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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seventeen
Rating: Explicit
Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen
Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.
Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm
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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen
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Author's Note: We've got Rhaenyra POV! We've got Aemond POV! We've got a surprise in the end! Thank you for all the support and patience. You're all getting this chapter early since I'm out of town for the weekend! Enjoy!
PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)
All my love to @vampire-exgirlfriend for her love and support and holding my hand through this chapter that just kept kicking my fucking ass. If you need more Aemond content, you must read, They Say I killed You (Haunt Me Then)! Now complete! (epilogue going up soon!)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Parrying the Daggers Thrown At Us
Rhaenyra receives a letter. Aemond cannot find peace until he gets a taste of it.
Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…
Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need…
Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…
I do not know how to make amends for what happened…
…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound…
I should make amends, it is right…
What do you think I should do?...
Heleana has been the warmest…
…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…
Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her…
I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…
Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday…
Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass…
…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…
I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…
Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’
The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.
He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.
Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.
Helaena has been the warmest…
Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.
The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.
The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…
In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.
He had chosen her.
Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.
I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…
Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.
“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”
Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.
Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.
She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.
Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.
Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.
The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.
Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…
Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.
He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.
It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.
Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.
It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears.
‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’
How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?
Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.
He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.
Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.
His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.
The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.
He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.
Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.
‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel.
There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.
“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat?
He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.
“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”
Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.
“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”
“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”
A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.
“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”
“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face.
“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”
Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”
“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”
Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest. “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”
“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.
“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”
He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys.
How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.
How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.
How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.
Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?
‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens.
‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.
It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.
The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.
Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.
If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.
“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.
Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.
“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”
“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”
“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”
“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.
‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’
Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.
He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.
“He’s your son, Viserys.”
“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?”
Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.
Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him.
“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”
Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way.
He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.
“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.
“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.
“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”
Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears.
He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?
The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.
The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.
“He’s your son, Viserys.”
“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”
The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.
“Do you want to pet her?”
Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.
“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.
His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.
They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.
“Do not mourn me, mother…”
‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’
It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.
Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.
Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her.
Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.
The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.
Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.
Not until he needed to.
“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”
Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.
“Why are you cutting my flowers?”
“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”
“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.
Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.
Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”
“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”
Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.
Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.
Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed.
Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.
He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”
Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.
“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”
“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.
“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”
The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.
The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again.
Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”
“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”
He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”
The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”
Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.
I would love to hear your thoughts! Even if it's just a keyboard smash! Reblog to spread a story around so others may find it! I would love to hear your theories! What did you love? What are you looking forward to?
Happy to have you here as always <3
#my fic#hotd tag#house of the dragon#hotd fic#hotd oc#fyeahgotoc#aegon ii targaryen#aegon ii targaryen x oc#aegon x oc#aegon ii targaryen fic#aegon targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen#baela targaryen#rhaenyra targaryen#oc: abrogail strong#aegon x abby#abrogon#otp: do not go far from me#man tagging is so annoying
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Sir Simon Riley (ghost x OC)
Author note: welcome to my Tumblr! Where I will post my story which is also on wattpad called sir Simon Riley.
Book summary:
In the heat of a
deadly mission, shym "Medusa", a shy and reclusive operative with the ability to turn 'enemies to stone', is paired with the enigmatic Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. Both are elite members of a secretive unit called 141, tasked with retrieving a powerful artifact from enemy territory. Despite their skills, Medusa and Ghost struggle with their growing feelings for each other. Medusa fears her power will hurt those she cares about, while Ghost, haunted by his past, keeps his emotions tightly guarded.
Caught between duty and desire of both. Together, they face the dangers of their world, finding strength in their shared vulnerability and unyielding love.
EPISODE 1
"Be quiet, stop moving." Ghost's low, husky voice catches your attention. At any other time, you would have seen it in his face but this time...it was different. His gloved hands, working to bandage the wound on her arm, leaving a small trail of goose bumps on her skin.
"Are you some kind of suicidal? Throwing yourself in front of the bullet like that.." he said, sighing and tightening his grip on the bandage on his arm. The skull mask covered all of his face except his eyes.
I sighed "No I am not, I just did what I thought was right lieutenant. I am a part of this team now, it would be pathetic if I didn't do something." I jolted in pain when his grip tightened on my arm
"Stupid.." Ghost muttered under his breath, tightening the bandage so firmly on her arm that it hurt. It took all his strength not to throw her over his shoulder and yell at her, telling her to stop endangering her life. He was about to say something else when the door opened behind him and Soap appeared. Ghost took a quick breath of relief, letting go of her arm and stepping back.
"I've got it from here Soap," he said in a low, cold voice as he walked out of the room. Soap raised an eyebrow and sat down quietly next to her.
"Ghost didn't seem to let you off the hook, huh?" Soap replied with a small, playful smirk. He leaned back slightly, his gaze shifting between her eyes. What's going on in that crazy head of hers?
"The bullet didn't damage anything important..you'll be back in the field in no time." He said softly, his hand reaching out and gently squeezing her shoulder as he assured her.
frustration, that's how I felt as I glared at soap who had just delivered the news. "In no time? That doesn't give me relief!" I exclaimed.
My voice tinged with exasperation and anxiety. I shifted uncomfortably in the stiff hospital bed, my fingers tapping nervously against the thin blanket covering her legs. The sterile smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air.
Soap chuckled softly at her words, leaning even closer to her. His smirk turning into a mischievous grin. "I know, I know. You're the best on the team. We couldn't possibly do without you." He replied in a playful tone, giving her shoulder one more squeeze.
Ghost's footsteps echoed down the hall, getting louder with each second. He was coming back. Soap immediately pulled his hand back from her shoulder, just in time for Ghost to reappear in the doorway.
"Lieutenant." I nodded
He approached her, a stoic expression on his face. He crouched down in front of her, his gloved hand gently lifting up her bandaged arm to inspect the wound.
His eyes scrutinized every inch of the bandages, making sure there were no mistakes.
"Soap, give us a minute." he said, his voice cold and serious. Soap nodded and immediately left the room, closing the door behind him.
"I need to make something clear.." he began, his grip tightening slightly on her arm.
she looked surprised almost puppy like into his eyes I turned my head away from him to not let him show I was smiling.
Ghost noticed her small little smile, his heart racing just at the sight. He cleared his throat, tightening his grip just a bit tighter to make her look him in the eyes. "You can never do that again. Do you hear me?" he said firmly, an edge of sternness in his voice. He leaned down slightly so his face hovered just above hers.
His grip tightened ever so slightly on her arm, but his eyes...they were searching her face, for something he couldn't quite explain.
I chuckled "lieutenant, this is the battlefield. If I die I die with honour you do understand that is part of my job? And this was just a small graze. I experienced worse."
Ghost's gaze hardened even more, his eyes never wavering from her own. "You do not understand, I cannot... I do not want to see you dying on the battlefield. It is not part of your job, it never will be."
He tightened his grip on her arm almost painfully tight, his gaze shifting to her arm and seeing the wound under the bandage. He took a deep breath and loosened his grip, his eyes returning to her face.
"Ur grip is hurting me, u do know ur hands aren't that weak right, ur strong.
Ghost's eyes hardened slightly under her comment, a low growl emitting from his throat. He leaned in even closer to her, his face mere inches away from hers. "Do not tempt me," he said firmly, his free hand coming up to cup her chin in his iron grip.
"I could break you like a stick without even trying. Yet, here I am, trying to keep you safe. Why, do you ask?"
I looked into his eyes "This conversation is over, I will return to where I left off." I stood up and walked off
His eyes widened in shock as she stood up from the bed. "Are you insane?", he exhaled, rising from the floor and quickly following her. "You cannot go out in that condition, you need more rest."
