rich. If he’s to die to one of the men looking to seek some form of sick revenge, the last thing he wants to do is leave the boys without something to fall back on. His death will most likely result in the death of his business. Besides, why would he sit in a place he didn’t own?

‘We should buy this place,’ he says, picking up his glass.

Johnny raises an eyebrow in his direction.

‘What?’ he asks,

‘Well, we have the money, don’t we? Why are we drinkin’ in a pub that we don’t own?’ he says, looking around the place. ‘It’ll be another stream of income- keep the money coming in even if something bad happens to the betting business, ey?’

Despite the mask covering Simon’s face, he notes a glint in the man’s eyes. It’s a rarity, that much he knows. He reads it as excitement before the man even opens his mouth.

‘You really think Kate would say it’s a good idea?’ Kyle says, ‘you know what she’s like with money- and if this purchase doesn’t benefit the business then I don’t see her sayin’ yes to such a big purchase.’

Price pauses for a moment, taking time to reflect on such a possibility. As much as he does respect Kate, he finds he has little care for her input concerning this purchase- and if anything- he’s sure she’ll be more than happy to endorse a payment which will put more money in their pockets. So, he brings his drink up to his mouth, taking a sip from it.

‘Don’t see the harm in doing it; we’re making more than enough money to justify spending it to buy this place,’ he says, turning to the bar where you’re standing idly.

You look tired, standing awkward as you hold a glass in one hand and a cloth in the other. Clearly, you’re supposed to be cleaning them, yet, you’re standing their in a mind of your own, not moving an inch, too busy in that head of yours.

As he observes you, he wonders what you’re thinking of, perhaps something of important or maybe you’re just daydreaming about something random. A part of him wants to know, although, as his brain treads such territory he turns his attention away and takes another sip from his drink.

‘The more money the better,’ Simon agrees, ‘sure James would take a decent deal for this place; he doesn’t really have a choice.’

Price grins.

‘He doesn’t.’

—

It's in the middle of the afternoon and ordered in the pub has been maintained following the absence of James. It's been a few days since the attack against Price's boy and you're more than sure Graves has a death wish. Upon listening to their conversation from behind the door, the only thing you discovered was who was behind the attack. Nothing else of value escaped their lips- other than the fact that they know the detective in town is adamant on finding the guns.

It's difficult to know what exactly Price's reaction was following Kyle's confession and the proposal that they should help the police in finding the guns, only, you know there was some form of disagreement as you heard Kyle's back go up as he addressed an angry sentiment towards Price. Perhaps he simply provided him with a sneer or something along the same lines of such as even Kate seemed confused by whatever he was doing.

Either way, you kept the conversation to yourself, not even planning on sharing it with Graves when you next intend to meet; it seems so minuscule, you're confused why you have even been debating on whether or not you should tell the man. He doesn't need to know everything happening with the gang- only if they have the guns. He's sure they have got them, although now, as you cleaning a glass, you're feeling an uneasy churning sensation in your stomach as you're considering the fact that they might not have the guns and you're been following the stupid fucking trail Graves has persuaded you to stick to.

Truthfully, the lingering sent you caught on to in Mr. Churchill's office is beginning to fade and you're becoming worried that you might have chasing your tail all because of some stupid yank.

Setting the glass in your hand down against the counter behind the bar, you let out a heavy breath, placing the cloth in your hand beside it. Planting your hands flat against the counter, you look down at the ground at you black shoes, taking a deep breath. Being confined to the pub surely isn't helping your nerves; for all you know, Graves could be causing more harm than good and you're standing her serving drunks.

Your heart is beginning to grow fickle at the thought.

The door opens, creaking as it does so. Your back tenses at the sound and a dull ache pulses through you skull. You almost can't bring your head up to address the customer. Yet, when you hear the drunken rambling stopping and a shallow gasp from one of the women, your head shoots up at the possibility that you could be disrespecting Mr. Price.

When you look at the man approaching the bar, your struck with the realisation that he does have a similar head of hair to the man, however, it is not John Price who is approaching you. His smart attire is telling of the fact that he's belonged to a much wealthier part of the country than the place you currently find yourself in. His suit is well tailored, a thick black tie hanging around his neck as he offers you a grin when he catches your eyes.

Taking a seat at the bar, he rests his forearm against it and brushes his thick fingers through his hair. His build is grand- unlike anything you've seen really. All you can liken it to are depictions of Greek Gods you've seen in books during your time in eduction. His forearms are notable in the fabric of the blazer and he has the eyes of a siren as he drags them down your body.

His not subtle in the slightest, and when he grins, he shows you gleaming teeth. He's like one of the stars you've seen in the paper from States.

'What can I get for you, sir?' you chime, managing to find a spare smile somewhere in yourself, offering it to the alluring man.

A strand of brown hair falls from atop his head, resting against his forehead as he tilts his head to the side to get a better look at you. His upper lip is marked with a thick moustache- though it's nowhere near the moustache Mr. Price has. His finger draws a pattern on the dark oak of the bar as he clears his throat.

'What's the dearest bottle you have, lamb?' he asks, his words horrifically smooth as he addresses you. The nickname drips from his tongue with ease- you're no fool, of course you're not the only one he's addressed with the sorts.

'Uhm,' you begin, looking over your shoulder at the array of drinks, 'we have expensive whiskey but─'

'It's reserved for John Price,' he finishes.

You still at the mention of his name, slowly turning your head in the direction of the man as you slowly nod your head. You expect to see a look of frustration etched on his face, however, you find he's smiling at you. It's gentle, yet, you would prefer a scowl to the look on his face right now.

'I'll have a glass of whatever other whiskey I'm allowed to have then, lovely,' he shrugs, pulling out a wad of cash from the inside of blazer, placing a few notes down onto the table with a sly grin. 'Get something for yourself too,' he offers kindly.

To refuse a man who is oozing such a coldness surely isn't the smartest thing you can do in that moment, so, you take the notes he's pushed onto the table and put them into your apron. Grabbing two glasses, you pour yourself a glass of whiskey alongside him one too. Turning around, you set the glass down onto the table and he takes it in his hand.

He almost swallows the glass whole with the grip he has on it and you can only really see any of it because of the small gaps in his fingers. Bringing it to is mouth, he sips the drink before setting the glass down onto the table. You copy him- not meaning to, only realising as you place your glass down onto the counter just as he does.

'Would you mind if I pick your brain for a little while?' he asks. You narrow your eyes in the direction of the man, wrapping an arm around yourself. He chuckles as you do such, shaking his head. 'It's nothing to be afraid of, little lamb, just some questions.'

'About what?' you ask, taking a breath before continuing, 'who are you?'

'Well, if you must know, my name is Caleb Adams,' he begins, 'I'm the owner of one of the biggest race courses in the country.'

'So... you're here about Mr. Price?' you ask.

Smiling, he offers you such a sweet look you feel inclined to reach for his tie and force his head against the counter. But you don't, you play the role of the quaint, cute barmaid as you sweetly nod at the man.

'Smart girl,' he praises, 'have you ever thought of working elsewhere?' he asks, 'I have a feeling you'd be better suited anywhere but here,' he admits.

Oddly enough, he is right, you don't belong here.

'I like working here,' you shrug, to which he nods.

'I'm sure you do,' he says promptly, sucking in a breath, 'what's your relationship with Mr. Price?' he asks with a furrowed brow, 'would you say you're friends?'

'No,' you answer, 'I'm the barmaid at the pub he comes to- there's nothing more to it.'

There's something in the way he looks at you that shows apprehension- almost as though he's fighting against his better judgement to refuse to believe the truth you're telling him. You're not friends with him, you've hardly spoken to one another during your time in the pub.

'Are you here to get dirt on him?' you frankly say, not caring for the attempt of subtlety; it's nothing you've ever really been fond throughout the course of your life, and despite your mind warning you of the repercussions of annoying a man who appears so wealthy, you can't help but let your true character seep into the conversation.

Your comment is something that stops him for a moment. It's unlike him, you're aware of that; he has been forward during the entirety of your conversation, and here he is rendered speechless from your words.

Grabbing the glass you placed down, you swirl the remaining whiskey around in your cup on a baited breath. Despite your nerves, however, you do not look away from him.

'Why does it matter to you?' he asks, ‘if you’re nothing but a barmaid, the my enquiry should mean nothing to you,’ he says, narrowing his eyes, ‘are you telling me the full truth about your association.’

There’s a bubbling rage in the pit of your stomach the longer you entertain this fool. You’re accustomed to all of the games men like him like to play; you’ve built your entire fucking career around being treading like some dumb girl. Still, you fight to maintain the act, to keep your composure.

‘Keep smiling,’ a voice calls. ‘Cause, if you frown at the wrong man… well, it very well might be your last day.’

So, you insist on you act, persist with your calmness and bite back the urge to throw the drink he bought you in his face.

'I have no reason to lie to you,' you respond frankly, 'I don't even know who you are- my assumption about you wanting to get dirt on him is wholly based on how eager you were to ask me questions.'

It's stale and brooding the look his gives you in the midst of your small rant is a tad unsettling, but you can't help yourself. He's sitting right in front of you, accusing you of lying about something you have no involvement is. There's a sour air between the pair of you now and you busy yourself with finishing your drink, looking past the man at the door to the pub as it opens once again.

A small sigh escapes you at the very thought of having another customer to serve to get you away from this uptight asshole. Yet, with your saviour in sight, you startle as you see both Kyle and Mr. Price walking through the door together. Kyle looks somewhat better, one of his eyes is still slightly swollen from the blow he was dealt and his nose is a tad to the left. Only, he can stand on his own and walks with only a small wince with every step.

Any pain is easily masked with the grin plastered on his face and Mr. Price walks with his nose in the air, all for his head to drop at the sight of the man sitting opposite to you. Caleb picks up on your gaze and chooses to turn his head to peer over his shoulder. No one in the pub dares to speak, opting to keep their mouths shut as Price's brow furrows.

'John Price, I thought you'd never show up,' he says, grabbing the glass of whiskey you poured him, holding it out to the man as though to cheers.

'What do you want?' Kyle asks, not giving the man beside him a chance to speak.

'I came all the way out to congratulate you,' Caleb begins, pushing himself up off of the stool he was sitting on with a bright grin. 'I never considered you nor the rest of the Blinders to be a true threat until I opened the newspaper and saw that you were responsible for Fisher's death.'

'It had nothin' to do with us,' John firmly says.

