#and came to the citadel to meet her and try to make up for it. only for the Giant Fucking Reaper War to start and her daughter to get calle

[quietwingsinthesky]

making mass effect OCs that are such fail loser idiots i love them

#the theme of this little gang i am creating is: #‘failed to live up to everyone’s expectations of them and never made anything of themselves #and they never would have even crossed paths with each other if not for the giant fucking war going on.’ #currently we’ve got ‘very very Very old asari who hasn’t spoken to her daughter in years because of a personal disagreement #and came to the citadel to meet her and try to make up for it. only for the Giant Fucking Reaper War to start and her daughter to get calle #into military duty back to Thessia where her mom just left from. barely missing each other. they are never going to see each other again.’ #and of course ‘salarian partner of the Very Old Asari’s daughter and source of their dispute because she never approved the marriage. #(doesn’t want to see her daughter go through the same heartbreak she did losing so many short-lived lovers.) #they work at an archive of salarian poetry btw. they aren’t the boss they just work there. as you can imagine poetry isn’t very appreciated #during a Giant Fucking War. or even before the war by most people. they also sold insurance at one point. they’re terrified of dying. #they are scared of being forgotten. none of the poems they write are even that good. they love the artform but they can’t do it well. very #insecure that the reason they chose an asari partner was just so SOMEONE would remember them. as you can imagine. they’re very stressed.’ #and also ‘quarian on her pilgrimage who couldn’t get a ship back to the fleet before it went to retake Rannoch. catching bare newsclips of #the fleet always looking for her dads’ liveship so that she knows they’re alive. she’s a botanist. she couldn’t even help if she was there. #but the fact that she’s not. the fact that she kept delaying going home because she had to find The Next Big Discovery on her pilgrimage. #it haunts her. if the fleet goes down taking back Rannoch. what if she’s all that’s left. she wouldn’t be enough. she knows she wouldn’t.’ #and two more I’m working on. probably based off that one-off dialogue in the refugee camps between the teenager and the turian. I like them

[phoward89]

Banner by me. Dividers by @saradika

Summary: When Coriolanus signs you out of the hospital to bring you to his Corso penthouse, you see a glimpse of his dark side. Will that glimpse make you run away from him or to him?

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader (Y/N)

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow is his own warning! Possessive!Coriolanus, Obsessive!Coriolanus, DelusionalCoriolanus, Dark!Coriolanus, Soft Dark!Coriolanus?, Head Gamemaker!Coriolanus, Mentions of death, Mentions of planning murder, Mentions of cheating/infidelity (not on reader), Mentions of poison, Large age gap/difference (Coriolanus is 33 while reader is 18), Manipulation, Groping, Slapping, um...trying to think of anything else.

Here's the 2nd part of Forever & Ever, My Darling Rose. I gave the Reader a last name, Halvir, in this just to make some scenarios etc a bit easier to write. But the Readers first name is up to you lovely and wonderful readers to come up with.

Story Masterlist

Chapter 2:

Coriolanus marched towards the nurses’ station with a haughty airs to him. He gave off an entitled, but dangerous aurora that had the nurses shaking in their white nursing hats. He'd threatened to kill every single one of their loved ones (friends, family, pets, estranged family, etc) if something happened to you and the nurses were terrified that he'd make good on that promise. Considering you went out of your mind with a nightmare and cornered yourself into your room, resulting in him being called there to calm you down, the nurses were fearful.

The nurses quickly grabbed their charts and scurried off, excuses that they had to check on patients echoed into the air, as the head gamemaker got closer to the front desk. Patients that are most likely asleep since it was nearly 3 in the morning. Yes, the nurses left their charge nurse behind to deal with the wrath of Coriolanus Snow. The nurse assigned to you was the first to bolt.

“I'm signing Y/N Halvir out since your staff is too incompetent to properly care for a victor.” Coriolanus firminly told the charge nurse as he came to a stop right at the desk she was sitting behind, all by herself since the staff abandoned her to face a fate worse than death alone.

The charge nurse refused to meet Coriolanus’ eye while tentatively informing him, “Head Gamemaker Snow, sir, it's ill advised to sign her out. She hasn't been checked by a doctor and she seems to be dealing with some post traumatic stress.”

Wrong Answer. Coriolanus was outraged that some old nurse had the gall to tell him that he couldn't do what he felt best for his, HIS, darling rose. What did that old hag know? If it wasn't for her calling him, you would've hyperventilated and passed out from sheer fear in the corner of your room.

A private room that he was footing the bill for, by the way.

Well, looks like he'll just have to make the charge nurse’s loved ones disappear for her lack of skills tending to you. He'll also find out who was your assigned nurse, make that useless twit disappear along with her loved ones. Well, the Citadel could always use some more lab rats to conduct mutt experiments on.

“It may be ill advised, but I assure you that I am signing Y/N Halvir out of this hospital and taking her with me, where she'll be properly cared for.” He calmly told the nurse as his cold blue eyes cut her down. Leaning down over the desk, causing him to be face to face with the old nurse, Coriolanus hissed, “Your insubordination has won your son, a doctor, and his family a transfer to District 6. Seems like the hospitals there are in need of more doctors due to the rise in morphling addiction amongst the district citizens. It's such a shame that both of your grandchildren, a boy and a girl, will now be eligible for the Hunger Games as District 6 citizens.”

The charge nurse shook with fear as she pleaded, “Please, Head Gamemaker Snow, don't do that. Please, don't be so harsh.” Quickly, she worked on her computer while adding in, “I'm printing out the discharge paperwork now, just don't send my family away to District 6.”

Coriolanus just stood up straight, his full height of 6’0 towering over the charge nurse as she sat at the desk, typing and clicking away at the computer. He didn't say a word to her, just stared her down with cold, dead, blue eyes. 

The charge nurse swallowed down a sick feeling that was welling up while rising from her seat to scurry over to the printer. She silently prayed to the printer, which was growling louder than a feral animal, to hurry up and spit out the paperwork for your discharge. 

Coriolanus grew bored waiting for the necessary paperwork for your release. So bored that he was tapping his shiny black shoes against the linoleum floor. 

Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click-

“Here’s that paperwork for you to sign.” The charge nurse told Coriolanus while hurrying over to him. Quickly she placed the paperwork on the desk before grabbing a pen from the cup on top of the desk. “And here's a pen, sir.” She practically threw the pen at him.

“Thank you, but your family's still headed to 6.” He simply said while signing and initialing the stack of paperwork he was given. It seemed a bit of an overkill in his opinion.

The nurse turned as white as a sheet upon hearing Coriolanus’ words, but she didn't dare try to fight him on it. Her family's fate was sealed by the sadistic head gamemaker, a man whose temperament was worse than his father, the late General Crassus Snow.

Once Coriolanus was finished with your paperwork, he left the front desk without so much as a thank you or a goodnight to the nurse, and returned to your room. You were sitting on the bed watching some late night rerun on Capitol tv whenever he entered your room. Looking between you and the tv, he chuckled, “You like the god awful cooking show where the chef curses out his potential staff?”

“We only get 3 channels on our tv back home in District 12 and this is one of the channels.” You explained to him while he made his way further into the room. Truthfully, you were lucky to even have a tv since you lived in the Seam. Your brother Rein and his girlfriend, Ashlie, had scrimped and saved for years to be able to buy the thing. It was small and second hand; only picked up 3 channels. The Capitol News, Capitol Movie Classics, and Capitol Channel 3. You wished there were more channels, but you were grateful for the ones you had. Most people in the Seam didn't even have that. You know that your neighbor, Corbin, and his Auntie (a mining widow) didn't even have a tv. 

As Coriolanus placed your paperwork down on your side table, you stared right at the tv (as the top chef called one of his potential staff a stupid fucking donkey for burning a risotto) and honestly revealed, “Plus watching all of these chefs get cursed out and treated horribly by their potential boss reminds me that somebody out there has it worse than me. Even though I live in the Seam with my coal miner brother and his girlfriend, who's a local barmaid at the hob, nobody's ever treated me as horribly and rudely as that award winning chef treats the people competing on his show for a job in his restaurant.”

“Hmmm…” Coriolanus hummed. Standing by your side, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear while asking, “And what of your mother?”

“I haven't seen her since she ran off when I was 5 and Rein was 15.” You flatly remarked.

“I see.” The platinum blonde man nodded. He felt rage boil in his cold, icy veins. How could somebody leave you as a child? You were so perfect, so innocent. You didn't deserve to be willingly abandoned by your mother. Oh, if he ever got a hold of that useless bitch she was dead. He'd make sure that she died a torturous death too.

“You signed me out AMA?” You asked, glancing over the form that was on your side table 

“Yes, I signed you out against medical advice because the staff here is doing you, my darling rose, more harm then good. They're too incompetent to care for my Victor and you, Y/N, deserve nothing but the best care.” Moving to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, he told you, “I had your reaping dress cleaned and brought here for you when you were admitted. I thought you'd feel more comfortable in that than your uniform from the arena.”

“Thank you, Head Gam-Coriolanus. I appreciate it.” You thanked him, a bit nervous about what name to call him. In the end you decided to just call him Coriolanus, but it still felt heavy and wrong on your tongue.

“Please, just call me Coryo.” He countered while crossing the room with your simple cotton floral dress in hand. “Now let's get you out of your hospital gown and into your pretty dress so we can go home.” He suggested while coming to a stop right at your bedside.

Instead of standing and stripping naked like Coriolanus thought you'd do, you arched a brow at him instead only to ask, “Home? But I thought you were taking me to a penthouse here in the Capitol?” 

“I am taking you to the Corso penthouse which is now your new home, my darling rose.” He slowly explained to you, as if you were a small child, while placing your dress down on the bed. Shaking his head, he grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to stand up. 

“What the hell are you doing, Coriolanus?!” You shrieked, pulling away from him as he started to untie your hospital gown. 

Grabbing you roughly by the upper arms and turning you to look at him, he stared down at you with cold, icy eyes. “I'm tired and want to go home and get some sleep. You will be a good girl and let me help you change.” 

You tried to break his hold while assuring him, “I can get changed myself. You can go wait in the hall, Coriolanus.”

“No, my darling rose, you can't. Now, be a good girl and let me help you so we can get out of here.” He told you in a tone that was sickeningly sweet.

“Corio-” You began to protest, only for him to slap you across the face. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as your hand automatically flew up to cradle your stinging cheek.

“I told you to be a good girl and let me help you, Y/N.” He sighed. 

“You hit me…” You trailed off in shock as tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Oh, my darling rose, I didn't mean to hurt you.” The pretty platinum blonde man cooed while prying your hand away from the cheek that he’d struck in his frustrated anger. His blue eyes raked over your cheek, which was raw and red from the slap. Seeing your tears rolling hotly down your cheeks turned him on, as horrible as that sounded. Brushing his knuckles along your puffy cheekbone, that would surely bruise within an hour or so, he softly said, “I don't like brats and backtalk, Y/N. If only you were a good girl then I wouldn't have slapped you.”

His words left your mind going a mile a minute. So, wait, it was your fault he slapped you? All because you didn't want his help changing? That didn't make sense. Should it make sense?

You were drawn out of your mental musings whenever you felt Coriolanus’ tongue lap up the tears along your cheek. Your breath hitched at the action. Your felt a tightness in your chest and a fluttering in your lower belly as he tilted your face to lick the tears of your untouched cheek. 

As his tongue traced your cheekbone, lapping up the salty tear stains on your skin, you felt a tingle in your core. Oh no. You can't have this reaction to him. It's wrong; he’s a married man and older than you. Hell, he's even older than your older brother.

Even though you knew being turned on by him was wrong, it didn't stop you from rubbing your thighs together.

When he pulled away from you, he gave you a lined smile and suggested, “Now that we have an understanding, let's get you in your pretty dress so we can go home.”

Your head was fuzzy with want and you had a slight ache in between your legs, so you were in no shape to protest or fight back. “Okay.” Your breath was shaky as you nodded. “Okay.”

“Seems like I have quite the effect on you, my darling rose.” Coriolanus smirked as his nose ran along your jawline. Your heartbeat was beating quickly, perhaps too quickly, while you felt heat pool in between your legs. Oh god, you've never felt like this before (yea, you've been turned on before, but not to the point where you felt uncomfortable and wanted to rip your hair out) and it both startled and excited you. 

He licked the shell of your ear, causing a shiver to run down your spine. “I must confess, Y/N, that you also have quite the effect on me.” He whispered into your ear before pulling away and leaving you to stare up at him with shock all over your face. “Don't look so shocked, my darling. You’re very beautiful and you're resilient; a victor.” 

Turning you around, he gently untied your hospital gown as if he was untying the bows to his favorite piece of lingerie. When he was done, he spun you around, nearly knocking you off balance and slid the gown off your shoulders. Your eyes darted to the floor as your breasts were exposed to him. You felt so small under his gaze and towering form as he slid the gown the rest of the way off you. 

“You have such nice tits.” Coriolanus smiled in awe, lust shining in his eyes, as he began to palm your nice tits.

“Coriolanus-” You started, only for him to cut you off with the request of, “Coryo, call me Coryo.”, as he began to run his thumbs over your nipples while cupping your tits in his large, calloused hands.

“Coryo, we can't do this here. We're in my hospital room.” You told him despite his actions causing you to get even wetter then you already were between your legs.

“It's a private room, my darling rose. I paid enough for it, so I don't see the harm in us getting my money's worth.”

What the hell did he mean by that? Did he seriously want to mess around in your hospital room? Oh no. No, no, no. No. You're drawing that line at that. 

Your hands wrapped around his wrist as you told him, “I just want to get out of here, Coryo. You promised to take me home, remember?”

You prayed that your words knocked some sense into him because you didn't want your first time doing sexual things to be in a hospital room, where a nurse could walk in at any time, with him (he was a married man for God's sakes!).

His demeanor deflated and he sighed, “Yes, my darling rose, I did promise you that didn't I?”, while pulling away from you. He grabbed your dress from the bed and motioned for you to lift up your hands.

“What about my underwear?” You asked, feeling a bit exposed as Coryo looked you up and down with a hungry glint in his eye. It was as if he was a starving man and you were a juicy steak ready to eat.

“You don't need them, darling. Once we get to our penthouse you'll be changing into a shirt to sleep in anyways.” He explained while motioning, once again, for you to lift your arms. This time you obeyed him and he pulled your best floral dress over your head. He smoothed it out, only to press a kiss to your forehead and smile. “You're all ready to go, my Victor.”

The car ride to the luxury penthouse seemed to take ages. You were alone with Coriolanus since he was driving and it made you feel a bit uncomfortable. After what happened in your hospital room (him stripping you and groping your boobs) you didn't think it was a good idea to be alone with him. He was married and you didn't want to lose your innocence, all of your firsts, your virginity to a man that would never be yours no matter the chemistry or effect you had on each other.

You were staring aimlessly out the window when Coryo startled you by placing a hand on your thigh. You didn't say a word, just sighed uncomfortably.

Looking over at you with a worried expression, Coriolanus asked, “What's wrong, Y/N? You seem troubled.”

Pulling your eyes off the window, you snapped your head to look at the platinum blonde in the driver's seat and honestly told him how you felt. “You shouldn't be resting your hand on my thigh, Coryo. You’re married.”

The gold ring on his finger mocked him as it shines against the red and cream floral fabric of your dress. He never had anyone turn him down because of that thin gold band he was branded with by saying ‘I do’ to Livia Cardew, well that is until now. Coriolanus knew that you were young and innocent from District 12 so the thought of being a mistress would horrify you. He knew that he had to ease your worries, so he simply told you, “Don't worry about my wife, darling. I’m taking care of everything; she won't be my wife much longer.”

“I wasn't aware ya’ll were having marriage problems. The Capitol gossip rags make it seem like the marriage is a happy one.”