He reached out and grab her wrist, yanking her back towards him and pinning her against the nearest wall. His arms on either side of her, trapping her between him and the wall.
Lieutenant Riley.. my heart started racing, this heart racing I only felt when I had the worst anxiety. But now it felt like something else. I slid away from the wall he tried to trap me.
"As I said, this conversation is over. I am going back there. This isn't the worst I experienced, get that in ur head."
And so I walked off and closed the door behind me.
Ghost stood there, watching as her figure disappeared through the door. His jaw clenching tightly, fists balling up at his sides as he tried to contain his emotions. He wanted to follow, grab her and bring her back to the room. But the door slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone in the silence of the room.
His heart was racing, thumping furiously against his chest. His eyes searched the room, the feeling of...desperation growing like wildfire in his chest. "Damnit!" he whispered, the first curse word he'd uttered in a long time.
I continued fighting, I felt an adrenaline rush when I was on the fields, not caring about anything but just enjoying every second because you never knew when ur last second was. Until I heard on my walkie talkie my lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley saying I need to come back this instant to the room I just left
"Shym, if you won't return now I need to inform shepherd of ur departure when it was stated you needed to rest."
Ghost's voice was cold, firm, yet there was a certain tension in his words as if he was trying his hardest to remain professional. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides as he waited for her response.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for anything to distract him from the growing anxiety in his chest. The feeling he couldn't quite explain, but whatever it was... he knew it was going to destroy him if he could no longer keep it under control.
I came back to the room, if there were actual consequences I would have been doomed. But deep in my heart, I knew it was my lieutenant wanting me to come back and rest.
As soon as she walked back into the room, Ghost spun around to face her. His eyes were filled with a mixture of anger, worry, and something else that she couldn't quite identify.
His arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenching slightly. The urge to scream, to yell at her...to hold her close and protect her from the dangers of the world was overwhelming. But instead, he stood there in silence, He let out a deep sigh, his eyes watching her closely as if he was trying to figure out why he had called her back. "Sit down, you shouldn't be walking around yet." he said in a low voice.
I sat down back on the bed "Why did you call me back? I think our commander rather want us to find that artefact than us being here and me needing to 'rest'"
Ghost's eyes darkened slightly in response to her question. He pushed away from the doorway, stepping closer to her and leaning against the edge of the bed. He folded his arms across his chest, eyes scanning her face with a cold gaze.
"Shepherd is not here right now, and besides, I am currently in charge and I want you to rest." he said firmly, the edge in his voice making his statement quite clear.
I sighed "fine, I will rest for now, but I want you back on the field. Our team needs u. I went outside and I saw It wasn't going as smoothly as it should be going. What a shame if we lost members because their lieutenant is here with me instead of outside trying to get that artifact."
Ghost's jaw tightened in response to her words, his eyes darkened with a mixture of guilt and frustration. He stepped back from the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair as he let out a sigh.
"We will continue once you've had some rest. I'll have Soap and Gaz cover for me." he replied, his voice low and tense. He walked to the door, his hand already on the knob as he turned around to glance over his shoulder at her.
"And why do you care so much about what I do?" he said in a low, teasing tone. His chin was lifted at a cocky angle, his body tilted slightly forward to put them face to face.
"Because..." I couldn't come up with a word to say I was surprised by his reaction.
What if I didn't care would that matter or wouldn't it? I was thinking fast when an abrupt answer came out of my mouth.
"I do not care I do not wish to care. I want us to win this battle, easy and without any distractions, so, join our teammates and let me rest and get us this artifacts that we need."
Ghost's eyes widened at her words, his jaw clenching tightly as he fought back the urge to grab her and shake some sense into her. He took a deep breath, his heart racing as he struggled to process her words.
He wanted to argue...wanted to scream, wanted to do anything to make her understand...but all that came out was a small, defeated groan.
He knew she was right, and no matter how much he wanted to stay by her side...he had a mission to complete.
He turned back around and closed the door behind him. I sighed full with relieve. What even was that, the tension that filled the room slowly dissapeared. I gave up with going back on the field to fight with my teammates against our opponents. It was a long day and I felt the pain in my arm once ghost has left me to rest.
Ghost and Soap led the team back into the room, followed closely by the rest of the task force. The room was quickly filled with the sound of footsteps and voices, the team discussing the events of the day.
Ghost's eyes immediately searched the room, looking for her as he pushed past Soap and stepped further into the room. He was still covered in dirt and grime from the battlefield, but his eyes were clear and focused. He spotted her sitting on the bed and his relief was palpable.
I looked at the team, all of them looked tired. And here I was sitting when I saw ghost searching for me. He looked relieved somehow. "Did you really expect me back on the field and dead somewhere in the corner?" I exclaimed laughing
Soap's face lit up and he was the first to jump at the suggestion "Oh hell yeah, we're definitely in!" he exclaimed, a grin on his face as he elbowed Gaz in the side. The room quickly filled with voices as the team started agreeing.
Ghost however, remained silent. His gaze focused on her, the same tension filling his chest as before.
"Well seems it's time for a night out! Everyone get ready because you guys all look dirty." I stood up from my bed and walked with the rest of them towards everyone's base rooms.
The team quickly dispersed, everyone scrambling to get their gear and clean up as best they could before they headed out. Ghost hung back, watching as the team dispersed. As soon as they were alone he stepped up besides her, his voice low as he spoke.
"You should be resting." he said firmly, his eyes scanning over her body for any sign of exhaustion or injuries. "You should stay behind, rest your body." he added, his gaze shifting back to hers.
I chuckled "and what if I don't want to rest? I'm going out with my team. U might be my lieutenant but you cannot decide what I can and cannot do."
Ghost tensed at her words, his jaw clenching tightly as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He took a deep breath, a low growl escaping from his throat.
"This isn't a suggestion, soldier. You're needed in peak condition and being out in a crowded environment is not going to help." He said firmly, his gaze fixed on her face.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them and grabbing her arm tightly, pulling her closer to him. "You are not going anywhere...that's an order." he growled, his eyes burning into hers.
I looked angry into his eyes, I was done with this man. "I won't follow your orders tonight. I am not some damsel in distress so I suggest you let go off my hand, and let me enjoy a night out."
Ghost's grip tightened on her arm, his body tensing up as he fought the urge to lash out. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he stared at her with an intensity that could make even the most fearless man tremble.
"You don't understand." he growled, the anger in his voice almost palpable "What if it happens again...you can't keep doing this. You are not invincible.
I cannot...I will not sit by and watch you get yourself hurt again."
searched her face, trying to find some hint that she understood what he was trying to say. But then finally, his grip on her arm loosened and he took a step back.
"Have you ever heard what they say about me? I am Medusa, and I can make my enemies of stone. God they gave a whole backstory for my great achievements!" I laughed and looked out of the window. "A bar or maybe even a club is not a place where I will get hurt, I am a soldier and I know how to defend myself. So if you will excuse me I will go and shower now."
"Go... take a shower." he said softly, his voice filled with something akin to defeat. He turned away from her and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd of soldiers heading back to their barracks.
#simon ghost riley#cod mw2#modern warfare#ghost cod#simon riley x reader#simon riley smut#call of duty
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Les Miserables Fanfic recs✨️
I tried to make a selection, my absolute favourites have a heart next to them ❤️, but my les mis fics bookmarks have 17 pages, so you know, there are still other amazing fics that i didn't include (part 2 maybe?). I also realised while making this list that most of these fics are actually very well known, but still, they're great 🤷♀️ I'm an angst enthusiast, be warned.
