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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 9 months

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☈ your bones singing into mine ii

one - two

nikto x gen!bio-weapons engineer reader (no use of y/n) 3.4k words cw: honestly just the relationship being dysfunctional, also like warlord sugar daddy overtones, but that's just how this cookie is gonna crumble Nikto has swept you out of the darkness, and into an intact world burning full of ugly lights. He meets your every need as you work to create weapons to supply him an armory of shock and awe. He buys for you a place in Bruges, a rowhouse right on the water, and your only desire is a romantic dinner with him. He does not have it within himself to deny you.

Nikto brings you out into a world that is bright and burning, but mostly whole. He tells you that things are tied on a shoestring of balance, that any strong enough blow of breeze could tip the whole house of cards, and he has a look in his eyes that names himself typhoon.

He is one of the most complex and deeply locked men you have ever met in your life, and you have met a great many men with secrets that could turn cities into subatomic particles in a blinding flash of a second. He wants to father a new world, a savage paradise, and, yet, he holds you in the palm of his velvet-covered iron fist as his finest treasure.

Penthouses are cleared out for you–places high in the sky, in any number of cities, so far away from the ground and the dark. He pours money into your comfort like hemorrhaging, and he cares not that his funds bleed, because he can always dump more into the wound.

It’s a wound he wants to sustain, because he likes to see you clean, and comfortable, and sparking electricity as you work. He provides makeshift, mobile labs for you. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for computers, and programs, and security. Though he lifts you into the light, he makes you a small space of darkness, allowing you to run and return to your work.

He begins to call you Spider, or Pauk, depending on whether his English is dropping your name like a threat, or if his Russian is soft and trying to entreat you.

There is a place in Bruges, right on the water, that he pulls together for you. It is smaller than your other hideaways, cozier. Bulb-lit with warm wooden flooring and tall walls. He walks stiffly through the halls, watching for your reaction, and his shoulders relax when you turn from the window watching boats on the water to give him your cracked grin.

“It’s out of a book,” you say, “the buildings are such bright colors. How is this real?”

“It’s always been this way here,” he tells you. He shuffles a moment, bringing his clasped hands from his back to his front, before he adds quietly, “We’re glad that you…find it acceptable here.”

Surely he is remembering the blocs he grew up on, all the colorless brutalist construction from the Soviet era. Houses for workers, starvation in the streets. You wonder if his place had heriz rugs all over the floors, to insulate sound and cushion steps and provide color.

You press your fingertips into the cool glass, looking at him, wondering about him. You’d like to see his face, though he’s told you that it is a nightmare. You’d like to kiss him. You know he loves you, just as you love him.

“It’s perfect. I’m going to like it here,” you tell him, and your heart swells and patters when his shoulders raise a little bit, proud of himself for his pick. With his hidden face, you’ve become an expert in his body language. All his little tells become clear to you, the more time you spend with him.

He is slow with you, cautious. Not as if approaching a wild animal, he would never treat you with such base suspicion and wariness, but as if he is the animal, well-aware of exactly how powerful his bite is. He treasures you too much to damage you.

Such brutality is held within this many-faceted man, vast and damning. He is a gentleman though, through accident or practice, and he puts that hardwork into effect with you.

It causes you to make the first move most of the time.

“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” you say, tapping your fingers against the glass, feeling the condensation cling to your fingerprints.

He shakes his head. “Your value is too high for us to allow you out of the flat, Pauk,” he says gently, misunderstanding, as if reminding you. There are so many beautiful homes he has carved out for you, but you’ve never stepped foot outside of them.

He thinks you want to, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The reality is that you are brimming with hatred at the fact it still stands. That your suffering was for nothing, and the apocalypse still lies dormant but rumbling, a stalled birth. You love your closed spaces and your blackout curtains that hide the world and your tall walls and bright lights.

“We can have something ordered and brought to you,” he continues, trying to soothe the blow that never landed.

A grunt of annoyance snaps out of your throat, hand pressing flat to the glass. “Nooo,” you draw out, turning to face him in full. “I want you all to eat here, with me. Only us, none of the guards making all that fucking noise with their heavy boots. And I want to pretend that we’re all just having a nice night. And there are no contagions or stadiums or belt-fed guns.”

In shame, his head drops a degree, arms tightening in front of him. The supple leather of his gloves creak. “Apologies, Pauk.” His head remains that one slice lower, but his eyes flicker up like a bird’s from beneath his rippy lashes. “We…” he pauses, trying to formulate the words, “we will put that together. For you. What do you want to eat?”

Your hand comes away from the glass, and you press your palms together like a prayer, holding the sides of your hands to your lips. “I want something bloody and buttery. Something good made by someone that doesn’t love me.”

A small noise like a laugh sounds behind his heavy mask, and his neck relaxes. It puts together a picture of thought: it’s a good thing we do not cook for you, then. “We will find something.”

Neither of you cook. It’s a sad reality. You were too built up for epidemiology and plague-practitioning to have the room or time to learn the skill, and Nikto readily admits that he’d long ago lost his sense of smell. “Nova gas,” he explained, funnily enough. “That was your grandfather’s work, yes?” It was. He and his team. You are a legacy leper-making, just like God and all of his followers.

The sun has settled fully in the city of Bruges, and the light of street lamps, the running lights of boats on the water, and fairy lights around shopfronts make the water glitter. It is warm here, with all the brick and cobblestone soaking up the yellow light, and for once you are fine with the curtains open.

Nikto has spoiled you rotten with clothing, all of it fine and soft and rich. You dress comfortably, beautifully, and wander the flat, looking over things leftover from past tenants, waiting on his return. He always leaves you with a guard when he is gone, and tonight it is a short but sturdy woman from Montenegro who does not speak. She sits on the small leather couch in the living room, reading a book with horses on the cover, rifle across her lap. You do not bother her, but you cannot wait for her to leave.

When Nikto arrives, it’s with yet another guard, this one in plainclothes, carrying two large paper bags in their arms. It’s always seemed funny to you that he just goes out in the mask, nightmare beneath it or not, and that people must have reactions in public. But, you don’t think Nikto travels anywhere that people would dare comment on it. He has lackeys for embarrassing, mundane duties.

He takes the bags from the second guard, and dismisses the woman on the couch, letting you approach to lock the deadbolts on the back of the door when they’re out. It is your comfort and your right, he will not interfere with it.

Meeting his eyes, you grin a cracked grin at him. “Smells good. What is it? What was the restaurant called?”

He makes another laugh-noise, looking skin-close to bashful. “We do not know. We sent Dejanović to get it, he knows the city.” He peers into the bag. “He said foreign dignitaries enjoyed the place. We don’t feel like that always speaks well to quality.”

You try to take the bag into your hands, but his arm tightens. He does not like you doing menial tasks. He likes it only when you are free to tend to your work and whims. It is much preferable to him that your needs are met, and he is glad to tend to those tasks when he is with you.

“If it’s all rot and garbage, we can make zakuski instead, and wash it down with vodka,” you tell him, swaying a little, hoping the promise pleases him. “Tahumi brought me a can of caviar, and even found a mother-of-pearl spoon for it.”

His eyes grow hard at the mention of Tahumi giving you a gift. That is another thing that heckles him. He does not like others knowing about you, much less providing for you. That is his honor, and an honor he thinks it is.

Your mouth starts to curl. “Don’t eat yourself with knots,” you instruct him, but his eyes only grow harder, his posture stiffer. “I wanted it, and Tahumi saw it, and he bought it. He did it to please you, because you are so here-and-there with your underlings. Your favor can’t be curried because it doesn’t exist.”

“They are warm, walking corpses, and nothing more,” he says, stone-solid, cold. “We don’t need them for anything more than catching bullets and carrying out orders. You are not a tool to buy their way into security. There is none, and you–you’re–”

He turns his head and breathes out hard. His body is held so tightly it paints pain on the walls behind him. His molars squeak as they grind together, trying to collect himself, but he is upset.

“Andryu,” you say, pulling his diminutives, trying to pluck the chords that will bring him back to you. You bend your body to swerve, attempting to capture his eyes. “Andryusha.”

There is a little break in the armor, a crack where you can push your fingers in, to find contact with him. There is a little light in his eyes. “We cannot allow you to be taken advantage of. Your wholeness is…” he trails off, struggling, and you provide him the territory to prowl, find his words. He turns and meets your eyes, and there is his passion. “Our last shred of warmth is you. If you are pained, or used, or discarded–it is a blow that would destroy the last human thing in us.”

And, here, your scant humanity answers his. You fold, slope, ease. You nod in agreement. “I know, Andryu, I do. But all of you know where my loyalties lie. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to find you if I felt targeted.” You want so horrendously to reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You have to allow him to initiate, otherwise he cannot handle it. “My lot is in your lot. I go where you go. Everyone else is a corpse that forgot to lie down and die.”

Using his language in ways that he understands it unlocks him to you. His gloved hand comes up, hovering just to the side of your jaw. But he doesn’t touch, he only traces the air in a line down the bone structure.

He allows—or, rather, you give him no in allowing you to stand in the kitchen as he unpacks your meals to plate. It could be call an awkward affair, if either of you had the social graces to register that feeling in your minds.

He’s taken his gloves off and swatted at your hand trying to take the paper bag for recycling, giving you a sharp look borne of the love he holds. Again, not allowed to lift a finger.

There are faded Cyrillic characters tattooed across his knuckles, the black ink bloated and faded to blue. SOS across three fingers: either spasi, otets, syna or Suki Otnyali Svobodu. Save me, father, your son. Bitches robbed my freedom.

He’s never told you which in specific, though he’s offered both as options. Tattoos are carved into so much of his skin, and he’s given you brief walking tours of them when he’s stripped down enough for them to appear. A warping on Russian prison tattoos, repurposed for the Spetsnaz.

Epaulets on his shoulders—horses die from work. Devils just below those, oskals, hatred of authority. ‘I Fuck Poverty and Misfortune’ in Cyrillic, riding his Adonis belt. A lighthouse on his forearm, yearning for freedom. His skin tells his story, hard-lived, a language known to few.

His plating skills are what cause him minor self-consciousness. He’s not an artistic man, and he has no eye for aesthetics. The blood-rare ribeyes are just placed and pushed to one side of the plate, crumbled blue cheese dumped artlessly on top. Creamed potatoes end up slopping over roasted asparagus, and he growls in his throat, frustrated. He is trying incredibly hard to make it pleasing. The more he moves it around, trying to be careful, the worse it looks.

He wouldn’t care if it was solely for him. His frustration is because you will not be eating something pretty. In his mind, the only things you deserve are pretty and perfect.

His hands stop fussing, resting on the edge of the counter, glaring down at the plates. “It looks like shit,” he renders his verdict. It sounds like he is considering throwing it away and ordering something else.

“Pelmeni look like shit. So does poutine. But it all tastes good, so we still eat it,” you push back. “No one eats shiny plastic or tinsel.”

He grunts again. “People eat shiny plastic and tinsel all the time, because they are fucking stupid.”

“If any of you are insinuating that any of us are fucking stupid, you’re being a fucking child.” Despite the content of your words, it is not said with heat. It is an olive branch, trying to reach him across the expanse of his dissatisfaction. You’re not sure you’ve made contact until his fingers start tapping on the counter, and he hums Krokodil Gena’s Birthday Song deep in his chest. He is calming, rectifying reality with himself.

After a few, long moments, he picks up the plates, nodding at you, and carries them to the dining table outside the kitchen. It is situated in front of a set of big picture windows that he honestly does not like you standing near, ever, but it is for the sake of the evening. He sets your plate down, and pulls out your chair for you, before he seats himself. There are already sets of silverware and water on the table. A bottle of vodka, and two small glasses to drink from.