“Things aren't always as they seem here in the Capitol, my darling rose.” He told you before correcting your grammar with a stern, “And it's I wasn't aware that you were having marital problems.” Patting you on the thigh as he switched lanes, he explained, “You're not in District 12 anymore and since you'll be staying here in the Capitol for a while it's best that you learn how to speak properly; like a Capitol citizen.”

You didn't say a word, just numbly nodded. You never thought that staying in the Capitol while Victor’s Village and your house was constructed meant changing how you talked. You never thought you talked strange, well until now. “Do I sound weird when I talk, Coryo?” You asked, staring at the side of his face as he drove.

“No.” He shook his head. “We just need to work on some small grammar errors here and there, but no, darling, you sound just fine when you talk.”

“Oh…” You trailed off, turning your attention back to looking out your window. 

He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze, “You're a rose that just needs some extra pruning and tender care, but fortunately for you I'm an excellent gardener that favors white roses.” His thumb grazed your thigh as he explained, “White roses are the perfect symbol of purity and perfection.” As he pulled up to a large building, his baritone heavily hung in the air with the meaningful words of, “Unblemished; untouched, just like you, my darling rose.”

But how long would you be Unblemished and untouched? Would he take your innocence as soon as you entered the penthouse or would he wait until he was free from his wife? The bigger question was did you even want him to take your innocence? To give you all of your first experiences with a man? Now that was the million dollar question you didn't have an answer for. Or maybe you did, but didn't want to acknowledge it.

AN: Did anyone catch the tv show easter egg I threw in there?

Tags: @kuroosbby001 , @purriteen , @poppyflower-22 , @meetmeatyourworst , @whipwhoops , @bxtchopolis, @readingthingsonhere,@savagenctzen, @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans, @sudek4l, @wearemadeofstardust0, @mashiromochi, @gracieroxzy, @belcalis9503, @shari-berri

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #thg #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow smut #coryo snow x reader #coryo x reader #coryo snow fanfiction #coryo snow #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow #tom blyth #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games x reader

[bookishcarmela]

Shadows of Affection

warnings: none

Coriolanus Snow x reader, slight Felix Ravinstill x reader

Chapter 6: mothers warning

Walking out of the citadel, you maintained a facade of calm and composure until you turned a corner and stumbled into an alleyway. Collapsing against the cool bricks, you curled up, trying to make sense of the chaos that unfolded. The sun's harsh rays aggravated your eyes, and your breath came in uneven gasps, a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through your veins. The recent events left me bewildered — had Clemensia met the same fate as Arachne? Confusion, anger, and fear consumed you. Fear of Dr. Gaul, fear of the Capitol, fear of everything. If those meant to protect you played recklessly with your life, how could you trust anyone? The foundations of trust shattered, leaving me with an unsettling question: How does one survive when trust is a luxury denied.

A surge of bile clawed its way from your stomach to your throat, a visceral response to the overwhelming horror that unfolded. "I don't want this. I never wanted any of this," echoed within you. Arachne's desperate plea for life, Clemensia's piercing screams, and Dr. Gaul's threat reverberated in your mind. Tears streamed down your cheeks, and an agonizing scream clawed at your throat. In that moment, you longed for the comfort of your father, to be cradled in your arms, reassured that everything would be okay. The yearning for solace, love, and the affirmation that the world could still be gentle felt like an ache in your bones.

You sat there, cradling yourself in the aftermath, feeling like hours had passed before summoning the courage to stand. The thought of going to school in your current state was unbearable, so you opted to walk home. The journey was an attempt to compose yourself before facing the dreaded meeting with Quincy. Upon reaching home, you pushed everything deep down, almost as if you could blur out the memories of the harrowing ordeal. Entering your house, you presented yourself with a façade of composure, holding your head high. Christa informed you that Quincy was waiting in his office.

Ascending the stairs, you took a deep breath before opening the door. Quincy sat at a grand mahogany desk in a cream-colored room adorned with old portraits. He wore a tailored suit, engrossed in scattered papers. Behind him, a tall bookcase held ancient-looking books, and the room carried the faint scent of old leather and sandalwood. It exuded an air of calm refinement, a space for focused work and deep thought. Despite the serene surroundings, an overwhelming hatred for Quincy simmered within you. This office, once your father's, now occupied by Quincy, felt like an intrusion—a desecration of your family's legacy. He, an impostor, a new money nobody, acting as if he owned the place, stirred a profound sense of disgust within you.

As you fully entered Quincy's study, meeting his cold stare head-on. He reclined in his chair, eyeing you with disdain. “Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. Out all night, I hear? Care to explain where you vanished to?”

You stood tall, offering a sly smile. “Missed me, Quincy?”

Quincy chuckled, dripping with condescension. “Ah, the rebel speaks. Remember, young lady, you’re under my roof now. My rules apply here. I won’t have you gallivanting around all hours of the night.”

you, met Quincy's gaze with a smirk. “Oh, I’m well aware,” you retorted, your voice laced with subtle sarcasm. “But let's get it straight, Quincy. This isn’t your house; it’s my father’s. You're just another fleeting presence, new money in old walls, trying to act like somebody.”

Quincy's demeanor shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Watch your tone—”

“Tone?” you interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with my tone. But there’s everything wrong with a nobody like you trying to play the lord of the manor in someone else’s estate. You’re just a tiny blip in a grand legacy, Quincy. Remember that.”

“Our little princess thinks she’s clever,” he remarked with a smirk. “But remember, Y/n, time’s ticking. One day you’ll be out of here, and then we’ll see how far your wits take you.”

Your smirk mirrored his. “Add 'escaping a palace of egos' to my list of talents, Quincy. Consider it a challenge.” With your confidence unshaken, you turned on your heel, leaving Quincy stewing in his chair.

After the small victory in a day filled with horror, you convinced yourself that you deserved the small reward of a nap. As soon as you entered your room, you collapsed onto your bed and fell into a deep sleep. What was intended to be a short nap turned into a long slumber. When you finally woke up, the sun had already set, and the house was shrouded in silence, indicating everyone else was asleep. Making your way downstairs, you headed to the kitchen.

As you padded into the kitchen for water, you stumbled upon your mother, swaying slightly with an expensive bottle of wine in hand. Your mother's gaze fixated on you, her words slurred. "Where were you last night? You can't just go around doing whatever you want."

you, exhausted and caught off guard, retorted with a sharp tongue,

 "I'm merely following your example, Mother. Trying to keep up with your illustrious standards."Your mother's eyes narrowed, her words biting.

 "Don't get cheeky with me, Y/n. Why were you with the Snow boy?" Your surprise was evident. "How do you know that?" you demanded. 

Your mother chuckled, a mocking laugh. "The maids saw you come home in clothes that weren't yours. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. So, I'll ask again, What were you doing with that boy?"Attempting to deny it, You were swiftly interrupted. 

"I'm not oblivious, Y/n," Your mother interjected firmly. "I know what happens outside this house. You should steer clear of Coriolanus and focus on Felix." Your frustration boiled over. "I'm not interested in Felix like that," you protested. Your mother persisted, warning you of the dangers. 

"Coriolanus is bad for you. You're walking down a dangerous path. You only like him because he challenges you, you see a part of yourself in him, but he's just like his father—full of nothing but hate." Your temper flared. 

"You don't know anything about him or me!"

"I know more than you think," your mother countered, her voice edged with regret. 

"You're just like me, Y/n. We're alike, and I made that mistake with your father. Don't be a fool. Marry Felix; it's safer to marry someone who loves you more than you love them."Anger and hurt flooded you, and you stormed out, seething, leaving your mother's words hanging in the air, unspoken retorts lingering on your tongue.

Despite it being a Saturday, the entire student body convened for homeroom before assembling on the Academy's front steps for Arachne Crane's funeral. Draped in a slim knee-length black dress beneath a tasteful black coat, you adorned yourself with a string of white pearls. As everyone filed in, you scanned the somber crowd, searching for the familiar faces of Sejanus and Coriolanus. It didn't take long before spotting them, but as you moved toward them, a hand gently but firmly intercepted yours, pulling you back. You turned to see Felix, and your mind echoed the conversation with your mother, her cautionary words ringing clear: "Don't repeat my mistake."

As Felix greeted you, with his signature smile "Y/n, you look absolutely captivating today, even amidst such a solemn occasion."

Caught slightly off guard but appreciating the gesture, you asked, "Did you need something, Felix?"

He responded with a charming grin, "Just ensuring you have the best seat in the house." He mentioned he had secured a seat for you next to him, to which you expressed gratitude.

Placing a reassuring hand on the small of your back, he guided you toward the seating area. Glancing back toward where Sejanus and Coriolanus sat, your gaze faltered for a moment before you refocused on Felix.

Surprisingly, you bypassed all the other seats, and you hesitated, "Felix, we just passed all the seats." He chuckled softly, "Yes, because you're sitting with me."

Your protests about seating arrangements in areas reserved for government officials and the president's family were met with Felix's warm smile, "Well, I'm the president's son, and I want 

you by my side. Who's to say I can't arrange that?" He led you confidently up toward the stage where the president presided.

As you sat beside Felix, looking out above the assembly, you couldn't deny the allure of the situation. Above the crowd, by Felix's side, thoughts stirred within you. Maybe being with someone like Felix wouldn't be as dire as you imagined. He was handsome, kind, and his status would ensure security, shielding you from the turmoil I'd known. Contemplating a future with him, you entertained the notion that perhaps this could be the right path for you.

In the midst of contemplating a future secured by Felix's charm and status, you found your certainty faltering when you locked eyes with Coriolanus. His disapproving gaze, unaffected by Sejanus's conversation beside him, pierced through you. Yet, you maintain your composure, meeting his stare head-on. He had no right to scrutinize you, especially considering his own entanglement with his little songbird, just as you sought solace with Felix. Maybe, reluctantly, your mother was right—Coriolanus and you weren't meant to be. President Ravenstill's words interrupted your thoughts, honoring the life of Arachne Crane and emphasizing the Capitol's justice to Panem.

The funeral procession emerged, showcasing the Capitol's power. The Peacekeepers, flawless and imposing, marched in unity, followed by a truck bearing the body of the fallen District 10 tribute, Brandy. The remaining tributes, chained and desolate, reminded everyone of the Capitol's dominance over the districts.

The sight of Brandy evoked haunting memories of Arachne's desperate pleas for life. Felix's reassuring grip on your hand offered comfort, a silent promise that things would be alright despite the grim circumstances.

After the funeral concluded, classes resumed their routine, yet Satyria gathered the twenty-two active mentors for an urgent briefing. She revealed that not only were the Hunger Games proceeding, but they were expected to be the most publicized yet. To amplify visibility, the mentors were tasked with guiding their tributes on an arena tour later that afternoon. Although you weren't a mentor, you would substitute for Dr. Gaul, functioning as an insider to scrutinize the arena and observe the mentor-tribute dynamics, reporting your findings back to her.

Despite the air of reluctance among your classmates, none dared to voice concerns; several parents had lodged complaints about inadequate security post-Arachne's death, yet silence prevailed to avoid appearing cowardly. You couldn't shake the feeling of danger and recklessness surrounding the plan. What prevented other tributes from turning on their mentors? However, you kept your reservations to yourself. A cynical part of you speculated whether Dr. Gaul was secretly hoping for another display of violence to publicly penalize another tribute, perhaps even live on camera. 

As you stepped out into the sweltering heat, the scene before you unfolded like a grim tableau. The tributes, shackled and guarded, formed a stark line, their presence a stark reminder of the Capitol's unyielding grip. Without a tribute of your own, you positioned yourself beside Professor Sickle, your gaze shifting between the tributes and the boarded-up booths, relics of a time long gone.

The Peacekeepers orchestrated the movements with precision, unlocking the colossal doors to reveal a cavernous lobby. A sense of desolation hung heavy in the air, the remnants of an era left behind by conflict and upheaval. As you ventured deeper into the building, you observed the faded posters and abandoned booths, once vibrant but now tainted by neglect. In the midst of the grandeur marking the Royce family's entrance, a set of dusty turnstiles stood forgotten nearby. These old-fashioned barriers demanded a Capitol token for access, a stark contrast to the exclusive entryway marked by a velvet rope. You couldn't shake the sense of distinction—the other entry seemed for everyday visitors, while the Royce box held comforts from a time when your father was present.

The stark division in the arena was evident. The Royce area boasted luxuries like air-conditioning and plush seats, reminiscent of better days. On the other hand, the Bradford box emitted a vibe of new wealth, exuding an almost obnoxious display of affluence that you found distasteful. The contrast felt overwhelming, amplifying the disparities within the arena. 

your early experiences at the arena were marked by childhood visits to the circus and military events led by your father. For nearly a decade, you'd watched the Games from the Braford box, yet nothing quite matched the overwhelming feeling when you stepped onto the field through the main gate.

The sheer size and grandeur of the arena amazed both mentors and tributes, leaving them breathless in the face of such decayed magnificence. The towering rows of seats made you feel minuscule, a mere drop in an ocean, an unnoticed presence amid the colossal setting. The arrival of camera crews snapped you back to reality, and you adopted the composed demeanor of a Royce, portraying an air of indifference to the spectacle around you.

As you surveyed the arena, nothing particularly noteworthy caught your attention. The decrepit grandeur held no secrets or revelations to report back to Dr. Gaul. Dismissing the lack of interest, you spotted Felix among the mentors and made your way towards him, your footsteps echoing faintly in the colossal space.

Joining him, you said, "Quite a different perspective from down here, isn't it? The raw reality of the Games without the comfort of the boxes."

Felix nodded, his eyes still on the tributes. "Indeed. It's a stark contrast to the polished image we're used to."

Your conversation took a turn as Felix, with a playful grin, remarked, "You know, Y/n, it might be interesting to experience the Games from this angle more often."

you arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in your eyes. "Is that so?"

Felix leaned in slightly, his tone flirtatious. "How about dinner after this? A change of scenery, perhaps?"

you hesitated for a moment, thoughts of Coriolanus flickering in your mind. Yet, a reminder of your mother's words lingered –always marry someone that loves you more than you love them. Suppressing conflicting emotions, you smiled at Felix. 

"Sure, dinner sounds wonderful."

As you continued to watch the tributes below, you wrestled with your feelings, determined to prioritize your future over the complexities of your heart.

For a moment you smiled, letting a blush show on your cheeks, forgetting where you were, how depressing the backdrop. For a moment there was just felix's smile, and the hint of flirtation in it.

Then the world exploded. 

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #a ballad of songbirds and snakes #sejanus plinth #coriolanus x lucy gray #lucy gray x coriolanus #the hunger games #my fic #fanfic #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #lucy grey baird #young coriolanus snow #x reader #x y/n #x you

[starry-crossing-zone]

The Medic - Echo (TBB) (Part 2)

Summary: Echo returns to his medic for help after the Bad Batch is betrayed by Sid. Length: 2475 words Warnings: Unnamed Female Medic (Can Read as Reader or OC), Canon Angst, Some Body Dysmorphia (Echo); References to the Citadel; Fives is Brought Up; Tears; Happy Ending **Picks up right after Season 2 ends. Written before Season 3 came out but is compliant with it. No spoilers.

Part 1

After Sid’s betrayal, Echo was first and foremost focused on getting somewhere safe to regroup. They needed to heal. They needed to gather information and supplies. And they needed to have a plan. Running after Omega blindly wasn’t going to solve anything.

They needed help.

“Where are we going?” Hunter asked Echo, walking into the cockpit.

“Somewhere safe,” Echo replied, keeping his gaze forward.

“Pabu?”

“No, somewhere different. Somewhere with brothers who can help us. Rex showed me a colony of clone deserters. Some were rescued directly from the Empire, so they may be able to help us.”

Hunter nodded and turned to sit at the computer, slowly typing away. Echo tried not to stare, knowing that the sergeant was still slightly manic from watching Omega be taken away. And Echo didn't need to be a medic to know that Hunter was still in pain from his injuries from their failed mission.