( I'm trying to also tag the tumblr accounts of the authors: if you are one of the authors and I missed your url and want me to add you or if you want me to remove you dont hesitate to contact me! )
❤️ World Aint Ready by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile
Enjolras presses his lips together. He already looks pained, and Grantaire hasn't even opened his mouth yet. That's got to be a record, even for them.
"I need a favor," he says at last.
"With what?" says Grantaire. "Ooh, are you forming a cult? Can I join? I'd be awesome at cults, I just know it." He ticks off his qualifications on his fingers. "I love chanting, I look great in robes—"
(High school AU. Grantaire the disaffected stoner is pulled into a cause bigger than himself. Or: in which there are pretend boyfriends for great justice.)
Part 1 of World Aint Ready-verse
To Fold the Sheet by Lyres
“Can you say one good thing about the season?”
Holding out his soap-sud covered hands until Grantaire tosses a towel on top of them, Enjolras hums in thought. “Not really,” he says, once he's dried off. “Just don't have a lot of happy memories of summer, I suppose.”
(In which Grantaire attempts to make Happy Summer Memories, and Enjolras is endlessly patient.)
History of Melancholia by Squash (JeSuisGourde) @meta-squash
Grantaire deals with his depression by documenting it through photography as he and Enjolras try to wade through life with mental illness. It doesn't make it any easier for him or Enjolras, though. It's the blind leading the blind as they try to navigate the waters of depression.
A series of moments in no particular order, showing the paths that Grantaire's depression and addiction has taken him on and the ways he has tried to survive.
Submission (Going Down, Down) by ddeadkennedys
anyway, enjolras hated grantaire at first. enjolras isn't an asshole, he's not a gatekeeper or some sort of shitty elitist, but grantaire was uninspired, hopeless despite all that potential. a waste. but then that whole thing went down, and shit changed, and if grantaire thought he couldn't get enough of enjolras' attention before, now that enj is only mean to him for fun he's a fucking junkie for it.
Part 1 of the revolution is my boyfriend
Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell
“You aren’t going to ask me if I’m okay?”
“You aren’t. Believe me, I know the signs.” Grantaire sighs, and his breath mists in the air like cigarette smoke. “They love you in there.”
“And out here?”
“You know that’s not a fair question.”
Forget Me Not by Opium_du_Peuple @just-french-me-up
Enjolras loses four years worth of memories after a nasty car accident. Though he still remembers who Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, he also finds himself with a herd of friends he doesn't remember meeting. Friends who are exactly what his blank mind needs to recollect his missing memories.
or : the amnesia fic no one asked for.
i'm not the moon (i'm not even a star) by serinesaccade @serinesaccade
“The amnesiac has questions,” says Grantaire. Boyfriend grips the wheel. “Don’t worry, we’ll start with the 200 dollar Jeopardy trivia.” A semi roars past them. “What’s your name?”
The perfect sinew and bones of his fingers relax. “Oh,” he murmurs. Just like that, defenses lowered. “Enjolras.”
“Cool,” Grantaire says. “I’m Grantaire.”
Something happens to Enjolras’ face which, if you zoomed in, might be considered a smile. “I know.”
“How long have we been dating, Enjolras?”
The almost-smile is gone. The gameshow metaphor has become too apt; someone’s lost it all. “That’s complicated.”
Well. Grantaire should’ve known some part of this fairytale was too good to be true. He’s best friends with a streetsmart renegade and someone who wrote him a welcome-back-to-consciousness poem in godawful blue icing on an orange frosted cookie cake. There are nearly ten people who were waiting for him to wake up in a hospital room.
Of course his inexplicable relationship with his supernova hot, socially conscientious boyfriend is ‘complicated.’
thirteen days and fourteen hours and a dozen minutes by Potoo
"Enjolras,” Grantaire gasps as delicate fingers brush over his chest, an airy quality to them, “what do you want?” Because Grantaire would serve him the whole world on a silver platter, and it would never be enough.
“You,” Enjolras states, his voice clear and severe, “I want you.”
Enjolras discovers one by one what his friends think about Grantaire. He is rather surprised by their words.
Also: body worship porn.
Metropolitan Art by ryssabeth @avagueambitioninyourerection
Paris is his home.
❤️ Wrap your fingers round my thumb by Ibbyliv
When Éponine leaves in the morning, he’s already feeling much better. No really, he is. He makes a cup of coffee and even showers. The sun is shining brightly –even though it’s mostly late in the afternoon than morning but he has no one to apologize to, no reason to excuse himself for being a lazy ass and not finishing that painting for ages- and he’s humming a catchy tune that has been stuck in his head while he wipes his hair dry with a towel. He opens the door because he feels good enough to take the trash out, and everything’s alright, even the odor coming from the plastic bag, until he hears it.
It’s a cry, a wail, desperate and heartbreaking as if something tiny is trying to cause its lungs to explode and is on its way to success. Grantaire looks around, not willing to accept what he feels coming, before lowering his eyes on the floor.
In this moment, Grantaire swears, he's so fucking wasted.
*
Enjolras leaves to work abroad for a year. When he returns, he finds out that there has been a new addition to their group.
A Series of Progressions by AnnaBolena @annabrolena
Modern AU in Paris in which most of Les Amis are students and all of them are sort of slow on the getting together aspect of relationships, with sociopolitical commentary and medical jabber peppered in between.
how sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame by Tegami @furtherfish
He could have shrugged and that would have been it. Say that he just found it precious. But Grantaire was Grantaire and he never could keep himself from oversharing and he was already dizzy with the way this night was going, so he told the truth.
“The first thought I had when I read that poem was ‘If someone would ever call me “sweet boy” and mean it, I would probably pass out.’”
OR: E & R are being ""casual"". Grantaire attempts to break some of their habits. Enjolras reads some angsty notes R left in his copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Then they fuck
❤️ Hotel California by sunflowerbright
'You can check out, but you can never leave'
- Reincarnation!AU
❤️ Paris Burning by thecitysmith @thecitysmith
In a world where cities are personified, the City of Paris has been missing for centuries, driven away by the horrors of war and the worst humanity has offered him.
Enjolras dreams of meeting Paris, and leading him to a better tomorrow.
What he doesn't know is that Paris is now a cynical drunk who calls himself Grantaire.
❤️ Thirty-Two Times by Ark @et-in-arkadia
Marius, looking chastised but sad, says, “Is there nothing then for romance, Enjolras? It seems a strange emotion to be struck with, distracting as a fever, if it means nothing.”
It is Grantaire who answers first. “Nothing means anything, Marius,” says the cynic. “Yet who would ever die for his country if he did not love some person who lived within it?”
❤️ Once We're Kings by raeldaza
Their kingdoms have been at odds for centuries, so what will be a greater 'fuck you' than to send hapless knight Grantaire as their representative for Prince Enjolras's queen choosing ceremony before he is crowned King?
Grantaire disagrees, but he doesn't seem to get much of a say in the matter.
No one is really expecting anything to come of it, but trust Enjolras to defy expectations.
❤️ Your Heart on Your Skin by zade @racetrackthehiggins
Grantaire’s first flower appears when he is two years old. It’s late, for a First Bloom, considering some children are born with their First already etched above their hearts, but Grantaire’s parents are warm and loving and wait to see what sort of child they have born unto the world.
His First Bloom, when it comes, is vibrant patch of yellow carnations. He is too young to know what it means, and his parents don’t tell him, just—withdraw, and a much smaller patch of yellow carnations appears on his mother’s ankle.
--
Soulmate AU where things in your life appear as flowers on your skin, and people with hard lives have a lot of flowers to show for it
Tetris by chapstickaddict
Cosette is Enjolras' half-sister. His father slept with Fantine and then buggered off to be with his wife. Then Enjolras found out. One day he sees her- and he knows its her- and doesn't know what to do.