You start by pouring two sips of vodka, offering him one. A toast falls out of your mouth, unthinking, and he clinks your glasses together in agreement. When you put your shot back, he hands you his glass, and you shoot that, as well. He has not removed his mask. He will not. But he overturns his glass next to yours.

It’s an odd affair, how the meal goes. Conversation picks up, on plans and your work, on the state of the world as it stands. That will run out, and you will both turn to other topics. Books, movies, cars. Oh, Nikto has such a soft spot for cars–he could talk about them from dusk until dawn. Luxury cars, supercars, performance and rally cars, working vehicles, even an astonishing breadth of consumer cars. He has opinions that stretch the globe, and you soak it up like a dry sponge.

The oddest thing is that you eat, and he does not. He keeps his hands resting on either side of his plate, guarding it as if he was a prisoner, but he does not once touch his silverware. He won’t eat in front of anyone. He can’t, not without taking the mask off. It’s something he didn’t have to explain to you, you just understood it by studying his patterns. It’s something that made him even softer toward you.

You finish, part of your steak left–you intend to slice it up and put it on some grilled crusty bread with piles of caramelized onions later–resting your fork and your knife on the edge of your plate. “That was good. Despite the dignitaries and dog shit. I want a copy of their menu, to tear up and eat bit by bit. I want all of you to have more dates with me, this one dripped romantic. All the seams were splitting up, and it went drop by drop by drop.”

“Date?” he queries, looking at you across the table as he reaches for your plate.

“Date.” You nod once, emphatically.

He shudders, smothering something that sounds like a sigh, averting his eyes. “We…will make sure there is a menu for you, next time,” he starts, unphased by your request. “Roses, if you like.”

You shake your head. “No use for roses, they wilt and die. Flowers all-wilted smell like the dark parts of the bunker, and my stomach eats and eats away at me because of that smell.” You send an apologetic look across the table, thinking. “I’ll take tokens in trinkets. Whenever you bring me jewelry, I don’t take it off.”

As if in example, you pull up your sleeves, showing him the bracelets he’s brought you, left for your discovery on desktops and dressers. Next, you tug at your collar, showing him a pile of necklaces.

His fingers twitch, looking at you helplessly. Not even he can prevent the swallow that goes down his throat, when he sees that you hoard the fine things he brings back for you.

Another long moment passes, and he is hoarse when he agrees, “Jewelry. We will bring you jewelry, then.”

In as much of a rush as you’ve ever seen him, he collects your dishes, and the bottle of vodka, storming back through the kitchen door. It doesn’t latch behind him, and you know he will be a while. It feels dirty, destructive and found and deceitful, but you sneak up to the crack, wanting to watch him.

His back is turned, his mask removed. Hair so deep in darkness it shines white under lights sticks up from his head at all angles, some of it missing from the side of his skull, along with an ear. He eats quickly, in clipped bites, gorging himself, stopping only to tip back the vodka bottle. It’s almost an ugly display, brutal necessity, and you know as well as you know the own pounding of your heart that he is uncomfortable, that he hates this. He hates to be bare.

You cannot see his face, and you would not try to see it. You want to see it someday, and that will only happen when he is ready to show you. You will not steal that freedom from him. You will not sneak looks when he is unawares. It is the same courtesy he has afforded you, and you are hellbent to pay it back in kind.

With that prickling your skin, you back away from the door, allowing him his needs.

When he returns, sitting next to you on the couch, he is warmed-through and softened by the alcohol and food. He takes hold of your ankle, pulling it into his lap, rubbing the knob of your bone with his bare fingers. His masked head tips back, resting against the back of the couch, and he heaves a heavy sigh.

Your stomach clenches, and your heart races. There is so much love between the two of you, so impossibly massive that it cannot ever be feasibly dealt with, and that is something you are fine with when his eyes meet yours in a crinkled smile.

Perhaps your union will kill the world as it stands, but you don’t particularly mind. His hands are warm against your bones, reaching deeper than any other human possibly could, and he looks at you as if you are his only purpose in life, even if that is not true.

“Andryusha,” you greet him quietly, turning your leg in his touch so he can have more skin.

Another small noise, pleasure, and he rubs deeper, followed by a soft, heartsick request, “Say it again, Paukya.”

#nikto #nikto x reader #cod nikto #mwii nikto #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw x reader #my work

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lees-chaotic-brain · 4 months

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Hello! I'd like to give Inumaki an ugly Christmas sweater (with high neck ofc) that was knitted by reader. It was her first time, but sweater still looks nice; and probably there is a bear pattern or written something cool and funny.

Good luck!

Ahhh this is so perfect for him, I love it! Also, credit for the text on the sweater goes to that one jjk x reader texts person who has Inumaki's name saved as toge bear. Lmk in the comments if you know who it is.

CW: Singular mention of puke (as a description of a color), crack, fluff

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For weeks you had toiled on your secret project, working well into the wee hours of the morning. Weeks of finger cramps, endless frustration, and eyes burning from a lack of sleep. But finally. Finally, it was done.

Holding out the monstrosity you had created, you couldn’t help but to cackle with glee at your horrific creation.

All your hard work and sleepless nights had finally come to fruition, and in your hands you now held the world’s ugliest Christmas sweater.

The base was a puke green shag, mottled with random patches of mud brown. Neon orange sequins had been sewn winding around the arms, the pattern imitating lights strung around a tree. And to top it all off there was a misshapen white bear with lopsided violet eyes on the front above the words ‘My Toge Bear.”

It was perfect. It was divine. It was your best work yet. Carefully wrapping it in navy tissue paper and placing it in a silver bag you throw open the door to your dorm and make your way to your boyfriends dorm.

“Togeeeeeeeeee!”

You call as you burst into his dorm.

“I have something for youuuu!”

“Really?!”

His eyes light up and he quickly pauses his game before swiveling in his chair to face you.

“Gimme.”

You had barely extended your arm and offered him the gift bag before he reached out and snatched it. Scurrying over to the corner of his room, he sat with his back to the wall and eyed you suspiciously as he opened it. And finally, the moment you had been waiting for arrived. Your boyfriend looked at your creation for a couple of seconds, silent.

You were practically wriggling with glee, dying in anticipation for his reaction to your gift. Slowly he looked at you, and an evil smile spread across his face. He stood, and retrieved a gift bag of his own from his closet and handed it to you.

Wait, where was his abject horror? His look of acute betrayal?? What was with that look on his face? You were beginning to feel a little uneasy.

He motioned for you to open it, before retrieving the hideous sweater and what-did he just put it on?

A sly little grin flashed across his face, quickly replaced by one of doe-eyed innocence.

I love it! He signed, gesturing for you to open your gift. Now open yours!

Filled with trepidation, you slowly pull whatever is lurking in the gift bag out into the light. Staggering back, you dramatically fling your hand against your forehead as you drop your gift. Your handsome, loving, loyal boyfriend had finally revealed his dark side. Laying crumpled in a pile on his hard wood floor was not a ugly Christmas sweater, but an ugly Christmas dress, made of itchy wool and covered with bells and flashing lights.

Do you like it?

His shoulders were shaking with the effort of suppressing his laughter, making his signing choppy. Giving him a half-hearted glare, you made eye contact and that was the end.

The two of you burst into hysterical peals of laughter as you wheezed and leaned against each other. The second one of you was beginning to calm down, the other would hiccup and start giggling, starting a whole new round of cackles.

Once you had managed to get yourselves under control, the two of you each put on your respective gifts and had a photoshoot, dramatically posing with exaggerated facial expressions. As the two of you rolled on the ground, practically sobbing with laughter after Toge attempted to throw a sultry look of his shoulder for the camera, you fell in love with him all over again. This was what you wanted your future to look like; enjoying spending time with the man you love, while laughing over mundane things such as an ugly Christmas sweater.

#lee's brain writes #inumaki toge x reader #toge inumaki x reader #inumaki x reader #inumaki x you #end of 2023 collab #fluff #crack #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction

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nevadas-night-time-novelist · 3 months

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Hank with nine feet tall!reader but reader is actually the new sun, and they have a smiley face like: =) but reader just chills around and eats hotdogs

Plot twist: hank accidentally created them when they killed the actual sun

Energy simply is. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot be created. It always is, and always will be. With the death of the Sun, her energy shot out into the sky, seeking out the most viable host in the area. It found a strong grunt, one with grit and will, a power to persevere even in the hardest of times.

A body capable of withstanding power, one of kind and sound mind, reasonable and in need of light. Pain struck your spine between your shoulder blades, splitting down your back and rushing into your bones. Heat followed, sunspots burning into your skin from the inside.

Light filled your eyes, bright beams extending to the sky, a calling to return to where it belongs, up above in the heavens, silent observer of the peaceful world below. The pain faded slowly, your new shifted form complete.

A crown of light floated around your head, warm toned silks enrobed your body, and intricate little sun patterns covered parts of your skin. Your slender fingers touched the silk, much softer than the cotton smock you'd been wearing mere moments ago, an- when did the ground get so far away?!

You caught your reflection in a window, a gasp escaping your lips. "W-what is this?" Warmth filled your being, emanating from your sternum, the heat rolling off you and warming the air around you. Bright, warm, tall. A freaky change, a far cry from the normalcy you'd lived until now. And yet....

You couldn't help but smile. Joy flooded your system, energy and love flooding from your being, the urge to twirl in your new robes was irritable, and you did, feeling the fabric moving with you.

Yet with all this energy burning from you, it left a deep void in your guts, an insatiable hunger taking over, mouth salivating at the mere thought of something tasty on your tongue.

A grunt with a hotdog cart was walking past, and you waved to him in excitement. "Helloooo~" You skipped over and beamed down at him. "May I have... Hmmm... Many hotdogs?" You couldn't pick a number, just intent on eating until you could feel full and ready to burn brighter.

He craned his neck to look at you. "You're a tall one, aren't you? Now how many hotdogs do you actually want? I need a number buddy."

You picked your wallet from your pocket, and you placed it down on the side. "As many as the money in there can buy!" He shrugged, and opened your wallet, taking your cash before starting to prepare your feast of pulverised meat. An important question left his lips.

"Mustard, or ketchup?"

After an intense brawl and interrogation, Hank had made progress on his journey to hunting down and executing the Sheriff. It'd be a cold day in hell before he forgave that bastard for eating his pie.

They paused when they noticed a familiar giant in the street, one he was absolutely positive he'd killed not an hour ago. "What. The. Fuck." You turned to look at him, half a hotdog in hand.

"Hiiiii! You want a hotdog too?" You held out the untouched one in your other hand, and Hank looked beyond livid.

"How the hell are you alive? I just killed you!" They patted their body, realising they were out of weapons. Fists would have to do, he's done it before, he can again.

"Huuuh? I don't know what you mean. I've never seen you before in my life. I think I'd remember. I'd definitely remember dying." You took another big bite, waving the hotdog at him. "Offers still open!"

He gritted his teeth, stomping over. "What are you playing at? What kind of game is this?"

"I don't follow. One moment I was walking along, the next I was bursting with joy and feeling so light! It's like I'm a whole different person! Well, I mean I guess I am. I didn't look like this earlier." You gnawed on your hotdog in thought.

"You're... not the sun that crawled down from the sky?" They questioned, incredibly cautious.

You shook your head with a smile. "Don't be silly! The sun is right th-" Where the fuck was the sun? "Uh.." Realisation started to dawn on you, perhaps.. it could be true? It would explain your sudden attitude shift, and physical shift, and the urge to just float into the sky.

"... Maybe I am the sun?" Your smile vanished for a moment, before it came back. "But isn't that wonderful? I can brighten up the world now. I think that's something powerful."

You sat on the curb, and Hank eventually sat with you. "At least you're not trying to kill me." They grumbled, a sour look on their face. "Feels like everything is against me right now, just 'cause one guy screwed me over." Their stomach growled. "....Is the offer for that hotdog still open?"