The weight of losing Omega so soon after losing Tech weighed heavily on the Bad Batch. And Echo needed to get them somewhere safe before something else happened.

Pulling out of hyperspace, Echo maneuvered the Marauder down to the same landing patch. Once the Marauder touched down and the landing sequence was complete, Echo stood up.

“I’m going to speak with my contact here. I’ll be back.”

Hunter nodded and Echo disembarked from the Marauder. Walking around the ship, he wasn’t shocked to see some of his brothers lined up with blasters. But when they spotted him, they lowered them. Echo walked forward and greeted them before getting straight to business.

“We were attacked. We need a medic.”

Echo gave her name and the clones nodded before walking off to contact her. Looking up at the Marauder for a moment, Echo followed after them.

*~*~*~*

When she heard that Echo had returned, albeit with a different ship and brothers, she hurried to meet him. Turning NAN back on, she jumped on her speeder and took off, her heart pounding in her chest. If Echo asked for her by name, that had to mean that he was conscious. And not severely injured. Right? But that didn’t make her blood pressure go down.

Slowing her speeder down, she slid off of it and grabbed her medic bag, barely breaking her stride as she ran down the hill. Echo turned around at the sound of footsteps and straightened up when he saw her approaching. She stopped in front of him, managing her desire to throw her arms around him.

“You came back,” she stated softly, reminding him of their conversations after battle.

“I need your help,” he replied, causing her to nod. “We were attacked. Our mission . . . everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. I have two brothers injured and they’re very sensitive right now. We lost two of our own.” Echo looked back at the ship before returning his gaze to her. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’ll look at them,” she promised him.

Echo led the way into the Marauder before guiding her over to Hunter. After a brief round of introductions and an explanation of his enhancements, she started her assessment. Working diligently and professionally, she patched him up before reaching into her bag. Pulling out a pill bottle, she turned back to Hunter.

“How does your body take medicine compared to a normal clone?”

“Usually, they give me half or less of the normal dosage,” Hunter explained slowly, causing her to nod. “Tech had it all written out somewhere.”

“What about sleep pills? Did you ever try them?”

“A long time ago. When I was still a youngling.”

“How much did you take then?”

“A quarter of a pill.”

“Then let’s try half a pill,” she prescribed, moving to break a sleeping pill in half.

“I don’t need sleeping pills,” Hunter stated, straightening up.

“You need a bacta chamber, but we don’t have one of those here.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Muscling through the pain will only prolong your recovery,” she replied calmly, breaking a sleeping pill in half. “And right now, the best thing that you can do is have a good night’s sleep. Let your body relax and repair itself.” She held out the half pill to Hunter, who stared down at it. “There’s no shame in accepting help when you need it, Sergeant.”

Hunter stared at the pill for another moment before picking it up. She poured him some water before turning back to Echo. Leaving Hunter, Echo led her down the hall to where Wrecker was sitting. Echo made introductions again before she began to assess him as well.

“You definitely took some hard hits,” she commented, assessing Wrecker’s neck and spine. “Luckily, whoever set your casts did it correctly, so I don't have to redo them.”

“Echo did them,” Wrecker explained, causing her to turn to him.

“You taught me,” Echo reminded her, a bit sheepishly, earning a soft smile in return.

“I remember.”

Giving Wrecker some medication and a pain killer so that he could sleep peacefully as well, she packed up her med kit and made her way off the Marauder. Echo offered to walk her to her speeder, and she accepted. Throwing her leg over it, she offered him a smile that was brimming with anxiety.

“They’ll be alright, Echo. They just need some time to heal.” She let a moment pass before she asked, “Are you sure that you don’t need any medical attention?”

“I’m mostly machine. And metal can take hits better,” Echo replied, causing her to wince. “I’m fine. Thank you for taking care of them.”

“Of course.”

They stared at each other for some time, just silently communicating how relieved they were to see each other again. And in one piece, for another. She wanted to stay. She wanted to speak with Echo. To tell him. But he had just lost members of his squad and she knew that he wasn't in any shape to have that kind of discussion.

And then her alarm went off and she knew that she had to go.

“How long will you be staying?” she asked softly.

“I’m not sure. A few days? However long it takes for Hunter and Wrecker to heal some more.”

“Come visit my hut whenever you can. I’ll give you the coordinates.” She gently grabbed his arm and typed them into his vambrace, before releasing him. “Just . . . before you go.”

“I will,” he promised her, causing her to smile.

“Thank you.”

They bid their goodbyes before she rode off into the night. Echo watched her go until the small dust cloud from her speeder dissipated. Returning to the Marauder, Echo stepped into the barracks. Wrecker was already snoring in his bunk, but Hunter still seemed to be awake. Echo silently climbed up into his hammock and settled in for the night.

“That’s her?” Hunter asked quietly, causing Echo to look down.

“Yeah . . . that’s her.”

*~*~*~*

“Jemis! What did I tell you about biting your brother?” she scolded, pulling her son off of his twin. Marching over to the cot, she placed him down in toddler jail and when he started to pout and cry, she kneeled down to his height. “Don’t bite your brother, Jemis.”

Leaving Jemis to sit there for a moment, she turned to pick up her other sobbing son, who was holding out his arm to show her the bite mark. She pressed a kiss to the bite site before cuddling him into her chest and rocking him back and forth.

“I know, Rubem. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

When she soothed Rubem enough for him to focus on his toys again, she walked over to free Jemis from toddler jail. Picking her younger son up, she brought him back to her chest and pressed a kiss to the dark hair atop his head.

“Now, if you stop biting your brother, you’ll stop going into toddler jail, alright?” she promised him, wiping his tears and snot away from his face. Pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek, she set him down beside his brother again. “There, now can we have peace in this house for one moment?”

A knock at the door caused her to whirl around. Tapping NAN in for a moment to watch the twins, she made her way to the front door. She glanced out the window and sucked in a breath when she spotted Echo standing there. Taking a moment to gather herself, she opened the door.

“Hi, Echo," she greeted him nervously.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked, causing her to shake her head.

“No, no, come in.”

Sitting down at the table, Echo thanked her as she ran and grabbed him a cup of caf. They chatted casually, trying to ease into the conversation. They had a long history with each other, but with everything that had happened since the Citadel, it was best to be cautious.

“It’s a lovely hut,” Echo stated, causing her to nod. “Very spacious.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here . . . alone?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Echo replied awkwardly, causing her to pick her head up.

“Echo,” she stated, causing him to meet her gaze, “there’s something that I need to tell you.”

Here it was, Echo thought to himself. The moment that she told him that she had moved on and there was no way that they could ever go back to anything like they had before the Citadel. At least she was being kind about it.

“After the Citadel . . . there was more than one reason why I left the GAR. Fives came to tell me about . . . and I sort of passed out. He called Kix, who ran some tests, and Kix diagnosed me with a condition.” Fiddling with her fingers, she looked up at Echo, who was on the edge of his seat with worry. “Pregnancy.”

“You—”

Echo eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he went rigid. Almost like a robot. Pregnant. She was pregnant. Well, she was pregnant. She clearly wasn’t pregnant anymore. She had been pregnant. He sacrificed himself and he left her behind, pregnant and alone. He left her pregnant. He got her pregnant.

Kriff.

“And about six months after I thought you . . . I had our sons.”

“Sons?” Echo finally rasped, causing her to smile and nod.

“Identical twins. Fives thought that it was the funniest thing in the galaxy that a clone had identical twin boys.” Wiping tears from her eyes, she turned back to Echo. “He would have given you such a hard time about it. He actually read through the entire regulation manual to find the section that explicitly outlawed fraternization between civilians and clones.”

“I can imagine,” Echo croaked, struggling to keep his voice level. “Where . . . where are they?”

“Here. In the other room.”

“Can . . . can I . . .?”

She got up and gently grabbed his hand, pulling him with her. Opening the door to the nursery, she released his hand and stepped over the toys. Thanking NAN, she scooped her boys up and turned to Echo, who stood frozen at the door. She hefted her boys up and smiled as Echo stared at them with wonder.

“Our older twin is named Rubem. And our younger twin is Jemis.” Turning back to Echo, she added, “I wanted to name them after Fives in some way, because I thought it was what you would have wanted, and so both of their names have five letters.”

“You know,” Echo croaked, throat clogged with emotion and tears started to stream down his cheeks, “if he was here, he would have joked that they look more like him than me.”

“He definitely would,” she agreed, lips wobbling with emotion.

*~*~*~*

Hunter walked down the path that Echo had, tracing his steps. He talked with some of the other clone deserters that lived here and was gathering leads on where to look for Omega. Wrecker wasn’t in any mood to discuss them, though, so Hunter came in search of Echo.

Looking up, Hunter could see Echo sitting out on a porch. But Hunter wasn’t expecting to see two toddlers on the porch with him.

The medic sat beside Echo with one toddler in her lap, who looked distinctly clone-like, while Echo lifted the other into the air with his human arm. Echo laid on his back and did upside down pushups with his son Rubem, who giggled and squirmed in his hold. Holding Rubem above his head, Echo gently lowered his son until his and Rubem’s foreheads rested against each other.

He had struggled with physical touch ever since Skako Minor. His body had not been his own for so long that he felt protective over it. And also deeply ashamed of it. Ashamed of his grey skin, the metal parts sticking out of his head, all of it.

But Rubem did not care about how he looked. His son simply laughed and grabbed ahold of his dad’s cheeks, smushing his face into Echo’s own. Smiling at the action, Echo turned back to the mother of his children as Rubem continued to headbutt him.

“He’s not the biter, right?”

“No, that would be this little demon,” she replied, setting Jemis on Echo’s chest.

There were a lot of times why Echo wondered if it was all worth it. If all of the suffering and pain was worth it. And after the last few days of his life—kriff, the last few years—he was starting to believe it wasn’t. All of that loss was for nothing. And he was just the last man standing out of sheer bad luck.

But now, holding his sons in his arms, Echo was taken back to all of the times when he knew that it was worth it. His time with his brothers of the Domino Squad. And then his brothers in the 501st. Messing around with Fives. Meeting the future mother of his children. Strategizing with Rex. Joining the Bad Batch. All of the times where he felt like there was nothing in the galaxy that could stop him.

He lost so many of his brothers—too many—but he felt them here now. This was what they had been fighting for. This was who they had been fighting for.

Echo chuckled as he watched Jemis nibble at his skomp. Kriff, this kid was reminding him of Fives. Sharing a look with his partner, Echo smiled as she shook her head at their son’s antics. She smiled teasingly as Jemis looked up at his dad.

“He gets it from your side of the family,” she pointed out to Echo.

“I wouldn’t dare disagree.”

Hunter watched the family interaction from afar. The toddlers in Echo’s arms couldn’t have been anyone other than Echo’s children. Logic was Tech’s business, but Hunter was familiar with the look of a proud father. And he had never seen Echo happier.

Not wanting to interrupt the moment, Hunter turned around and started heading back to the Marauder.

#the bad batch #tbb echo x oc #tbb echo #tbb echo x reader #tbb #echo tbb #arc trooper echo #echo x reader #echo x oc #echo bad batch #arc trooper echo x reader #arc trooper echo x oc #bad batch

[protectorsoftheearth]

I want to talk about Suvi.

We meet Suvi at 6 years old, a young, precocious and traumatised little girl. She is curious and kind and cares very much about being correct about things. It's adorable and watching the children's adventure is an incredible introduction to her.

Cut to several years later, she is a young adult living in the citadel, a wizard, desperate to prove herself, desperate to escape the confines of paper work and that which she sees as beneath her. Desperate for a chance to be seen by her superiors to show off just how much better and home much smarter she is than anyone that has come before us. A story we have seen before, a story that is so easily relatable.

It is in this that Aabria is incredible, not only does Suvi still feel unique whilst playing through some of these tropes it does an incredible job of completely disarming you to what is happening. Suvi's indoctrination is something I did not take seriously at all in the first couple of episodes. It just felt like it was more about her being able to be the smartest in the room and live up to what her parents left behind, being able to prove herself and the manner in which she was trying to do that was secondary. There was still that snippyness that cockiness and superiority of a young person who has been given too much power that made her kind of an asshole but still ostensibly a good person.

And then she murdered the captain. And all that came after that. There's was a moment of humanity afforded the captain from Suvi until she saw the tattoo and then Suvi turned. It isn't even that Suvi no longer saw her worthy of being treated with humanity, it is that Suvi saw her as less than human. She is so happy to have killed this person, not because it was in defence of her friends, but in defence of the empire. She was so happy to turn that badge round, with no regret, a pride and a need to show off what she had done to those in the know. Then in the conversation with Eursalon when he said that hurting people never felt good and was never easy, Suvi went quiet. Because to her, killing someone that was, as far as she was concerned, an enemy to the empire, was good and right and felt so.

I think it's a fascinating display of how indoctrination and brainwashing can rob you of your own humanity and fundamentally, whilst you are making those choices, you cannot be a good person.

Aabria's display of this indoctrination and brainwashing is incredible. I am so excited to listen to the story she is about to tell.

#worlds beyond number #aabria iyengar #quiddie #suvi #Suvirin Kedberiket #it had to really prevent myself from just gushing about how good of a player aabria is #cause i really wanted to talk about the story and the characterisation of suci #the amount of times i could have gone off on a tangent anout how masterful aabria is at roleplaying

[theshadowrealmitself]

I am,, so upset, there’s one aspect I’m obsessed with from Rick and Morty that the fandom doesn’t even explore and I don’t know where else to get that specific thing

The thing I’m obsessed with is this idea that in this citadel area, there’s always a Rick and Morty, maybe some other family members, but never ever a Diane, like she’s cursed to die young in most of them or something, she just never makes it to the citadel

Until one day, they find a Rickless Diane and bring her to the citadel (there could be a lot of different reasons why this one is here, but the reason I’ve been defaulting to is that she’s from outside the curve, is the smartest of her universe, and broke into the curve to see if there was anything fun in it, she doesn’t tell anyone she has her own portal tech or where she came from, they’re just like “oh my god this poor Diane with no Rick we have to interfere)

And I just wanna know how that would go, would the Ricks like her? would they hate seeing her because of the memories it brings up about their Dianes? she’d definitely have to worry about some Ricks trying to use her to replace their dead wives, and then what of the Mortys? I feel like organic Mortys might not take to her as easily, but cloned Mortys and the like who don’t actually have a grandma Diane would be excited to meet her

I just keep rotating it around in my mind, currently thinking about her working with a Rick who’s developed a crush on her, but she can’t be certain that he’s not just mentally using her as a replacement for a Diane he used to be with so she ignores it

The closest thing I can think of would be Gwen in atsv, but it doesn’t really fit the bill, because the Citadel has a specific type of alternate Ricks and Mortys, whereas Gwen runs into waaaay more varieties of Spiderpeople and they’re not even all versions of Peter Parker so she can easily surround herself with people who have never dated a version of her, and she doesn’t have to see a version of a child/grandchild that happened in so many universes except hers

#gnaws on this concept by myself #and going into the fandom is. weird. #even with certain tags blacklisted when it comes to the citadel stuff it’s never what I’m looking for #does no one care about Diane? #about how her dead wife curse in the citadel would affect a version of her that’s living? #so many posts about her that I see lately are ‘she’s not real’ #that’s such a lukewarm theory in my opinion #I wanna explore as a person #rick and morty #diane sanchez #rick sanchez #morty smith #does she even have a known maiden name? #r&m #sorry for posting Rick and Morty again but. atsv really just. has me thinking about Diane??? #and then there’s not even really stuff for her #citadel of ricks

[alloftheimagines]

mason kane | you are a memory

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

words: 3000+

warnings: set during citadel ep3, angst, pain, blood, nothing more than what's in the show

prompt: Reader/oc is a spy for citadel too but she known she was a citadel spy she was safe when the fall happened and when the train event happened and reader thought that they would let mason live a life without the spy life and them so she would continue help out with rebuilding citadel back up etc. maybe building some assets etc then when Nadia and he goes to the safe house they meet back up there some way or another if that makes sense to like Nadia some how got in contact with reader??  tag: @thefictionalgemini

It feels like you’ve waited centuries for that sound: the door opening. For years, you’ve lived in the safe house alone, never stopping your search for other Citadel members and doing what you can to aid them when needed. But few of them survived, and even less had reason to come to you. 