Enjolras is Cosette's half-brother. Her mother slept with a married man and died of a broken heart and weary soul. Then Cosette found out. One day, she finds him-and she knows its him- and doesn't know what to do.
Then Marius happened...
Silence Is the Speech of Love by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell
Grantaire's life has a pattern: he pays his respects to Aphrodite, he goes to work, he loves Enjolras and provokes him because he can't bring himself to do otherwise. That seems unlikely to change, at least until Enjolras speaks out against the gods and ends up cursed. Grantaire does his best to help him, but it turns out it's just as hard to love Enjolras up close as it is from afar.
Part 1 of The Speech of Love
❤️ I Believe In Nothing but the Truth and Who We Are by Whreflections
"Under the wine, Grantaire smelled like smoke and summer nights. His dark hair curled in a chaotic mess around his face, his neck below pale and soft. The first time they met, the first time he drew the scent into his lungs, he ached with the need to mark that stretch of skin, to card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair so very gently before tilting his head back so Enjolras might mark his bared throat and make his claim. He resisted then, telling himself that to act on instinct alone was the arena of an animal; he was a man of intellect, and he could choose."
As an alpha, Enjolras has known Grantaire to be his mate since he first came to the Musain, a truth he does his best to bury. With his devotion already promised to France, he tells himself he cannot risk dividing his loyalties, cannot risk a bond that would pull so heavy on his heart. This is what he's told himself a thousand times, but when Grantaire needs him, his careful resolutions may not be able to hold against the strain.
His Love Letter by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade @shitpostingfromthebarricade
Your Wednesday regular appears right on time and orders the same thing as he does every week, but something's different today.
❤️ Here's looking at you by illuminate
“So domestic trouble rather than treason?” Floreal said.
“I’m not saying one precludes the other.” Enjolras said, which came out more pained than he had intended.
“Are you suggesting Grantaire sold national secrets to a crime lord because you were a bad boyfriend?” Floreal asked. Her tone was bemused, but there was a glint in her eye that turned the comment into mockery.
“No.” Enjolras snapped, stung, and then didn’t say more.
Spy AU. Grantaire removes his tracker and disappears the same night Lamarque is killed in his office. Enjolras is left behind, trying to figure out what happened and why Grantaire didn't tell him anything.
❤️ Meanwhile, A Glacier by standalone
“I’ll go.” He says it without brashness or deference. Just a statement.
“Where?”
“You want to climb the Forty,” he says, and Enjolras can’t deny it. “I’ll go with you.”
❤️ It's Not the Same Anymore by ShameDumpster @shamedumpster
Grantaire is a bookstore clerk in his late twenties, and to everyone’s eternal disbelief, a father. It’s been years since he’s seen anyone from his former group of friends, after a falling out cleaved him from the ABC, but everything changes when Enjolras walks into his bookstore. Can they rekindle their friendship, or something more, while they both come to terms with how their lives have changed over the past decade?
Part 1 of INtSA-verse
❤️ Combeferre's Tattoos by standalone
Enjolras clunked down three lowball glasses of whiskey and a bottle of soda water. “We have already established, ‘Ferre, his freedom to leave us. Can you please stop bringing it up and instead give him some incentive to stay?”
Combeferre cocked his head to the side, as if amused at Enjolras’s crankiness. “Such as?”
“He seemed to like you shirtless.”
‘Ferre nodded. “Then perhaps someone should take my shirt off.”
or
When the universe gives you Enjolras and Combeferre, who the hell are you to ask questions?
Part 1 of Tattoos AU
❤️ In Defiance of all Geometry by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile
Amis House might not be the biggest student co-op, or the fanciest, but it's got something all its own. Specifically, smoke damage on the kitchen ceiling from that time Courfeyrac lit a political pamphlet on fire.
In which there are secrets, pining, pancakes, and revelations, and sometimes the shortest distance between three points is not a triangle but a circle.
Part 1 of IDOAG-verse
❤️ We still got time (Raise your hopeful voice) by RavenXavier
“Excuse-you!” came Grantaire’s offended voice from the other side of the room. “I would make an excellent wife, Monsieur Lesgle, should I choose to! I have all the qualities of one!"
(In which Enjolras slowly falls in love, and Grantaire takes the time to explore what feels right.)
Musagetes by defractum @defractum
"You've had sex," says Grantaire, just to clarify. He gives Enjolras an obvious look up and down, as if he's trying to imagine it right now: Enjolras having sex, Enjolras in the act of having sex. The curve of his mouth gives away his smirk; it's Grantaire though, so his smirk is two-thirds mocking and one-third self-deprecating.
In which Enjolras has sex, has casual sex, and doesn't talk about it; in which Grantaire speaks better through art.
❤️ Through the Narrow Place by revolutionbarbie
“What brought you to Paris?” Montparnasse asked.
“A train, ostensibly. And a bus.”
Grantaire leaves Poland for Paris, content to remain alone forever if it means that he'll be safe. He goes to work and he comes home and he doesn't think about how few people there would be to miss him should he disappear.
When he meets the Friends who gather and plot at the Cafe Musain, he realises how much he has been missing and though their leader is reckless and arrogant, Grantaire can't help but be drawn to him.
❤️ A Thousand Miles by kjack89 @kjack89
Some couples had a morning breakfast routine. For Enjolras and Grantaire, it was coffee.
Come rain, shine, or hectic schedules, they still made time every morning to have a cup of coffee together. Sometimes that time saw Grantaire perching on the counter in the bathroom while Enjolras gulped his cup in the shower; other times, it was the two of them in bed long past when they were supposed to get up, wrapped in blankets and each other. Some days those precious few minutes were the only time they saw each other, and they treasured it.
Even when Enjolras was out of town on business, they called or Facetimed each other to share their morning cup of coffee.
It was the one consistency in their lives that Grantaire could count on.
❤️ Hēbē by illuminate
“You cannot feed on a citizen without their consent, because that would be an attack on their person - and their Rights, I am sure. But you cannot risk revealing your nature and so you cannot ask for permission. Luckily, you have me, who am already aware and quite willing.”
The chair screeches loudly as Enjolras pushes himself away from the table.
”Come now, Apollo, let me be your cupbearer.” Grantaire implores; his tone somewhere between teasing and honest.
“No, we are not doing that.” Enjolras growls.
(In short: Enjolras has trouble feeding himself, because he is too busy planning the revolution. Grantaire finds out and is more than willing to help.)
love is in the air, i just gotta figure out a window to break out by tamquams
Enjolras looks down at where Grantaire’s hand holds the pack against him and doesn’t bother to take hold. “If you were Combeferre,” he says, “this would be the part where you tell me these things will kill me.”
“If I were Combeferre, I’d be inside and you’d be bothering someone else,” Grantaire snaps. He snatches the pack of cigarettes back and extracts one, leaving just two inside. It is with sharp, savage movements that he jabs it into his mouth, lights it with the silver Zippo, and then offers it to Enjolras.
#les miserables#les mis#grantaire#enjolras#combeferre#bahorel#courfeyrac#joly#feuilly#marius pontmercy#cosette#eponine#bossuet#gavroche#jehan#fanfictions#fanfic
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Any jk fic recommendation?
Hi nonnie! ❤️ Yes yes and yes! Tbh I'm often searching for more jk fics to read!
Here's a list of some I could think of that are really meaningful to me. Hope you like them! ✨
Guide me through the storm, I'll carry you to shore by mintchocolatedreams
This is one of the first Jeankasa fics I've ever read and it changed me completely. It made me feel in love with them and I'm a jeankasa shipper thanks to this one. Every single time I think about jk, this one comes to mind!