'Sure it doesn't,' you hear the man scoff and imagine him rolling his eyes at his words. You note how Caleb keeps his eyes on Kyle. 'Everyone in the racing community are quite disgruntled at the death of Fisher, you know? There are a lot of people who have invested a lot of money into his company, and none of those below him are good enough to lead it.'

You look at Price with a furrowed brow, tilting your head to the side slightly. Kyle offers you a look similar to yours, his eyes falling to the empty glass in your eyes.

'Real big man you are, yeah?' Kyle asks, 'comin' to our pub and asking our barmaid about us?’

His sudden shift in tone startles you and you're unable to really put together his use of 'our'. Maybe it was just something to make it seem like he has come to the wrong place, or maybe he truly meant every word of it. Besides, the longer you stand and think in the pregnant silence between the men, you're more than aware that James has never really been the owner of the Hindsight.

'Your barmaid?' he asks, looking back at you.

'That's right,' Price affirms, slowly stalking up to the man. ‘And if you ever think of steppin' foot into this pub again- if you ever think of talkin' to her again- I will cut you up, make sure you have no eyes to see her with.’

It's unlike anything you've seen as of you, although, it is everything you've heard. While he is an admittedly large man, the floor barely creaks as he stalks up to Caleb. Tilting his head to the side, he holds the brim of his hat between his fingers. His features are shadowed by the man standing in front of you, although, you don't miss the low chuckle that escapes him.

His voice is low, almost a whisper as he says so to the man. You find all the hairs on your arms stand up as you idly stand by and simply watch.

'I assure you I meant no harm in coming here.’

'You know the business,' John calmly says, 'you know what it means to walk into a place you have no claim to, and while I know me and you haven't talked to each other before, I'm not a idiot.'

Caleb slowly nods his head, holding his hands either side of him as he steps to the side of John, shuffling away from him. He laughs as he does so, looking back at you while you stand behind the bar, holding the empty glass of whiskey he bought you in your hand. Your chest burns as you turn your head away and look at John who offers you a small smile.

'If you continue to treat people like this, Mr. Price, then I assure you you will have a lot of bad people after you,' he warns, his brows furrowing, 'and right now, I assure you that is the last thing that you want to happen.'

John tugs at the hat atop his head, shaking his head at his words, 'get out,' he says frankly, 'if you want to discuss something concerning me, Adams, you talk to me, not the girl, yeah?'

Caleb tilts his head to the side, mustering out a deep sigh. Tugging at the cuffs of his blazer, his fingers curl around the fabric and you watch as he nods his head as though he's agreeing to something.

'Mr. Price,' he says, sucking in a breath, 'as I said, I meant no harm by coming here, I was simply... asking questions; Fisher has been a pain for myself and my family for many years and you got rid of him. Quite frankly, I wanted to strike a deal with you.'

'We don't need anything of yours, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're the one who got Fisher. Y'u just didn't wanna deal with the fall out of it so you blame me and my boys,' he says.

Mr. Price doesn't care for whatever sweetness he is being shown in that moment, instead, he has his back up like a feral cat. Of course, you don't need his protection- in fact, if Graves had been there with you, you know for a fact that such a fact most definitely would have been relayed to you.

Still, there's a little part of you that takes a slither of sinful pride, relishing in the way Price so effortlessly defended you in the eyes of a threat. Really, you know nothing of the man who has just bought you a drink and the way he looked at you made you feel so uneasy that you simply find comfort under the watchful eyes of the men who you do know well.

'Well, Mr. Price,' Caleb says briefly, brushing his clothes with his hands as he swallows harshly, a short breath escaping him. You imagine that his formalities are beginning to wear thin. 'I assure you that I have heard you loud and clear... but before I go, I must tell you that you are making a fatal mistake.'

Instead of offering him any form of response, Price moves past the man, settling in the seat he has just been sitting in, keeping his back to him as Kyle also pulls a seat beside him, sitting down. Caleb turns around to look at you again.

'A very big mistake—'

Your temperament seems to dissipate in the brattiness of the posh man, the fire in your stomach raising to flood your throat before you have the chance to fan the flames.

'Did you not hear him?' you ask sharply, narrowing your eyes. 'You're not welcome here. Get out.'

You expect him to want to get the final word in, to allow the patience he has harboured since Mr. Price stepped through the door to melt. Yet, much to your surprise, he simply nods his head without saying another word to you, and with that he heads towards the exit of the pub without a word more.

You almost deflate as you see the door behind him close, placing both your hands on the counter behind the bar, taking a moment to catch your breath.

‘If he comes back in here, don't serve him,’ Mr. Price firmly instructs.

'I'll let James know,' you say, nodding your head.

'Nonsense,' Mr. price says with a smile, 'he's not comin' back here, love; he doesn't own the place anymore.'

Your eyebrows raise as you slowly turn to Kyle who offers you a bright grin. Still, as you're looking at him, you struggle to see him with his healing injuries. It's something that strikes you with guilt for all you see in front of you right now is the bloody and beaten down man who you had helped a few days ago.

'What do you mean?' you slowly ask.

'We own it now,' Kyle confirms, 'John bought it off of James.'

You stare at the man as though he's grown a third head unable to quite understand what exactly he has said to you. For a moment, you take time to process what this means. You're not stupid, of course you understand that you're now working in an establishment owned by the Blinders- John Price is your boss now. Although, you can't help but question what exactly this means in terms of your position.

He seemed pretty sure that I was his barmaid, I doubt he fire me.

'Why didn't he tell me?' you ask, almost offended that the man you have been working under disappeared without even offering his hard-working barmaid something as small as a 'goodbye'.

Decency was never his forte, you suppose, so, you settle by chewing on the corner of your mouth, balling your fists as you tilt your head to the side.

'Busy man,' he simply says, 'he wanted to get out of the city while he still had the chance to, 'thinks things are getting worse. As selfish as it sounds, he was only really thinking of himself,' he explains.

You slowly nod your head, chewing on your tongue as you manage to let out a short breath. You're right in the lions den at this point and while you dislike the fact that you're the one who has to fan the flames, you try and find some form of faith in Graves; he is your partner after all. Besides, you are in the lions den.

You.

'Are you gonna fire me?' you ask.

John laughs.

'Why would I fire you, love?' he asks, 'you're decent at your job and you keep everyone here happy enough not to rip the heads off of each other, yeah? I'd be an idiot to get rid of you.'

They have no idea of your intent and you have slid in so easily you can't help but allow yourself to smile at the thought, your core beaming with excitement as you address both of the men once again by discarding of the glass sitting in front of Mr. Price and grabbing two new glasses from behind you.

'Well, how about a drink to celebrate, hey?' you chirp brightly, noting the smile of Mr. Price's face as you pour a drink of whiskey into his glass. They both take the glasses in their hands and you pour yourself a fresh glass, copying them after Price motions to you to lift your glass up.

'To new beginnings,' he says firmly with a smile as he looks at you. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, your face growing warm under his eyes as both yourself and Kyle nod.

'To new beginnings.'

—

The sun manages to peak through the clouds, a streak soaking him as he walks down the street with his head held high. Sometimes, it's difficult to find the will to smile; his mind has been destroyed. It's no different to the shrapnel discarded from a soldiers wound: plucked free from where trouble reins, all to cut the fingers of those who handle it.

Still, he smiles and takes a moment to inhale the thick air of the city, pulling his hat off of his head. Rubbing his bald head, he firmly plants his hat back onto it, hoping the light action would chase off the demons which left his mind a muddled mess. One could dream, he supposes. At the very least, he is doing something to fix all the issues going on inside.

He does a lot more than some people do and he knows that.

A true family man at heart is Blake, one who works so hard that he never really knows when to give it a break, only really caring to take a seat when he is forced to and not when the old wound in his leg tells him to; that's not what his Captain would want from him and he has been loyal to him since they first met on the battlefield, and even outside the war, he vows to keep his promise to him.

So, he walks with a slight hobble after his shift at the shipyard keeping his head high as he approaches the home of the Blinders with a few minutes to spare before his shift starts there.

It's typical to see the coppers around and on the street during his walk and he's not afraid of them for he knows they'll do very little to him because they truly have no reason to accuse him of anything. Even then, as he's walking, he spots a swell of tall hats gathering at the top of the street. They're similar to a swarm of wasps in the manner that they move, all of them remaining together as the push past the stray people on the street.

From the centre of them emerges as man with light brown hair- he's the only one without a hat. The Queen Bee. He walks with a face like a slapped ass, brooding and commanding as he calls out orders. He stops in his tracks as soon as the man opens his mouth- anyone would think he'd heard news of his arrest as he listens to the man bark like a feral dog.

His face pales as his heart thuds in his ears, and that wretched buzzing in his head returns in the blink of an eye. It's strange, how normalcy can be stripped away from him in such a quick fashion. In a moment, he goes from standing in the street on the way to the Price's house all the way back in time to the trenches.

The road isn't covered in gravel, rather, he feels as though he's sinking into the ground, similar to the thick, gooey mud which caused him to stagger and stumble during his time at war. And then, the police were no longer the saviours, rather, enemy soldiers coming towards him with the intent of killing him.

In a matter of seconds, he sprinting away from the group of men, his eyes trained on the Hindsight with a pounding in his head. The Captain would be in there, he's sure- he needs to warn them that they're back- that the betraying scum are back and they're searching for him. So, he breaks into a sprint, he can’t stop the thoughts once they’ve started and a clear mind is miles away from him.

He runs as though the group of officers are chasing after him, all the while his mind is wrecked with the sounds of gunshots and the fire from the iron works is something he accustoms to the scent of war. It’s everywhere, the enemies are everywhere. It’s impossible to explain how his mind functions during these moments; even he’s unsure why his mind chooses to punish him. When he got out of the war, he thought it was over. Yet, here he is, standing in his home still plagued by the memories of the very thing that ruined him.

A startled breath escapes him as he collides with something and through foggy eyes, he spies an enemy. His words are muffled in his ears, his shouts are something of a threat and he's unable to quite make out what is being said to him. All he knows is that this man is a threat. He's going to do something bad and the aggression in his tone is preemptive to how he is going to hurt him- how he is going to hurt other people.

Blake refuses to back off, not hearing the man's demands to get away from the front of his business. His mind clears momentarily, long enough to see the shining silver in the man's hand, and in a state of terror, he's quick to grab the item and without a second thought, he shoves it into the man's stomach.

A wretch escapes him, and as a wetness soaks his hand, he's back on earth. Back home.