But you knew, somehow — or at least hoped — that he would come home. That you’d see him again. 

It feels like a dream, then, when Nadia steps through the threshold, offering you a crooked, familiar smirk before shifting aside so he’s in full view behind. There’s a sorrow in her eyes you don’t dare unpack, not yet. For now, your gaze crawls across his frame. He’s barely changed. Hair still short and brushed back, eyes still that unbearably bright blue. Laughter lines bracket his cheeks along with rough, red-tinted stubble, and it feels like no time has passed at all now. An eternity shrinks between you in a second, and your heart restarts, your world turning to colour. 

“Mason,” you whisper, voice cracking, tears brimming. You want to run to him, fall into him and never let go, but Nadia is watching and… he is, too, with furrowed brows. Confused. 

A cold wave crashes through you as you look at Nadia again, and her nod confirms your fear. He doesn’t know you. 

Mason clears his throat, dropping the case to the ground and rubbing his hands together as though trying to warn him. “We know each other, then. You’re the one Nadia told me about. Y/N?” Your name twists across his tongue like a stumbling dancer in their first lesson. Unsure of the steps. Unsure of how it should sound. 

Something inside you cracks, but in all your solitary years here, you’ve never allowed yourself to succumb to all the pain and grief dwelling inside you. You’ve never let yourself give up, not on him or on Citadel. So you tip your chin and hope it doesn’t wobble. 

“I guess you could say that. I was usually in your ear.” You tap an imaginary earpiece, feeling awkward and stiff and lost. More lost, more alone, than you have in this empty house for years. “I worked on communications in Citadel. Never usually in the field.”

“I can’t believe you’re here after all these years,” Nadia said, voice soft as always. It’s clear that while Mason has lost his memories, she has found hers just fine, and you wonder how that’s fair. How it came to be.  “How did you know we were coming?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here since we went dark ten years ago.”

“Are there more?” Mason glanced around, rubbing the back of his neck. “More people waiting for us?”

You shake your head, a pang of well-hidden grief shooting through you. “No. Just me.”

His gaze snaps to you without warning, piercing and all-consuming and utterly surprised. “You’ve been hiding here alone for the last decade?”

“Yep. So if I start talking to myself, don’t be too worried. I’m not used to company.” You smirk and turn away from him, rubbing your aching sternum. “It was Carter who told me to head here. Said he’d be in contact. We were back and forth for years until he went dark, too. The only connection with Citadel I had left. I tried to track him down, but… I don’t have the field experience. Not like you. Think he’s alive, though.”

“You know where he could be?” Nadia asked. 

“I have my theories.”

“As much as I’d love to hear them, I need a shower first. That okay?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She traipses up the stairs with a final, pointed glance as though to say “You’re welcome" for leaving you alone with him. But you’re the opposite of thankful. In front of Nadia, you might be able to act professionally. Unaffected. But it’s just the two of you now, and the man you love doesn’t even know you, and he’d always had a knack for completely unravelling you. 

The silence is stifling. You motion to the living room, to the couch. “You should sit. You look like you’ve had a rough time of it.”

His smile is wry. “That’s one word for it.”

You follow him in, and he sighs as he plonks himself down. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and begins flicking it, and for a moment you’re certain that you were wrong; that he knows himself, knows you. It’s such an old, familiar habit. So many times you listened to that metallic click, let it soothe you as you figured out a plan today. 

He catches you watching, then, and hope is washed away as quickly as it came. There’s none of that old fondness in his eyes, even if natural confidence still oozes from him like blood from a wound. 

He’s Mason, but he isn’t your Mason. 

The man you’ve been waiting for, the man for whom you prayed over and over to be alive, is not here anymore.

“Didn’t Bernard ever contact you?” he asks finally. 

“No.” You narrow your eyes, wishing you were comfortable enough to sit beside him. Wishing you could reach out, touch him. Ask him where he’s been. You’re not sure you want to know. A lot can happen in ten years, especially to a man who doesn’t know his own name. “Should he have?”

“He’s the one who came to me. Told me who I was. He needed my help.”

That bastard. He’d left you in the dark. Disposed of you. You want to believe that he walked away too, that he needed it to be this way to keep any agents still living safe, but… He could have contacted you. Could have found you here. This safe house is one of the few Citadel-owned places left untouched, unknown by your enemies. Perhaps the silence had protected you, but it also drove you crazy. You’d felt like a prisoner most days, always waiting for your computer to ping or an agent to show up and liberate you. 

You’d wasted your life waiting. For Bernard. For Mason. For Citadel. 

Your fists clench at your sides, and you can no longer look at Mason. “I didn’t think you’d made it out,” you admitted, voice thickening just slightly. “I thought you were dead.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “They just left you here, no contact with any of us? Why?”

“Maybe they didn’t want anybody finding out about this place. It’s the only sanctuary we have left. They wouldn’t compromise that by communicating with me, and honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. Citadel was my life. I had to keep trying, keep hoping…” 

It’s a lie, of course. Mason was your life. Citadel was a close second. Bernard had known that; perhaps that’s why he hadn’t bothered to find a way through to you. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted you to know that Mason was still alive, because you’d never been discrete about your feelings for him. You wouldn’t have let him go without a fight, and they’d needed their entire operations to become invisible. 

They needed him to forget while you stayed here, a ghost in a house much too big for one person. They’d known that you’d wait for eternity if it meant the chance to see him again.

You finally sit in the armchair across from him, folding your hands on your lap as anger glows like embers in your gut. “I thought you were dead,” you admit. “Carter told me about the train, the explosion… He told me you were probably dead. Both of you.”

Mason looks down at his hands. “I can’t get my memories back. They were destroyed. Gone. I know that I should know you, but I don’t.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I guessed as much.” 

“There’s no other way, right?”

You shake your head solemnly. “Not that I know of. Then again, nobody tells me anything, clearly.” You can’t help the bitterness seeping into your words. 

He rubs a thumb across his chin. “It’s weird. I feel like…” He trails off, and you lean forward curiously. 

“What?” 

A shrug. “I’ve seen your face before. I got flashes sometimes — memories, I guess. You were in them.”

Your heart lifts just a little. 

“And your voice.” His volume lowers. “I heard it. I never knew whose it was. Thought I was going crazy. But it’s yours. It was you.”

Your fingers begin to tremble. You don’t know what to say. It feels cruel, somehow, him telling you this. Dangling hope in front of your face. He can’t know how much it hurts, of course, but it makes you grit your teeth all the same. 

“So where did you end up all these years?” you ask, hoping the answer might give you some closure. Some truth. 

“I went by Kyle. Got married. Had a daughter.” His mouth upturns at the corners, and it makes you want to die. 

He got a new life. You were here, rotting, waiting, and he was making a family. 

“Where are they now?” 

“Back home,” he says. “With Bernard’s wife. Safe.”

You nod. It’s an effort to keep your features smooth as your gaze snags on a bloodied tear in his jacket. “You’re hurt.”

In an instant, you’re up, heading into the kitchen to grab a first aid kit. When you get back, you motion to his jacket and he takes it off obediently, wincing. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

A deep one, clearly made by a bullet. You sigh and perch beside him, forgetting that you should probably ask before getting this close to him. Forgetting that you’re not the one who should be tending to his wounds anymore. 

He hisses when you dab the saline-soaked cloth to the graze. 

“You used to be tougher,” you tease. 

He smirks at that, crooked and warm if not steel-edged as a knife. Electricity buzzes through you, because you’ve missed the way he tries not to laugh at your shitty jabs. The way he tries to hide his humour, but it comes out through his cracks all the same. “I wouldn’t know.” And then: “Will you come with us to find Carter?”

The question throws you off-guard, and you look around. This prison is also your shelter, and you’re not sure you know how to jump back into the real world, a world of crime and violence and him. He’s married. He isn’t yours. And why should you aid them, when Bernard cut you away from the rest of the group so cleanly? 

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I’ve been hiding for a long time. I think I’m more useful here.”

“We could use all the help we can get.” 

The cloth comes away red, but the bleeding has stopped. You get the bandages ready and hum, pretending to deliberate. 

He stops you with a hand across yours. “I mean it. I don’t remember how to do this.”

“It’ll come to you.” You snatch your hand away; keep unrolling the bandage. Maybe it’s weak, maybe it’s cowardly, but you need a moment to breathe after this. Need a moment to adjust to a world where Mason isn’t dead, but still isn’t Mason. You need to figure out if keeping this house safe, keeping Citadel and its missing members safe, is worth it after the way they’ve pushed you aside. 

“We need you.”

“You did okay without me for the last ten years,” you snap, wishing immediately you could take it back. 

Overwhelmed, you abandon the bandages and the wound, averting your gaze because even now it feels too heavy, too dangerous. Like he could strip your skin and bones away if he wanted. Like he could leave you raw. 

You used to like that about him. Now you hate it. More so because he doesn’t even realise he’s capable of it. 

“I was living a lie.” His voice is firmer now. Raspier. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t choose it!” 

“Neither did I!” you erupt. “I thought you were dead, Mason! I was here, alone, always wondering if you were. Wondering whether anything would ever change! And now you’re here and you don’t know me, but you’re asking me to be somebody I haven’t been in a very long time. What am I supposed to do with that? How the hell am I supposed to be okay with it?”

A wrinkle burrows between his brows. For moments, he remains unreadable until he finally looks up at you. “We weren’t just working together, were we?”

You can’t answer him. You don’t want to have to tell him that you were in love, that everything that made life worth living had been snatched away the day he went missing. 

“Tell me,” he demands, standing up. “Tell me, Y/N. Were we together?”

Your chin wobbles, and you can’t keep pretending. You can’t keep ignoring the hole in your chest. “Yes.” 

It’s clear he doesn’t know what to say, and you know that there is nothing he could. Nothing that would make it easier, at least. You are cursed, the one who will remember. The only one who longs for endless nights tangled between the sheets and stupid back-and-forths through his earpiece. You’re the only one who remembers the rush you felt when you worked together, him in the field and you safe by your computer. 

You’re the only one who remembers the night he told you he loved you, and the morning you said it back. He gets to move on, gets to feel nothing but indifference, while you carry a decades’ worth of grief and yearning and pain on your back. And you could deal with that before, when your days were made of aimlessly checking for messages or signs of Citadel activity and scrambling your eggs and staying in your pyjamas because nobody saw you anyway, but now he is inescapable and you find yourself wanting to shut the door in his face just so you don’t have to look at it and see the man you used to know buried under the haze and amnesia and this new life you have not been apart of. 

Eventually, he steps forward — and somehow looks apologetic. “I wish I remembered,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. But do you honestly want to stay here, alone? There must have been a reason you stayed. It wasn’t just for the view, right?”

For you, you want to say. I was waiting for you.

But he’s right. Your memories might remain intact, but you were once much more than this. You were quick, determined, unrelenting. It had taken years before you stopped searching for sign of Mason every day. But you had. You’d dwindled. Perhaps you’d given up without realising it. 

The person you used to be would never have grown this despondent. You would have stitched your own broken heart back together and yanked back your power, proving to Citadel you’re a worthy asset. The only one skilled enough to perform what they needed. To fight terrorism and organised crime from behind a screen. 

You miss that fire in your belly. Now, it's no more than ash. 

Finally, you turn your hardened stare back to him. “No. It wasn’t just for the view.”

He nods as though he knows your mind has changed, determination sharpening his own face. “Then you’ll help us.”

“I’ll help you,” you decide. Even if it hurts. Even if you’re not sure you want to anymore. 

The back of his hand brushes yours, and your skin tingles. You look down and know it was no accident; his fingers twitch from the impact like a bird stunned after hitting the window. When you lock eyes, you see a flicker of him. Your Mason. Arrogance and softness all at once. A lion ready to pounce because he’s never known how to stay still. How did he manage it, being a family man? 

What did he think when he saw glimpses of you?

It doesn’t matter. Your Mason might be gone, but so is Kyle. He’s someone new now, and you’ll just have to get to know this new version of him. 

Just as he’ll have to get to know this new version of you. You’re not sure who you’ll be yet, still scarred and unsure, but you think that if he can walk through your door and find you against all odds,, maybe you can find him, too. 

He keeps his eyes on the view behind the window, eyes turning the same forest green as the trees outside. Still, his arm is warm against yours, his broad shoulders squared and ready. 

“Good,” he mutters, sending you a half-smile. “Because I’m going to need somebody to tell me who I really am. Who Mason Kane is.”

That, you might just be able to do. “An asshole,” you quip dryly. “Mason Kane was an asshole.” And god, did he love it when you said so. 

As though it’s ingrained in his muscle memory, Mason lets out a chuckle — half-joy and half-disbelief. He raises his brow, flirtatious though you’re not sure he knows it yet. “That right?”

“Yep.” You cross your arms over your chest and try to stifle your hope, but it’s no use. It comes anyway. “With a capital A.”

This man might not be Mason, but he’s a hell of a lot like him. For now, that has to be enough.

#imagines #multifandom imagines #x reader imagines #x reader #multi fandom imagines #multifandom #fanfiction #mason kane #citadel on prime #imagine masterlist #masterlist #citadel #richard madden #mason kane imagine #mason kane x reader #richard madden one shot #richard madden imagine #richard madden x reader #richard madden fic #citadel imagine #citadel fic #citadel x reader #mason kane x y/n #richard madden x y/n #citadel fanfiction

[jimblejamblewritings]

snow falls hot | part 3.

Summary: (Y/N) Snow isn’t a Snow at all. She’s a Targaryen— Rhaegar’s child. Taken in by the Starks, she leads her life as another on of Ned’s bastards. Will she be able to live in Westeros comfortably? More importantly, does she have any ambition to see herself one day on the Iron Throne?

Warnings: in this part none but this is game of thrones so…

Pairing: robb stark x reader

Word Count: 2.0k

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

Catelyn Stark in Renly Baratheon’s camp wasn’t what you expected. You being there was not what she expected either. From what you were told she had been there at least a week or so before you came, having tried to make Stannis and Renly join forces against the Lannisters. If she saw Stannis then he couldn’t have had Arya. You hopped from your horse and entered the large tent where Renly, Loras, Margarey, Catelyn, and Brienne of Tarth were meeting.

“The man with me is Joffrey’s watchdog. He needs to be rid of before I can speak.”

“Loras, deal with the Kingsguard.”

The knight left the tent and you breathed a sigh of relief. The relief was short lived as a man outside of the tent entered, claiming that Littlefinger had arrived. You glared when Baelish walked in. His signature smirk graced his face when he locked eyes with you.

“You followed me?”

“I am simply acting independent. Two ravens were received after you left and I was given the fastest horse to try and catch up in time. One from Lannister watchers about our Young Wolf and the other from the Citadel in regards to you, Lady Snow.”

“Why are you here, Lord Baelish?”

“King Joffrey is not pleased at Robb Stark’s victories and will not show mercy, of course I can be swayed to the side of the victor. If you were to march on the capital, I swear to you I would help. Tyrion hopes to make an exchange of good faith in hopes to quell the war.”

“Which would be?” Catelyn asked.

“Your prisoner for ours. Jaime Lannister for Arya and Sansa Stark.”

Baelish never tore his eye from you, daring you to say that they didn’t have Arya. A box with Ned’s bones was brought inside the tent. Another act of good faith on Tyrion’s part. So, Ned could be buried in the crypts of Winterfell where he belonged. Your gaze never tore from Baelish as Catelyn asked if that was why you came.