A giggle left your lips, and you handed them the ketchup slathered dog. "Eat up, I'm sure bright things will be coming your way. After all, when you hit low, the only way you can go is up, right?"

He swallowed his mouthful and sighed. "I sure hope so."

#hank #hank j wimbleton #hank x reader #madcom #madness combat #madcom x reader #madness combat x reader #hank j wimbleton x reader #x gon deliver to ya #hawt dawgs are the only food in nevada lol

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wallwriterstuff · 4 months

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The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

#glittery pirate duck #codholiday2023 #captain john price #x female!reader #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x female reader #christmas fic

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sp0o0kylights · 1 year

Text

Steve/Eddie Soulmark AU Worth and Worthy

Warnings: Mentions of a burn scar, a prior attack via bully’s, Nancy cheating, Steve handling it ah, poorly, his TERRIBLE parents, etc. Steve was a romantic.

It had been a well known fact about him even in his king days, one of the many facets of his charms that made the ladies do their best to catch his attention. He was a roses and chocolates kind of guy, even for a woman that he just had one night stands with.

Sure, he might sleep with another girl the next night, but between the care he showed in bed and the charm he showed after, Steve didn’t catch the flak many other teenage boys did for his sexcapades. And if any was mentioned well, all it took was dropping some line about how he was trying to find his soulmate and things were right as rain.

Then he met Nancy.

Steve knew of course that she wasn’t his soulmate.

He hadn’t cared.

In a refreshing bout of sanity, neither had Nancy.

She went off on all these cute little tirades about how soulmates was an outdated concept, that the marks they all bore could mean any number of things, that the word soulmate itself might not mean it was a romantic relationship, and if it was, how you shouldn’t waste your life looking for someone who could be anywhere in the world.

Hawkins Indiana was so small, the chance of the person who represented your mark being there was slim, and wasn’t a romantic relationship something you should work at anyway? Be present for every single day?

Steve bought the whole thing, hook, line and sinker. Believed it with all his heart and soul.

Distanced himself from his asshole friends, charged back to face down a demon with a baseball bat, laid bare his soul for the fiery woman who had stolen his heart.

Loved her long after she broke it, on the floor of some stupid party, drunk words searing him like a burn.

When he found out she’d cheated on him with Jonathan Byers, on grounds that he was her soulmate…

It was the kind of crushing blow that had remade him as a person.

Throughout it, the lonely days that followed, Steve woke up and stared in the mirror every morning at the mark that sat on his hip.

Fuck Nancy.

Fuck Jonathan, fuck Tommy, fuck Billy-fuck everyone.

His parents might not love him, his friends might have been fake and his own love bullshit but at least he had one person out there who was meant for him.

A person who would accept him, for who he was (and wasn’t a sassy middle schooler using him for rides, even if Steve was secretly thankful for Dustin’s sudden presence in his life.)

Throwing his crown away was easy. Being a better person, a person who wasn’t an asshole, was hard.

It would be worth it in the end though, because he would be worthy of his soulmate's love.

xXx

Too bad life seems to be just as tired of Steve as he is of it, because he finds his soulmate in Hawkins trailer park of all places, hanging out with Eddie Munson, a person Steve found he enjoyed far more than he’d ever thought.

It had barely been two weeks since Vecna had been defeated, the Upside Down destroyed, with the group of survivors still clinging tight to each other.

He was over at Eddie’s to help him sort all his shit into boxes in preparation for his move. The older man had just been given his shiny new government alibi, cleared of all charges, but it was obvious he wasn’t comfortable walking around by himself yet.

For reasons Steve had long had his own freakout over, he wasn’t comfortable with the idea either.

It had been going fine. Eddie and Steve were trading off cassettes and mocking the others choices as they packed, things easy between them in a way only surviving a supernatural catastrophe could create in such a short amount of time.

He knew. Had known, since Eddie pulled out his guitar, that the metalhead was his.

It made sense in a way. Steve had been so easy around him once they had gotten over their mutual jealousy regarding the kids. He hadn’t thought they had much in common at first, but the more he hung out with him, the more Steve realized it wasn’t the little things they shared but the big ones.

The love for the kids. Their humor and personalities. The way they fit together, bounced off each other, looked at life in general.

Steve was happy to learn about all the things Eddie liked, had tolerated D&D and nerd shit for years long enough to have picked out various pieces he himself enjoyed.

Now it was simply a matter of when to tell him.

Then Eddie decided to change shirts.

He was moving slowly, jeans slung low on his hips. It gave Steve a nice long look at his hip (and briefly the treasure trail of dark hair that he was determined not to stare at.).

For a second Steve almost mistakes the long healed wound there for one of Eddie’s demobat bites; but those were covered in bandages still and this was too far down for where they had struck.

This wasn’t even one of the guy’s scratcher tattoos, that ink faded while this one casually pulsed with yellow against the crumpled skin surrounding it.

It takes a minute for it all to sink in. The color, the mark, the way the damaged skin was long healed in a close pattern over it.

Anger floods his face with heat.

Steve's body goes hot with it, his vision swimming and sound dropping out as his entire being pinpricks down to the soul mark on Eddie's hip.

He recognizes the cause of the destroyed skin around it. Burn scar, the kind that made your skin change color and crumble in on itself once healed.

Munson had tried to burn his soul mark off.

It would be a crazy thing to see on anyone, the most unhinged act of rejection Steve can personally think of.

It wouldn't be a big deal, not to him, not when he still didn't know Eddie that well, except the stupid image staring back at him in the midst of all the shiny, scarred skin is a fucking baseball bat with nails.

As in, Steve's weapon of choice. His baby, the bat he carried with him in the trunk of his car and carted into his house everyday, hidden in a carrying case for golf clubs.

"What the fuck?" Steve spits. He's intimate with the taste of betrayal already. His parents have a house in Burbank they stay in half the year. The word 'bullshit' still makes him wince. He has PTSD from being tortured by the Russians and likely a budding anxiety disorder from all the Upside Down nonsense and yet this-

This hurts more than anything life has put him through.

"What?" Eddie asks, confused, before following Steve's eyes down to his own hips. "Oh."

He brushes a hand almost subconsciously against the nail-bat, and they both watch it pulse a light yellow.

The tell tale sign of a soul mark, the way it could light up like a neon sign.

"You tried to burn off your soul mark?"

Steve's voice must come out far more angry than he had meant it to be, because Eddie's head whips up to him.

"You a romantic, Harrington? Think you'll run into your soulmate one day?" Eddie teases, but his own voice is taking on a defense edge.

"I already have." Steve says flatly. Part of him wants to withhold, not say, not admit that hes the one Eddie's tried to burn out of his life, but another part of him wants his soulmate (fuck) to explain why.

Why try to cut him out.

"If Nancy-"

"It's not her." Steve cut him off. "Stop dodging the question."

Eddie crosses his arms, gives him a look with those dark bambi eyes that Steve’s seen a million times. It’s a stubborn, “come hell or high water” expression, complete with a grin smug enough to make you want to hit him.

He used it primarily against jocks being assholes, which just pissed Steve off further.

“I don’t think I’m dodging enough, seeing as it’s none of your business.”

"Munson." Steve says sinking everything he has into the word. "Why did you try to burn off your mark?"

Eddie stares at him, eyes searching. He’s definitely on the defensive now, likely confused as to why Steve’s flipped from joking to furious.

Steve can’t find it in himself to care.

Eddie cocks crossed his arms over his chest. "Why the hell do you care so much? What's it to you?"

And right, right Eddie doesn't know. That it's him. Can't.

So Steve decides to explain it to him.

Untucks his polo with a few hard pulls. Yanks the fabric up. Reveals the Warlock that hangs low on his left hip, some nerdy dice making up the tip of it.

"Wow, you got some popstar, hey Harrington?" Eddie says, practically before he even sees Steve’s mark.

Definitely hasn’t had the time to really look at it.

Steve wants to strangle him. "You're an idiot, Munson."

Then; “Look closer.”

Eddie does.

A savage feeling of glee runs through him the second he sees Eddie registers the dice, the same black and red one Steve knew he used. Makes the connection that it isn’t just a guitar, not even his physical Warlock, but instead the stupid thing he draws on everything he seems to own.

Notebooks, textbooks, post it notes, his fucking pants.

All things Steve has gotten an up close and personal look at considering how much time he’s spent in Eddies trailer the last few weeks.

Saucer wide eyes jerk back up to Steve’s face.

“Shit.” Eddie says almost breathlessly, shooting to stand straight, hands frantically pulling at his hair. “Steve-”

“Give me an answer, Munson. You owe me that.” Steve interrupts him, because he is done.

With life, the universe, everything.

“Why did you try and burn my bat?”

“I-I didn’t-” Of all fucking things tears are springing up in Eddie’s eyes.

Steve kind of wants to cry himself, but can’t seem to find any emotion other than fury and a growing sense of numbness.

Eddie takes a step forward, and flinches hard when Steve jerks back.

“Steve-” He’s begging, Eddie Munson is actually begging, and he kind of wants to laugh at how much life clearly fucking hates him.

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t burn it, Steve please-!”

Tears are now openly tracking down Eddie’s face, his arms going from crossed to hugging himself. “Fuck! I had a whole story planned for this, I never thought-”He looks up at the ceiling, like he can’t bear to look at his own soulmate.

Steve is rapidly flipping through emotions, the numbness coming in to save him, making words impossible to get out.

Eddie is still speaking. “Jordan P, middle school. He eventually got expelled but before he did he and his asshole buddies caught me after school. Held me down.”

He bites his lip so hard it bleeds and that cuts through to Steve.

“I fought, I fought them so hard Steve. I tried, but there were too many,” He chokes on a breath and Steve finds himself moving forward without thinking.

“They told me I didn’t deserve you.” He whispers, finally bringing his head back down, just in time to realize Steve was wrapping him up in a hug.

Eddie freezes in his hold, but Steve just hugs him tightly, resting his cheek against Eddie’s curls.

“I'm sorry.” He says quietly. “I just reacted, Eddie. I’m sorry.”

The older boy fell into him, arms wrapping back around Steve as he tucks his face.

“I’ve got you.” Steve whispers to him, rocking them gently. “I’ve got you.”

And he did--for the rest of their lives.

#steve/eddie #soulmate aU #soulmates #soulmark #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #0o0 fanfics #steves terrible parents #we stan eddie #they both need a damn hug lol #stranger things fanfiction #steddie fanfic

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everlastingdreams · 6 months

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The Weeping Monk x Reader : Born In The Dawn Chapter 1

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: Locked inside a dark room in a dungeon, kept alive only for your power, you believed you’d never see the daylight again. That is until the Weeping Monk finds his way down and steals you from your captors. It is the beginning of a journey that leads you through hardship and newfound hope, but nothing is assured in a world that is changing for the Fey. The magic that runs in your veins is drawing out the worst the world has to offer, does it include the man who pulled you from the dark?

Chapter Title: Caged

Notes: I'm so nervous. Also, tumblr is messing up the way the text is posted so yeah...

Warnings: Violence. Torture. Sexual Assault. Rape Threat. Gore. Enemies To Lovers. Pining. Trauma. Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Gore?. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn...

Word count of this fic: +190K

Chapter: 1/ It's a secret.

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Your mind had entered into a world it had created for itself. A world that did not include being owned or being hurt.

From afar, you heard the heavy door be closed and locked.

In this wretched place were only locks… one by one, all meant to keep you from ever reaching the world outside this room again.

The world…

As you sat on your hands and knees to recover, you felt the call of nature through the stone ground.

The silver pattern of leaves spread from your palms to your whole hand.

Was it night? Was it day?

No windows offered you any sights of the world outside the room they kept you in.