Gasps catch his ears and as he slowly blinks himself back to reality, he's horrified at the sight of the grunting man in front of him. Letting go of the end of the pocket knife he has driven into the man's stomach, he backs away with bloodstained hands, looking around himself at the surrounding civilians who saw what he has done. And then his eyes fall back to the sign located about his head.

Costello's Cures.

A panicked breath escapes him and in the matter of seconds, he sprinting in the opposite direction of the Hindsight, rushing towards home without stopping as people call out for him to return to the scene of the crime.

—

When John hears about the news, his displeasure is imminent, and that night, he's quick to be at Blake's home. It's cold, the night air nipping at his ears as he walks with a stern look etched on his face, all to find the address of the man.

Johnny had sheepishly wandered in his office with the confirmation of who exactly Blake had injured during his episode, and as he sat and listened to the account Johnny had heard, he found his chest tightening the more he continued.

Nothing can ever be easy and it seems as though he's been cursed with bad luck ever since he was sent home and striped of his title.

Standing on the man's doorstep, despite his anger, he was sure to knock lightly before shoving his hands into his pockets, shifting on his feet as he stands idly and waits. There's a creak beyond the door, the sound of heavy footsteps on wood, and before long, the door is pulled open.

Light is situated behind the man at the door, his bulky frame blocking most of it out, the strong smell of lingering dinner filling Price's nose as he stands and observes the man, his lips forming a thin line/

'Cap'n I—'

'Where's your missus and the little one?' he calmly asks, narrowing his eyes.

'Uhm, Dorothy's sleepin' an' Maggie's making supper for the pair of us,' he explains, toying with his hands, 'do you wanna come in and join us? I'm sure we have enough.'

'You know why I'm here,' Price says, 'close the door.'

Blake looks at him with a glint in his eyes as he slowly steps from out of his house, pulling it shut. It closes with a small click and Price steps away from the doorstep with a short breath.

'Cap'n I'm sorry,' blurts the man, 'I- I swear I didn't mean to kill him.'

'Do you have any fuckin' idea what you've done?' Price snaps, looking at the man. It hurts his heart when he sees the man flinch at the harshness in his tone, although, he isn't discouraged. 'Out of everyone you could've done it to, you did it to one of the fuckin' Costello's.'

'H- He wasn't a part of the family.'

'That doesn't matter, Blake,' Price says, 'blood bounds are forever and you know what they're like- they're always lookin' for a reason to start shit between us. Just because Joey is in London doesn't mean anything.'

'I- I—'

'What started it this time, ey?' he asks, 'cause the more you do this, the more I'm convinced there's nothing I can do to help you.'

'I heard that new detectives voice,' he confesses, 'he sounds familiar.'

'All the yanks sound the same,' Price states.

Blake simply stares at him. It' s a look which renders him unsure as there's a teary glint in the man's eye. It's telling that, despite his wounded mind, he knows something.

'I swear 'ave heard his voice before Cap'n, back in the trenches,' he warns.

Price only nods his head.

'Meet me at the boat yard tomorrow,' he simply says, narrowing his eyes. 'Half seven.'

He could tell him why he is wanted, but the gulp that sounds from the man is enough to tell him that he knows exactly why he is wanted there. With that, Price turns away from the man and proceeds to head down the street, his breath fogging in the wind. Despite Blake's adamance, he finds the words they shared together of very little importance as he heads down the street, his mind far too clogged with the issues awaiting him in the morning.

His head aches and as he exits the street and catches sight of the Hindsight with the lights still glowing inside, he's quick to make a change in his journey, opting to head in the direction of the pub rather than the direction of home.

—

In the lateness of the night, you find yourself growing bored of the same tasks you have been committed to for the past few weeks. Your shoulders are stiff and you're growing tired of the smell of tobacco and booze.

John walks through the door of the pub and you're more than happy to grab a glass as he approaches the bar. Despite his high held head and the smile on his face, you're far too aware that there is something else in his eyes. His eyelids droop slightly, highlighted by the slight greyness under his eyes. It subtle, just as he is- you suppose- but you don't miss it.

'Is everything okay?' you ask.

'Just need a drink,' he answers, 'scotch please, love.'

You offer him a short nod as you. turn your back to him and grab a glass from behind you along with the scotch per his request. As you turn back to him, you notice his eyes on you and a distracted air about him. Still, in a state of assumed misery, he appears wise. It's quite striking, hitting your heart like cupids arrow.

'Before James left, he mentioned you used to sing in the pub you worked at,' he says as you pour his drink into the glass.

'I did,' you confirm, 'helped settle people's minds, you know? Everyone needed something uplifting- something to make them forget about everything happening during the war,' you explain.

He offers a short hum, picking the glass up from off of the counter, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip from it. He has little reaction to it, although, you're not surprised counting on the fact that that is all he drinks. Still, you observe him in the hope of seeing his face change.

'We used to sing in the trenches,' he admits, 'nothing special, don't have the voice on me to sing.'

A smile forms on his face as he trails his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb., wiping away the residue of scotch. 'Distract from the gun fire and explosions. Haven't sung since- don't think I ever will.'

His sudden openness with you is somewhat frightening. He addresses you as though you're good friends, not just owner and barmaid, and part of you finds yourself falling into the conversation, the hardened image of John Price melting with the warmth of his body stationed right before you. And how strange it is to address a criminal as a human being- almost inhumane knowing all he has done and why you are there in the first place.

Yet, the heat welling in your stomach with each glance he offers you burns hot enough to melt down the bars of his prison cell and set him free from persecution. Such a fact is something you’re ashamed of even thinking. Truth of the matter is, no matter how terrible of a human he was, he was just like you, a human being.

‘I’ve sung a few times here,’ you confess, ‘nothing special.’

A pass time if nothing else. Something to break up the day and something fun. Besides, your ego absolutely isn’t beyond being fed by the drunken praises of clientele at the Hindsight. In fact, during your time here, you have grown to appreciate it.

‘How come I’ve never heard you sing?’

‘James said you don’t like songs,’ you say, ‘I didn’t want to purposefully upset you if that’s the case.’

He shortly nods, letting out a short breath as rubbing his mouth.

‘It reminds me of the war,’ he explains, ‘I never thought I even think of missing that place, but sometimes I do; at the very least, amidst the chaos, there was still some form of order you know? You shoot a gun without repercussions there, whereas here? Nothin’s the same.’

You perk your ears up at his confession, your eyebrows knitting together.

‘You miss the war?’ you ask.

‘Parts of it,’ he says simply, ‘know I’m probably the one who feels sentimental about the early days, but it’s the truth whether I like it or not.’

He seems to be weighed down by something as he speaks and after finishing, he’s quick to finish off the last of his scotch in his glass before holding it out to you for a refill. You nod your head, happily pouring more into his glass, inwardly hoping that the more he drinks, the more open he’ll be to tell you more. Perhaps even going as far as slipping up.

‘It’s a unique sentiment,’ you confirm, nodding your head.

‘Military has been in my life since I was a teenage,’ he confesses, ‘I served in the war as temporary Captain; had enough experience to get into the position- had been promised by the general that if I made it out alive, I’d be promoted,’ he says.

‘Then how come you’re here?’

He looks at you with a weary look on his face, drinking more liquor from his glass as he stifles out a short laugh. ‘Got caught doin’ somethin’ I shouldn’t have been doin’ and they got rid of me. Lead a brigade which had a hand in winning us the war, but as soon as they’re made aware of one mistake, they threw me to the fuckin’ wolves.’

Anger is present in his tone, and despite your curiosity, you choose not to pry him for answers. So, you simply hum and nod your head, ensuring to maintain politeness. It's the only thing you know for a fact you can do.

'Enough of that,' he says, 'what about you, doll? I hardly know anything about you.'

Unashamedly, you talk into the night with John and the entire time it's as though you're talking with an old friend who you have just only been reunited with. Conversation comes easily to the pair of you and you find yourself being honest for a change. You tell him of your childhood in London, about your position as a barmaid during the war- most things that you know won't cause him to raise any eyebrows.

In return, he tells you of most of the stuff you have read on his file: his rebellious streak during his early years, how long he served in the army, alongside about the boy's in his brigade. During which he speaks how you imagine a proud father would talk about his children. Oddly, you find your heart warming as he speaks about them.

The pair of you talk into the night and it's only when you look past John during a conversation that you've realised the last drunkard has returned home and it's just you and him remaining in the pub. Immediately, your cheeks flush red.

'I- I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time,' you confess, breaking out of the conversation.

John turns to look over his shoulder, acknowledging the empty pub. Despite the conversation the pair of you have shared, you find yourself awaiting some sort of regret to be on his face; he's a busy man, of course.

'It's fine, love,' he reassures, 'c'mon, let me walk you home,' he offers, 'i's too late for you walk home alone.'

—

Rain pours as you step outside of the pub with the man, your gloved hand rooting in the bag across your frame to ensure you haven't forgotten anything inside. You hear his breath fogging in the winter air as he keeps his eyes trained on you, not daring to look away. It's oddly comforting to feel his eyes on you and you feel as though you're safe from any possible threat from the world the pair of you reside in.

A man like him could chase away a cold. Probably be better than any cure from the chemist.

Turning away from him, you hold the keys to the pub in your hands, pulling the golden handle of the open door. Pulling it closed, your eyebrows furrow upon catching the sound of a metallic scraping against the door. Taking a step backwards from the doors of the pub, you knock into John who is standing behind you. Your mouth falls open as you disregard whatever made the sound, finding yourself all too concerned with you misstep.

'I'm sorry- I didn't mean to─'

His fingers dig into the fabric of your red dress as he gently moves you to stand to the side of him. Moving past you, he approaches the door, his hands grabbing whatever was making that noise. It's difficult to see whatever is in his hand as his broad back shelters you from the very thing that has him letting out a short breath. It's easy to hear in the quiet night, although, even if he had been quiet his attempt of secrecy would have been betrayed by the cold weather.

'What is it?' you ask, 'have someone broken the handle?' you proceed, taking a step closer to the man. Resting your hand against his shoulder, you look to see a leather strap in his hand. Your eyes move downwards to see the metal chain of a dog lead. A small laugh escapes you, 'can you believe how stupid people are? Like, why would they─' you quickly shut up when your eyes meet the end of the leash.

Instead of seeing the end as you expect, it curls upwards. The part of the lead which is supposed to be attached to a dogs collar is clipped to form a noose. You swallow thickly, looking to John for some form of answer. There's nothing on his face from what you can decipher through the shadows- he's void of emotion.