“I don’t know what Tyrion thought he would achieve by attempting to send you ahead of me or by telling me of Ser Jaime’s capture but even you must have known I won’t lie, Lord Baelish. Sansa stays at the Red Keep, Lady Stark. Arya, we thought to have been taken by one of Renly’s spies. Clearly mistaken.”

“Arya is missing?!”

“Since after the execution.”

Renly cleared his throat and addressed the man still standing at the tent flap. “Escort Lord Baelish to where he can stay for the night.”

Most left the tent, leaving you with Brienne, Catelyn, and Renly. Once again, your pacing started. This time Godswood paced with you. Arya was still gone. It was a matter of should you go back to King’s Landing. There wasn’t much good you could do there but Sansa was still there. Someone needed to make sure she wasn’t alone. Wind blew in the tent causing you to stop in your tracks.

There wasn’t a flap open to allow any wind inside. You gasped as you turned, watching a shadowy figure stab Renly. Blood poured from his mouth before you or the other two women could move. Godswood barked after the figure before you had the chance to shut him up. The barks alerted the knights outside. They came in, swords unsheathed, and prepared to take Brienne. You and Catelyn both shouted that it was not her. Godswood jumped on the knight closest to Brienne.

“Follow Godswood and run!” You shouted.

The woman and dire wolf were out the tent in an instant. Catelyn and you, not being accused of anything, quickly but calmly saddled horses and left— you making sure the third horse for Brienne stayed with you. It was awful to think but in a way you welcomed Renly’s death. It freed you from having to return to King’s Landing.

When news of Stannis murdering Renly reached the Keep, it would be assumed you were taken too. You promised Sansa that you would come back for her. But you also promised to have the North behind you when you did. That was a promise you intended to keep, ready to ride to the Westerlands where Robb’s army was camped.

You grasped at the fur cloak in your lap, pulling it around you instead. The bite of the cold wind was welcome, it meant you were closer to home. You closed the clasp on your cloak— Robb’s cloak— and continued to ride behind Catelyn as she led the way to the camp. As you entered the camp, you smiled at the familiar faces of Northernmen.

“Ser Brienne?”

“My lady?” Brienne choked out, honestly stunned that you would call her the title others ridiculed her for wanting.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a lady knight before. I don’t think Robb has either, he’ll be excited to meet you.”

“That pleases me to hear, Lady Snow.”

“I hope you like the North. If the people seem harsh, they don’t mean to be. We’re rather blunt around here.”

“Are you scaring our guest?” Robb shouted.

You chuckled at the sights of the boy now man— more handsome than ever. He walked up to the horse, arms instinctively around your waist to help you down. He readjusted his cloak you were wearing and smiled at you. From a pocket, Robb pulled out a letter.

“Is this real? Father really sent this out?”

“Lord Stark said it was time people know I’m not a Stark… he wants me to be the Lady of Winterfell,” you whispered the last part.

Robb’s hand tilted your chin upwards so you weren’t staring at the ground. “I want you to be the Lady of Winterfell.”

“This isn’t time for games, Stark.”

Robb laughed and leaned close to your ear. “I’m not playing silly children’s games, Targaryen. I think we’ve done that dance long enough.”

He pulled back to look at you. Robb was about to say something else when Catelyn and Brienne moved from where they had been watching the entire encounter. Brienne bowed to Robb who greeted the knight with open arms. Lord Bolton approached your small group, your large smile turned into a frown at seeing the man’s expression. Robb patted your arm and pointed you to his tent, saying he’d be back after figuring out what was wrong.

When he returned to his tent, he laid down on the pile of furs that were supposed to make a bed. You finished taking the things you brought with you out of your bag and set them on the table in the large tent before joining Robb on the furs.

“I was going to send you back to Winterfell with my mother but Lord Bolton says Theon has betrayed us.”

“Theon?”

“I know. I didn’t want to believe him at first. Like a brother we treated him and he does this instead… I don’t want to talk about Theon anymore. I’d rather discuss us.”

“Your mother says she’s promised you to a Frey girl.”

“Father’s letter states our promise as years before even Rickon was born. I think that vow is stronger, isn’t it?”

“But you need…”

“Walder Frey pulled his men.”

“What?”

“Before a word left my mouth, he stated that Lord Stark outlined a vow he wouldn’t break. But that meant we couldn’t fulfill his so he saw no point in helping us.”  

Robb’s fingers traced your face. His eyes bore into yours and you remembered Eddard’s words. He was right. You and Robb lingered too long on each other since you were children. Infatuation you swore would go away the older you got but never did. Robb grabbed your hand, bringing it to his lips where he pressed two light kisses. You sat up rather quickly.

“I wouldn’t be the Lady of Winterfell, I’d be Queen in the North. Your queen.”

That brought a large smile to Robb’s face as he pulled you back down. “Is that what you want?”

“I want more. I promised Sansa you’d bring her Joffrey’s head on a pike.”

“That is what Sansa wants, and she will get it. What do you want?”

“What are my house words?”

“Fire and Blood.”

“That is what I demand from the false king that calls himself a Baratheon. I want the Iron Throne, King Stark.”

Robb’s eyes left yours for a moment as they flitted to your lips. His hand cradled your head as it gently pushed you towards him until his lips were on yours. Robb kissed soft but firm enough that you wanted more when he pulled away.

“The entire Seven Kingdoms will be yours, (Y/N) Targaryen.”

“Stark,” you corrected him. “(Y/N) Targaryen Stark.”

Robb kissed you again, whining when you attempted to leave the bed.

“We are not wed yet, Robb. It would be improper if your men caught me here in the morning.”

“It is an army camp. The rules of lords and ladies do not apply here. Stay, please.”

With a nod, you melted back into his touch. Godswood and Robb’s very large Grey Wind curled at the foot of the bed— soon they would be too big for both of them to fit. You and Robb held onto each other. Robb attempted to press you as close into his body as possible.

~~

The camp was as alive as it could be with injured and tired soldiers. You helped out and tended to the injured where you could, earning thanks as you went along. It was a way to keep yourself busy and distracted from the news of Theon’s betrayal and Catelyn setting Jaime Lannister free to go back to King’s Landing. At least he was escorted by Brienne— you trusted the knight.

When there wasn’t much to actively do— you realized that an army camp was very boring— you returned to the large tent. You started a small fire in the little pit and grabbed your egg fossil from the table. It had left some dust on Robb’s map of Westeros, even more color peeking through the grey. Alone in the tent, Godswood leaving to be with Grey Wind, you continued to clean the egg.

Your eyes rolled back into your head until only white showed as your hand touched the egg. Images danced in your mind of ruined cities high in the clouds of a land you’ve never seen before. As you stood in what you assumed was the ruins of an open courtyard, a large shadow blocked out the sun. A shadow with wings.

You started to chase after the shadow in determination to see the dragon you knew casted it. Somehow, you lost the massive creature. But it had led you to a high tower— in ruins, like the rest of the place. Carefully, you walked up the crumbling steps until you reached the top.

Eggs. Everywhere, in multiple nests carved into the wall, were eggs. A large book on a podium rested in the center of the room. You walked over to the book, flipping through the pages. It was a language most didn’t know. High Valyrian— a language you barely knew. Maester Luwin, at Ned’s request, taught you. But books on the language were very scare in the North.

Still, you flipped through the pages and let your fingers run over the words. They seemed to be commands but you’d have to take more time to figure out the words you didn’t know. You were vaguely aware of someone calling your name. Your vision was abruptly restored and you were returned to the large tent. Robb was holding your arms, your back against his chest. You looked up at him to see a face full of worry.

“You could have been burned. What were you thinking sticking your arms in the fire?”

The sleeves of your gown were charred and falling off. The skin underneath was perfectly fine.

“Your hair, it’s white.”

Parts of your curls that had been touched by the heat were Targaryen white— the fire having burned away the dye to reveal your true color. You opened your mouth to say something when your ears perked up at the gentle cracking sound. Your gaze moved to the fire, as did Robb’s, where the egg fossil was laying. The egg seemed to move back and forth, cracks forming on it. You wanted to grab it before the fire broke the stone even more. But before you could get it, the egg broke.

“Is that…”

“A dragon,” you whispered, looking at the small creature that had emerged from the egg.

The dragon left the fire and crawled into your hand. You lifted up the tiny thing and it moved along your arm till it perched on your shoulder, staring Robb in the face. Robb tentatively reached a hand— pulling back when the dragon snapped at him.

“How do we explain this?” he asked in awe.

“Jon has the other.”

“What?”

“There were two. I didn’t think much of it, I thought they were merely fossils. I gave him the other when he left for the Wall.”

“It is safe with Jon. You, my love, are no longer however.”

The dragon jumped from your shoulder back to your hands. You got up from the floor of the tent and moved to the table, setting the dragon there instead. You sighed and turned back to Robb.

“We marry tonight and tomorrow morning the North learns they have always had the last Targaryen under their thumb.”

“All of Westeros will know,” Robb said with a shake of his head.

“And then all of Westeros will come to remember the power of the Targaryens,” you said with conviction.

(Part 4)...

#game of thrones fic #asoiaf fic #robb stark x reader

[lexi-the-demon-69]

Meeting the King (fake cutscene)

{No little cookies were harmed in the making of this art piece}

I decided to make a fake cutscene of Ice Cream Sandwich Cookie meeting Dark Cacao Cookie. I took high inspiration from the official image of kid Dark Choco Cookie tugging on his father’s cape for his attention. I tried my best to be as accurate as possible when it came to the canon cutscenes and I think I did an ok job.

Here’s the full context of the image if you’re interested:

Affogato Cookie takes Ice Cream Sandwich Cookie into the Citadel, while talking up a storm about how he is the right hand of the king. Ice Cream Sandwich Cookie tries to ask some questions about how the Citadel runs, but she would always be interrupted by Affogato talking over her. 

The two arrive at the throne room and Affogato Cookie goes in to inform Dark Cacao about their new guest. Since Affogato had the king under his thumb, he agrees to let Ice Cream Sandwich Cookie stay. Affogato then lets Ice Cream Sandwich Cookie in and her ice cream hair began to melt, due to her being very nervous. She asks as politely as possible to stay in the Citadel, promising profusely she wouldn't cause trouble. 

Dark Cacao Cookie, who has been trying to cope with losing his son for many years, sees something in her that reminds him of Dark Choco Cookie when he was young. So, he decides to let her stay for as long as she needs.

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run oc #cookie run kingdom oc #dark cacao crk #dark cacao cookie #oc #fake screenshot #original character

[evilmcg]

💋 [[ for my E-Morty, if you're up for it? ]]

@countlessrealities

Send a 💋 for a short drabble on a time our muses kissed.

Sure meg was somewhat fond of those dinners they shared together. Slowly but surely mortimer had not only wormed his way under her skin but into her heart as well. Though the hatred and hostility still remained she found herself more fond of the boy day by day. On dates like this her attraction to him was at it's highest. It was like as soon as he showed his most violent and cold blooded side that she felt she could really fall in love with the guy. This time they hadn't been killing an alternate of her parents. Well they were about to but they had run into meg's old bully. An alternate of her anyway. Connie.

She really hadn't been on the girl's mind all that much ever since she made her home at the citadel. Some bitchy comments she planned on brushing off were made but before she could properly reply mortimer had gotten to work. It wasn't a mindless impulsive attack like meg was known for. He used pretty words to lure the girl into his trap and into trusting him. The oh so familiar poison was used. It had the blonde gurling on her own blood.

Her body spasming on the ground. She found herself meeting the president's gaze. Rather than intense and intrigued like she usually was while looking at him for the first time her gaze could be called the look of love. Moreso obsession when it came to meg but when it came to the first lady those terms went hand in hand. She left the girl to pathetically die in a puddle of her own blood.

She grabbed the boy by his hands. It was a delicate yet firm hold. Not trying to take away his power or make this a game. Instead the kiss she placed upon him was loving. Passionate but communicated just what place he now held in her heart. Not quite to the level of their shared boyfriend but it was the furthest he'd ever gotten with his romantic rival/interest. She had a love crazed gaze once she pulled away. Though her hands in his remained. "You really are a romantic when you put your mind to it mortimer. Shall we go?"

#countlessrealities

[blumenflowergelb]

Life and death of Yn Stark

• The second son of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully Stark was born exactly two months after Sansa. Catelyn was in the nursery after putting Sansa to sleep, trying to sew a new little gown for her only daughter. The first pain went entirely unnoticed but by the time she was done with pinning, her lower belly cramped worse than when she was on her moonblood. It took her a while to stand up and she was not able to walk to the door without moaning in a great pain. Catelyn cried out and aroused one of the nursemaid coming to check on Sansa. Before she noticed what was happening, Maester Luwin was already there kneeling next to her. Barely, just barely, Catelyn told Luwin where her pain was. She felt hands helping her up but the pain was so enormous that she could only cry. The baby boy wasn’t born in the birthing chamber, instead in Luwin’s office. Ned has went to hunt having two boys and a girl and by the time he came back he had gained a new son.

• Yn Stark whole existence was a mystery to everybody. Luwin sent her theory about Catelyn having two wombs to the Citadel and it was discussed for a very long time. Nevertheless Yn was an intrigue. He grow up in a loving home with a lot of blood siblings and one bastard brother. His father even had a ward, however to Yn great disappointment Theon Greyjoy was not a very likable person. As charming he could be, he was as mean, especially to Jon. Yn loved Jon, and his other siblings too!, but Jon had a special place in his heart. He was the one who helped him with archery and sword fighting, and he didn’t laugh when Yn looked away from the beheading of a rapist.

• While Yn had a good childhood it didn’t come without a few issues. His father, Ned Stark, was a good man and a good father but he was as cold as ice. In the important moments of Yn‘s life he was present but Yn never felt like he could lean on him. And Sansa and Yn‘s mother didn’t make his life easier. Sansa, the everyday lady who didn’t know jokes, his mother who was very stern. Robb didn’t play with Yn anymore but he had Arya and Bran! Rickon was a little baby so he only ran after them but Yn still loved him. One thing however made Yn feel different. The knowledge that he was different wasn’t there until the day at the table. Sansa and her friend ,Jeyne, were discussing their future wedding, husbands and children. When Sansa smiled at Yn and asked him whom he would marry Yn didn’t hesitate. Loudly he exclaimed that he will be marrying a man with blond hair and blue eyes, since it was so rare in the North. Before Yn could explain more what the personality of his intended would be, Sansa clapped her hands on her mouth and looked at him. Jeyne could barely suppress her laughter but when his father slammed his cup on the table everybody has gone silent. He never did that.

• Well as you would expect Yn‘s parent weren’t happy. His sibling didn’t meet his eyes, they just looked at the table while quietly eating. However Catelyn wasn’t quiet. After Ned has sternly told Yn to never say something so inhumane his mother went on a long monologue about men who prefered men and the gods and their seven hells. As intended this scared Yn. He never again talked about boys in this way but he never forgot the feeling of being watched by the son of the smith or by one of the servants. Just simply talking to them made Yn blush and stammer, so he tried to never be in the proximity of boys. This left Yn feeling closed off to his family and to strangers. By the time Yn was nine namedays old he vowed to never again say or have any kind of reaction toward his own sex. Or he would end up dead and tortured in hell.

• Yn was roughly eleven years old when the King came, Bran fell of the tower and he, his father, his sisters and several other knights of Winterfell left for Kings Landing. By the time they were meeting up with Renly Baratheon, the very good looking brother of the very fat King, Yn already detested Joffrey and his mother. The hatred went through the roof after Joffrey was bitten by Nymaria and Lady was killed. Arya was kind enough to not only drive Nymaria away but Lemon Cake , the wolf of Yn, too. Sansa didn’t speak with anybody only if necessary and even then she was cruel to them. Well not to everybody but only to Arya and Yn. They arrived at Kings Landing already full with problems but everything has just gotten worse. The only thing that Yn liked about the place was Loras Tyrell! He was not only very good looking but a skilled swordsman too. Yn just couldn’t help himself but gravitate towards him. Ned of course, didn’t take this the wrong way but he didn’t like it either. By the time Ned sent out his men to take Ser Cregors head, Yn has broken his vow. Barely twelf namedays of age Yn kissed the first person ever. And it was not a girl.