A candle, one might believe it was left with you out of pity, burned in the center of the room.

When the door was shut, that candle was your only source of light and the only thing to keep you warm.

You crawled towards it, sitting yourself beside the flame to study it’s every move for there was nothing else there to entertain you.

How much time had passed since these Manbloods, your captors, had brought you here? You did not know.

Weeks? Months? A year?

Obey and keep quiet.

Surrender and survive.

Your whole life you had tried to outrun them, the Brotherhood. The symbol they carried pinned on their clothing was feared by your kind.

The life of a Fey was worthless if not of service to these brothers, Ives and Hutch, who had imprisoned you.

Serve and be rewarded with the means to keep yourself alive.

Disobey and face the suffering.

Those were the options you had been given.

You laid down on the stone, eyes fixed on the dancing flame of the candle.

Some sleep to regain your strength, a moment to close your eyes and have your vision match the darkness surrounding you. A moment to escape this life of nightmares into one of dreams.

How much time had passed when you were awoken by the strange energy that seeped from the stone into your skin?

Something was coming…

No…

Someone.

You touched the floor, the faint whispers of the Hidden your new companions.

In the darkness, all you had was your connection to them, all your senses were attuned to it for there was nothing else your senses could be distracted by.

Closer…

By the power of the Hidden, every step of them was felt beneath your palm and your curiosity grew.

Who was this stranger that dared to enter this pitiable place?

Closer and closer, step by step…

They stopped…

The Hidden let you sense some things about who was dwelling inside the dungeon that led here.

Their heart was haunted by wickedness, much like this place, but different.

Something that had been lost in this dungeon, was still present in their heart.

Who was this? Who’s curious eyes had wandered into these walls covered by the blood from those who had been here before you?

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The Monk inhaled deeply, the scents of the forest filled his lungs.

This was the second time he had caught it here, that strange Fey scent he did not recognize.

Where was it coming from?

This time he dismounted Goliath to investigate where the faint scent came from.

Slowly he walked through the forest and let Goliath walk beside him. He came upon the ruins of a small fort that had once been there and thought nothing of it until the scent grew a little stronger.

He went closer to inspect it, would a Fey hide among these ruins?

After searching for a while, he found nothing and still the scent remained.

It wasn’t until he found the tracks in the grass nearby that he realized how it was possible.

A large trapdoor was hidden under a wooden plank he moved aside.

He opened the trapdoor and it uncovered a narrow stone stairway. Some light was visible coming from down there and he descended the steps.

What began as a narrow staircase, leaded down into an old dungeon. A long wide hall, with many closed doors at both sides. Old, but clearly been used as some torches on the walls were burning, just enough to cast a dim light in the dark path.

He followed the scent, which grew stronger with each step.

At the last door, the scent reached it’s height and the Monk knew he had found who dwelled in this forsaken place.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The sound of the padlock being broken and falling to the ground had you jump to your feet.

Someone was truly here. Out of precaution you backed away from the door as far as you could.

The light crept into the dark room as the door creaked open.

The shadow of the stranger outstretched into the room, the sword was ready in their hands.

They stepped into the room and when the light of your candle touched their face, you cowered back into a corner.

Out of all the people who could have stepped through that door, it had to be none other than the Weeping Monk?!?

Was this the end? Would your family ever find your bones in this long forgotten place?

He must have seen you cower away, and knew why.

When he had broken down the door, this was not what he expected to find.

A Fey girl, imprisoned in darkness.

Who had done this and why? Were you dangerous?

The Monk got closer with caution and you tried to move past him by moving along the wall.

He anticipated it happening and proceeded so you could never make it to the door.

The scent was something he did not recognize. Hundreds of Fey, and only for the second time he found one he could not identify.

When he had you cornered, he caught you by the throat and held you against the wall, the short sword was at your stomach.

“What Fey kind are you?” He demanded to know.

Silence fell over you like a protective cloak.

A low warning followed, “Answer my question, or I will hurt you.”

Your silence persisted and he enforced the warning by tightening his grip and pushing your head backwards against the stone wall.

From reflex and fear, you grabbed his wrist and beyond your own control a surge of your magic was released.

At the sight of your eyes flashing a bright green, and the feeling of something happening to his hand, he released you from his hold and took a couple of steps back.

With the light of the candle in the room the Monk was able to see the wound, that he had sustained on his hand the previous day, heal before his very eyes.

You seized the moment of his confusion and bolted to the door, making it into the hall before he caught you.

With the sword to your throat, he held you against his chest and in place. “How did you heal me?”

You were trembling from fear, facing the long tunnel that led to freedom.

When no answer came, he leaded you through it and up the stone steps.

The sun was setting, low sunlight hit your eyes and you winced from how intense it felt.

It blinded you for a while and when your vision began to adjust he had already reached his horse.

If you didn’t escape now, only the gods knew what would happen to you.

You struggled against him, by stepping on the side of his boot and giving a push, you made him trip to the ground. Unfortunately, he brought you down with him, too stubborn to let go off your arm.

The sword was at your throat instantly to threaten you into submission as he tried to rise to his feet but failed.

Down on your knees, you surprised him by fighting back even at the threat of the sword. You hit him across the face hard, stealing the sword from his hand as his grip on it had loosened for only a second. He tried to disarm you, you hit him in the stomach.

As he leaned away with a pained grimace you pushed hard against his side, and when he lost his balance and fell on his back, you got the upper-hand. The sword pointed down at his chest, you were trying to drive it through him but he used all his strength on your hands to try and prevent it.

The fury burned in you, the monster beneath you deserved nothing else but the cold of death.

His grip on your hands was bruising, it only spurred you on to sink the blade in him.

He moved.

That was all your brain registered as he used his leg to push against your knee.

That little lose of balance was all he needed to regain some control, he ripped one of your hands off of the sword, then stole it back.

He shoved you against the chest, and you started to scramble away from him hoping to make a run for it.

The bastard grabbed your ankle and roughly pulled at it, dragging you by the leg until you fell down face first.

You tried to get up, he pushed your head down by the back of your neck.

He held his hand there, forcing you to stay as you were. “I could break your neck.”

You felt him grab your arm and pin it behind your back.

The constant healing had made you weak, and fighting the Weeping Monk was tiring.

His thumb was pressing against your cheek. “Try such a thing again, and I will end your life. Do you understand?”

You kept still and refused to look up at him.

He pressed his thumb into your cheek, knowing it was hurting you, “Do you?”

You only nodded.

For a moment he seemed to contemplate if he was content with only a nod.

Once he was certain, he grabbed you by the back of your vest and wasn’t gentle when getting you up from the ground.

He kept your arm pinned behind your back, the blade of the sword remained at your neck.

He collected a rope from the saddle and used it to bind your hands together in front of you. “Follow the horse. Do not try to escape again, I will capture you and put you over the back of my horse instead.”

You glared at him for the threat and he gave the rope a tug.

When he mounted the steed and made you walk behind them, you looked back at the ruins of the fort.

How long before the Brothers found you again? Your powers had served them well. Over the past weeks they had forced you to heal them and anyone they brought you to heal. It had earned them a lot of coin.

If you refused, they starved you or hit you.

The bruise still healing on your left cheek was proof of it.

Often did you notice the Monk looking back at you now, of course he was curious as to who or what you were. People always were when they learned of your abilities.

Your kind was rare, it was possible he had never encountered or even heard of someone like you before.

While passing a low hanging branch, you spotted an apple just in reach.

You tried to pluck it from the tree and almost ended up falling when the horse had no intention to wait for you.

The apple soon vanished from your sight again and your stomach growled in massive protest.

Still exhausted from all the healing, this walk was not pleasant in the slightest. Two hours after the sun had gone down, you fell to the ground, your legs could no longer carry you.

Finally he halted the horse, looked back at you on the ground on hands and knees and decided to dismount.

You feared he would hurt you for this, but all he did was pull you to your feet albeit a bit roughly and made you sit down against a tree.

With another end of rope, he bound your waist to the tree.

It was time to rest some before journeying back to the camp.

He went over to his horse, took a piece of bread from the saddlebag and began to eat it.

You couldn’t help but look at the bread in his hand.

It had been so long since you had gotten something other than crumbs to eat.

This was torture of the mind and your empty suffering stomach.

He went to sit against a tree opposite of you.

Curiosity was getting the best of him it seems, because he began to interrogate you.

“Can you see well?” Upon seeing you frown, he clarified, “With those eyes.”

So he had seen the green glow overtake them back there in the dungeon.

Don’t speak… not a word…

The power inside you should not be known among all, enough of your kind had died when they were drained dry when forced to heal others.

You wore the silence like a cloak, preferring a quick death by the sword over feeling the life being sucked out of you while healing.

The Monk tilted his head, waiting for an answer that would not come.

Another question was fired, “Can you heal yourself?”

Did he plan on killing you and wished to know beforehand if there was a chance you could rise from the dead?

The ongoing silence hanged between you like shards of glass, cutting at your nerves without mercy.

Suddenly he put down the bread and stood, crossing the short distance he took out a dagger.

Your heart sank at the sight of it, he would test the theory himself…

The Monk circled you, knelt down let the blade cut the skin of your hand.

It didn’t feel as painful as you thought it would have been, like a rose’s thorn puncturing your skin.

He wait for a while, two drops of blood came out and then it stopped.

The small cut did not heal.

The power you had would not protect you.

You leaned away from him somewhat, uncomfortable with how close he was.

It did not stop him from questioning you further, “How many of your kind have you healed?”

So far he had not gotten a word out of you regarding your ability.

“Silence will not save you.” He said.

It slipped out of you, sharp as a sword, “My voice will?”

Finally.

He picked his words smart. “Your cooperation might.”

Right away you questioned it, “My cooperation?”

He stood again and returned to the tree to rest. “Father will decide if you are useful to us.”

This was the perfect opportunity to appease Father after the failures in capturing the Wolf Blood Witch. A girl who could heal the sick and wounded, the power to be undefeatable by the enemy presented itself.

Father would be very pleased.

Useful?

Was this just going to be another ‘dungeon’ situation?!?

It was enough to tick you off further. “Since when does Father Carden collect Feys for his own benefit? Does that not go against what all of you believe in?”

He proceeded to ignore the question and leaned back against the tree.

How could he be so calm in the presence of an enemy? Was this truly a day to day occurrence for him?!?

Minutes passed by and it was baffling how he appeared so certain that you were unable to escape that he had no trouble falling asleep.

While you sat there staring at him in disbelief, and somewhat nauseous from the stress this had caused. The hunger topped it off completely, especially when you saw the bread discarded and forgotten on the ground next to him.

Someone had not been facing the hunger forced upon the Fey…

Your stomach growled merciless and your mind made up different scenarios where you broke free and ate the bread he had so wastefully forgotten about.

The clouds shielded the moon’s light and damned the forest to the darkness.

A branch snapped nearby and drew your attention. The owl you had heard a minute ago suddenly flew away.

Someone was nearing…

What were you to do? Wake the Monk, or hope that whoever was coming would be your rescue?

When the footsteps now grew audible, that choice was taken from you. It had awoken him from his shallow slumber.

He was listening for the sounds that had led the owl to flee and locked eyes on you, with a finger to his lips he signaled for you to be quiet.

What were the chances that they could defeat the notorious Weeping Monk in a fight?

Part of you really wanted to scream out for help, but your conscience stopped you.

Quietly, he got to his feet and drew his sword.

He must have seen the flicker of hope in your eyes, because he came closer and covered your mouth with his hand while scanning the forest.

“Stay quiet. I will kill them if you call out.” He warned lowly.

A sound came from the opposite direction and the Monk became highly alert.

Were they surrounding him?

Not Fey, he would have caught their scent a while ago with the wind’s direction.

He let go off your face, giving a look of warning before hastily cutting loose the rope at your waist that bound you to the tree.