Colapso by Shkebma96
This one is the perfect jk post canon fic! I'm a sucker for post canon aus, and the moment I started reading this one I knew it would become one of my favorites!
Fluttering by Reikukaja
This one is part of a series I really enjoy. I'm obsessed with the plot and the characters truly feel like themselves!
Coffeeless Mornings by Yakarmi
This is just hilarious, I was cracking up after I finished reading.
Comrade in (your) arms by underleaves / @solivagantress
I read this one recently and it changed me. I live for this one, and the author's writing is priceless!
Whiskers Wish by Rubysilk98
I've never thought I'd enjoy reading a fic about Jean turned into a cat, but it's not only funny, it's just so sweet and comfortable. I really enjoyed the family dynamic!
#anon#ask#jeankasa fic rec#jeankasa fics#fic rec#i need to know if these authors are here on tumblr#so i can show them my love and gratitude
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theres currently 194 chapter ideas for www. i need... i need to condense... urgkjfdbkjgf
#sophie speaks#sophie answers#series:www#realising that i am both the writer who writes too much and too little at the same time#HELP me#thatd be like... 7 full books if i fleshed them all out#keep in mind www wip has 63k words in it compared to the 37k published like#thats almost double what am i DOING#head in my hands. i need a drink (does not drink)#like WHAT. WHAT IS THE SOLUTION HERE#i mean i know what the solution is the solution is be healthy lmfao#idk if id ever be able to be those authors who do rapid releases and are like 'i write about 5k a day' but yknow i could really do better#if i didnt get regularly shot in the foot#we're gonna do a radiology thing soon tho... maybe thatll help somewhat?? more pills yayyyy#chronic utis i hate you kill yourself#me: im gonna do some writing :)#me: immediately goes straight to tumblr to complain about the hole ive dug myslef in#oh who cares if it takes me ten years to finish this the time will pass anyways
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...
#i feel so insecure here sometimes.. like i know you guys see that too#like ill post smth or ask smth and then feel discouraged when i don't get a response#and then i feel so stupid.. but ive been realising how so many here have been feeling that way#bc tumblr changed so much and so many ppl left and every author and creator is suddenly feeling insecure about themselves#and thinking it's their fault or that their content isn't good anymore#anyways thank you to everyone who's still here and supporting my stuff.. whenever i feel down you guys show me that my work's still#worth consuming#and that im appreciated here as a person too#@ mutuals.. i think to bring back a bit of what tumblr used to be we need to support each other too#bc :( i love my mutuals but i also noticed that only a v small number of ppl signal boosts each other's stuff or supports one another#like only a few of my moots read my stuff or talk to me at all and sometimes it gets so lonely#but im one of those who should actively make an effort to support moots too!!#some blogs support all their moots and im like ugh that's so nice#or maybe it's me and you guys just don't like me LOL no but seriously#we don't even have to read each other's stuff i think.. even boosting fics goes a long way tbh#it'd be so nice if we could do this for each other.. yk? gotta bring back the 2021 community feel fr i miss it#ugh so many ppl left lol we're all we've got y'all!!#tdl maybe
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this is another unpopular opinion but i am actually totally fine with knowing as little about the wittebanes-in-canon as possible. more wittebane content didn't even make my top 5 for season 3. i am so completely happy with just Inferring from background details scattered just around the edges of the on-screen narrative and, in fact, i think it might be better this way
#'haunting the narrative' is a tumblr cliche or whatever but i do think it's applicable here#the...distance of time between whatever went down with caleb and what is going on now#you're utilising the medium to emphasise the emotional core of that conflict as it persists into the present#without taking too much attention away from what's going on *now*#i absolutely did not want a wittebane flashback. and i am happy with knowing as much about that as i do#i like it when things are ambiguous and i get to fill in the gaps with my mind!!!#toh spoilers#idk i liked the finale it wasn't perfect but everyone complaining about it has such a bizarre perspective on it lol#maybe i've just had too many cool villain backstories ruined because the author felt the need to overexplain it#sometimes less is more!!! (<- skulduggery pleasant kid who is still Fucking Mad about the sequels if you really need extraneous context)
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Ao3 is down AGAIN and I am suffering because I didn't download any fics as I reasonably thought it was over. Please I don't wanna crawl back to Fanfiction Net! I can't even get into my account there and I think I'll actually die a little if I seriously have to use wattpad.
#I really hope it isn't down for too long#ao3 pls I need my life blood#i need to provide my authors some comments too#at times like these I remember how hard it is to actually find fanfiction on other sites#like here on Tumblr#I happen to find stuff here on accident and bless it for that#ao3#also oof no diss to wattpad#it just really isn't for me other than like a story or two from there that I really like#wattpad#but fanfiction net#now I gotta problem with them#I really want my account back ok but for some ungodly reason the password reset thing isn't working even tho#you know...it is linked to my email account?!#stuff for later but for now I am grumpy#fanfiction net#fanfiction
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no see I WILL write something eventually, I haven’t been putting it off, I’ve just been uhhhhh cultivating the story for a couple of years yeah yeah
#stop cultivating and start harvesting idiot#no but I CAN’T write until I have at least a dozen books of story ready to go#how am I supposed to foreshadow anything if I don’t know what’s going to happen 500 chapters later???#how am I supposed to write a character even a minor one if I don’t have their entire future backstory and parent’s backstory planned out??#I can’t worldbuild unless I plan out all of the major cities including their political systems religions economy food production trade etc#also I just don’t want to sit down and write#so I just sit an worldbuild in my head all day#I have been for like two years now this is the longest I’ve seriously ‘worked on’ (ie daydreamed) a story in my head#and it’s really cliche and has a billion well worn tropes but it’s like… this is my comfort world building#and by comfort I mean really kinda fucked up world but whatever every edgelord or loser with an over active imagination has one#I need to read more people’s uhh… like.. not published authors… like tumblr users writing or whatev. like what is it called ao3? that stuff#not to be negative to them or anything but to like hype myself up#like see you don’t have to be a big named author to put your mind out there#I’m just kind of babbling here#suddenly reminded that a book I like John Dies At The End was originally released chapter by chapter online#so like… you don’t have to be like ‘this has to be put out whole in one book to be real writing’#I just need to write for fun but im a very shy boy 🥺#im fucking 34 im not a little boy I have to remind myself#anyway… if any mutuals read this much and you write online you should message me something you have that you like so I can read it#and I’ll be extra sweet and supportive and happy bc you’ll be helping me and I’ll get to support you#or whatever. I dunno. this is dumb. I’m sorry for wasting your time! jeez!#you can ignore this#text
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Wait what happened with you and the scp people? I'm sorry to bring it up but I deeply love the scp foundation and it's wiki and I don't wanna support something bad
#am i gonna need a faq that just says dont ask me about this.#anyways in good faith: i do not know if these are still issues i have not been involved with this site in over 5 years#anyways the staff was basically made up of groomers and fucking horrible people and i was treated like shit the entire time i was into it.#i dont like talking about it now because of the people i was exposed to while into it. not the concept itself. who cares.#the site has some fun stuff i still enjoy some of the articles and am friendly with ex authors and people who at least last i know#wrote for the site.#anyways again this was years ago. i do not care. do not try and talk to me about current stuff.#last i ever heard of was them changing the domain to bar gears from changing anything despite the man dealing with fucking#cancer. so like. jesus. fucking freaks the lot of them. especially ** ******. but whatever.#i have more personal stuff i had to deal with for years but like. its tumblr. im not talking about this here. sorry.#also so raised eye brows about this being brought up rn. but . shrugs. live and let live this was years ago i have no idea if the people are#still on staff.#well i know bright was banned. celebration there idgaf about name dropping him . i fucking hate that cunt.