• Qarl, a cook’s son with black hair and blue eyes, was very very charming. After playing in secret for a few weeks they went to the godswood withouth the hearttree. As they were playing Qarls has fallen over laughing and in this moment hundreds of butterflies went up in Yn stomach. Before he could stopp himself he leaned over Qarl and pressed his lips against his. They never played again. Yn was distraught and even considered telling his father of what had happened, but the memories of his father’s belittling words of Yn‘s kind made him not do it. But even if he wanted to he didn’t had time. By the next day Lannister guards broke in his room and took him down to the dungeons. Yn didn’t understand what was going on and his questions went unanswered. Unknowingly to him his father was in the throne room with his enemies, Sansa in her room and Arya with her dance teacher. In less than a day Yn has lost half of his family.

• He was in there for a whole year. The first few days, maybe weeks, were horrible with no knowledge of what was going on behind the four walls, and with no sunlight Yn was prone to tears, the worry eating his heart away. YN didn’t know anything about the world, only that his father was a supposed Ursuper and his sisters were kept captive above him. Something must have happened, Yn concluded, when one day he heard unusual voices in the hallway. Then his door opened and two guards came inside. For a second Yn thought that he was freed but looking at the smiles of the guards hauling him and a man in robe, his heart dropped to his stomach. He went from the lightened hallway to a dark room. But it wasn’t dark forever. Yn quickly learned that it was better when he was in the dark because if the light came than the pain would follow it too. He would habe gone insane if it wasn’t for Lemon Cake. Day and Night he went inside the mind of Cake, seeing, smelling and hearing the world. At one point he left caught the smell of Greywind and they reconciled among a lot of Direwolf kisses. The best part was seeing his brother.

• After or maybe while Yn was tortured, he went inside Cake‘s mind. In truth Yn never got used to the feeling of leaving the human body and arriving in the wolf but it was a good way to escape the burning. He smelled the wet leaves and ground mixing with a light smell of blood and humans. After sniffing and running around, Lemon caught the smell of Greywind. He smelt like family and before Yn could think he was sprinting towards him. He let out a big howl to announce his existence, and Greywind answered. The more he smelled family the quicker he ran and ran until seeing the sprinting form of Greywind. The two brothers has fallen over in their excitement and were nipping at each other when Robb and his men arrived. Yn has sworn to never forget the face of his brother, full with happiness, grief and eventual disappointment. Looking around, Robb jumped from his horse and hugged Lemon Cake quietly asking where Yn was. Lemon just simply gave him a slobbering kiss and begann to groom Greywind. Before Yn could think of how to express his self through Lemon Cake he was brought back by a harsh lash across his back. Yn cried out and got rewarded with an ever strong hit. After some more torture and a very blurry feeding time he tried to sleep and go inside Cake. He wanted to hug his brother, kiss his mother and reassure her that everything was alright even if it wasn’t. Alas Yn never could warg inside Lemon Cake to see her family, because of the King.

• One day Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, has took his sweet time and came down to take a look at his prisoner. And Yn was rewarded with his presence. The physical torture was one thing but a kid playing King daunting him, telling him how he will kill all the Stark‘s, promising to bring the head of his brother, the false King, and the rape of his sisters made Yn angry. Angry in a place where only servitude was appropriate and had it’s consequences. After Joffrey spat out how he was going to strip Sansa, beat her up and leave her to be raped in Fleat Bottom, Yn became so furious that he jumped on Joffrey. Or he wished but being chained, tortured and undernourished left Yn weak. But it was enough to bite a finger off of Joffrey. Yn firstly felt Joffrey‘s blood and quickly tasted his own. Before passing out Yn only heard Joffrey crying and men shouting.

• Cleos Frey was the ulucky man to not only bring the peace demands by the Lannisters but a wooden box. The two direwolf made him almost piss his breaches and the looks of the Northernmen was enough for him to fall before Robb Stark‘s foot. Before telling the demands he took a small wooden box out, small but still big enough to held the head of Yn Stark.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #male reader #stark reader #ned stark #joffrey baratheon #cersei lannister #catelyn stark #jon snow #sansa stark #jeyne poole #imprisonment

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 2 replay, Kasumi’s loyalty mission:

-Needed to recruit Mordin first so I could research upgrades, but Kasumi’s up next so I can get the locust.

Omega:

-If you go paragon when speaking to the Patriarch after Aria’s asked you to get him to safety, you hear the first mention of a krogan’s krantt.

Krantts are a fantastic addition to the world building for krogans. They add some much needed depth to how they relate to each other beyond killing.

-It’s a shame the Patriarch doesn’t come back in ME3. The quest positions him as potentially regaining some influence if you go paragon – he could have been leading a rebellion against the Cerberus forces in the Omega DLC or the like.

-Aria’s past is built up in ME2, but again nothing comes of this. Just vague hints that major shit went down.

-According to Gavorn if you go renegade, slavers regularly kidnap vorcha to sell. Lovely.

Bekenstein

-As many have noted, its ridiculous that a garden world so close to the Citadel was left unclaimed until humanity came along. The game doesn’t even try to justify it.

-General observation: Why are women in Mass Effect normally in dresses for casual wear?

The exceptions I can think of are outfits for Shepard and colonists. But on the Citadel or Omega, the casual wear for all women are dresses.

It stands out to me given that I’m far more accustomed to seeing women wear pants than dresses or skirts.

Also, I’d like an option to put femShep in a suit for formal wear.

-As many have have noted, it’s strange Kasumi didn’t dress up for the mission. Honestly, the real reason Hock didn’t let her is because she probably didn’t meet the dress code.

-It says something about Mass Effect that guests to a fancy party are permitted to keep pistols. It’s the norm for everyone to be armed.

Unless you’re a human refugee in the Omega slums, apparently.

-I do appreciate how ME1 and ME2 had several missions that did not involve combat. Or at least parts of missions. ME3 could have used more of those.

-There is transient dialogue at the party about how Shepard is dead.

Seriously, what was up with Jacob saying that the general public doesn’t know they’re dead? How did that line make it to production?

-The mercs are Eclipse, but the ones at the party are all human. Given that Eclipse is primarily Asari and Salarian, that’s notable.

-And nearly all the guests are human too.

-Does Hock have ties to Cerberus?

He’s shady, involved in several questionable activities, and signs point to human supremacist. It’d be natural for him to be connected to Cerberus.

-You’d think an alarm would go off when the power to the barrier for the vault is disabled.

Sure, Kasumi may have taken care of that too but there’s no indication to it.

-Why does Kasumi hack the first security door, but then leave me to hack the second?

She’s definitely laughing at my struggles.

-As others have noted, the krogan anime playing in the security room is interesting.

I really want to see in universe media of Mass Effect. Can you imagine Mass Effect anime? It’d be a trip.

-You don’t even need to pass a speech check to get Hock talking if you flirt with him. He just goes off.

-Why does Shepard need to speak to Hock, anyway? Couldn’t she just linger around him while he speaks to other guests? Study the fish or something.

-There’s a statue from Illos in the vault. It’s labeled a prothean statue. Given this is from Shepard’s point of view, it indicates Shepard at least believed that’s what protheans looked like.

-Why does Hock have so many statues of krogans? There’s four or five.

-Why is turian art unusual outside of Palaven?

Is it because no one else vibes with turian art? I don’t think so – Kasumi said it may be the most valuable piece in the collection.

So the implication is that turian art is rare.

That feels unlikely; it’s pretty typical for large governments to commission art pieces to show them off. If only to one up other governments.

I suppose turians could just not value art, but outside this line there’s no indication of that.

Give me more cultural world building, Bioware!

-Why is the locust on the same podium as the gray box? Why is the gray box even on display in the vault among a bunch of statues? Where are the rare books, etc.?

I’m grateful for the opportunity to see all these statues, but logically the gray box would be stored somewhere else. And not with a submachine gun.

-I am not enjoying my insanity playthrough of ME2. I just ran through all my ammo for the first time.

How are thermal clips superior to ME1 overheating again? Is there some reason I can’t keep a gun that uses overheating on me as backup in case I run out of thermal clips?

-Thank goodness that there’s a checkpoint in the fight with Hock’s gunship. Once Kasumi destroys the shield, if you die you reload at that point.

-I debated whether to have Kasumi destroy or keep the graybox. I’ve always let her keep it before.

I think it’s healthier for her to destroy it, but it’s not really my call to make.

Also, ME2 mechanics at play here. I need to make sure I have enough paragon points to resolve the Tali/Legion quarrel later. So let her keep the graybox it is.

Normandy

-Emily Wong assumed Shepard’s “death” was them going undercover. If I recall correctly, a few others believe the same.

Again: Everyone knows Shepard was dead. What was Jacob talking about?

-And the Blue Suns offered to take over the security for Mordin’s old clinic. Fortunately, Daniel told them no. Hopefully he lives long enough to make it stick.

-Early Mass Effect 2 is heavily weighted to tech. I already have two, plus the decreased cooldown time they unlock.

I don’t think you get any upgrades for biotics until after Horizon, if my memory is correct, unless you play the firewalker dlc.

As someone who always plays biotics, this is painful.

-Miranda has no new dialogue, oddly enough.

Jacob

-I do not understand why Jacob is with Cerberus. This is starting to feel like a toxic relationship.

Past experiences with Cerberus make him assume the worst of everyone. He’s wary of friendly overtures because they’re normally false. Not trusting other people is the norm.

Jacob, why are you here? Do you assume TIM will kill you if you leave and don’t trust Shepard enough to tell them that?

If so, kudos to you based on ME3 but I wish that had been discussed at some point.

Talking to this man feels like trying to gain the trust of a feral cat that’s accustomed to being kicked.

-He says that the Alliance doesn’t people handle their own problems and Cerberus is the same, but puts more effort into hiding that they’re spying on you.

I’ve lost track of how many times it’s come up that the Normandy is under surveillance. Does Jacob consider this subtle? What does he consider blatant?

-Once again, it feels like threading a needle to not trigger a romance with Jacob. And once again, he makes it very clear that he’s not interested.

Shepard has the opportunity to tell Jacob that since they’re interested, they’re going to assume Jacob’s down for it too.

The romance with Jacob is both incredibly icky and very hard to avoid. I don’t know what Bioware was thinking.

Mordan

-Just like Wrex, Mordin dismisses the concept of a krogan scientist.

It would have been hilarious if we had recruited Okeer and the two had to share a lab. We would have been down one teammate.

-Now Mordin opens up to you and tells you about reinforcing the genophage.

He claims it’s because he wants you to know that he’s willing to do what’s necessary, but it comes off as wanting reassurance that he did the right thing.

As much as he insists that it was necessary and not genocide, his guilt is obvious.

-Interestingly, going paragon nets you 6 paragon points. Going neutral earns you 4 paragon points.

Neutral doesn’t push back against the genophage. It just validates Mordin telling you about his work. Bioware could easily have had it provide no points, but gave you the opportunity to earn paragon points without opposing the genophage.

#mass effect #mass effect 2 #mass effect 2 replay

[loksthegreat]

Will you do the rest of Elaena’s children? Thank you!

Yes of course! Here’s the next few:

In 595 AC, one year after Alysanne V, Elaena gave birth to her second son, Daemion I, a boy who took after his father in looks strongly and became heir to Driftmark after Elaenas mother on his fifth name day. Daemion was a quite and serious boy and had been engaged to his Velaryon cousin, Lady Alanna for nearly all his life duo to the close friendship between their mothers. Daemion however had no interest in girls or even knightly activities, his love laid with his dragon, a large dark blue creature that he would spend any walking hour on, if allowed to. Elaena could not bear to send him away to be fostered at Drifmark, so instead his great grandfather taught him how to sail in the harbor of kings landing. His betrothed came to live at the red keep when Daemion was 14 and all though he dutifully spend time with her, there just wasn’t a spark. Instead they parted ways after their wedding, Alanna returned to driftmark and Daemion spend his time either traveling across the narrow sea by boat or dragon, or at court where he served as lord admiral to his brother, long before he even inherited the driftwood throne.

A year after Daemion princess Shaera II is born. She does posses classic Targaryen features but is very skinny and long limped, with wide set eyes and a long pointy face, which leads to her being mocked for her spider like appearance and awkward movements often. Shaera could read and write exceptionally well, but her face very very rarely showed any emotions and she did not voice her thoughts or struggles to other, which led to her being considered low of intelligent by her septa’s. Shaera was taller than most men and seldomly spoke, making her a hard match to make. Much like with Alysanne, Elaena was desperate to find a good and gentle husband for the girl, although Shaera might not have minded the silent sisters all that much. At nineteen Shaera married Robert Redwyne the young lord of the Arbor, who had travel all around Westeros by boat and only seen one portrait of the princess before agreeing to wed her. Shaera had only one daughter, but her mother was happy to see that Shaera would now occasionally smile, whenever her mother visited her.

Princess Alayne was born in 598 AC, she was named after the queens close friend and lady in waiting, Alayne Massey, and though small of stand and prone to bad luck, Alayne was the wildest of the queens daughters by far. Her father, king Rhaegar I, would take her dragon riding and taught her to use a bow as well as a sword. As a girl of 12 he took her along with him to tour the Riverlands, where his murder of Lord Blackwoods eldest son caused an up roar. In the midst of the ensuing rebellions, Alayne disappeared, she spend a good 4 years living in the wild, in enemy camps or in castles, disguised as a boy, with her hair dyed black. It was during these years that the 14 year old princess was thrown into a bear arena, (a common practice of entertainment among northerners at war) where she suffered a claw mark to the left cheek, before being rescued by her fathers dishonored knight, Ser Norren, who killed the bear and spend the next year trying to drag the girl back to her mothers court. Eventually Alayne married Lord Arin Baratheon, a man ten years her senior at 18, by her own choice. She became known as ‘the she-hound of the Stormlands’.

Prince Aeron I was the third son born in 599 AC, he was a smart boy and he and Rhaegar II had been inseparable in their youth, but when he turned 18 he expressed his wish to got to the citadel and become an arch maester, he did just that and the men of the citadel prophesied him a bright future until in the year 619 AC Aeron visited a Tourney at Harrenhal and meets Lady Sabitha Tully, who he falls deeply in love with. She is smart, honest and capable and they exchange frequent letters for the following year, only falling deeper in love, but Sabitha is betrothed to the heir of house Bracken, Ser Jorrik, who is frankly, a terrifying dude. So just a few months before the wedding, Aeron takes his dragon and goes and marries Sabitha, leaving her father and the Brackens enraged. They leave for kings landing, Aeron becomes hand of the king to his brother eventually and Sabitha becomes a great politician. Aeron does a terrific job at keeping the realm together during the chaos that is Rhaegar II ascension and funfact: a lot of boys are named after him. He also kills Jorrik Bracken in a duel at some point sooo…

Hope you enjoy this and as always I’m up for any more questions you might have!!!

(I’ll post the next four kids as soon as possible!)

#asoiaf oc #hotd #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #asoif/got #elaena iv targaryen

[damienthepious]

ksldjfjks not letting myself get behind on these again HERE is the CHAPTER enJOY

The Beast In On His Chain (chapter 10)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Absolon

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, prisoner/guard dynamic, Dehumanization, (which feels like a weird word to use for a nonhuman person bUT. it’s what i got.), Despair, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (EVENTUALLY!!!! it’ll take a while), Captivity, Suicidal Thoughts, (that will be a theme throughout. inescapable in this particular fic. alas.), Eventual Romance, (Yes the dynamics in this one are fucked. honestly i’m kinda Stretching my limits these days.), (having fun with it. fucking around. it’s fine.), Recovery, (eventually), Self-Reclamation

Chapter Summary: Softness, and sharpness.