Once on your feet, the Monk dragged you along.

His attention was on the footsteps that were following.

There was no mistaking it anymore, they were here for him.

He backed you against a tree all of a sudden. “Do not move from here.”

There were so many strange noises coming from all around, if this man wanted to keep you alive for now, he could be the best chance on survival.

The Monk left you by the tree.

If you were to run, he would find you by your scent anyway.

You glanced at the horse, he noticed and gave a look of warning. The idea to steal the black steed was discarded.

He focused all his senses on the sounds coming from around him and walked away from you somewhat.

A rope shot out from behind the trees and caught the Monk around the neck.

He cut himself loose before the rope could tighten, an action the attackers must have hoped for as they ran out of the shadows and took the moment of confusion to attack him.

Even in the darkness you recognized them, your former captors had found you again.

The Brothers were hunters their whole lives, their tricks had been your downfall as well.

And now the Monk fell to their brutality too.

They were here for you, to take back what would bring them wealth for the rest of their lives, and to punish the thief who’d stolen you.

It was Hutch who used an axe to lunge at the Monk, who blocked the attack with his arm and the blade cut through the padded clothing. A dark spot soon appeared on the Monk’s sleeve, blood stained the fabric.

Ives wasted no time to aid his brother in battle and ruthlessly tackled the Monk to the ground.

This would not end well, if he lost they would drag you back to that dungeon.

Unless you ran and found a safe place to hide.

Fear overpowered all else and you fled away from the fight, it were the voices of the Hidden that made you stop and hide behind a tree.

Why were they trying to stop you from leaving?

These were monsters fighting among each other.

From a distance you could see that the Monk was on his feet and gaining the upper hand on them.

He kicked Hutch in the stomach, and elbowed Ives in the face when he tried to attack him from behind. The rope came in handy to him, because he caught Hutch around the neck with it.

The crack that followed sounded like the gate being slammed shut back in that dungeon.

Your stomach turned and you couldn’t bear to watch anymore.

Ives was cursing him out, not a word from the Monk came in response.

The fighting noise fell quiet like the drop of a rock. Silence overtook the forest once more and you held your breath.

Leaves were disrupted on the ground, crunching under the nearing footsteps.

The sound stopped not far from you, and you sneaked a glance from behind the tree.

The Monk held a hand against his side, looking quite confused.

Your sight fell on the dark liquid staining his hand.

One of them had stabbed a knife into his side, and he only noticed something was very wrong now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

It felt like his body began to burn inside, he could not take another step.

He was on his knees before it truly dawned on him how serious the injury was.

You came out from behind the tree and remained at a distance, wary of the one who had kept you captive as well.

He knew of your magic and what you were capable off.

Would he beg for life like others had done before him? You were expecting it to happen.

He looked in your direction and what struck you was that he did not look panicked. No, what you saw on his face was relief…

He fell over, the blood poured out of his side and caused the leaves on the ground to stick together.

Never did he call out for help, accepting of his fate.

When he stopped moving, you ran over to use a fallen sword to cut your hands loose from the ropes then you walked backwards slowly, still in fear that he would suddenly jump to his feet.

You turned to flee the place, the Hidden only let you run past a few trees before they showed their dismay.

The whispers grew so loud that it overwhelmed your every thought and brought you to your knees, your hands were covering your ears as if it would stop them.

“Please.” You begged them.

Whatever it was that they saw in the Monk, it was apparently worth tormenting you over.

But this man had killed so many of your kind, why did he deserve to live?

You defiantly refused. “Not him!”

The response they gave caused your markings to appear, and by the gods, the pain it brought was unspeakable.

It lasted until you surrendered to their will. “Please, stop! I will do as you ask!”

Their hold on your mind seized and left you gasping for air.

They would not be denied.

With trembling limbs you got up from the soil and returned to where you had left the Monk to die.

He laid motionless on the ground.

By placing a hand on his chest, you felt him take a shallow breath.

Why would the old gods insist that you save him? That you would weaken yourself further to help this monster?

Was this a test of your faith in them?

You placed both your palms on his chest and fought back the endless questions this brought into being.

By concentrating, the magic awoke and flowed through your veins into your skin. Your markings spread down your arms as the magic lured them out.

You knew it was healing him by how it was draining you of your energy instead.

It was not meant to last longer than a few seconds, but then you saw a green leaf pattern appear on the side of his face and on his hands.

The shock at the sight of it allowed him to heal further until you snapped out of it and scurried away.

No…no…no…

He was Fey?!?

How could he do this to his own kind?!?

You scrambled to your feet, appalled and confused by the discovery.

Had the Hidden wished for him to be healed only because he was Fey?

All that energy and strength lost for a traitor.

Usually you would take a moment to recover, but there was no time.

You stole his sword and when you went to steal his horse, the steed paced back and forth.

It was obvious that the horse would not let you mount and you gave up on the idea.

On foot you traveled into the darkness, getting as much distance between yourself and the Monk as possible.

Freedom was in your hands and you would not let it be stolen again.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream @coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies @kissingandromeda

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

#weeping monk #cursed netflix #cursed #weeping monk x reader #lancelot x reader #the weeping monk #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #daniel sharman character #daniel sharman

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catholic-character-tournament · 11 months

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Round 2 - Side A

Propaganda below ⬇️

Ronan Lynch

Uhh fun fact he saw the devil flash his father once, and that's one of the reasons he goes to church on Sundays <3

context for this scene from book 2: ronan is in church with his older brother declan, younger brother matthew, and ghost friend noah "Joseph Kavinsky isn’t someone I want you being around,” Declan added. “Don’t snort. I’m serious.” Ronan merely invested a look with as much contempt as he could muster. A lady reached over the top of Noah to pat Matthew’s head fondly before continuing down the aisle. She didn’t seem to care that he was fifteen, which was all right, because he didn’t, either. Both Ronan and Declan observed this interaction with the pleased expressions of parents watching their prodigy at work. Declan repeated, “Like, actually dangerous.” Sometimes, Declan seemed to think that being a year older gave him special knowledge of the seedier side of Henrietta. What he meant was, did Ronan know that Kavinsky was a cokehead. In his ear, Noah whispered, “Is crack the same thing as speed?” Ronan didn’t answer. He didn’t think it was a very church-appropriate conversation. “I know you think you’re a punk,” Declan said. “But you aren’t nearly as bad ass as you think you are.” “Oh, go to hell,” Ronan snapped, just as the altar boys broached the rear doors. “Guys,” Matthew pleaded. “Be holy.”

Gay Catholic streetracing farmer. Consumed by catholic guilt NOT because of the gay thing but because he can Create things in a way he thinks should be only God's business. Will literally roll up to mass on sunday morning still drunk and bloody.

THIS GOTH KID IS LITERALLY GOD. This is a god trapped in the body of a Catholic teen and if he ever stopped feeling Catholic guilt he’d end the world!!. How is your confession every week that you creating a whole new being? Babygirl the God is coming from inside the house

eldritch entity from beyond the mortal plane wants to be a Real Human Boy, becomes a real (ish!) human (ish!) boy, goes to mass every sunday

Gay boy got his crush an apartment above his church so he could have his two favorite things in one place

gay. I'm not caught up the the series but I went through the tag when the latest book came out and I remember seeing a quote that said he worried if his boyfriend would make it to heaven when he dies because of his agnostic tendencies.

Kid is like a dream warlock who creates psychic horrors and never goes to confession because why would he? and he’s gay

There are no words

basically ronan's powers are inherited from his dead father niall and it means he can bring anything from a dream into real life. so he's got this whole crisis about whether he is a living piece of blasphemy because men are not meant to have the powers of gods or whether he literally is god. which is not acceptable to him for a number of reasons but mostly because he hates himself. his love interest's name is adam and adam lives in a small apartment above a church which the book says focuses the objects of his worship neatly into one building. I love them both dearly. also, this entire page makes me feel like I'm going insane. Ronan Lynch believed in heaven and hell. Once, he’d seen the devil. It had been a low, late morning at the Barns when the sun had burned off the mist and then burned off the chill and then burned the edges off the ground until everything shimmered with heat. It never got hot in those protected fields, but that morning, the air sweated with it. Ronan had never seen cattle pant before. All of the cows heaved and stuck their tongues out as they frothed with the heat. His mother sent Ronan to put them in the shade of the cattle barn. Ronan had gone to the searing metal gate, and as he did, he’d glimpsed his father, already in the barn. Four yards away from him had stood a red man. He was not truly red, but the burned orange of a fire ant. And he was not truly a man, because of the horns and the hooves. Ronan remembered the alienness of the creature, how real it had been. Every costume in the world had gotten it wrong; every drawing in every comic book. They’d all forgotten that the devil was an animal. Looking at the red man, Ronan had been struck by the intricacy of the body, how many miraculous pieces moved smoothly in harmony, no different than his own. Niall Lynch had had a gun in hand — the Lynches had an enormous number of guns of all sizes — and just as Ronan had opened the gate, his father had shot the thing about thirteen times in the head. With a shake of its horns, the unharmed devil had presented its genitalia to Niall Lynch before bounding off. It was an image that had yet to leave Ronan. And so Ronan became a reverse evangelist. The truth burst and grew inside him, and it was laid upon him to share it with no one. No one was meant to see hell before they get there. No one should have to live with the devil. So many homilies on faith were ruined once you no longer required it for belief.

Friar Tuck

If you use the picture of furry friar tuck from the Disney Robin Hood, bless you 🙏

#Ronan Lynch #the raven cycle #raven cycle #cct polls #tumblr tournament #tumblr bracket #tumblr polls #friar tuck #robin hood

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mastermindmiko · 6 months

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Potions Partners (Part 13)

Pairing: Draco Malfoy + Potter!reader

word count: 2443

warnings: angst, voldy, forgetting to eat, crying

Hey! if you think this didn't completely suck, feel free to check out my masterlist.

part 14

requests are open

“Any second now, my friends.” The Dark Lord seethes with his snake like voice. It sends a shiver down Draco’s spine, but he does well to hide it. Beside him, his mother is sitting down with a neutral expression on her face, one that she’s mastered over the years. The dark lord had them all gathered in the dining hall for a special Christmas Dinner, however Draco couldn’t find his aunt or Fenrir.

“Where’s Bellatrix, my lord?” Amycus Carrow asks, across from Draco. Draco avoids looking at the Dark Lord but listens carefully. The Dark Lord lets out a chuckle that unnerves him, he waits a few seconds before answering, “The Weasley’s home.”

As if on cue, they hear Bellatrix’s laughs from outside the manor. She walks in with a jolly smile on her face and she’s waltzing around the table. Fenrir has a wicked smile on his face as he settles down next to Alecto Carrow.

“A complete success! Burned the whole place down!” Bellatrix shouts and the death eaters laugh at the news, excited. She sits down next to his mother, and his breathing becomes labored at the news. He tries to calm himself down, looking at his empty plate.

“I took the Potter girl down, she fell to the floor and she didn’t move! No one knows where she is!” Bellatrix shouts with a laugh. The rest of the Death eaters smile at the news and laugh, joyously. His blood turns cold at the news.

He stands up, abruptly. He feels the entire room’s eyes on him and his eyes are wide as he looks around. His breath is shaky, and his hands are the same. He feels everyone look at him with curious eyes, making his heart race faster. He tilts his head to the floor, and murmurs, “Excuse me.”

His chair slides against the floor, creating an unpleasant screech. He reaches the stairs where no one can hear him, and he runs up the stairs. He reaches his room and he slams the door behind him. He doesn’t waste a second in grabbing a coat, grabbing his wand, and apparating to the Weasley’s home.