Despite not understanding the very basis of why something like this is left outside the pub, you feel your stomach twisting as your brain fights to come up with some form of satisfactory answer. Had James not been half way out of the city right now, you're sure you'd be more than happy to make the assumption that someone has made a mistake by leaving the lead there.

Although, with Price's money in his pocket and the Hindsight being under new ownership, you're more than sure that this being left here is not some silly mistake. It's as intentional as a violent blow to the stomach of an enemy.

He clenches his fist around the leather strap of the leash, gritting his teeth as he nods to himself silently. You expect him to say something, perhaps a choppy one liner to ease the tension swelling in your stomach, yet, there's nothing. Just that look on his face.

'John?' you quietly ask, grabbing his forearm.

Lifting his head from the sight of the noose hanging in the wind, he looks to you and small smile forms on his face. Chewing on the inside of his mouth, he shifted on his feet as he nods to himself.

'How would you like t' come the races, love?'

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#cod #call of duty #alternate universe #john price x reader #captain john price #peakyblinder!johnprice #simon riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #phillip graves #john price x you #captain price #peaky blinders au #cod mw2 #john price #price cod #captain johnathan price #john price cod #kate laswell

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rpmemes-galore · 10 months

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Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides ... sentence starters

“Oh! A knife?”

“Walk or die.“

“You're killing her!”

“All part of the plan, yes?“

“Such beauty. Yet deadly.“

“Admit it. You still love me.”

“You are aware of the ritual?“

“You bastard, how could you?“

“Wait! I am with child... yours.“

“I heard where you're headed.“

“How can you say I used you?“

“All die. Even you. Soon, I hear.“

“The lies I told you were not lies.”

“That's very good, may I use that?“

“As do I. Always have, always will.”

Oh no, no, I've seen a thing or two.”

“You're either with us or against us!“

“I can save you. You need only ask.“

“I've actually never been that drunk.“

“He's religious, I believe it's required.“

“Who's to say I won't live forever, eh?“

And how will I get free of these bonds?“

“You lied to me by telling me the truth?“

“Mistook it for a brothel. Honest mistake.“

“I'm not with you, neither am I against you!“

“You will go. You will return. Or I will kill her.“

“I was wrong. Not every soul can be saved.“

“Maybe you don't believe in the supernatural?”

“I may have had... briefly, mind you... stirrings.”

“Face is familiar. Have I... threatened you before?“

“I cannot save you both. One of you must sacrifice.“

“You've stolen me. And I'm here to take meself back.“

“If not for me, you would never have been captured...”

“I think you might be better off if you just... stay out of it.”

“I'm starting to think you don't know where you're going.“

“It's not the destination so much as the journey, they say.“

“Have I mentioned, sir, what a lovely daughter you have?“

“Mutiny served me well. It gained me an audience with you.“

“Your father saved you. Perhaps his soul is now redeemed.“

“Does this face looks like it's been to the Fountain of Youth?“

“Did everyone see that? Because I will not be doing it, again.”

“You're the one who insisted on bringing the bloody mermaid!“

“If I don't kill a man every now and then, they forget who I am.“

“How is it we can never meet without you pointing something at me?“

“Captain, I wish to report a mutiny. I can name fingers and point names.“

“Seeing as how you're still alive, I say it's all been very successful thus far.“

“You demonstrated a lot of technique for someone I supposedly corrupted.“

“I thought I should give you fair warning, we're taking the ship. Nothing personal.“

“No, no, no, no, not quite all the way to feelings. More like... All right feelings, damn you.“

“You broke free of your bonds thirty minutes ago, waiting for the precise moment to pounce.“

“You know the feeling you get when standing in a high place, the sudden urge to jump... I don’t have it.”

“My God, you will not take her. If you have taken her, give her back. Give her back...please...”

“I be placed in a bewilderment. There I were, resting. And upon a sudden, I hear an ungodly row on deck.“

“Sailors abandoning their posts, without orders, without leave. Men before the mast, taking the ship for themselves.“

“Better to not know which moment may be your last. Every morsel of your entire being alive to the infinite mystery of it all.“

We shall need a crossbow, an hourglass, three goats, one of us must learn to play the trumpet, whilst the other one goes like this.”

Such beauty. Surely you are one of God's own creations and not a descendant of those dark creatures who found no refuge on the Ark.“

#on stranger tides quotes #potc quotes #pirates of the caribbean quotes #sentence starters #rp meme

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wangxianficfinder · 10 months

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In the mood for a fic...

~*~

1. So after reading A Matter of Time by mrcformoso from your recent IITMF post, I'm now craving some dark LWJ who's protective over our bunny as well. You know, like the *touch her and I'll kill you* vibes but make it WangXian. FemXian is fine as well, also modern aus are definitely okay. But if there's any canon era fics similar to above-mentioned fic, then please do rec ^^ @tinyfoxpeach

~*~

2. LOVE YOUUUUUUU Thank you so much for the work you all do! 🧡💛💚💙 I am ITMF fic where Lan Qiren is blindsided by love, like, unconditional-love-at-first-sight, Lan-chosen-one style! Preferably happy ending, canon or modern AU, pre-, during, post-canon okay. I just want our grumpy old man to find him some unexpected happiness!

Yearning for Miles by Murahi (M, 378k, WangXian, LQR/SiSi, Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Slow burn, Mutual Pining, seeing the future)

The Untamed: For the Love of Two Boys by YenGirl (not rated, 181k, wangxian, 3zun, LQR/SiSi, yin metal poisoning, weddings, supportive LQR, supportive LXC, acupuncture, golden core reveal, yunmeng siblings reconciliation, wedding nights)

~*~

3. Hello For the next itmf I would like to ask for soulmate au fics. I don't mind if it is modern or original time line. If you don't mind I would prefer top lwj and bottom wwx. Thank you very much in advance 😊

pastel by antebunny (G, 6k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, Soulmates, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Self-Esteem Issues, Misunderstandings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unrequited Love, but not actually, no courtesy names)

it goes like this by moonsteps (T, 15k, WangXian, College/University, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Humor, Fluff, Oblivious WWX, in which wwx is jealous… of himself, some drunken lwj shenanigans, two idiots in love, side sangcheng)

Deconstruct by flowercity (FaoriE) (T, 11k, WangXian, Soulmates, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, they’re so in love)

Zero by theladyofravenclaw (G, 19k, WangXian, Modern AU, Soulmates AU, Musicians, Friends to Lovers, Reincarnation)

Soulmate AU Comp

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4. hi!! for the next itmf, i'm looking for fics where modern!wx meet canon!wx or even just one of them meeting their parallel counterparts

a tide in two seas by occultings (microcomets) (E, 81k, wangxian, modern w/ magic, parallel universes, post-canon, getting together, pining, case fic)

so when you go wherever it is you will go, take the moon with you by comforting_monachopsis (T, 97k, WWX & WWX, WWX & WQ, WWX & WN, wangxian, JC & WWX & JYL, past WWX/SS, past WWX/XY, canon divergence, time travel, dimension travel, modern, private investigator WWX, professor LWJ, trauma, serial killers, strangers to lovers, BAMF WWX, hurt WWX, WIP)

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5. Hiii 👋 , How are you guys doing? I would like to request some fics in which wwx gets jealous/insecure of mxy - it can be modern or canon era (prefer it to be canon era) Thank you💓

Achievement Unlocked 🔓 by UseMyMuse (E, 84k, WangXian, A/B/O Dynamics, Transmigration, Crack, Sassy System, Canonical Character Death, Reincarnation/Transmigration, Bamf wwx, mild to major violence briefly mentioned, Mild/brief mentions of torture, Kidnapping, Accidental Child Acquisition)

To Share You With Others by Asmayi (M, 3k, wangxian, ABO, mpreg, heavy angst w happy ending, hurt/comfort, WWX pov, jealous WWX, alpha LWJ, omega WWX, omega MXY, beta LXC, rutting, married wangxian, wangxian endgame)

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6. Hey there, mods! ITMF canon universe fics where either WWX or LWJ has to do a walk of shame & it's obvious that's what they're doing. Like maybe they had to borrow clothing because theirs got destroyed in their haste to get naked (or in WWX's case it's obvious simply because he's awake suspiciously early & that attracts curiosity). @thispatternismine

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7. Hi! Can you please suggest some fanfics where book wangxian meet novel wangxian. I really like this theme? But so far I have only come across only one fic like that. @mrmrsasr-blog

Sorry. I meant to ask book Wangxian meet drama wangxian. Thanks for the recs.

could the asker for #7 maybe specify what they mean by book wangxian meeting novel wangxian?

💙 feel better love by Anonymous (T, 8k, WIP, WangXian, implied WangXianXian, Post-Canon, Crack Treated Somewhat Seriously, in a haha jk…unless? way, Light Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crack, Crossover)

To Him, Love Is You. by Nanami731 (E, 16k, LWJ/WWX/OMC, wangxian, parallel universes, novel & CQL wangxian, post-canon, fluff & humor, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, love confessions, fix-it of sorts)

~*~

8. Hello lovely community! Could you recommend some canon-era fics where Wei Wuxian or Lan Wangji get injured, causing the other to realize their feelings? Thank you ❤

all the silver moons by milkcrates (E, 10k, wangxian, post-canon, hurt/comfort, getting together, first time) Not quite feelings realisation (more just getting together) but maybe close enough to scratch the itch

~*~

9. hi, i hope you have a good day.

a) do you know any fics where juniors sees wwx and lwj as their parents?

b) can you recommend any fics where wwx turns yiling patriarch to protect/save junior/lwj? thankyou!

9A)

you are my chosen family by jinyinhua (T, 14k, WangXian, 5+1 Things, Good Kid LJY, Good Kid LSZ, Blood and Injury, Night Hunts, Drinking, Age Regression/De-Aging, Married WangXian, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Gūsū Lán Juniors Dynamics)

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10. heyyooo can you please recommend me lots of fics wwx & lwj + juniors. im so addicted to their story latelyyyy @oceanfl0wer

unhappy stories with happy endings by Last_for_Hell (M, 30k, wangxian, the junior quartet, watching some memories not the whole series, hurt/comfort, panic attacks, references to torture, PTSD)

Lan Sizhui’s Got a Crush! by Theladyofravenclaw (T, 46k, Junior Quartet, LSZ/OFC, Humor, Fluff and Crack, Case Fic, Gūsū Lán Juniors Dynamics, Junior Quartet Dynamics, Body Horror, Mild Gore, Post-Canon)

cherry lingers on the stone by ThreePlums (M, 26k, WangXian, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Curses, Case Fic, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Starvation, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Cannibalism, Dom/sub Undertones, PTSD, Mild Gore)

🧡 Hello, IT. Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again? By overmountainandmeadow (T, 65k, WangXian, Modern AU, Office, Modern office AU, IT Director! LWJ, Graphic Designer! WWX, Father!LWJ, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Juniors as interns, Light Angst, Mistaken Identity, Identity Porn, Rabbits, Cloud Recesses as a company, Happy Ending, Single Parent LWJ)

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11. Asking for the impossible here, but are there any fics where WWX kills LWJ? I know there are a few where LWJ kills WWX but I’m wondering if the opposite fics exist too.