Chapter Notes: the last chapter came out short and this one DID NOT. CHAPTER WARNINGS for starvation (again), suicidal thoughts (again), something that is comparable to a suicide attempt, blood, violence, threats of further violence, and heavy implications of abuse/torture. PLEASE let me know if i missed anything, i'm far more worried about accurate warnings than i am about spoilers.

~

"Psst. Good morning, Arum!"

Arum flutters his eyes open at the sound of his name, startled and bizarrely eager and trying not to show it, and the human-

Amaryllis swims into view as he blinks the sleep from his eyes, grinning a conspiratorial grin with the toes of one boot obstinately edging past the line on the floor.

Arum reels himself back with a sigh, raising an eyebrow at the human in a vague question.

He doesn't know why she's back again. He won't let himself hope for another journal of crumbs, and he also doesn't understand this...

Damien isn't here today. He insists on informing Arum when he will be off-duty for a few days, so Arum knows that he will not be here to relieve the current guard in a few hours, even. And Amaryllis is back.

Three times seems... like it wouldn't be a coincidence. Sir Damien has been here more days than he hasn't, since Arum first noticed him. The chances are extremely unlikely that this other human would randomly happen to appear only when Sir Damien is absent.

Arum does not know what that means, but he certainly does not trust it.

"I would ask how you've been," she says, her smile tilting and her brow furrowing with something like understanding, or perhaps sympathy. "But that seems like a rub-salt-in-the-wound sort of question."

Arum snorts despite himself, and her grin returns. He lowers his head again, resting his chin on his arms with the collar digging uncomfortably into his neck, but he doesn't close his eyes, deciding to watch her as she glances back towards the door.

"So. Last time. I got the impression that your favorites were the flowers and the birds. And the landscapes, but most of my landscapes involve both flowers and birds, so." She pauses. "Unless I'm making that up?"

Arum sighs again, still uncertain, but after a moment he nods, ignoring the way the collar pulls. He glances away from her as well, for a moment, when her smile goes even more blinding.

"Great! Perfect. I've been doing a lot with the color green, lately."

She spends three tours worth of time going through her newest journal, packed thick with pages of botanical sketches and examinations of birds, the latter focusing on anatomy and the former- notes that Arum takes a few minutes to recognize as medical. A small part of him wishes he could ask about that. He is fairly certain that one of the succulents she has detailed is a variant of something he has- had in his greenhouse, and he is curious about the differences between the two.

(Has the Keep been able to manage the greenhouse without him?)

The birds feel less fraught. The way she draws the wings- it is perhaps more flat than he would prefer - she draws her lines a little too straight - but the musculature is extremely precise.

When she reaches the end, a few minutes before the next tour is due if his measure is correct, she exhales a long breath and lifts her gaze to him again.

"I hope-" she pauses. "I really don't know how to say this."

Arum lifts his head, then, annoyed and intrigued at the same time. He raises his brow, and she huffs a sigh.

"Alright, alright. Is this- do you like when I come do this? Is it actually- do you actually enjoy it, or do you not care at all? Or am I just making things worse for you?" She pauses as Arum stares at her, entirely blank, and then she continues. "You know that I'd leave you alone if you asked, right?"

Arum rolls his eyes, utterly unwilling to dignify that with a response, and she scowls at him, planting her hands on her hips.

"I mean it. Look, Arum," he twitches involuntarily, ignores it, "I told you before- I'm doing this because I think this- this whole situation is a nightmare, and I can't do anything real about it. Not-" she pauses, and Arum thinks- she changes what she was going to say, shaking her head. "I'm not here to make your imprisonment worse. That's the last thing I want. So. Do you want me to stop visiting?"

She- waits. Watches him. Arum feels his shoulders sink, discomfort and irritation and a resurrected bristling of his remaining scraps of pride, but- she only waits, and after a long, long moment, Arum relents. He shakes his head.

No. He does not want her to stop. He does not want to give up the chance to see her again. Does not want to give up these flattened trinkets of the world beyond these walls.

Her own shoulders lower, her expression melting into something like relief, and she nods with an enthusiasm that surprises him.

"Good. Good, Arum. I'm glad. I just-" she pauses again, biting her lip for a moment in a wincing sort of way, and then she mutters, "oh, fuck all of this," and then she-

She- pulls a page from her sketchbook? Arum makes in incredulous noise, pulling his head back, but she doesn't seem to hear him, her expression fixed in a determined scowl as she shoves the rest of the book into the satchel at her side. She takes the page in both hands, then, and folds it, and then folds it again, and then-

Ah. A little paper dart with narrowed wings, the edges of her drawing jagged and confusing between the folds. She holds it up in one hand, prepared to send the makeshift bird flying, and with one eyebrow raised, she asks, "Catch?"

Arum stares at her for slightly less of a pause, this time, and then he nods again, shifting to sit more upright as he lifts a pair of hands.

She grins, her hand flicking elegantly forward to send the dart gliding in an almost-perfect arc. Arum manages to catch it by a wing between his claws, his arm trembling as he pulls it back, hiding it quickly behind another hand.

"Just- something for- until my next visit. I know it isn't much, really, but-"

Arum shakes his head, not looking at her, his heart- pounding strangely, thudding in a way that makes his sternum feel tight and uncomfortable. He doesn't want to risk a word, but- he hisses sharply to stop that particular line of thinking. He unfolds the paper with more care than is strictly necessary, but with his cracked claws and shaking hands, he does not want to risk accidentally tearing his prize.

It's a drawing of a pond, thick with reeds and with a long-necked heron upright and noble in the shallows. Arum had lingered on this one perhaps the longest of what Amaryllis showed him today. Did she notice that? Was the choice intentional, or was is just the first drawing she could snatch up?

It smells like the charcoal did. Like charcoal, of course, in the first place, but- the warm alive scent he assumes must simply be Amaryllis herself. He flicks his tongue, his mouth painfully dry but still- he can smell the leather of the binding, some sort of wood, perhaps her home or the table she drew on. Chamomile, and his heart lurches again with a sort of desperation. Peaches and honeysuckle.

He tears his eyes form the page to look at her. She watches him with a rapt attention, as if cataloging his responses, but- he can't bring himself to indignation, for once. He's too tired, too... too grateful, despite himself.

She twitches a smile after a moment. "If you've still got the charcoal... I promise I won't be offended if you draw whatever you want on the back. Or- hell, all over the front, too. It's yours, it's a gift, you can do whatever you want with it. Tear it to pieces, it's yours."

Arum swallows, compulsively pressing the paper against his chest, the idea of shredding that peaceful little pond-

No. No, no-

Pathetic. He has been made truly, truly so pathetic. Accepting scraps and crumbs and drops. Accepting pity.

He is so tired.

(In his head, already, the idea of what he could add to the scene. Flora in the empty spaces around the pond. Suggestions of fish beneath the water. Someone at the bank, watching the birds and the frogs.)

He tucks the paper underneath himself, swallowing roughly. He hopes that she does not expect gratitude.

"I'll be back," she says when the next tour group enters, and Arum decides that she... probably isn't lying. He manages a nod, and she gives him another wide smile before she pulls her foot back from over the line, and disappears back into whatever her real life is.

~

The anger feels bigger, after that. He thinks of the knights trapping him here and seethes. He thinks of the little queen with the terrified eyes and wishes he had killed her himself, when he had the chance.

He wishes he could just starve to death. He wonders, if he had any magic to his tongue, if he could talk himself into it.

He folds Amaryllis' page carefully, using the seams from the paper dart, and hides it underneath the metal of the cuff on his upper left wrist, where his bone-thin frame allows just enough room to hide it properly.

And he thinks-

Pity, or kindness. Is there even a difference? Why do these gestures feel safer from Amaryllis rather than from Sir Damien? The knighthood, likely, but- is that all?

Amaryllis feels... earnest. Artless. He can almost feel her own anger, a sharp little mirror of his own. Damien feels as if he is only trying to prove something to himself.

And-

There is a thought, there.

Damien thinks him pitiable. Damien does not seem to fear him.

Damien is willing to risk stepping over the line, to try to offer Arum kindness- pity- whatever it is.

Arum can use that.

Arum thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

And when the guards are not looking, he sharpens the jagged edges of his claws on the stone beneath him.

~

Arum waits a few days. He is patient, in his own way. He knows that even though the knight is bound for foolishness, he is still a knight, and he will not trust a sudden change.

Arum softens his responses gradually, hesitating before he denies Damien's offer of water. He eyes the flask, allowing his expression to actually show the depth of his thirst, and Damien (yes, just like that, little fool) takes another step closer, offering the flask out in a loose hand.

Arum still waits, shaking his head and sighing himself back down to his stone. If Damien means to pity him... well. If it can be useful, Arum will not discourage such things.

Arum hesitates for a little too long, a few days later, and Damien huffs a breath, stepping entirely over the line, lifting the flask and almost pressing it into Arum's claws.

"Really, now," he says in a tone of gentle chastising. "Will you just-"

Arum would say that it almost feels too easy, if it hadn't been for the week or so of prelude. Claws around the wrist, dig the claw of his thumb into the pad of Damien's palm, twist and pull while he yelps at the sudden pain, drag the knight bodily back as he stumbles and-

Oh but he is stronger than he looks, lean muscle hidden beneath all that armor.

Arum is desperate, though. A little struggling is not going to be enough, this time. He folds Damien's back against his chest, twisting two of his own arms so the chains criss-cross in front of Damien's throat and he can pull, holding the knight securely against him.

"Ah- wh-"

Damien is furnace-hot. Arum did not expect that part. Mammals and all their ridiculous overabundance of heat. The foolish, starving part of Arum wishes to melt into the heat, nevermind the rest, he could sleep in this warmth. Almost as distracting as Damien's scent clouding his snout, leather and skin and feathers and-

Honeysuckle? His curly hair is dusted with pollen, he smells like a garden, Arum wants to devour him, but-

Task at hand, task at hand. One chance at this. Needs to play this situation right.

When he opens his mouth to hiss in Damien's ear, however, what comes out is-

"You should scream, honeysuckle."

Which-

Damien gasps, trying to arch away from Arum's grasp, so- it will do. It does not matter that the words tripped on his tongue. His claws and his teeth are sharp, and the chains are sturdy and thick, and Damien must know that Arum could very well kill him like this. The human windpipe is not all that difficult to pierce, or to crush.

"What are you doing-" the knight gasps, all the words compressed to one breath, and Arum snarls and tightens his grip.

"Scream," Arum hisses again, ignoring the flare of pain in his throat, but Damien does not need to. The door to the rest of the Citadel bangs open, and Arum grins. Apparently Damien's yelp when Arum cut his hand had been enough to cause a stir. And-

Ah.

Arum recognizes the knight that charges into the chamber first.

"Sir Damien," Sir Absolon says as he skids to a stop on the stone, his hand on his hilt and his tone strangely warning, as if his ire is directed towards his fellow knight before the monster threatening his life. Two other knights tail him, their expressions far more worried.

Arum does not care about their emotions, just at the moment. He pulls the chains tight across Damien's throat, enough to make him gasp and choke, and then he loosens his grip enough to let the creature breathe again.

"Unchain me," Arum demands, snarling past the collar, "or I kill him."

Damien chokes on a breath even without the chain going taut, panic in his scent now, in his still-struggling frame, but he doesn't try to speak.

"Out of the question," Sir Absolon snaps, his hand twitching against his hilt, his expression pulling into a contorted sneer.

"Then you are going to need to kill me," Arum says, and it would be a purr if not for his shredded voice, subtle and hungry. "That- is your decision. I kill- him. You free me. Or kill me."

Pain spreads from his throat, thudding in his eardrums and then behind his eyes at the prolonged attempt at communication, but- he has managed the most important part. Terms are set. He will be free, or someone will die. Arum would prefer himself, at this point, but-

"Go on then," Sir Absolon says, sharp and without hesitation. He sneers, gesturing his arms wide and making no move whatsoever to draw his weapon, and Sir Damien stills.

"S-Sir Absolon," Damien says, sounding very blank.

Arum tightens his grip, his secondary hands lifting to dig claws into the skin just above Damien's collarbone. "I will. Release me or- or I tear his throat open. Snap him like a twig-"

"Do it. Don't just threaten, monster, follow through." The knight- grins, white teeth in a neat row, and Arum pulls his head back. Even the other knights at Sir Absolon's back shift with something like discomfort, but they do nothing. Say nothing. "Keeping your nasty little swamp tamed is worth the cost of a knight or two, and Sir Damien serves our Citadel bravely, and unwaveringly. He's not afraid. Are you, Sir Damien?"

Damien-

Breathes. Sharp and quick with his eyes on this other knight, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his back pressed firm to Arum's chest, but- he does not answer. His mouth hangs open with his ragged breathing, but either he cannot speak, or he will not. Arum resists the urge to resettle his grip on the knight, resists the urge to- he doesn't know. To press for an answer himself, perhaps. Is Sir Damien prepared to die like this? To die just as much by the word of his fellow knight as by Arum's hands? Sir Damien's prattling tongue is still, now, though, and utterly silent, but- his blankness, his silence must be enough, because Sir Absolon's grin grows even further.

"There's a good boy," Absolon says smugly, and Sir Damien's muscles twitch in Arum's grasp. "He's a loyal knight. Loyal knights are willing to die for their Citadel. So, monster-" he pauses to laugh, an unpleasantly throaty sound that Arum cannot reconcile with Damien's own breath-soft laughter. "Sorry," he sneers, "so, Lord of the Swamp, commit to your threats and do it. See how well that ends for you. You still won't find your freedom, in truth or in death, but by Saint Aaron I can promise you, I do promise you, I'll make you wish you were dead."

I already do, you idiot, Arum thinks with a vicious snarl, feeling Sir Damien's heart skip a beat against him. There is nothing you can do to make my continued survival any worse.

But.

The knight is right. The threat is empty, isn't it? If these fools care so little for Sir Damien- if even his murder could not spur them to kill him in retribution-

They won't release him, either in freedom or in death. Not even in exchange for Sir Damien's life. Sir Damien's life is not worth anything to them.

... Arum should kill him anyway.

He should. He should slit the knight's throat and then try to at least make the other smug bastard bleed before they pull his choke-chain too tight to struggle against. He should make them suffer, as many of them as he can, because it is the only way he can make them feel even a fraction of what they've done to him.

(Sir Damien's heartbeat flutters against Arum's thumb, his breath shallow and uncertain, but alive, still alive.)

Arum swallows, squeezing Damien's pulse a little tighter, a pained growl in his own throat.

He should. He should.

But-

(He never wanted to make a crueler world.)

(How will he ever hear his Keep's lullaby again, if Sir Damien is dead?)

His arms tremble with even this little effort. The memory of the ease with which he once wielded his knives burns at the pit of his stomach. Sir Damien is hot as coals against him, the warmest thing he's touched since... before. His throat burns with the punishment of the collar and with something else, something less defined.

(oh, he says, his eyes so wide and honey-brown and touched by the barest edge of something like sympathy. A nightmare?)

His grip slackens, hopeless. Arum could, perhaps, blame it on his own trembling hands, but Damien startles against him as soon as he is able, twisting in his loosening grip to look back and search Arum's face with his own expression panicked flat. Arum feels what little strength he mustered for this failed effort leave him entirely, feels shame and grief and an ironic amusement at his own failure twist together within him, and he untwists the chains from around Damien's neck, and sways back from the knight so when the collapse takes him, he won't crumple to the floor with all their limbs still tangled together.

Damien half-catches him as he falls anyway, gripping his arms with a shocked noise, awkwardly easing him down against the plinth until Arum can pull away enough to simply curl into himself, burying his collared head against his knees, his trembling arms wrapping around the back of his head, his ruined horns.

"Stupid thing," Sir Absolon spits, fury underlying his tone, and then, "To the infirmary, Sir Damien."

"Wh-what?" Damien says, sounding so completely lost and breathless above Arum's head, and Arum curls into an even tighter ball.