He steadies his feet to the ground, he’s only apparated a few times in his life, never on his own. He doesn’t check to see if he got splintered before he rushes around to try to find her. He sees the Weasleys gathered around their home that’s in flames. He hopes that she’s not inside the fire.

He rushes around the place, trying to find her. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins as he tries to calm down his breathing so he doesn’t faint. He sees a figure in front of him and he shakes while raising his wand to defend himself. He walks a few more steps towards the figure and he notices that it’s her.

He drops his wand in a second and he rushes towards her. He wraps his arms around her in a tight hug. She’s startled and it takes her a second before she realizes it’s him and relaxes into him. A few seconds after, he takes a step away from her and assesses her body, trying to find any injuries. Her body’s intact, covered by a bit of dirt, but still as perfect as always.

He lets out a shaky breath in relief and he pulls her into a hug again. He presses many kisses to her head, and he’s resisting the urge to cry. She wraps her arms around his torso, and he whispers, “I came as soon as I heard. She said you-”

He didn’t continue the sentence, but she understood what he meant. She feels him relax under her touch and she hugs him tighter. She couldn’t be more grateful that the plants were nearly twice her height, covering them up. They didn’t exchange any other words as they just held each other.

“Y/N? Where are you?” Harry’s voice calling out for her brings them out of their secluded world, and they move apart. Draco gives her a quick smile before he takes a few steps to apparate. He’s transported back to his room and he finally feels as if he can breathe again.

He hears a few knocks on his door, and he already knows it’s his mother. No one else has the decency to knock in his place. She walks inside the room, and she notices that he’s got a few patches of dirt on his clothes. She asks, “How was she?”

“She’s okay.” He says, shortly. His mother nods and walks over to him. She could see the way his eyes were red, and the way his hands were shaking. She wraps her arms around her son, and that’s all it takes for him to start sobbing. He sobs, “She’s okay.”

***

He wakes with the sound of large harsh knocks on his bedroom door. He’s startled awake and sits up in surprise. Amycus Carrow shouts from outside of the door, and he’s grateful that his mother locked the door after she left. He shouts, annoyed, “What is it, Amycus?”

“The Dark Lord requests your presence in ten minutes.” He shouts back in reply, his loud voice echoing through the halls of the manor, a sharp contrast to the eerie silence that’s present when the Dark Lord is there. The words send a shiver down his spine and he rubs his hands over his face.

He stands up and heads to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, hoping that his face would look less puffy and that it wouldn’t look like he spent the last night crying. Under his eyes, there are dark circles that have become a permanent resident on his face. It didn’t matter how much he slept, he was always tired.

The Dark Lord often requested updates about his mission through letters while he was at Hogwarts, but this was the first time since break that he requested him alone.

He rests his hands on the sink counter and he looks at his reflection. From the corners of his eyes, he can see the dark mark contrasting his skin peeking through the thin material of his white shirt. He feels the tears brim in his eyes once again. His fingers itch to do what they’ve been doing all year long, to scratch the mark off his arm.

The sound of the clock striking twelve startles him, making him pull his fingers away from his arm. He didn’t notice how long he was asleep. He runs a hand through his hair to tame it slightly, there’s still strands peeking from the sides. He promptly ignores them, and he leaves the bathroom.

Beside his bed, he finds his shoes that are still wet, he can tell from the brown patch that they created on his fur white carpet. He can see the mud that’s on the soles of the shoes. He sat on his bed, and put on the shoes, he couldn’t be bothered to put socks on. He puts them on and walks out of the bedroom, each step creating a puddle behind it.

Amycus was still waiting outside, wearing his dark black robes leaning against the wall with a wicked grin. All the other death eaters hated him. His father was always the Dark Lord’s number one death eater, and they wanted to be that. His father was no longer there to frighten them, but he took on the role to protect his mother. He didn’t miss the way Fenrir would look at his mother like she was his next meal.

He fixes his posture and says, “Go on then, you did your job. Go pester your sister or what other useless things that you do when you’re here.”

Amycus grumbles, but refrains from saying anything else. He moves out of the hallway, and Draco watches the way his robes flow behind him, creating a small breeze. Amycus turns the corner and Draco moves towards the end of the hallway where the Dark Lord almost always was. He wondered what she would think if she knew that he slept only two rooms away from the man who wanted to kill her.

His footsteps are slow, trying to delay the interaction as much as he could. He wiped his shoes on the carpet in front of the door, he didn’t know how the dark lord would react if he found muddy puddles on his floor. He raises his shaky hand and plants three sharp knocks on the door.

He sucks in a deep breath when the dark lord tells him to come inside. He opens the door with a creak, and he peeks his head inside before he fully steps inside. Learning from their last physical interaction, he closes the door behind him immediately. The dark lord is standing this time, he’s looking at him, but it doesn’t feel that way, it feels like he’s looking through him.

He looked at him from head to toe, wicked smile becoming greater when he reached Draco’s dark mark, and it twitched a bit when he noticed his shoes. Draco resisted the urge to shuffle in them. Draco bowed his head slightly and said, “Good morning, my lord.”

“It isn’t morning, my boy, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He replied, fiddling with his wand, toying with it between his fingers, gliding it across his fingertips. The Dark Lord always said things that could be perceived as nice, but the snake-like tone of his voice made them feel malicious. “Tell me about the cabinet.”

“I’ve been searching for spells, but none of them seem to work.” Draco says he hooks his hands behind his back, hoping to hide the shaking. The dark lord starts to walk around the room, walking at a slow pace. The silence only made Draco more anxious. The Dark Lord hums, “You’ve been looking in the wrong section of the library, you’ll need to go to the restricted section.”

Draco nodded his head, he was resisting asking how he could possibly enter the restricted section, and enter it enough times that he could find the right spell. The dark lord says, but he sounds like a seethe, “I trust you’ll do it right, you know what will happen if you don’t.”

Draco nods his head once again, not trusting his voice at the moment. The Dark Lord raises his hand to the door, and Draco doesn't waste a second before turning around to reach the exit. The Dark Lord clears his throat, and Draco grimaces. He turns around to face him once more, and the Dark Lord motions for him to step closer.

Draco already knew what was going to happen. He tried to clear his mind of all sexual encounters between him and her. No one would be happy, but the Dark Lord if he saw them both naked. Draco was powerful at Occlumency, but the Dark Lord would be furious if he used that power against him.

The Dark Lord didn’t place his hand on Draco’s head this time. He only placed both his hands on his scalp, and when he opened his eyes Draco could faintly see them flash into a grey colour similar to his own, before he was transported into his memories.

Moments of him in the room of requirement, several other shots of the cabinet. It didn’t seem like it was what the Dark Lord was looking for, so instead his memories shifted again. Him and her in the room of requirement dancing. He could faintly hear her voice echo in his head, saying ‘fortunately for you… I do, care for you that is.”

Then it shifted to him writing on a piece of paper, the words ‘I love you’. It was hard for Draco to resist the urge to push the Dark Lord out of his head. He focused instead on maneuvering him away from all his sexual interactions with her. Another flash in his head, and it was still a new memory. He had his arms wrapped around her and in the corners of his eyes, he saw the Weasley house burning.

He was pushed back when the Dark Lord went out of his head. Draco’s hand shot to his head where he could feel a heavy pulsing feeling. The Dark Lord looked as normal as he regularly was, he placed a hand on his chin, and he thought.

“You won’t be seeing her again, she’s a distraction, and of no use to us. I will find out if you see her again, you mustn't talk to her, unless it’s to pester her or her brother.” The Dark Lord said, and Draco could feel his throat turn dry. He didn’t have a single thought in his head. He gulped, “Yes, my lord.”

The Dark Lord hummed, satisfied with Draco’s answer. He grinned widely at the expression on Draco’s face. His red eyes were gleaming with joy. He added, “If you do talk to her again, I’ll be sure to let Nagini pay her a visit.”

On cue, the snake slithered around his legs, and it made Draco still. He nodded his head for what seemed like the hundredth time. He turned around and excited the door when the Dark Lord motioned at it. He left and in his fast pace, the door slammed behind him. He waited a few seconds to see how the Dark Lord would react, but after a few seconds of nothing, he walked back to his room.

He would’ve cried, he would’ve shouted and he would’ve screamed to let out all the feelings inside him once he was in the comfort of his room, but his eyes felt dry. He no longer had any tears inside him, he was too tired to scream or shout, instead he went back to his bed, and decided to sleep.

He could feel his stomach growl, he didn’t realize that he hadn’t eaten from yesterday’s lunch. He shut his eyes, tightly. He thinks of what he’s going to do, and how’s he’s going to get into the restricted section. He thinks of how he’s going to cut all ties with her.

He found himself regretting ever telling her that he loved her. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. At least now, she’ll go back to hating him, and she won’t feel a sense of betrayal once she inevitably finds out that he’s a Death Eater. A stray tear makes it way out of his eyes, he feels it glide across his cheek and fall onto his pillow. It was the last thing he felt before he feel asleep.

Taglist:

@urbansaint @angelofasgard16 @offlines-idfk @love-me-satoru

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venusstorm · 2 years

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭

ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜɴꜱᴏɴ x ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲— 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

Divider— @silkholland

Painting was your escape. Stuck in a town like Hawkins there wasn’t too much to do. You wanted to travel, see the world, explore something besides the dreary forest for once in your life.

But instead you’re stuck. So every place you’ve ever desired to go you created with paint. Mountain ranges, beaches, gorgeous sunsets cascading over tall city buildings— art allowed you to be free.

Everyday you sat outside your trailer, paint sprawled on a foldable table as you let your mind wander.

But lately you’ve found new inspiration. Eddie Munson. He was the most captivating person you’ve ever encountered and soon you found yourself sketching out his face in your notebooks. His long curly hair colored darkly in pencil as were his eyes. God you could spend hours drawing those things.

He lives right across from you. Whenever he came outside you stole quickly glances, taking notice of his tattoos, the shiny mental rings on his lengthy fingers, and other features in order to add to your pictures.

He never noticed, not to your knowledge at least.

In fact— Eddie never noticed you. Wherever he goes it was in a rush. Whether it was to meet up with his band or head off to school he was gone in a flash, seemingly unaware of the way you watched his every move.

Until finally one day he took notice of his gorgeous next door neighbor stealing quick looks at him and decided to finally do something about it.

He was strumming his guitar when he notices you staring. But this time he meets your gaze, smirking as you gasp and shy away. Immediately you look in the other direction, pretending to be distracted by a pretty red bird perched on a tree.

Eddie chuckles to himself. You thought you were so slick but he always felt your piercing gaze on his. He liked to called you his little sunshine. And right now, his sunshine was squirming in their seat after being caught.

While you try and regather yourself you sense movement from his side of the yard. Footsteps approach and suddenly a shadow cascades over you. Reluctantly you look up.

“Hi,” you breathe.

Eddie peeks over your lap. “Whatcha drawin’?”

Hurriedly you shut your notebook. “Nothing!”

He grins. “Been moving that pencil a whole lot for it to just be nothing.”

You shrug, “It’s just scribbles. Nothing good.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.”

Your eyes meet his and for the first time you’re able to see them up close. “Let me see them, I’m sure they’re great.”

His tone is soft and mindlessly you find yourself cracking open your notebook and flipping through the pages until you land on something you feel comfortable showing him. There was no way in hell you’d reveal what you were actually doing.

“Sick…” he murmurs. His eyes dance over the paper, taking in all the beautiful colors you used. Then he looks back at you. You were anxiously chipping off the paint on your nails, all too aware of the way he was merely inches away from you.

“These are beautiful…but I don’t think that’s what you were drawing just now.” You yelp as he strips your book from your hands. “Eddie!”

He lets out a laugh, holding your notebook up high as he flips through the pages and lands on one filled with sketches of him. His smile falls flat and you feel your insides burn with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I know this is probably like really really weird but I swear I’m not—"

“You did all this?”