When the heart grows cold by deliciousblizzardshark (M, 30k, wangxian, major character death, graphic depictions of violence, modern, vampires au, reincarnation, vampire WWX, found family, blood drinking, suicide as self-sacrifice, implied/refernced torture graphically) this might qualify as wwx killing lwj...

~*~

12. I’m in a mood for BAMF ladies! So please recommend ladies kicking ass, taking names, etc. (with exception of YZY, I do not wish to read about her, sorry)

💖 With Surgical Precision by metisket (T, 20k, WQ & WN, WQ & WWX, WangXian, Time Travel, Families of Choice, sibling bonding through murder) BAMF WQ

Every Mother’s Son by Chrononautical (T, 11k, WangXian, Madam Lán Lives, Madam Lán Deserves Better, Madam Lán Leaves Cloud Recesses, mentions of rape/non-con between Madam Lan & Qingheng-Jun) BAMF Madam Lan

Heart of the River by meyari (T, 23k, JYL/JZX, JYL/MM, JYL/MM/WQ, wangxian, JC/WQ, major character death, implied/Referenced child abuse, no yin iron, fire manipulation, water manipulation, drowning, war, most people live au, BAMF JYL)

~*~

13. Hello! Can you recommend me fics wherein the blindfold that covers wwx eyes in Mount Baifeng slip off and saw Lwj is the one kissing him? (Any fics where wwx knew lwj is the one kissing him because of his smell)

not a maiden by cannotsleep (examtomorrow) (T, 2k, wangxian, canon divergence, baifeng mountain kiss, open ending)

Take my breath away by laniakea314 (M, 6k, wangxian, canon divergence, phoenix mountain kiss scene, blindfold kiss, switched roles, kissing, feelings realization, confessions, fix-it, dry humping)

Nonsense Does the Trick by septune (E, 4k, wangxian, canon divergence, dub con, consensual sex, phoenix mountain hunt, praise kink, PWP, getting together, fix-it of sorts, first time)

~*~

14. hiii i'm itmf autistic lan zhan fics!

leave sooner, drive slower, live longer. series by thelastdboy (M, 26k, LXC & LWJ, LQR & LWJ, Madam Lan & LWJ, wangxian, modern cultivation, canon divergence, LWJ pov, character study, coming of age, past character death, implied/Referenced suicide, implied/referenced rape/non-con, neurodiversity, autism spectrum, situational mutism, hurt no comfort, YLLZ WWX, natural disasters, earthquakes, aftermath of natural disaster, politics, slow burn, miscommunication, taxi driver WWX, getting together, sentient burial mounds, mistaken identity, no major character death, names are magic, horror elements, references to depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, anxiety, pining, angst w happy ending, WWX has ADHD, case fic)

The Martial Arts Instructor Fic You Didn’t Know You Needed by enbysaurus_rex (M, 423k, wangxian, LWJ & LSZ & WWX, WWX & Wen remnants, WQ & WWX & WN, modern, martial arts, everyone lives au, not canon compliant, WWX has ADHD, autistic LWJ, pining, enby WWX, implied/referenced alcoholism, PTSD, slow burn, chronic illness, found family, polyamory negotiations, JC & WWX reconciliation, Single Parent WWX, Single Parent LWJ) a favorite! Lwj is chefs kiss autistic rep. Story is queer, neurodivergent and disabled joy/love !

For a Good Time, Call by ScarlettStorm, 1st in series (E, 170k, wangxian, modern, getting together, pining, porn, onlyfans au, sexworker WWX, minor angst, mental health, therapy is good) for the spicy enjoyers! Lwj is late diagnosed. Has a series!

The spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly series by Onomatopoetikon (T, 28k, wangxian, modern, coffee shop au, college/university au, LWJ pov, barista WWX, tease WWX, flirting, meet-cute, WWX pov, WWX is a Mess, first dates, autistic LWJ, WWX has ADHD, neurodiversity, developing relationship, twin jades feels, fluff, supportive LXC, autistic meltdown, autistic meltdown aftercare, intimacy, non-sexual intimacy, non-verbal LWJ)

Time Kept Flowing by notoneforreality (T, 201k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Grief/Mourning, major character death is wwx, who comes back, Family, Autistic LWJ, Kid Fic, JC and LWJ raise the kids, Co-parenting is hard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort)

💖 WWWWXD (What would Wei Wuxian Do?) series by deliciousblizzardshark (T, 55k, wangxian, modern, high school and forward, fluff, panic attacks, angst w/ happy ending, autistic lwj, grief/mourning)

The Bunnysitter: a Post-it Romance by theLoyalRoyalGuard (G, 9k, wangxian, modern, fluff, ace lwj, autistic lwj, adhd wwx, hacker wwc)

Extraordinary Attorney Wangji by PaidSubscription (T, 57k, wangxian, JC/WQ, LXC/NMJ, modern, fluff, slow burn, getting together, autistic LWJ, WWX has ADHD, angst w happy ending, lawyers au, Extraordinary Attorney Woo storyline, LWJ loves rabbits, neurodivergent love)

The Passion of the Cut Sleeve by Afriendlyenigma (T, 25k, wangxian, modern, teachers au, loneliness, LWJ loves rabbits, getting together, romance, autistic LWJ, ADD/ADHD WWX, intimacy, fluff, cuddling & snuggling, touch-starved, slow burn, panic attacks, WIP)

You Helped Me (Wangxian) by Sheneadra (T, 11k, wangxian, modern, autism, autistic spectrum, autistic LWJ, ADHD, WWX has ADHD, teenager, teen romance, sign language, WIP)

Bunny Baby by deliciousblizzardshark (T, 9k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, LWJ Has Feelings, Soft WangXian, Gender-Nonconforming LWJ, Protective WWX, Bad Parent LQR, Fluff and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Soft boys being soft, POV WWX, Autistic LWJ, [Podfic of] Bunny Baby by frostedhearth)

Make The Fireflies Dance Silver Moon's Sparkling by Sweetlittlevampire (T, 23k, WangXian, Modern AU, High School, Friends to Lovers, Teenagers, Childhood Friends, Growing Up, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, Slow Burn, First Kiss, First Love, Autistic LWJ)

a new kind of silence by deliciousblizzardshark (E, 11k, WangXian, Modern AU, Autistic LWJ, Communication Disorder, Trans LWJ, Protective WWX, Pregnant LWJ, Panic Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Getting Together, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Soft WangXian, POV WWX) and actually I would say check out all of this author's fics in their autistic lan zhan tag cause I rec them all!

leave all your love and your longing behind by ScarlettStorm (E, 143k, WangXian, Modern AU, no magic, Meet-Ugly, Panic Attacks, autistic lwj, neurodivergent wwx, the neighborhood asshole dog, if you’ve met one then you know, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Minor Angst, major shenanigans, Happy Ending, for everyone including the asshole dog, Eventual Smut, switch rights, Sex Toys, horny yearning, Masturbation)

End Racism On The OTW - In my quiet sea, waves would sometimes rise by jiejieaini (T, 3k, WangXian, Autistic LWJ, meltdowns, Fluff and Angst, Adoption, Happy Ending, Established Relationship)

Falling Headlong by floraidh (T, 35k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, skater au, First Meetings, First Kiss, Getting Together, autistic lwj)

as fearless as by thistleghost (T, 12k, WangXian, XiYao, Modern AU, High School, Coming Out, Protective Siblings, sensory processing, SPD LWJ, Implied Autistic LWJ, Misunderstandings, implied 3zun)

Silence Spell by unnecessary (E, 4k, WangXianJue, WangXian, Modern AU, PWP, Threesome - M/M/M, BDSM, dom LWJ, Sub WWX, Collars, Impact Play, Deepthroating, Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Overstimulation, Dom Drop, Aftercare, Autistic LWJ, (It's not mentioned directly but it's there), Spitroasting)

Petrichor by SunBlueSun (E, 8k, WangXian, Top/Bottom Switch WangXian, heat exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Sex, Playing Doctor, Praise Kink, (mild praise kink), mention of past torture, Canon-Typical Violence, h/c meta, Autistic LWJ, Mention of switching, Dirty Talk, Soft WangXian, Cuddling & Snuggling)

Pocket Too Deep for Play by bigamma (E, 57k, Female WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, Vibrators, Easter Eggs, Sex Toys, Autistic LWJ, Female WWX, Female LWJ, WWX Has ADHD, Lacrosse, Christian Themes, Sports Medicine, YZY’s A+ Parenting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christian Holidays, Easter Egg Hunt, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Bible Quotes (Abrahamic Religions), Cunnilingus)

~*~

15. ITMF where Lan Zhan is a househusband @yupkook

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16. Hiiiiii so for the next ITMF do you have any « 🪷 lotus pier Wangxian date » like I remember reading some but i can’t find them 😅 so lwj taking wwx’s ofer to visit ??? Thanks ✨✨✨✨✨✨ @ihaveasoftspotfora-yuan

~*~

17. Hello Please recommend chengqing fics, anything apart from modern. Love you, Thank you, God bless you @dramaqueenrolf

The Needle and the Nail by littledust (E, 119k, ChengQing, WQ Lives, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Memory Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Golden Core Reveal, First Time)

Lynchpin by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 103k, WangXian, ChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It) While not a focus, definitely a goodread

Honestly you could choose pretty much anything by snowberryrose

For example Understanding by snowberryrose (G, 11k, JC/WQ, wangxian, JYL/JZX, fix-it)

Blame by snowberryrose (G, 12k, JC/WQ, wangxian, fix-it)

Sacrifice by snowberryrose (G, 12k, wangxian, JC/WQ, NHS & WN, friendship)

Apology by snowberryrose (M, 17k, JC/WQ, wangxian, JYL/JZX, canon divergence, fix-it, golden core reveal)

With Such Impossible Conveyance by Comfect (T, 99k, JC & WWX, wangxian, JC/WQ, major character death, fix-it, brotherly bonding, angst w happy ending, anger management, canon-typical violence, swearing, fluff, romance, everyone lives au, humor)

A Bell That Tells Us to Rise and Fight by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee (T, 120k, wangxian, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, SL/XXC, canon divergence, arranged marriage, everyone lives, women being awesome, content warning for JGS & XY & JGY, minor character death)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 3: Blood Moon]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

“I wish you could join us,” Nico says, almost sulks, snow catching in her hair. She’s riding a gorgeous white mare that the Duke of Hightower purchased for her. He’s in no hurry to gift you a horse. King Viserys—epochs ago, on your wedding day, on the blood-orange July afternoon when you looked into Aegon’s glassy, shadow-ringed eyes and knew exactly what sorts of demons you’d be sharing your life with—once promised you an Andalucian for each child you gave your husband. He hasn’t mentioned it since. It’s slipped his mind, most likely; that’s what happens to the king’s notions that concern the Greens. They stumble around in his skull for a while, find a window, jump from the ledge and free-fall into oblivion.