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Campaign to make The God of Arepo an award winning work and win a literal brick as a trophy for the authors and for Tumblr community as a whole (SUCCEEDED!!!! Update below)
As the artist for one of The God of Arepo comics, my version is up for consideration for the Ignatz Awards for Outstanding Online Comic.
For those of you who don't know the Ignatz is one of the highest industry awards that "recognize outstanding achievements in comics and cartooning by small press creators or creator-owned projects published by larger publishers".
The thing is, winning the award means winning an actual literal brick. Because the mascot is a brick-throwing mouse. So they have to make a bit where the trophy is a brick. Like. Look.
For a long time I thought it was just plain bricks they were handing out, but my friend who won a couple of bricks two years ago had theirs stamped (I saw the bricks in person at their house). So now I am obsessed with the idea of The God of Arepo winning an Ignatz trophy. It will have the honours stamped. On a freaking brick. That's the most Tumblr level meme trophy this comic/story could win (which is also a legit high honour industry award on its own btw don't get me wrong).
But wilder than that, the brick allows me to do something. It allows me to smash that break into 5 pieces and ship one of each to the authors plus myself. Writing Prompts, sadoeuphemist, ciiriianan, stu-pot and me will get a piece of clay in recognition for our work with the farmer who built a temple out of stone. The full circle moment.
Imagine the value of this win to the lore of this Tumblr sacred text/folklore. This brick will be smashed and given to the creators, but as a collective folklore, it's also dedicated to all of us on this hellsite too. AWARD WINNING. If The God of Arepo wins I will document the entire process of smashing that brick here.
But we have to make this happen. We need to gather our collective energy and make this campaign work.
Please help make The God of Arepo an award-winning story and vote for it in the Outstanding Online Comic category (link). You will need to request a ballot, then submit your vote. I recommend checking out the other nominated comics too. The Ignatz really shortlists good stuff.
The voting closes September 8 2023 .
LET'S GET THE GOD OF AREPO A BRICK FOR HIS TEMPLE!! LET'S GO!!!! REBLOGS HELP TOO!!
#the god of arepo#tumblr#comics#look guys it's not everyday I can make a tumblr folklore be shortlisted for an award#as a long time hellsite denizen it's my duty#BRICK BRICK BRICK BRICK BRICK
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fuck guys do any of you have that old "friendly reminder that one member of twice has this japanese friend [photos of very strong athletic gorgeous woman are attached] so don't mess with her" tumblr post? picture of it at least? i need it as urgent as possible THIS IS CODE RED SITUATION
a piece of context would be cool here, wouldn't it? well, this post've been my new oc inspiration and I LOST IT LIKE A DUMB FUCK and there's NO photos of really strong bulky yaoyorozu momo-esque women on pinterest here, y'know? like it's either some nearly erotic bullshit or really skinny girls and it looks like that one twice tumblr post is only one that could be helpful.
so. if you have it on your pinterest board or saved here somehow-
or if you have a female japanese friend who is really strong and masculine and could crush my head with her hands like a soda can. and she also has like long dark hair that she sometimes puts in ponytail or something. please. i beg you. i beg her. i beg all gods, dead and alive, let me see some photos some selfies i really don't care i just need a visualization of my thoughts so fucking bad please.
just send it to me. tumblr post or something else you think fits the description. im on my knees, ok?, as an author i lost my pride long ago, so now i'm on my knees, waiting for my savior to arrive.
#twice#oc#original character#japanese#strong women#athletic women#women#women of color#please help#these tags are so random it's embarrassing#but i really need help here#also i would like to meet other oc authors or any authors at all 'cause i know nobody and it's kinda depressing!#someone said you can make friends on tumblr#wtf is friends#i want it#my main fandoms are#marauders#stranger things#but I actually know hella things and I would gladly talk about them#like... okay i forgot everything#but i know things im honest#bnha#is kinda cool#i love#tododeku#sm they're my babies#ok im rambling atp#i'll stop here#i STILL need help with a japanese friend of twice though
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TMA COMMISSIONS FOR GAZA
What is TMA Commissions For Gaza?
You can get small TMA commissions (a little drawing or short fanfic) in exchange for donating to 1 of 10 Gofundme's of Palestinians in Gaza (starting May 17th)
There are about 60 artists signed up already who have volunteered to work for free for this to happen. Until May 16th, you can join too!
The project is fanmade and has no connection to Rusty Quill
Our carrd: https://magnusforgaza.carrd.co/
Everything else under the cut ↓
How can I commission?
Here's a detailed How To Commission guide.
In a nutshell:
1: Donate to one of the 10 gofundme's. (any amount)
2: Fill out the commission form and describe what art you want!
3: And now we wait. We don't know how many commissions each artist will take on so please be patient💚
Guidelines for artists:
Here's a post with guidelines for artists and authors.
Here's the post that explains the process from sign up to sending the commission to the person who requested it.
Where does the money go?
We, the organizers and artists of TMA commissions for Gaza, gain no money from this. We ask participants to donate to 1 of these 10 Gofundme's by Gazans who are trying to survive and evacuate Gaza. 5 of these Gofundmes are on the Operation Olive Branch list and the other 5 are friends and family of one of our organizers. The funds are needed for expenses such as medical care, food and first and foremost to pay for crossing the border to Egypt.
Why only 10 Gofundme's?
We hope to be more effective when focusing on just a small number of Gofundme's and not for example the whole Operation Olive Branch list. Providing a smaller number of places to donate to may also help donators to not get overwhelmed by the amount of people who need their help.
If you have any questions, send us a message here on Tumblr!
CARRD: https://magnusforgaza.carrd.co/
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Medieval Scorpions Effortpost
So yesterday I reblogged this post featuring an 11th-century depiction of the Apocalypse Locusts from Revelations, noting the following incongruity as another medieval scorpion issue:
The artist, as you can see, has interpreted "tails like scorpions" as meaning "glue cheerful-looking snakes to their butts".
Anyway, it occurred to me that the medieval scorpion thing might not be as widely known as I think it is, and that Tumblr would probably enjoy knowing about it if it isn't known already. So, finding myself unable to focus on the research I'm supposed to be doing, I decided to write about this instead. I'll just go ahead and put a cut here.
As we can see in the image above, at least one artist out there thought a "scorpion" was a type of snake. Which makes it difficult to draw "tails like scorpions", because a snake's tail is not that distinctive or menacing (maybe rattlesnakes, but they don't have those outside the Americas). So they interpreted "tails like scorpions" as "the tail looks like a whole snake complete with head".
Let me tell you. This is not a problem unique to this illustration.
See, people throughout medieval Europe were aware of scorpions. As just alluded to, they are mentioned in the Bible, and if the people producing manuscripts in medieval Europe knew one thing, it was Stuff In Bible. They're also in the Zodiac, which medieval Europe had inherited through classical sources. However, let's take a look at this map:
That's Wikipedia's map of the native range of the Scorpiones order, i.e., all scorpion species. You may notice something -- the range just stops at a certain northern latitude. Pretty much all of northern Europe is scorpion-free. If you lived in the north half of Europe, odds were good you had never seen a scorpion in your life. But if you were literate or educated at all, or you knew they were a thing, because you'd almost certainly run across them being mentioned in texts from farther south. And those texts wouldn't bother to explain what a scorpion was, of course -- everyone knows scorpions, right? When was the last time you stopped to explain What Is Spiders?