"Infirmary, soldier, you're bleeding and we don't need you here right now."

"But- but he-"

"We can handle the beast, Sir Damien, since apparently you can't. You're done here. Go."

Arum does not look. He can't force his own eyes back open, cannot force his face to lift, but-

He can feel Damien looking at him, an almost burning intensity before he hears Damien's footsteps retreat, reluctant tap-taps across the stone until the door creaks open, pauses a breath, and then clicks uncertainly back closed.

Other footsteps, then. Heavier and with greater purpose, and the other knight - Sir Absolon, if ever Arum wished to curse a creature it would be him - steps closer to Arum's chains.

"Now. Swamp lord. That was an interesting little outburst, wasn't it? We've already been over this lesson so many times, I'd think you'd've learned by now! But maybe that's stupid of me, to think. Humans can learn. Hell, even dogs can learn. But you?" Arum cannot see him, refuses to look, tries not to let himself care, but- he can hear the grin in Sir Absolon's voice as he continues, "You're just a monster. I should've known not to expect any better."

There's a pause. Arum hears metal and leather rattle, and he knows automatically that the knights are setting their weapons aside. Out of reach.

"Now, monster," Sir Absolon says, all false cheer. "I can tell you a couple things about the rest of your day. You aren't going to die. That'd be bad for the war effort, see, and I'm not about to disappoint my queen."

Arum scoffs. He can't help himself, really, and- it isn't as if there's anything he can do to make what's coming worse.

"Shut the fuck up," Sir Absolon says in that same smug, certain voice, and Arum feels- hand on his horn, pressing his face down against the stone. "You aren't going to die, today," he says again. "But I made you a promise, lizard, and I'm damn well going to keep it."

#elle's fanfic #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #sir absolon #(MY PERMA-ASSHOLE. THANK YOU FOR SERVING YOUR FUNCTION SIR) #also pain. pain and suffering. spain and puffering even #the beast in on his chain

[ratasum]

A piece I wrote some time ago. Qirri and Garrus meet for the first time on the Plains of Ashford. feat. @wall-legion's Garrus

Getting out of the Black Citadel proper was a relief. Out here, the air was cleaner, if heavy from a patch of rain that must have passed through that morning. Charr milled about along the wrought iron pathways, many casting curious looks toward the leather clad asura with the rifle slung across her back. She took some time to stop at a scrapyard nearby, picking out some things she could use to build a helpful gadget or two should she need them. She paid for what she took and waved as she left.

There were far more humans here than she had thought there would be.

She had gotten so distracted from her initial task, wandering aimlessly as she headed in a vaguely northerly direction, that she hadn’t even noticed the ravine. One misstep sent her skidding down the hill with a startled little shriek, landing in a pile in some bushes near the bottom. A few devourers, tamed from the look of them, turned in her direction before scuttling back to wherever their keepers were standing.

Qirri just lay there, panting for a moment as she felt that familiar tightening, like a vice, gripping at her lungs. The last thing she needed right now was an attack! If she could just get out of this ravine… but just as she had been about to push herself up, something else caught her attention, and she froze.

An acrid smell stung her nose just as the distinct sound of crackling embers reached her. Moments later, a figure came stepping up a second incline leading further into the ravine. He was massive, almost as big as the centurion she’d encountered in the Black Citadel, wearing blazing robes that dripped molten fire. His fur seemed to crackle and glow, and vivid orange like cracks in smoldering wood crawled down his heavy horns. The scent of singed fur filled the air around her as he swung his great head about, tail lashing, crackling flames with each pass, blazing eyes hunting for whatever it was that had disturbed his rituals.

A Flame Legion shaman.

She had read about this rogue legion, separated from Iron, Blood, and Ash by their refusal to let go of the old false gods. This one must have heard her fall, and had come hunting.

“What is that I smell…? Asura? Well, isn’t this interesting. That leather smells new, little rat… where are you? I know you’re hiding somewhere near…”

She couldn’t move. If she did, she would give herself away. And yet at the same time, she was all too aware that if she didn’t move, he would find her anyway. He was sniffing the air again, moving closer, steam rising from his paw prints as he grew ever closer to where she lay in the underbrush.

But there was another sound nearby. Her eyes shifted, and she could see what looked like a drake, sniffing and hissing in her direction. Just what she needed.

The shaman was drawing too close now, and she moved as slowly as she could, trying to get to her rifle. The acrid smell was overpowering, almost suffocating, and she tried not to cough as he drew ever nearer. “Come out, little rat,” came the gravelly voice. “It will only hurt for a moment. You’ll make a fine sacrifice.”

She’d very nearly gotten her rifle drawn when all at once, the roar of another charr split the tense silence that had only just before been filled with the hiss of flames. This second charr landed, hovering protectively over where she lay, and the shaman drew back with a stunned expression. She had no idea who this new charr was, but this was exactly the distraction she had needed. Her rifle snapped up, and with the barrel inches beneath the chin of the charr crouched over her head, she fired off two shots at the stunned shaman, who yelped when the blasts struck him in the side. Faced with an angry new charr and a gun-toting asura, he chose the smarter option and retreated himself, leaving Qirri’s stunned protector to step back and look down at the asura he’d leapt in to help.

She had scrambled back and away, clutching the rifle tightly as she stared up at him. She hoped she didn’t look frightened; at this point, she was only studying him. He was not quite as big as either of the previous charr, but he had enough of the look of both that she was starting to wonder if they were somehow related. Deep orange fur with darker stripes, wearing thick leather armor like hers. Judging by the bow he carried and the drake prowling near to him, she assumed he must have been a ranger.

“Um. Thank you.” She finally found her voice, her ears slowly relaxing back. “For the assist, I mean. I thought I had it under control, but…”

He snorted, somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. Was he laughing at her? “Glad I could distract him enough for you to get a clear shot. What are you doing out here alone, cub?”

That drew the most aggravated huff from the little asura, and her ears snapped right back up, defiance flashing in those big red eyes. That centurion calling her cub was one thing: she was old and grizzled and to her, everyone was likely a cub. But this guy? “I’m not a cub. I’m fifteen, and I’m exploring.”

“Sounds like a cub to me.” He grinned as she puffed herself up, trying to seem bigger than she was. “Still, it’s dangerous out here. The Flame Legion may not have as much a presence in Ashford as they do in other territories, but they’re still crawling around.” Crouching down so he could get a better look at Qirri, he let his ears flick forward, and finally, he held out a paw. “Garrus Firstblood, Ash Legion.”

Though she gave his paw a very skeptical look, she did reach out. Her small hand was barely the size of his palm, and he took great care not to grip too hard when he shook it as she introduced herself. “Qirri, daughter of Pazz, College of Dynamics. It’s very nice to meet you, Garrus!”

Fifteen. For a charr, she realized, that was pretty much an adult. She’d have been in a warband and doing a considerable amount of rigorous training, but for an asura… she was practically still a child. But here she was, out in the world with her armor and a rifle, a number of small tools and devices strapped to her belt. An engineer to the very core of her.

“So exploring aside, what brings you outside of Rata Sum? Are you doing research for your college? Where’s your mentor? Are they nearby?”

Her ears snapped back at that and she turned her head, gazing off at some point in the distance as she worried her bottom lip with needle sharp teeth. Finally, as she holstered her rifle, she decided on her explanation. “No, I, uh… I got a leave of study from my professors for health reasons, and, um…”

“And?”

“Aaaand I may be out here alone. As in, completely by myself. Intentionally.”

She had no idea what possessed her to be so honest. A smart charr would have picked her up by the back of her shirt and hauled her hissing and kicking all the way back to Rata Sum, but instead, Garrus simply blinked, giving her a contemplating look.

Then he sighed and sat down on his haunches, his tail curled in the grass to the side as he observed the little asura for a moment. She wondered for a moment if he would leave her here. She wasn’t exactly defenseless, and perhaps from what he had seen of her so far, he would realize it was out of the question to try to drag her kicking and screaming back to Metrica Province. On the other hand, it was dangerous out here, and she was so small…

With a snort, he nodded his head, slapping one broad paw against his thigh. “Well, then, if that’s the case, I’m coming with you.”

She’d already had a retort in mind. His sudden decision threw her completely off balance.

“Look, I know you mean well, but I- wait, what? Not… you’re not gonna try to drag me home?”

“You’re a capable kid, and I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of that rifle. But there’s a lot of things out here that would happily eat you in one bite, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go and that happened. Where are you headed?”

The way Qirri looked at him almost made him laugh. Her nose was scrunched up, eyes narrowed as her long ears flipped upward, the whole of her attention focused as intently as she might’ve been on a golem or a particularly puzzling equation. She was judging him fiercely, trying to see if he was attempting to fool her.

“Well,” she finally began, tone uncertain, “I guess that would be okay. It does seem like it could get kinda lonely out here, and I’ve always been fascinated by charr societal dynamics. So… okay, yeah. Sure. We’ll travel together for now. We’re headed to the toppled wall!”

#gw2 fanfic #gw2 writing #gw2 asura #gw2 charr #qirri tinkerfirst #garrus firstblood #bunny writing

[francostrider]

The Experience and Timing of Media

My group of friends had a tradition for every February called “Eat Like Hobbits”. Basically, our one friend would invite us all to her home, and she would have the excuse to cook several meals over the course of a day (which she loves doing), all the while the extended edition of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy play in the background. Well, we would watch it, but we are also chatting and just be glad January was over. We would have a good time, eat, well, like a hobbit, and embrace our nerdy selves.

So, I will confess one thing: The Lord of the Rings are not in my top five or top ten films of all time. But I have a lot of respect for the trilogy, and the amount of craft that went into every detail. And I do like them to a point. I treasure them as part of my introduction to western fantasy, as they were released around the same time as Champions of Norrath and I was coming to identify the DnD culture a lot more. The timing of the films coincided with the experience of discovering a favorite genre. And with the Hobbit day, it became a part of our shared experience.

As a fan of older media, like Robert E. Howard’s Conan books, I have been thinking a lot of the experience around the consumption of media. This involves more than the strict text of a given work. For instance, I started reading through Howard’s work via the volumes offered by Del Rey. It came in three volumes, the first of which I remember picking up after I graduated High School and in the ours before I saw X-Men 3. The volumes would follow me through our trip to Chatham, NY that year, into college and the smell of those old class buildings. They are synonymous with my experience in Rutgers and beyond.

The scents around us as we turned the page, the friends we would bring it up with, the chapter we try to squeeze in before class starts. These are all included with the actual consumption of the tale and make up our experience. We do not live in a bubble. The video games we play will either be affected by the outside world, or will be part of our relief from it. Prince of Persia: Sands of Time was played after a particularly rough time (and winter) of my life and it became part of spring. Castlevania: Circle of the Moon came out during 8th grade, a particularly joyful year of my life. And, of course, the ending of Majora’s Mask hit hard when I was a lonely kid outside of my household.

Going back to Conan, those were my own experiences, sure. But that was not the original context that the stories came out in. Those were published by Weird Tales back in the 1930s, usually one (or maybe even just a chapter) at any given publication. And these were published along side other authors, including HP Lovecraft. These would be on low quality paper (hence the “pulp” in pulp fiction), at 10 cents at a magazine stand. These would not be pre collected in a higher quality volume in a clean and orderly book store.

This was likely picked up by someone on their way to work, either to the local factory or grocery store. These were in the 1930s, so the Great Depression was either affecting the reader directly or at least seeing the damage it has caused. I imagine someone going “At least I got my Howard and Lovecraft for the month!” as they see another store close. Perhaps, like in Grapes of Wrath, copies were likely carried by migrant workers trying to make ends meet. “The Phoenix on the Sword”, “The Scarlet Citadel”, “Hour of the Dragon” and “People of the Black Circle” were just as much part of the life of a migrant worker as their tools, factories, current events and crops. Perhaps they held onto these copies and looked back on them with a mix of nostalgia and strain.

And the rabbit hole does not end there. I wonder what actors they were thinking of when they thought of Conan at the time. A mix of the movies from the 80s and artwork have long since codified Conan’s overall look and feel, but much of that was decades later. What music accompanied their reading in their heads? Did they find a friend or fellow worker and think “Oh, that could be Conan!” Did they try writing the Howard? Or at least to the publication house? And this isn’t even mentioning the human rights advocacies, protests and bloodshed at this era. Before Conan’s overall look was codified, did readers conjure a Conan of different races, imposing their own preferences?

My point is that the whole experience of reading Conan when it first came out will be eternally lost to me. I will likely never find some of the original volumes, which are either preserved in a museum or just dissolved into nothing. And even if I did, I will not know the desperation and attitudes of the time, or the actors of the time, what counted for “fantasy music” at the time, if that was even a concept.

But that does not invalidate my experience. The Experience that I bring up is always going to be unique to each of us. One 1930s reader is going to have a different experience from another 1930s reader, even if they are coworkers of similar backgrounds. I do not say this out of jealousy or some foolish self deprecating of our generation. This is more to illustrate why we love media, why we are nostaligic and why we more than enjoy, but cherish, our favorite works. The tricky thing is it is impossible to recreate. That version of you ended at the end of the experience. We have memories, but we have lost access to it at the same time. 

It is also one of several reasons why I have disdain for any claim of “Best X of all time”. Like much about the entertainment we consume, this is going to be subjective, and unique to every consumer. Awards try to find an objective truth, but they can’t dictate on a personal, subjective level. Bad timing and harsh experiences can also explain why we bounce off of works that we, in theory, “should” enjoy. I imagineThe Last of Us Part II would have been better received by audiences in a year that wasn’t 2020. These Experiences put the text to light. You never consume media without it. Despite everyone trying to talk me into it, I’m just not in the right mindset to go through Final Fantasy VII Remake or the new God of War games. They are something I currently do not want, and when I spend my entertainment hours on something I do not wish to do, I’m constantly looking forward to the thing I do wish to do.

The last “Eat Like Hobbits” we had before the pandemic was February of 2020, before the pandemic started. A lot changed since. Several people moved and found new homes. Job situations changed. But finally, in this year 2023, we got the invite we were waiting for. Our friend got her cooking going and we watched through the whole trilogy. This time, my wife and I watched through the whole thing, a first for herself. It was wonderful to have everyone over, but the trilogy changed in light of the pandemic.

First, there is what it meant: After three long years, we were able to do this again. Covid has not completely gone away, but something special had returned to us. Secondly, the scene where Frodo can no longer see home, but the fiery eye, really hit home. Leaving the house in 2020 could mean bringing back a deadly virus that has claimed over a million lives in this country alone and had filled hospitals to bursting. There was no escaping it, just the constant fiery watch of this disease and no catharsis or friends in person to comfort us. We were all trapped in our own personal Mordor, away from the lives we once had and the people we love.

And, thirdly, I am completely unashamed to admit that I thought of my own wedding last year during Aragorn’s Coronation (yeah, yeah, fuck off). But it is part of the experience I was going through. Our wedding was planned for 2021, but was postpone until late summer of 2022 for several reasons. Unfortunately, the pandemic was part of the drama leading up to it. But when all was said and done, everyone was there, hail and hardy, after three years of pain. My wife and I sat through the pains of moving, pandemics and grief together, and finally, FINALLY, we would have this day, Our day. It was not just a wedding, but also victory in its own way. All of that and everything that led to our wedding went into my recent viewing of Aragorn’s Coronation.

And let’s be honest, you should feel like a king on your wedding day.

We do not live in vacuums. It’s our real life that gives the fiction we consume meaning. As fantastical as a story or setting is, it is still a reflection of what we are. “All works are political” or so I’ve heard the phrase. We carry not only our preferences and likes, but also our life into everything we consume and create. Fiction makes little sense otherwise.

#lord of the rings #hobbit #majoras mask #the last of us #Castlevania #circle of the moon #majora's mask #Conan #robert e howard #hp lovecraft #Weird tales #wedding #pandemic #covid-19 #fuck covid