You smile up at Nico with your feet planted firmly on the ground like fertile roots and a hand resting on your belly. Five months along, over halfway there, farther than you’ve ever been before. The season is winter, but you feel like spring. You feel like blossoms unfurling, like ivy scaling walls of frozen stone. “Next year, with any luck.”

“But what if I’m with child by then?”

“Then you’ll get to return the favor and gallantly wave me off as I gallop into the distance, a vision of Boudicca herself.”

“Didn’t that story end with mass murder and suicide?”

“Nico, not everything needs to be said out loud.”

She laughs, raucous and jarring. Horses’ ears go back; crows take flight from stripped trees. It’s Christmas, and that means it’s also boar hunting season. The feast tonight will require a boar’s head to be served—a tradition that dates back to ancient Norse pagans, to faiths of earth and thunder and sea—and the court has assembled to procure one, the men armed with spears, the women riding along to cheer them on, hounds braying and circling agitatedly, servants sprinting around with jugs of wine. “Alas,” Nico says. “I cannot help it. I am Italian.”

Then she reels her mare around and trots off to join the hunting party. Once not so long ago, you had no true friends here. Now you have at least one. Two, if you count Aemond…although you can’t decide if Aemond is a friend. Sometimes he feels like less, other times much more. He grows close and then is far away again, a tide that’s always a few hours from receding. You watch Nico depart with hardly any heartache. Your relative incapacitation will be finished soon enough, your position vindicated. The clock is ticking.

Daeron compliments you as he canters by on Tessarion, heavy hooves leaving impact craters in the snow: “Princess, that’s a lovely gown.” Lavender, purple, the color of royalty, a declaration of your own worth. That’s not something you can rely upon others giving you. You’re between worlds at the moment: neither fully Navarran nor English, not an outsider nor a future queen.

“Thank you, brother. Good luck!”

Daemon reins up beside you, peering down with glittering dark eyes. When anyone ventures too close to Caraxes—whether horse or human—he snaps at them like a wolf. Surely there is no beast better suited to its master. “I think you’d look better covered in red. Isn’t that the color of your people, Navarre?”

“Prince Daemon,” you purr, one hand still on your belly, your victory in progress. “Enjoy the hunt. I know you get restless when you haven’t murdered anything in a while.”

He should quip back, but he doesn’t. He just grins, his gaze locked on yours; and his grin stretches wider until it sends a bolt down your spine like cold lightning. You have the sudden, dreadful impression that there’s a joke you aren’t in on. “You have no idea.”

Caraxes squeals and jerks back his head as Vhagar shoves between you, massive withers and haunches making space where none existed before. Caraxes nips Vhagar’s shoulder, drawing blood; Vhagar snorts in reply, a low rumble like a storm. Caraxes retreats, ears flattened, but Daemon pitches you one last crooked smirk as he leaves, a threat, an oath.

“Perhaps we should serve Daemon’s head at dinner,” Aemond says.

“He certainly looks like a pig to me.”

“You aren’t too disappointed, I hope. To have to stay behind.”

You smile, petting Vhagar’s silky muzzle. She has a white blaze down the front of her face, white stockings like patches of snow on rich spring soil. “It’s temporary.” What was Aemond like on my wedding day? You try to remember. All you can conjure is a vision of him staring at the floor as you linked your trembling hands with Aegon’s and the priest spoke, as if the match was so ill-fated he could not bear to witness it. It took you a year to learn that he didn’t disapprove of you after all. Something else weighed on him that day, something else dragged down his eyes like an anchor moors a ship.

Aegon passes you both on Sunfyre. “I’ll bring you back something, wife!” he vows, swaying drunkenly in the saddle, his chaotic silver hair shagging in his eyes. Fortunately, Sunfyre seems aware of his rider’s limitations; his steps are lithe and cautious, almost timid. His coat is a river of gold beneath grey skies. When Aegon urges the horse to go faster, Sunfyre ignores him.

You turn back to Aemond and raise an eyebrow. “Make sure he doesn’t break his neck?”

“As always.” And then Aemond is gone too.

The king will not join the hunt. He is getting too old for it—although no one would say that aloud—and Queen Alicent, ever-sacrificial, is staying behind in the palace with him, overseeing preparations for the feast. The other royals vanish into the forest: Daeron and Nico, Aemond and Aegon, Daemon and Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, trailed by the rest of the cast of characters, Blacks and Greens alike. Joanna Montford was replaced by Agnes Stafford, who was replaced by Sibylla Beaufort, who was replaced by Cecily Chaucer. There is no shortage of young women whose fathers are rabid to push them into the bed of the man they call the heir to the throne. A servant brings you a cup of apple cider, and you sip it as snowflakes melt into the fur of your coat.

“It’s not personal,” Rhaenyra says. You whirl to see her and Syrax; they have appeared like ghosts, both pale and ethereal, both fearsome without being malevolent. “Prince Daemon’s taunts, I mean. Any of our antagonism. Distrust that swells into hated.” Her hair is long, loose, strands of ivory in the wind. Her eyes—clear water, cool and stoic—flick down to your belly and then back up to your face. She’s a lot like Aemond, you think, seeing the extent of their resemblance for the first time.

“It feels very personal.”

“I could have liked you in a different life,” Rhaenyra counters, like parrying swords. “You have just enough ruthlessness in you. A river, but not a sea. You thirst for freedom. You wear chains called obligation. But when my father named me heir, he painted a target on my back. Even if I renounced my claim, there would always be men willing to take up arms for me. I would always be a threat to Alicent and her children. Just by breathing, just by having blood hot in my veins. Either I will be queen…or I will forever be at the mercy of the Greens. Would you trust your life to the Duke of Hightower, if you were standing between Aegon and the throne?”

“No,” you admit. You can barely bring yourself to trust the Duke now…and you’re on his side.

“And so we are destined to be mortal enemies.” Rhaenyra shrugs; no great loss, she means. “I only wanted you to know that it would have been just the same if you had been sent to England from Portugal, or Sicily, or Castile, or Bohemia, or Genoa, or Naples, or France, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s not about who you are. It’s about what you’ve married into.”

And then she takes off on Syrax, joining her uncle-husband and her eldest sons in the forest, dissolving into a gnarl of branches like tangled threads. You retreat back inside Westminster Palace to do what you do best: watching, wondering, waiting for the future to decide to arrive.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the hunting party returns hours later, Prince Aegon is empty-handed. He’s also soaked to the skin. Water drips from his face, begins to freeze in his hair. He shivers and gripes as servants throw blankets over his shoulders and usher him away towards his bedchamber to be warmed in a bath cloudy with herbs and steam and rose petals. Cecily Chaucer hurries after them, her lovely brows knitted together with girlish concern. Of all Aegon’s mistresses, you like Cecily the best. She’s insatiable; she keeps him so busy that he rarely totters into your bed to paw at you before being reminded that you have been temporarily exempted from your marital duties.

“He fell into a stream,” Nico informs you, in equal parts disapproving and amused. “Aemond and Daeron fished him out like a trout.”

Your eyes scan the group: shaking snow from their hats and their coats, congratulating each other on obstacles jumped and animals killed, Prince Daemon accepting applause from his fellow Blacks for being the attendee to slaughter the requisite boar. A good omen for their side, surely. Servants carry the gigantic, bloodied carcass off to be prepared by the cooks. But one face is missing from the crowd. “Where’s Aemond?”

“Oh,” Nico recalls as she yanks off her gloves by the fingers. “He has something for you.”

“For me?”

“In the courtyard,” she says. Daeron approaches to collect her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it, his large blue eyes bright and adoring. He’s gentler than his brothers, more content, less complicated. And he’s proud of being a Targaryen. He’s growing out his white-blond hair; it’s already longer than Aegon’s. “I think you’ll find it…” Nico grins mischievously. “Perfectly bearable.”

You trudge out to the courtyard through the mounting snow, cold wind tearing at your hair and clawing pieces of it out from under your hat. Aemond is the only other person there…and he’s elbow-deep in a colossal black-furred monster. There is a pile of entrails on the snow beside him glistening like rubies, garnets, rosalines, wine. Servants ferry away bowls full of offal: a lung here, a rope of intestines there.

“What is that?”

Aemond stands and waves at it cavalierly, drops of blood flinging from his leather gloves. “A bear.”

“What am I supposed to do with a bear?”

“It’ll make a fine rug for your bedchamber. You can place it by the fireplace and lie on it on cold nights. Read your books, do your embroidery.”

“It was bold of you to assume you’d be able to find me a Christmas present on Christmas day. Not much room for error.”

“This isn’t your Christmas present.”

“Then what’s the occasion?”

“Congratulations.” He glances at your belly, rounded out like ripening fruit with his brother’s child. A stain of blood like fever rushes into his cheeks. He blushes very rarely, and only ever around you. No one else seems to know that he’s capable of it. “For being over halfway there. It must bring you great relief.”

“Yes, I suppose the Duke of Hightower won’t get to ship me back to Navarre now. In a crate, like an animal that couldn’t be tamed.”

“What a waste that would be.”

You shrug, stepping closer, though mindful not to squash any bear organs beneath your shoes. “I wouldn’t mind being sent home if there was anything for me to go back to.”

Aemond stares at you, alarmed. “You haven’t grown attached to anything here? In nearly a year and a half?”

“Well…there are a few things,” you say, smiling at him. Aemond smiles back. His long silvery hair is secured in a single thick braid, his gaze curious. You try not to imagine what is under his eyepatch; that strikes you as something he wouldn’t want you to think about.