So medieval writers and artists in northern Europe were kind of stuck. There was all this scorpion imagery and metaphor in the texts they liked to work from, but they didn't really know what a scorpion was. Writers could kind of work around it (there's a lot of "oh, it's a venomous creature, moving on"), but sometimes they felt the need to break it down better. For this, of course, they'd have to refer to a bestiary -- but due to Bestiary Telephone and the persistent need of bestiary authors to turn animals into allegories, one of the only visual details you got on scorpions was that they... had a beautiful face, which they used to distract people in order to sting them.
And look. I'm not here to yuck anyone's yum, but I would say that a scorpion's face has significant aesthetic appeal only for a fairly small segment of the population. I'm sure you could get an entomologist to rhapsodize about it a bit, but your average person on the street will not be entranced by the face of a scorpion. So this did not help the medieval Europeans in figuring out how to depict scorpions. There was also some semantic confusion -- see, in some languages (such as Old and Middle English), "worm" could be a general term for very small animals of any kind. But it also could mean "serpent".* So there were some, like our artist at the top of the post, who were pretty sure a scorpion was a snake. This was probably helped along by the fact that "venomous" was one of the only things everyone knew about them, and hey, snakes are venomous. Also, Pliny the Elder had floated the idea that there were scorpions in Africa that could fly, and at least one author (13th-century monk Bartholomaeus Anglicus) therefore suggested that they had feathers. I don't see that last one coming up much, I just share it because it's funny to me.
*English eventually resolved this by borrowing the Latin vermin for very small animals, using the specialized spelling wyrm for big impressive mythical-type serpents, and sticking with the more specific snake for normal serpents.
Some authors, like the anonymous author of the Ancrene Wisse, therefore suggested that a scorpion was a snake with a woman's face and a stinging tail. (Everyone seemed to be on the same page with regards to the fact that the sting was in the tail, which is in fact probably the most recognizable aspect of scorpions, so good job there.) However, while authors could avoid this problem, visual artists could not. And if you were illustrating a bestiary or a calendar, including a scorpion was not optional. So they had to take a shot at what this thing looked like.
And so, after this way-too-long explanation, the thing you're probably here for: inaccurate medieval drawings of scorpions. (There are of course accurate medieval drawings of scorpions, from artists who lived in the southern part of Europe and/or visited places where scorpions lived; I'm just not showing you those.) And if you find yourself wondering, "how sure are you that that's meant to be a scorpion?" -- all of these are either from bestiaries or from calendars that include zodiac illustrations.
11th-century England, MS Arundel 60. (Be honest, without the rest of this post, if I had asked you to guess what animal this was supposed to be, would you have ever guessed “scorpion”?)
12th-century Germany, "Psalter of Henry the Lion". (Looks a bit undercooked. Kind of fetal.)
12th-century France, Peter Lombard's Sententiae. (Very colorful, itsy bitsy claws, what is happening with that tail?)
12th-century England, "The Shaftesbury Psalter". (So a scorpion is some sort of wyvern with a face like a duck, correct?)
13th-century France, Thomas de Cantimpré's Liber de natura rerum. (I’d give them credit for the silhouette not being that far off, but there’s a certain bestiary style where all the animals kind of look like that. Also note how few of these have claws.)
13th-century England, "The Bodley Bestiary". (Mischievous flying squirrel impales local man’s hand, local man fails to notice.)
13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (A scorpion is definitely either a mouse or a fish. Either way it has six legs.)
13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Wait, no, it’s a baby theropod, and it has two legs. (Yes, this is the same manuscript, that’s not an error, this artist did four scorpions and no two are the same.))
13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Actually it’s a lizard with tiny ears and it has four legs.)
13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Now that we’re at the big fancy illustration, I think I’ve got it — it’s like that last one, but two legs, longer ears, and a less goofy face. Also I’ve decided it’s not pink anymore, I think that was the main problem.)
13th-century England, MS Kk.4.25. (A scorpion is a flat crocodile with a bear’s head.)
13th-century England, "The Huth Psalter". (Wyvern but baby! Does not seem to be enjoying biting its own tail.)
13th-century England, MS Royal 1 D X. (This triangular-headed gentlecreature gets the award for “closest guess at correct limb configuration”. If two of those were claws, I might actually believe this artist had seen a scorpion before, or at least a picture of one.)
13th-century England, "The Westminster Psalter". (A scorpion is the offspring of a wyvern and a fawn.)
13th-century England, "The Rutland Psalter". (Too many legs! Pull back! Pull back!)
13th or 14th-century France, Bestiaire d'amour rimé. (This is very similar to the fawn-wyvern, but putting it in an actual Scene makes it even more obvious that you’re just guessing.)
14th-century Netherlands, Jacob van Maerlant's Der Naturen Bloeme. (More top-down six-legged guys that look too furry to be arthropods.)
14th-century Germany, MS Additional 22413. (That is clearly a turtle.)
14th-century France, Matfres Eymengau de Beziers's Breviari d'amor. (Who came up with that head shape and what was their deal?)
15th-century England, "Bestiary of Ann Walsh". (Screw it, a scorpion is a big lizard that glares at you for trying to make me draw things I don’t know about.)
I've spent way too much time on this now. End of post, thank you to anyone who got all the way down here.
#medieval#medieval creatures#medieval art#scorpions#medieval scorpions#manuscript#medieval manuscripts#illuminated manuscript
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AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data
You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.
It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!
Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.
I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.
Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.
Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:
Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.
The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:
Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?
Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?
Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!
If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.
At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.
The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.
Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).
Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works
Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works
Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works
Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works
This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.
How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.
With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.
And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):
The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.
Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.
To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.
#ao3#ao3 stats#psa#my words#fandom#I doubt anyone is even going to read this but I needed to get it out of my system and at least try to stop this from spreading#if you know me#you know I get Big Mad about misinformation#don't take anything at face value#do your own research
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Can you pls make one abt miles and yn getting into a very heated argument and she slaps him for saying smth outrageous and then she leaves and he climbs into her window after a few hours and tries to work it out with her
anything for you.
earth 42!miles morales x fem!reader
SUMMARY: you go over to miles practically drenched in another man's cologne, and he jumps to conclusions all too quickly.
GENRE: fluff to angst to fluff.
WARNINGS: bickering/arguing, physical contact made by reader, jealous miles, cursing, kissing/making out, suggestive (?) miles calling women females (this needs a trigger warning in itself), CORNYYY
AUTHORS NOTE: yo why this tumblr shit lowkey fun? + this is my first request agagaa thank you!! omg and i hit 200?? and my eyes only is almost at 2k notes wtf r y’all onnnn?? anyways thank you for requesting! i didn’t make miles say anything too outrageous just so he could redeem himself later on, hope you like it!
“you look so good,” your boyfriend says for what seems like the 100th time today, his large hands immediately dropping to your bare waist, fidgeting with your waist beads as he leans in to mold your lips, a smile gracing his face when you return his affection.
“all mine.” he mutters as he intensifies the kiss, his hands approaching the waist band of his boxers that you’ve claimed as your own. when he lifts your feet off the ground, the heels of your feet lock around his back, a giggle escaping your lips when he lays you down on his bed. you pull away from him, laying the palms of your hands on his chest to keep him away when he pursues your lips once more.
“miles, we can’t make out all day.” you giggle, running your manicured fingers down his chest.
“says who?” he buries his head in the crevice between your neck and shoulder, leaving wet kisses along the space when he suddenly pauses.
he removes his head from the crevice, sitting up to which you follow.
“baby,” you hum in acknowledgement, “where’d you go today?” he questions you, a hint of an indistinguishable emotion in his voice.