You nod, staring at the ground as he pulls the notebook closer. He flips another page, revealing a slew of images of him playing guitar. Some were dramatized, his hair flowing in the wind as his hand strums against the strings. Others were more realistic. Serene. They showed him sitting on his lawn chair, staring down at his blood red guitar with a content look on his face.

“Is this how I look to you?” Eddie murmurs. He’s at a loss for words, amazed that someone as gorgeous and kind as yourself saw him in such a positive light.

“I mean…yea.”

He hands your book back, a dopey smile now plastered on his face. “I’m honored sunshine.”

The drawings were so intricate. He wondered how you managed to get everything so perfect despite being so far. “Guess those ‘discrete’ looks did you justice,” he teases.

Your lips part in shock. “I— fuck.”

He knew. Of course he fucking knew. You were smack dab in the middle of your yard, he’d notice someone eyeing him like there’s no tomorrow.

“Ah it’s okay. I don’t mind. Only fair since I can’t ever keep my eyes off you either.”

Heart beating a mile a minute you let out a weak “what?”

“You don’t think you’re the only one with a staring problem, do you? Just look so pretty sittin’ out here in the sunlight, can’t help myself.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your mind was fuzzy just from the idea of it.

Eddie crouches down beside you, hand lightly touching your chin to turn your face towards him. You hold your breath, waiting for him to do something more.

He grows closer, eyes flickering over your features before landing down at your lips. “Maybe you could come over and I’ll help you with your drawings sometime. Apparently I’m a really good muse.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x gender neutral reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x black!reader #i miss him so much #stranger things #stranger things eddie #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson oneshot

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tossawary · 10 months

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Rules: Share the first line of ten of your most recent fanfics and then tag ten people. Don't have ten? Not to worry, just share what you have. Tagged by @otakuchan449.

I did all of my fics, which are unsurprisingly all SVSSS, because I was curious as to the patterns. I usually like to name the POV character and illustrate their style of narration in the first paragraph, which is generally humorous, so people know quickly whether or not they're going to vibe with my style. I also like starting in the middle of a situation / inciting incident if possible, so we can hit the ground walking briskly if not running, and get to the good stuff.

23. Shang Houhua - someday unfortunately to be known as Shang Qinghua, once unfortunately known in another life as Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky - came back to himself abruptly. (if words could make wishes - WIP MBJ Time Travel AU from SQH POV)

22. If the System was to be trusted, which it generally was when it came to making Shang Qinghua’s life worse for no good reason, then today was the day! (Stepping Up - 90k Canon Divergence AU, An Ding Disciple LBH)

21. Shen Yuan was conscious when he was reborn, though he didn’t know what was happening at the time, because all he knew at first was pain and golden dust. (Sit With Your Soul - 61k SQQ & SY Daemon Fusion AU)

20. Shang Houhua was thirteen going on, uh, fourteen plus a whole other life that sometimes felt more like a dream than something that had actually happened. (hey, share the weight a little - 70k Canon Divergence AU, YQY/SQH)

19. “Shifu? Forgive the interruption, but there’s a woman here to see you?” (love to the ones I've never met - 83k Fic Companion, Dimension Travel)

18. Jiahui just needs to check that her restaurant hasn’t burned down. (forgiveness for whose sake? - 48k Fic Companion and Epilogue)

17. Luo Binghe knows he isn’t supposed to be doing what he’s doing, but given that he has no other way of getting answers, he does it anyway. (you had me at hello - 5k Non-Canon Fic Extra)

16. “My king, don’t touch that-!” (A Child Once - 101k Canon Divergence AU, Deaged SQH)

15. The world was dark, woven from a black so infinite that it looked flat, and it was full of light. (Catch a Falling Star - 122k Bingliushen Stardust AU)

14. Shang Qinghua woke up having a bad day - forget going through puberty twice, because in this transmigrator’s opinion, having to experience a new round of “first day of school” bullshit year after year was worse - and speed-walking through the Cloud Recesses wasn’t helping him get through it any faster. (Nothing to Me, Nothing to You - 60k Moshang MDZS AU)

13. Mobei-Jun’s search for Shang Qinghua had taken him to many strange places. (dreams that had never come true - 14k MBJ Time Travel AU)

12. It would be a lie to say that Shang Qinghua wasn’t too sure what had happened. (every haircut I've ever had has been a bad haircut - 5k Moshang Hurt/Comfort)

11. The situation was bad. (Babe in the Woods - 19k Canon Divergence AU, MBJ has a baby brother)

10. Shen Qingqiu was perfectly capable of piloting his own ship, but that day, like many others, found Liu Qingge leaning against a column by the hangar entrance, waiting for Shen Qingqiu as he prepared to leave Qing Jing Peak Temple. (this point of pale light - 18k Liushen Star Wars AU)

9. Liu Mingyan was the model of a refined and accomplished cultivator. (but that's fine because I like a hot mess - 3k Mingling Getting Together)

8. Shen Qingqiu had made use of many excuses over the years to avoid the presence of the man who was now his own sect leader, some of which had even been good. (the ability to remain sober and gracious - 4k Canon Divergence AU, Qijiu Xuan Su sword reveal)

7. Shang Qinghua’s head hurt and his eyes were watering and he was beginning, just maybe, to think that creating an experimental stimulant because he missed the non-organic goodness of energy drinks with an unreasonable passion had been a bad idea. (anxiety and caffeine are having a cockfight in my brain - 2k Moshang Hurt/Comfort)

6. The library’s front door flew open so violently that it could be heard even at Shen Yuan’s desk nearer to the back of the main hall, which sat in front of the way to the computer rooms. (Absolutely Ineffable - 10k Good Omens Fusion AU)

5. Once there was a summer in which upon arriving home from university, Shen Yuan was immediately told that he was being sent away to the heart of the country to stay with his distant uncle, whether he liked it or not. (The Red Cabinet - 7k Narnia Fusion AU)

4. It took… Shang Qinghua… a while to figure out that demons actually had horns in this realized version of his sellout stallion web-novel. (Horns - 11k MBJ has sexy horns AU)

3. So, apparently, a portal burning with demonic energy had opened up over Qing Jing Peak and another Shang Qinghua had fallen out of it, and the wound in the sky had unfortunately closed again pretty much immediately. (ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real - 7k Non-Canon Fic Extra, SQH meets AU SQH)

2. So, Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky, the dearly despised and fervently favorited author of Proud Immortal Demon Way, died in a vaguely humiliating fashion… and then he transmigrated. (it must follow, as the night the day - 26k Moshang Role Reversal AU, Demon SQH and Cultivator MBJ)

1. Shang Qinghua has not been having a stellar transmigration experience. (pride is not the word I'm looking for - 400k Canon Divergence AU, LBH's Mother Lives)

This serves as a pretty good round-up of all my currently posted fics! There are far too many in my WIP folders to begin including everything in there.

I've been a little out of touch with reading fanfiction lately, so please, if you wish, take this post as an opportunity to participate in this game and tag me in it! I highly recommend taking a moment to revisit and admire your own fan works! Look at all that cool stuff you did! If you only have WIPs, then I don't mind if you use WIPs. Sometimes our pieces of writing are full, intensely detailed paintings that take years to complete and sometimes they're just rough sketches we do to warmup or have creative fun when we have the time, and sharing both is nice.

And if you don't have your own fan works to pull from, then I'd still love to see a list of opening lines from some of your favorite fics by other people. Any fandom you like! Give me those fic recs! Give me the opening lines of your favorite published novels if there's one you've been itching to gush about.

#tossawary ao3 #tossawary svsss #ask tossawary

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heartinajarofpickles · 7 months

Text

Dinner Is Not Over

Part 3

Broken over and over again

He started gaining back consciousness, first he opened his eyes, and then they tried to move their leg, but it was stuck, same with their other extremities, so there they waited, and waited, and waited.

Hours passed and little by little he regained control of his body, the body was still asleep, and as it was awakening it felt as if both legs and arms were full of static, some more time passed and Crowley was able to stand, now that he could focus he realized that all this time something has been sounding, so he went and investigate, as he was getting closer the sound grow louder and clearer, his heart started racing as the easily identifiable voice babble something incomprehensible, the voice that he had heard so many times, that voice the one he loved and craved became clearer, Crowley only know who the voice belonged to, they couldn’t exactly make sense of what he was saying, or where he was, but he was close, his angel had finally chosen him, Crowley’s legs started failing, not from his sleep but from excitement, from happiness to see the love of his life, to see him back.

Just as he was getting ready to go running and embrace him reality hit him like a semi-truck, it wasn’t Aziraphale talking, well technically it was, but the sound came from that machine, that stupid machine, filled with rage Crowley throw it across the room, hitting the concrete wall and breaking it into smaller pieces, a new distorted version of that sweet sweet voice emerging from the mess of old broken plastic, and then fire again, it was torture for the demon to be hearing whatever deformed variation of his angels voice that machine was creating, so he just burned it.

While watching it burn, he noticed something behind, on the hallway instead of the beautiful green colors that used to decorate the space not so long ago there were only ugly brown cardboard boxes, and on the inside pots filled with dirt, dust and what once was a living organism, this drove Crowley incredibly mad, kicking the boxes he flipped its contents spreading dirt all over the floors, but that wasn’t enough, in fact he had just started, Crowley absolutely demolished every boxed spilling the contents everywhere, his plants were all he had left of his old life, the only thing he still had controlled over, and from day to night they were all dead, his apartment has never felt so empty, so cold so monotonous, so small, suddenly the walls started feeling closer and closer, his lungs were burning, and his vision started getting blurry as he fell to the ground he needed to get out as quickly as possible, getting back on his feet would be an impossible chore so on all fours he crawled to where the door was, there and with great difficulty he was able to stand up, as he was going down the stairs he stated calming down a bit, just enough for them to get to the street and start the Bentley, of course Crowley wasn’t thinking, and some kind of primitive instinct drove him to the bookshop.

It was different, not only the bookshop, the whole street. Crowley though that without his angel, the street, and then slowly the whole world was going to become a gray tiring place with no sign of happiness or hope, Aziraphale’s absence had that effect on his life, so why wasn’t it having it on others, going straight to the library seemed out of place and thankfully the drive had already calmed him down a bit, so he went to the most colorful of all the stores, to where the last food of Aziraphale had come from, give me coffee or give me death, it was pretty much the same, except the store looked a lot happier now with (more) vibrant colors, lots of plants and old music making an ambience, in a corner there was a yellow record player and next to it tons of vinyl’s, not so well organized.

Just as Crowley was about to order Nina gave him an unsure smile

— “Hey!”

— “Hello Nina” responded Crowley, it was nice to see a friendly face, and although Crowley blamed her and Maggie just a little about the way things have ended it was still nice to have a friend

— “How’s life been treating you” BAD

— “Oh well, u know how it goes” did Nina know about Aziraphale leaving? Maybe they haven’t noted his absence, but they soon would and both her and Maggie would start asking questions, not only them but all the other people that meet Aziraphale too.

— “Hm yeah, just passing through or are you coming back around?”

— “I wanted to take a little walk”

— “Good, let’s hope you have more of those, we don’t want to forget your face”

— “Oh, you could never forget me”

— “Sure pal” Nina said in a sarcastic manner

— “So, what can I offer to you, mister Crowley?”

— “What was that thing? The one that tranquilizes people?”

— “Hmm”

— “The Eiffel cakes”

— “Oh, the Eccles cakes? I’m sorry, but we retired them a while ago, apparently raisins aren’t really that popular anymore”.

Crowley was incredibly confused, and although the stable ground had made him feel better than how we was 20 minutes ago this conversation with Nina was starting to make them dizzy again, what did she mean by a while ago?. Just the other day Azi had bought some.