“Vhagar,” Aemond teases.

You laugh. “Yes, mostly Vhagar.” You look up at the grey sky, thick with clouds like steel. “But I miss my family. I miss the heat, the mountains, castles and cathedrals the color of golden sand. I miss riding horses and sparring with my brothers. I miss being understood, being loved. In Navarre I was alive. But in England…ever since I arrived here…it’s like I’m locked up waiting for someone to let me out. But the prison is my own flesh.”

Aemond studies you. “It’s not for much longer,” he says at last, soft and solemn. “And I would change it if I could.”

“In any case, I really can’t go back, I think. It wouldn’t be like it was before. My siblings are marrying and spreading out across Europe. My parents are getting older. And if my husband discarded me for being incapable of producing children, no one else would ever want me. I’d never have my own household. I’d be doomed to be a spinster, forever dependent upon the charity of my parents or my siblings. Either that or in a nunnery. Although, truthfully, Navarre has some beautiful nunneries.”

“You’d make a terrible nun.”

“Because I’m too vicious or too lustful?”

“Vicious, without a doubt. Lustful…I don’t feel qualified to speak on.”

“Depends on who’s in front of me, I suppose.”

You contemplate each other across the gutted bear carcass, snowflakes filling up the space between you instead of words. Again, Aemond’s cheeks flood red. When he wrings his hands together, you notice that they’re shaking. His hair is sopping; beads of melted snow pool along the edge of his jaw, slither down his throat. He could catch his death out here.

You go to him, pull off a glove, and press your bare palm against his forehead and then his cheek: the scarred one, the ruined one. “You’re burning up, Aemond,” you say, worried. “Are you alright—?”

“Fine.” He shies away from your touch. But then, without thinking, he moves to tuck an escaped lock of hair back underneath your hat. As his thumb grazes your face, you feel the warm stripe of bear blood that he inadvertently marks you with. “Goddamn, I’m so sorry—”

“No, that’s perfect.” You smile up at him. “You know I secretly favor red.”

“Princess?” Nico calls from the doorway, and you cross the courtyard to meet her. “You’re still out here? You’re missing a riveting game of Tric-Trac—” She cuts off, her eyes going wide as they skate across your cheeks. “Sweet Jesus, how’d you get blood all over your face?”

You glimpse back at Aemond as you answer. “Carelessness.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re weaving ribbons the color of evergreens into Nico’s hair when he comes into your bedchamber, carrying a long thin box made of pink ivory wood.

“Oh, marvelous!” Nico trills, clapping her hands. “What’s inside?”

“Poems, I hope,” you say.

“I hate to disappoint you,” Aemond replies placidly. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face, the rest flowing freely. He’s wearing a dark, rich, jade-like color, just like Nico is, just like the Duke of Hightower and Alicent and Daeron will be. Someone has probably even stuffed Aegon into something green. You are the lone nonconformist in a deep purple like the skin of a plum. In truth, you can’t win. People will gossip no matter what you wear. Red makes them think of what Daemon calls you, of the wasted blood you’ve spilled. Green makes them speak of how you’ve yet to serve their faction properly. Black is out of the question. At least when they see you in purple, your name gets to live in the same sentence as the word royalty.

“Well?” Nico prompts eagerly. “Open it!”

You look at her, apologetic. So does Aemond.

“Oh,” she realizes, then sighs theatrically. “Alright. I understand. I’ll deport myself now. Ciao.”

Only when she’s closed the door behind her does Aemond open the box. The lining inside is crimson velvet. It cradles a sword. You gasp and lift the weapon out of the box by its hilt, then pull off the scabbard. It is lightweight, silvery, perfect. You can see your own reflection in the polished steel. There are shallow engravings down the length of the blade: mountain ranges, twisted oak trees, bridges and cathedrals, the flag of Navarre. You can only see them when you tilt the sword to catch the rage-orange glow from the fireplace.

“I had it custom made for you,” Aemond says, abruptly nervous. “So it wouldn’t be too heavy or too long. The hilt should fit your grasp precisely. I took one of your gloves for measurements.”

“A thief.” You marvel at the sword, twirling it a few times. The blade cuts through the air, soundless, seamless. “Aemond, this is…this is so far beyond what I deserve. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“It’s part pleasure, part necessity. You might actually need to protect yourself one day.”

“It’s a shame I’ll only be able to bully you with it under the surreptitious cover of darkness.”

“Just until Aegon is king. He wouldn’t care, I don’t think. He wouldn’t forbid you from training.” He gestures to the blade. “And the engravings are—”

“All things from home.” You beam at him. “From Navarre.”

“That’s what the common people call you, you know. The Princess from Navarre.”

You glide the sword back into its scabbard and return it to the box. “They must hate me. For failing to secure the succession.”

“I wouldn’t assume that.”

You take the pink ivory wood box from Aemond’s hands and place it in the chest at the foot of your bed, your preferred spot for squirreling away valuables. And then you lift out Aemond’s present: a vast tapestry that he helps you unfold to reveal the design of.

“It’s incredible!” he exclaims. “It must have taken you ages!”

“Well, all I’m allowed to do currently is needlework, so I’ve done a lot of needlework. I made one for Aegon too, although I’m not sure what his hobbies are besides drinking and fucking Cecily Chaucer. So his tapestry is mostly landscapes.” You point to various scenes on Aemond’s. “There’s King Arthur and Guinevere…and Sir Lancelot, arriving to ruin them. There’s Beowulf battling Grendel’s mother. There’s Robin Hood…there’s the Rollright Stones and Stonehenge…and in the middle is Saint George slaying a dragon. I made the dragon black, with little white whiskers if you look very closely. And I’ve named him Daemon.”

“They’re from the stories I told you,” Aemond says quietly, examining the tapestry. “On that afternoon back in July. When we took Vhagar out together for the first time.”

“It must have been memorable.” You smile. “And then the border is ivy and roses, mostly green, of course…except for one little red rose I added down here in the bottom corner. And that’s—”

“That’s you,” Aemond says. “Red like Navarre.”

“Yes.” Your voice is suddenly wistful, a little sad. “You’ve made me like the sound of that word again.”

“What? Navarre?”

You nod. “Hushed, gentle…” Reverent? Awed? Protected? Cherished? “Like a prayer. Like a poem.”

You help Aemond refold the tapestry, avoiding his eye. The only sounds are the crackling of the fireplace and the muffled echo of violins and lutes through the palace halls. Outside the window hovers a blood moon, a ruby in onyx, a drop of fury in an ocean of void. He takes his Christmas gift back to his own bedchamber, and then he returns to escort you to the feast.

“Oh, darling,” Alicent says when you sit down beside her at the high table. There are sprigs of holly in her hair, but her dark eyes are glazed and melancholy. They often are. Sir Criston Cole—a knight whose family are vassals of the Duke of Hightower—is her shadow, peering watchfully around the Great Hall. “Be sure to eat plenty of boar…and bread…very good for the baby. But no fish! And not too many vegetables. Here, let me get you some of your apple cider…” Alicent waves to a servant, and they promptly fetch you a full cup.

King Viserys gives you a distracted nod but no other acknowledgement. He is deep in conversation with Jace; Luke is gawping, mildly disturbed, at the severed boar’s head that adorns the table, cherries shoved into the sockets where its eyes were this morning. Rhaena offers you a kind, demure smile. Baela glares at you as she sips her wine. She’s the most war-worthy of any of the Black children; you imagine that Daemon will have a sword and armor waiting for her when the bloodbath begins. Surely she’d inflict more damage than either of Rhaenyra’s docile, dark-haired sons, like skittish lapdogs always looking around for someone to tell them where it’s alright to sit. Baela’s Arabian, Moondancer, is small but remarkably swift and agile. She’s the best jumper of any of the royal horses.

Far from the table, in the midst of dancing nobles, Daemon and Rhaenyra are enmeshed in whispers and caresses: he tilts up her chin, she grasps the small of his back. You feel a yearning, a hollowness beneath where your ribs circle your heart and lungs like a halo. Without thinking, you glance to Aemond. He’s been looking at you too; he pretends he wasn’t and begins sawing through a slab of boar meat with a serrated knife. Daeron is asking him about sparring techniques. The Duke of Hightower is parading Aegon around the hall to pay his respects to the nobility of Southern England, men who will kill and be killed for him one day before too long. Aegon is bleary-eyed and bungling, tripping over his own feet; the Duke is practically dragging him around from his scruff like a kitten.

“Sweetheart, will you dance with me?” Queen Alicent asks Nico, who immediately leaps up from her chair.

“Of course, Your Majesty! It would be my pleasure. It’s a shame that the king cannot join us. It must be difficult having a husband so much older than you are. Nearly your father’s age!”

Everyone at the table stops what they’re doing and gapes at her.

“Oh,” Nico begins haltingly, mortified. “Oh dear. I should not have said that. I cannot express the depths of my remorse.”

King Viserys booms out a laugh, and then Nico is smiling again. “Go on,” he tells her. “Enjoy the festivities. Keep the queen entertained when I cannot.”

As Nico and Queen Alicent descend to join the dance, you remain where you are, where you always are: on the outskirts, inside the glass bowl. But not for much longer, you think gratefully, running your palm over the swell of your belly. You eat as much as you can, but you don’t have much of an appetite. Your hips and ankles ache, your body forever adjusting to a never-before-known burden; there is torsion like a sailor’s knot in your lower spine. When the discomfort refuses to abate, you excuse yourself from the table and make slow, meandering laps around the fringes of the Great Hall, draining cup after cup of apple cider as servants bring them to you. The Duke of Hightower casts you a stern warning of a frown before he resumes wrangling Aegon. Aemond, still at the high table talking to Daeron, follows you with one intent blue eye.

“You can’t honestly believe he’d make a good king,” Daemon says, materializing out of the crowd like a bat at twilight. Enormous Scottish deerhounds—Christmas gifts from King Corlys and Queen Rhaenys beyond England’s northern border—trail after him, growling at you. Daemon flicks his strange, deep-set eyes towards Aegon. “He’s a drunk. He’s an embarrassment. He has no athletic prowess whatsoever. I’m sure you can confirm that from firsthand experience.”

“I can confirm that he hasn’t murdered his first wife yet, surely an attribute by anyone’s calculation.” You watch the Duke tow Aegon from one exchange to another, and for the first time, you wonder what sort of man Aegon would have been without the weight of the throne on his back.