“just here, why?” you question him, running your nails up and down his neck. a look of confusion immediately sweeps over your features when he calmly removes your hand from his body.
“cause you smell like somebody been rubbing all up on you.” he looks you up and down, leaning in to now smell your clothes, hair, neck, anything within the perimeter really.
he pulls back, “who were you with?” his expression solidified.
“nobody, i swear i don’t know why i smell.” you reason with him, genuinely confused as well.
“oh? so the smell just magically took over your hair and your clothes?”
he completely gets up from his position next to you, hovering over you. “y/n, i know im not tripping, who the hell was rubbing up on you and why’s the smell so strong? that’s what we doin’ now? and then you got the audacity to bring your ass over to my house, lay in my bed, and wear my clothes.”
“what are you implying?” you scowl at him, now rising to your own feet.
“im implying that you forreal out here fucking on other dudes when you got a whole ass boyfriend.”
the next few moments go by swiftly and mindlessly, but the scorching sensation left in the palm of your left hand enables you to process what just happened almost immediately; you slapped him. though, not an ounce of regret filled your tank of emotions, adrenaline being the only identifiable one.
“i don’t know who the hell you’re talking to but it can’t be me, how dare you?” you glare at him, the imprint of your palm already making its mark on his face, the surrounding skin blemishing. “when have i ever done something like that to you?”
“today, apparently.” he mumbles under his breath, caressing the skin of his cheek to soothe the discomfort.
you look at him like he’s just grown 3 heads before silently walking over to the corner of his room, pulling his graphic tee over your shoulders. you immediately lunge it at him, same with his boxers, bracelets, his necklace, anything of his that is currently making contact with you. you zip up your navy blue hoodie, slipping your sweatpants over your bare legs.
you bring your tote bag over your shoulder, making your way towards his window which he currently guards, glaring at you from where you stand.
“miles, get the hell out my way before i pop you in your mouth next.”
“i want his name and address, you not going anywhere till i get an answer.”
you flail your arms in his face, “are you deaf or just stupid? there is no “him” because the only person i been rubbing up on is you!”
“baby, i don’t smell like no cheap ass cologne.”
“don’t call me that, move!” you raise your voice, stepping up to him.
“what’s his name?”
“you’re crazy.” you scoff, instead bolting for the front door. you’re mindful of mama rio cooking in the kitchen, slipping past quietly as to not raise any suspicion. though, you do bid her a quiet farewell, yet even when you slip out the front door with a smile on your face she knows something isn’t right by the way miles isn’t trailing behind you.
“miles, qué pasó?” she calls out from the kitchen, wiping her hands down her apron and subtly knocking on her sons door before entering.
“it’s nothing.” he calls back, digging his cheek into his pillow to prevent his mother from spotting the blossoming blemish. he didn’t want to explain how he got you so worked up that you slapped him to his mother, or anyone for that matter.
“it’s nothing? invite her over for dinner tonight.” rio arches her brow, taking a seat next to her son on the bed.
“we aren’t on good terms right now.” he sighs out, rubbing his hands over his eyes.
“even more of a reason to invite her over, right?” rio says, making her way out of his bedroom before miles could come up with a rebuttal.
he lazily grabs his phone when it pings, though when he realizes the message is from you, he throws it on the floor until the phone pings with a second message. he groans loudly swiping open your messages.
one attachment
next time don’t make stupid assumptions you dick
the photo captioned was of a half empty cologne bottle you had probably found somewhere in your home, miles heart immediately dropping to his stomach.
okay, maybe he fucked up a teensy tiny bit.
when you got home, you racked your brain for a possible explanation as to why you smelled like anything other than your boyfriend. you were stumped till your brother had walked past you, the aroma that had gotten miles so worked up earlier clouding your senses immediately.
you lay on the pad of your tummy on your king sized bed, your irritable mood causing a burning sensation to spread throughout your body. though it may not be displayed through your face, you were absolutely livid. after all you’ve done for him, this is what you got in return, his unprecedented allegations.
sure it was reasonable to be suspicious, but to outright accuse you? you’ve never given him any reason not to trust you, reassuring him whenever he needed it. had your words not been enough? what about your gestures? what about the times you’d cuddle up with him in bed, sleepily muttering words like “im yours,” or “i belong to you, miles.” had that not been enough?
your jittering thoughts are interrupted by a newfound presence in the corner of your room, the peripherals of your eye capturing those twin braids that you adore so much.
“nuh uh, get the hell up outta here.” you sit up, pointing back towards the window.
“deadass?” he raises both brows, staring at you dead in the eyes.
“deadass.” you return the gesture.
“nah.” he climbs into bed with you, settling his arm over your waist.
“im being serious miles, get out. don’t touch me either.” you pick up his arm as if it’s diseased, laying it over his stomach.
“you don’t like it when i touch on you?” he says in a sultry voice, and you roll your eyes.
“ma, listen to me,” he grabs your chin meeting you at eye level, your brows still furrowed out of anger. when your eyes meet his, any foreign sense of anger evaporates from your system, turning to putty in his hands, no matter how much you tried to fight it.
“you’re so pretty baby,” he kisses your downturned lips once.
“why you look so mad?” he ignorantly questions you, kissing your lips once more.
“baby smile for me?” he squishes your cheeks, yet he’s still met with silence till you finally part your lips.
“this isn’t helping your case by the way.” you roll your eyes at his obvious attempts to bribe you.
“alright, what if i came to you smelling like some other female? you wouldn’t like that huh?” he attempts to reason with you.
“i came to you smelling like my brother? and even then if you came to me smelling like some girl i would conduct a thorough investigation first.” you side eye him.
“how was i supposed to know it was your brother? i didn’t even know he was back.”
“he got back this morning, i gave him a hug and he must’ve rubbed off on me.”
“you didn’t tell me all that. so what i gotta do for you to believe im sorry, hm?” he climbs on top of you, following your darting eyes with his own.
“buy me a pandora bracelet.” you joke.
he perks up, “on god? baby i buy you jordans every other day, the hell is a bracelet?”
“i mean i was joking but you serious?”
“you didn’t know that i’d do anything for you?”
“you’re corny boooo, leave me alone.” you push his head away from yours, your facade breaking when a smile plays at your lips.
“y/n?”
“hm?”
“why do you hit so hard?”
“what do you mean?” you ask him, your outburst from earlier had completely left your mind. he turns to the side, and your eyes widen as they lay upon the imprint of your hand slowly fading,
“oh shit,” you wince, inspecting the damage of your earlier actions.
you throw the blanket off your legs, sitting on your knees to inspect further. you silently grab his hand, heading towards your bathroom as you slowly feel guilt begin to stir inside you.
“stay here.” he watches as you disappear into the hallway, coming back with a frozen pack of peas. you hold it up to his cheek for him, fiddling with the ends of his braids as you repeatedly check for signs of the bruising going away.
“im sorry miles, i shouldn’t have hit you.”
he hums in acknowledgment of your apology, parting his lips to speak. “it’s okay, i like them aggressive.”
a smile threatens your lips, your hand going up to cover your mouth to keep your false facade up.
“nah why you keep smiling?” he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand down to stare at you intently.
“stop that.” you attempt to straighten out your face.
it’s silent for the next few moments as you adjust the frozen peas seeing that the bruise had almost completely faded.
“y/n, you know im being forreal when i say i’d do anything for you, right?”
“yeah, i know.”
love, berry.
#miles morales x reader#across the spiderverse#atsv miles#atsv x reader#miles morales x you#miles morales x y/n#earth 42 miles x reader#earth 42 miles x you#earth 42 miles morales x reader#miles morales
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