— “Fine, I’ll have six shots of espresso then” no Eccles cakes must have been a sign of the universe

— “Such a radical change” Nina said giggling as she was turning her back to pour the almost black liquid in a big cup

— “Have a nice day mister and try to visit us more often” said Nina sincerly, she didn’t sound like she was playing a joke which confused Crowley even more

As he was leaving the place, a small question started growing deep inside his mind, a little query that started consuming her with each step that he gave getting closer to the bookshop just across the street.

How long had he been sleeping for?

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as-warm-as-choco · 4 months

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How Do You Live? (boy and the heron)

just came back from the cinema celebrating Miyazaki's birthday finally watching BOY AND THE HERON i wanted to cry the whole time i was speechless just overflowing with magic the direction divine the many distant shots of Mahito within vast space (which was just magical backgrounds) the music (especially when pelicans started eating the warawara) the lore of it all my heart couldnt take it i just wanna stay inside hayao-san's worlds forever i dont wanna get outtt omg THE SHINYA OHIRA opening scene >_< *pukes stars* the young parallel world KIRIKO jumping on the gigantic fish and slicing it in two till the tail and giving mahito to try and THE GUTS all spilling and burying him under T_T_T_T when the heron first started talking and the fuckin design and voice acting was haunting(ly beautiful) when he was making the bow and the arrow and stealing tobacco and give it to the grandpa when he raised the stone and just the blood started rushing so so so much ?? when he was first crying and there were 2 tears on both corners of the eyes plus one all 5 of them standinggg the parakeets which brought so much more cartoony life lmao the granniesssss and their designs?? when he found his mom and those paper devils just flew around hurting/burying them both till his young version of his mom burned them the warawara for real they just had fun animating them also the crowd scenes also the backgrounds ill say that again i mean my eyessss my soullll is healedddd (of course im gonna go watch it at least 5 more timessss lmao) happy birthday you magical madman of a grandpa i love you with all my heartttt i thank you for everything thank you for existing thank you for raising me and feeding me dreams and eternal fantasy thank UwU forever i love you i have so much more to say about teh movie so much livelinessss when they caught the fish and the sea suddenly was full of insane trees and the boat shadow creatures THE FACT WE GOT TRIPPY SATOSHI KON SCENES when the heron showed mahito his mom and she started melting then the ground swallowed tehmmmmm ughhhhh the corridor to his ancestor who was playing with those blocks im glad i exist every time i existing in your films thank you for creating the safest weirdest most magical places for me to call home

okay okay when his new mother caressed his bandage and she said its her fault she let that happen to him. when the heron made THE FROGS AND MUDSKIPPERS AND another creature climb all over mahito and swallow him till his mother threw the arrow that was the second time i lost my mind completely after the ohira scene T_T

<3 i'll make it out of here for you and because of you i promise <3 joe hisaishi played while i biked in the darkness back

#HAPPY BIRTHDAYYY HAYAO-SAN I LOVE YOU FOREVERRRRR #I CANT PUT INT OWORDS MY FEELINGS BUT UGHHH #memories #hayao miyazaki #the boy and the heron #how do you live?#if anyone is in amsterdam and want to watch together at the lab111 holler back #Kimitachi wa Dō Ikiru ka

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kellyvela · 1 year

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D*NY stans think battle of bells will be between cersei & joncon. I've seen ppl theorising that KL will be ashes when Dny arrives in Westeros because cersei will blow it up with wildfire ("as KL is her city" 🤭). Dny stans substitute cersei in every theory that is negative for dny (they call cersei as Aerys 2.0 🤭)

*GRRM over the years talking about aunty, her pets and burning cities to the ground*:

A Dance With Dragons spends quite a lot of time in Essos, which is kind of the analog to Asia and the Middle East in the world the story takes place in, as opposed to Westeros, which seems to owe a lot to Western Europe. When I was reading about Dany, who has become a light-skinned, foreign ruler of an exotic land, it reminded me of The Man Who Would Be King, the Sean Connery and Michael Caine movie that is based on a Rudyard Kipling story. Do you think about these parallels — colonialism, the “white man’s burden” — when you’re writing? I’ve said many times I don’t like thinly disguised allegory, but certain scenes do resonate over time. Other people have made the argument, which is more more contemporary, that it might have resonances with our current misadventures in Afghanistan and Iraq. I’m aware of the parallels, but I’m not trying to slap a coat of paint on the Iraq War and call it fantasy. When civilizations clash in your books, instead of Guns, Germs, and Steel, maybe it’s more like Dragons, Magic, and Steel (and also Germs). There is magic in my universe, but it’s pretty low magic compared to other fantasies. Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only Dany has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world. But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.

—GRRM - Vulture - 2011

“I mean battles and wars interest me too - and medieval feasts interest me. And you know I’m creating a whole world here and every facet of it. As I get to it I try to approach it as realistically as I can, but ultimately as I said before, it’s it’s the human heart in conflict with itself. It’s what makes Cersei Lannister the way she is, and is she capable of learning and changing? What drives Dany? With Dany I’m particularly looking at the… what effect great power has upon a person. She’s the mother of dragons, and she controls what is in effect the only three nuclear weapons in the entire world that I’ve created. What does it do to you when you control the only three nuclear weapons in the world and you can destroy entire cities or cultures if you choose to? Should you choose to, should you not choose to? These are the issues that fascinate me. I don’t necessarily claim to have answers to these. I think exploring the questions is far more interesting than just me giving an answer and saying to the reader, here’s the answer, here’s the truth. Now think about it for yourself, look at the dilemmas, look at the contradictions, look at the problems, and the unintended consequences. That’s what fascinates me.”

—“Interview exclusive de George R R Martin, l'auteur de Game Of Thrones” de -Le Mouv’- 2014 - [Transcription]

How do you analyze this question of power? I think I was struck by the reading of the Lord of the Rings. I find that Tolkien is a little simplistic on the subject: at the end of the book, Aragorn becomes king, and we learn that he ruled in a wise and just way for a century, for he was a good man. But I read history books, I'm contemporary news, and I'm convinced that being a good man is not enough to make you a great leader. Because governing is a delicate exercise that makes you constantly make difficult decisions, solve problems where there is no good solution, that would solve everything by magic. Those are profound questions for the human race. And then there is the war, another subject that is close to my heart, I was a conscientious objector at the time of the Vietnam War, and this question still concerns me. I look at what is happening in the Middle East, with the Islamic State, and I can not help wondering: who are these monsters, these modern orcs? Who can be sympathetic to them? And yet, fighters say thousands to join them. More seriously, what motivates them? And how should we fight them? If I were Daenerys Targaryen. I could ride on my dragons and eliminate them in the flames. But is death the only solution we have to offer? How react to another who is so radically alien to us? These questions are very difficult - and I do not pretend to have the answers. Because there is no simple answer to these questions.

—Lire Magazine - April 2015

He was asked to comment about the differences between the book and show characters, particularly Daenerys. GRRM ignored all the other characters and talked only about Daenerys - he said that the show one is older because there are laws in USA that prevent minors from having sex scenes so the decision was made to age Daenerys. Otherwise, book Daenerys and show Daenerys “are very similar” and “Emilia Clarke did a fantastic job”. (I guess he can’t really say negative things about the show, can he?)

—GRRM Q&A - St. Petersburg, August 2017

GRRM: “People read fantasy to see the colours again,” he says. “We live our lives and I think there’s something in us that yearns for something more, more intense experiences. There are men and women out there who live their lives seeking those intense experiences, who go to the bottom of the sea and climb the highest mountains or get shot into space. Only a few people are privileged to live those experiences but I think all of us want to, somewhere in our heart of hearts we don’t want to live the lives of quiet desperation Thoreau spoke about, and fantasy allows us to do those things. Fantasy takes us to amazing places and shows us wonders, and that fulfils a need in the human heart.”

The Guardian: And the dragons?

GRRM: “Oh sure, dragons are cool too,” he chuckles. “But maybe not on our doorstep”.

—The Guardian - November 2018

Esquire: How will Fire & Blood deepen our understanding of Daenerys and her dragons?

GRRM: This is a book that Daenerys might actually benefit from reading, but she has no access to Archermaester Gyldayn’s crumbling manuscripts. So she’s operating on her own there. Maybe if she understood a few things more about dragons and her own history in Essos, things would have gone a little differently.

—Esquire - November 2018

Sitting down with news.com.au in New York City, Martin dropped dark hints to the suffering awaiting the war-torn world of Westeros as the battle for the Iron Throne reaches its peak.

“I have tried to make it explicit in the novels that the dragons are destructive forces, and Dany (Daenerys Targaryen) has found that out as she tried to rule the city of Meereen and be queen there.

‘THE POWER TO DESTROY’

“She has the power to destroy, she can wipe out entire cities, and we certainly see that in ‘Fire and Blood,’ we see the dragons wiping out entire armies, wiping out towns and cities, destroying them, but that doesn’t necessarily enable you to rule — it just enables you to destroy.”

—GRRM - Fox News Channel - November 2018

John Howe: Can I ask you why Dany is a princess and not a prince?

GRRM: I made this choice a long time ago, I think I wanted to play a little with the genres and reversed things a little, and of course in my head the expression "mother of dragons" is much better than "father of dragons". There is also this link with the woman who gives life, who transmits lives, carrying a gigantic power of death, of fire, of destruction. There are very powerful metaphors in there.

—Dragons! (2/4) Dragons d'Occident, la figure du mal [2018] - Video - Translation (last quote).

WELT: Again: We know what will happen to the Mother of Dragons. How do you want to surpass that in a novel – with an alternative literary version?

GRRM: Counter question: How many children did Scarlett O'Hara have? In Margaret Mitchell’s novel “Gone with the Wind” she had three children. But in the cinema version of the novels she only had one child. Which version is the only one valid - the one with one or the other with three children? The answer is: neither. Because Scarlett O'Hara never existed, she is a fictional character, not a real person, who would have had real children. Or take “The Little Mermaid”. We know her from the fairytale of the same name by Hans Christian Andersen and from the Disney movie. Which one is the true mermaid? Well, mermaids do not exist. So you can chose the version that you personally like the best. Changes are inevitable in this process. Even if the adaption is as faithful to the literary source material as it was the case with “Game of Thrones”.

—GEORGE R. R. MARTIN (“Die Leute kennen ein Ende – nicht das Ende” - WELT 2020) - Translation.

[…] The role of Daenerys is a difficult role, particularly in the pilot, because Daenerys begins as a frightened little girl. She’s thoroughly dominated by her brother, who humiliates her and sexually assaults her. He’s selling her to this fierce guy and she’s frightened but during the course of that comes into her own power. She suddenly grows from a girl to a woman and starts to realize that she does have power and authority. There’s a transformation that’s incredible the entire course of the show. You have to find an actress who can do both parts, who can be very convincing as the scared little girl in the beginning, but also very convincing as the “I’m gonna kick your ass and burn your city to cinders” woman that she becomes by the end. It’s challenging and it was a hard part to cast.

—GRRM - Tinderbox: HBO’s Ruthless Pursuit of New Frontiers by James Andrew Miller (NOVEMBER 23, 2021). Full quote here.

The Targaryens are also an ancient house but they're not an ancient Westerosi house. They knew that destruction was coming to Valyria and went far away from the capital city and the settled on the volcanic island of Dragonstone. They were dragon lords in Valyria. Now dragons are really formidable and they can turn the tide of a battle. It flies, it's difficult to hit, it breathes fire, against which most knights and men at arms have little or no protection. So if you have dragons, that's were the nuclear option analogy comes in. You're hard to mess around with. So the dragons and fear of dragons was one of the things that made the Targaryens very secure in their power.

—Before the Dance: An Illustrated History with George R.R. Martin | House of the Dragon (HBO) - August - 2022

*aunty stans*: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

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