“But of course, it wouldn’t actually be Aegon ruling if the Greens won. It would be Otto…and Alicent…and Aemond.”

Daemon puts great emphasis on this last name. You turn to him, startled.

“Oh, forgive me, have I said something that gets under your skin? Or…rather…into it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Daemon grins, baring his teeth like fangs. “Of course you don’t,” he says. “Tell me, would you happen to know who Otto is planning on marrying him to? I’ve heard rumblings.”

“Someone with parents who have ample soldiers and equipment with which to mutilate you, surely.”

“Helene of Austria.”

“Helene?” The breath evaporates from your lungs, vanishes like brief winter daylight. “The daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor?” It’s an immensely powerful match. It’s a match so ambitious it has rarely even been suggested. You summon triumph to your voice, an arrogant glint to your eyes. “This is very bad news for you.”

“And for you too, I think.”

He knows, you think, terror-stricken, aware you aren’t doing enough to hide it. That I desire my husband’s brother. That I want Aemond. That maybe I even love him. You try to fling some flippant retort at Daemon; you cannot find one, it’s like scratching your fingertips along the bottom of an empty box. Victorious, he swigs his wine and begins to saunter away, panting Scottish deerhounds on his heels. And then you call after him: “It didn’t get you far, did it?”

Daemon halts mid-step and slowly—very slowly—turns back to you. “What?”

“All that Targaryen blood. All that bone-white hair and ferocity, charisma and swordsmanship. King Viserys still chose to reject you as his heir. He still doesn’t trust you to advise him. He still denied you his daughter’s hand in marriage, and you were spineless enough to let him. You left her alone to suffer first. With a husband who couldn’t satisfy her, with a lover who could only give her bastards. And now you expect the world to forget who you’ve always been: reckless, savage, deeply selfish. All those things you stalk around here so proud of are worthless, because you’ll never have what you really want. You’ll never have the throne. And neither will Rhaenyra. You are the same as I am, Daemon. I am an asset and yet a curse to Aegon; you helped win the North for Rhaenyra, but the South will never yield to you. They will fight you with everything they have, every man and horse and blade. But there is one difference between us. When I bear Aegon a son, my curse will be lifted. You will never stop endangering Rhaenyra, her cause, her inheritance, her children, her life. And if she burns, it will be at least half because of you.”

You’ve never seen him truly angry before, you realize now; you’ve never seen him without the undeniable upper hand. His grip rests on the hilt of his sword. “I should—”

“Go on,” you dare him in a fierce whisper, your fingers closing around his wrist. “Slay Aegon’s wife and child in front of all the court. It’s the kindest thing you could do for the Greens. Make yourself more enemies, win us more friends. Everyone suspects that you are a beast already. Prove them right.”

Daemon rips his hand out of yours. “Happy Christmas, Navarre,” he hisses. “If fate is just, it will be your last.” And then he storms away from you, Rhaenyra meeting him at the other end of the hall and speaking with him there—conspiring? inquiring? scolding?—in urgent whispers.

Nico pushes through the throngs of dancing nobles to reach you. “Are you alright?” she asks, a palm laid on your shoulder.

“Fine.” Helene, you think, rubbing the aching curve of your back with one hand, sipping apple cider with the other. They’re both trembling. Beautiful, wealthy, coveted Helene.

“Are you sure? You don’t look good. What did that bleached weasel have to say…?”

But you can’t hear her, because the pain in your spine is now reaching like poison through veins to spread across your belly, to tighten, to clamp down, to gnash with steel teeth like needles, like knives. Your cup tumbles out of your gasp, spilling apple cider across the floor. You yelp in pure shock at how unexpectedly the pain comes. And then you begin to understand what it means. “No,” you plead in a whisper. You stagger backwards until you hit the wall. “No, no, no…”

“What?” Nico asks frantically. People are beginning to notice; heads spin in your direction. Tears are springing from your eyes. Blood is snaking down your legs, slick and hot on the velveteen inside of your thighs. Soon they’ll all be able to see it: your agony, your ruin. The Greens, the Blacks. The Duke of Hightower, Prince Daemon.

Nico doesn’t understand. You don’t know how to tell her. I’ve killed another child. I’ve failed again. You can feel Aegon crawling back into your bed. You can see letters from your mother—so proud at last, so full of praise—shredding themselves into dust. And then it flashes like cannon fire in your mind, not just the loss of an heir but the loss of a life: a name that will never be given, a voice that will never be heard, steps that will never leave imprints in sand or soil or snow.

I have to get out of here. How am I going to—?

An arm circles around your waist, strong, shielding, taking as much of your weight as it can. “Walk with me,” Aemond says. And then he half-carries you through the nearest door and down a passageway, Nico struggling to keep up, chatter exploding at the feast you left behind.

As soon as you cross the threshold into your bedchamber, as soon as you are out of sight of ill-intentioned observers, you collapse to the floor. Your palms and knees bruise against wood; a wail tears from your throat. “Not again,” you sob. “Aemond, I can’t do this again, I can’t—”

Nico says: “Are you sure it’s a…?”

Aemond is kneeling on the floor beside you. He’s helping you pull back the hem of your gown. You see it on his face before you see it on your own skin: there’s blood, a lot of blood, too much for it to be anything but lethal to the child. It’s all over his hands and his clothes; it’s all over the floorboards.

“Oh God,” Nico moans, covering her mouth with both hands. “Oh…oh my God…”

“Get the physicians,” Aemond tells her. “Speak to no one else. Go now. Go!”

Nico rushes out of the room. You can’t stop sobbing. The pain is excruciating, not waves but one continuous, saw-toothed twisting, a feeling like being gutted, like you’re a slaughtered bear and someone has their fingers raking around inside your womb.

Aemond is trying to pull you to your feet. “Come on, I’ll help you get into bed—”

“Aemond, I can’t.”

“Yes you can—”

“I can’t!” you cry out, weeping helplessly. Then he stops trying to lift you and instead sinks down to join you on the floor. You clutch wildly at him—at his forearms and his shoulders and his long silvery hair—and he doesn’t flinch away. He draws you into him, his hands staining you with blood everywhere they land. You don’t care; you don’t want him to stop. You bury yourself in the warmth of his chest, his arms around you like the border of the moon, like a ring.

“Shh,” he soothes through your hair. “Shh, shh. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t leave me. Please stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says, his voice hoarse. “Of course I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Scenes like fragments of a dream, things that later you aren’t sure were real:

The physicians and midwives delivering your dead child, Aemond tilting a cup of strong wine against your lips. Your ladies washing blood off you with dripping rags as Aemond stands with the physicians in the doorway. They think you’re asleep, but you’re not; you’re not awake either. You’re halfway here and halfway not. Parts of the room are foggy, others are as clear as glass, as still water. A physician is telling Aemond that the child was a boy, perfect in every way except the one that matters most. He doesn’t breathe and never will. Too early, too small, beautiful and doomed.

“Don’t tell her that,” Aemond is saying. “Don’t tell her anything unless she asks.”

Now it’s later—two minutes, two hours, it doesn’t matter—and he’s dragging someone into your bedchamber. They’re fighting him, they’re trying to cling to the doorframe so he can’t force them inside.

“Get in there,” Aemond growls.

Aegon replies: “I don’t know what to say to her, what the hell do I say—?”

Your husband is at your bedside, undoubtedly miserable but not in a way that makes you feel like he sees you. There is the scent of wine and sweat drenched with perfume, lemon and lavender. “I’m sorry,” you murmur like a faint wind.

“It was not your fault, wife.” Aegon’s eyes are bloodshot, his shoulders hanging low and limp. “It is a great tragedy, but it was not your fault.” And then he glances at Aemond to make sure he’s done the right thing.

Now your husband is gone, and Aemond is holding a cool cloth to your forehead. He speaks in little more than a whisper. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Just send me back to Navarre,” you say weakly. “I can’t do this. Talk to the Duke. He’ll get the marriage annulled. I know he will. He can find another wife for Aegon, another alliance. He’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“I’m ruined. I’m worthless. Just send me home.”

“You are home,” Aemond insists.

You watch the firelight as it flickers over him, smooth skin, brutal scar. “What happens next?”

“You’ll try again.”

“There’s no point, Aemond.”

“Look at me,” he commands, cradling your face with his hands. “You’ll try again. And again, if you have to. But you will have children. I know you will.”

His voice is breaking. His eye is glistening, tortured. This is how the father should be. This is how Aegon should be. “Aemond, why are you so hurt by this?”

“Because you are suffering,” he says. “And because they’re pieces of you.”

You lose sight of him, float for a while, return again thinking of Aegon and the Duke of Hightower and Daemon and Rhaenyra. “No one here really knows me. No one loves me.”

Aemond is standing beside your bed. “Nico loves you.”

You gaze listlessly up at him and say nothing.

“Aegon loves you, I believe,” Aemond continues, but he won’t meet your eyes. “In his own way.”

Still, you look at him. Still, Aemond doesn’t look back.

Say it, you think, desperate, aching, tears biting in your eyes. Say that you love me too. Even if it’s just as a sister, an ally, a friend. Please, Aemond, just fucking say it.

He doesn’t say it. Maybe he leaves, maybe you are submerged in unconsciousness, maybe both. The memory dissolves around the edges until it is a pool of star-flecked obsidian like the night sky.

But this next part you know with certainty was real, because it is something you can touch, like a millennium-old relic from Egypt or Athens or Babylon. You wake in the morning to find three items on your nightstand: a cup of apple cider, a cup of strong bitter wine for the pain, and a single piece of parchment folded and tied with a red ribbon. You blink confoundedly at it for a while as muted winter sunlight seeps in through the windows, not being able to make sense of it. And then you open the parchment. Aemond has written at the top of the page in his hectic, uneven letters: Ivy. You read his words and all the anguish that went into them—smudges from his own fingerprints, wayward drips of black ink—like falling down the rungs of a ladder.

Scream into me, I’ll be the jar for your fury; I’m starving

for anything that tastes like you. I’ve been counting the lines

on your knuckles, the boards of the floor, wondering if you’ve

figured out that I’d wear fractures and bruises like amethysts

if it means you’d touch me. For seventeen months you’ve been

the ivy on my walls, vines like the needle-width legs of a spider

carving out my past, every last notch and shadow—splitting ribs,

scraping marrow—until there’s no part of me left that can remember

a time other than this, your voice and your wit and the scraps of you

I’ve stitched into me. Ask me what I burn for and I’ll whisper like

the dawn: you growing over my skin until I’m covered, tendrils

twisting down to the bone, everything I was before