#bringing back the jungle to foolish

[skelletime]

Coming together to mend long exploded bridges with my favorite little builders! (They hate eachother)

#badboyhalo #badboyhalo fanart #c!foolish #c!foolish Fanart #c!badboyhalo #bad terrorized foolish's summer home again #bringing back the jungle to foolish #foolish gamers #foolish gamers fanart #foolish is gonna snap #again #dsmp fanart #dsmp season 1 #enemies to best friends

[naffeclipse]

Cold Scales

Naga!Moon x Reader. Sickness.

The first sign of your fever hits you with a pulse of heat. You brushed it aside, believing the sun had been beating on you too long, and the jungle warmth was simmering your blood. Sun leads you to the cave come nightfall. The buzz of mosquitoes fills the air with a menacing hum.

Sun has always been warm to you, even when he told you that you are warmer. His melting yellow and golden jewel tone scales, his cornflower blue eyes, wide and endearing, fit alongside the heavy humidity in the afternoons. The small scarlet markings on his throat and hips are metal-red hot, too. He always kept you warm.

Moon is cool. You’re not sure if that’s due to the cold tones of his scales, gray-blue on his belly and along his arms, and deeper into midnight blue along his back and on top of his hood. He hides in the darkness after sunset. His red eyes, even darker still, only flash once it’s too late for his prey. You’ve seen how fast he strikes—before, when you were acting foolish and trying to escape their aid, and after, when you watched him and Sun hunt a meal.

You slip out of Sun’s embrace. His arms fall away, lethargic from the day you both put your energy into scavenging for berries and nuts and small mammals. A soft hiss leaves his lips. You wait a moment to ensure he doesn’t stir, though his coils unconsciously tense, searching for the little human he was holding.

Sun had mentioned you felt warmer than usual, but you convinced him you were only tired and worn out from the hot day. Still, he frowned when you laid down beside him on the cool cave floor.

The fever pulses deep within you. You feel it burn across your forehead with a ripple of sweat. Staggering out of the cave, what strength you have is quickly sapped by whatever attacks your body. You need less heat. You need to be cold and imagine gulping down icy water to soothe the dryness infecting your throat.

A small trail that’s been trampled by your feet and the width of snake tails leads you through the trees. Even in the dark, under the delirium of a fever, you find the edge of the glinting water reflecting the canopy of thick verdant leaves overhead.

You kneel, almost collapsing forward before you manage to catch yourself with both hands splashing into the pebble-bottom stream. The heavy breaths in your chest heave in and out. You sigh and tell yourself you’re being a baby—one little fever, and you’re struggling to concentrate on the water before you.

In the reflection of the stream, you catch two red eyes glowing above you, leaning out of a tree to survey your feeble attempts to quench your burning thirst. A hood of midnight and diamond yellow stars surround the visage. 

“It’s nothing, Moon,” you whisper to the water. Slowly, you cup your hand and carefully bring it to your lips. The crisp coldness douses your heated lips, filling your mouth with a jolt due to the sharp contrast of cold and fire within you. When you swallow, you shiver.

The softest rustle echoes. A few branches quiver, then, you feel his presence behind you, cool as a tree’s shadow. 

A large, blue-gray hand snakes around your forehead. Knuckles press against your temple, and you sigh in relief at his blissful, fresh touch. 

“Fever,” Moon rasps, carrying the end of the word with a soft hiss of disdain, as if saying it with a curse will make it no longer reality.

“I just need a drink.” You cup your hand in the lazy flow of water again. “I’m fine.”

“Too warm,” he says when you greedily gulp another mouthful. 

Water spills cut down the corners of your mouth. He presses closer to you. His thumb smoothly wipes away the drips falling off of your chin, then he shifts. Your mauve shirt with the sleeves cut off allows his frosty arms to offer a barrier against the next wave of heat crashing against you. He’s never felt so cold before—or have you never felt this feverish before?

“It’ll go away.” 

You try to get to your feet but Moon’s hand on your waistline stops you from rising.

“Come here,” he rasps. “Let me see you, orchid.”

You would have given him a look at the pet name, but you don’t have the strength to muster the effort. He eases you back against his chest. His palms slide and cup your shoulders, his sharp fingertips slipping slightly under the frayed edges of your shirt and resting on the end of your collarbone. Is that a shiver from the elicit touch or sickly chills beginning to take hold?

“You’re flushed,” he hisses softly. A slight slip of his tongue, forked at the end, peeks out of his mouth as he leans closer. You moan unwittingly at his cool, flat cheek pressed against your clammy face.

“It was hot today.”

“You’re sick,” he decides.

This time, you groan out of refusal rather than relief. 

“I’m not sick.” You slowly shift, managing to get to your knees to face him. The fever forces your shoulders down. You bow under the exhaustion taking hold. 

Moon hisses in an amusement yet concerned note. His long tail drapes behind him, cutting across the ground like the connections of a constellation. It’s black in this lowlight, but in the day, when he sleepily shows himself, you’ve caught the iridescent indigo and jeweled blue tones of his beautiful scales. 

“If you keep denying it, I will take drastic actions. Do you want that, orchid?” his tone lowers to a menacing threat, all dark cords and hisses, but you’ve learned to tune your senses to his hands and expression. He looks only at you, a slight frown playing along his wide mouth. His eyes are narrowed, displeased with your condition.

“No,” you shake your head, “You and Sun are so dramatic.”

“Says the stubborn flower,” he touches your cheek. You nearly collapse into his palm. The rasp of his laugh stings your pride as much as it soothes your aching chest. 

“I’m not a flower,” you mutter as you feel his arms lower slightly, coaxing your hands over his shoulders. He rises higher on his tail, lifting your feet off the ground without effort, and you slump over his shoulder, little more than a child being carried to bed. Moon hums a low, hypnotic sound (that you’re sure is part of his allure, his power).

“Of course not,” he gives with amused demean.

You work up a growl at your throat that sounds weak even to your own ears. Moon shushes you with a soft stroke of his claws against your spine. The shudder that follows through your body is both cold and hot, and you hate that he silences you so simply, and that you like how he strikes back against your harshness.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs as if calming a tiger. You want to snarl at him again but the brief spark is quickly smothered under an internal infernal cooking your core.

No one agitates you and reassures you as much as Moon.

He glides across the ground to his tree—it’s wide and high, thick with strong boughs and leafy but not too leafy. A perfect tree for a naga. Moon tends to lounge up there when he wants to escape the shadows of the cave you usually make your bed in. You wonder how he intends to hold you through the night up in its verdant limbs, but Moon hooks a hand behind your head and lowers you softly to the cool, moist ground at the base of the trunk.

“Moon?” For a piercing moment, you’re afraid. You refuse to let go of his arm as he draws away. Where is he going?

“Hold still,” he gently hisses.

You let go. You wait for him.

Slowly, his coils gather, curving in loops close to you. He draws himself around you, his long body following. The darkness shimmers. He takes you into his arms once more and guides you to his chest where he fully embraces you. The end of his tail drapes across your waist, sealing you within a deliciously cool embrace of the naga’s scales.

“Shush,” he says when you groan, soaking in his invigorating presence. “Sleep, orchid.”

You almost tell him that you can’t, or that you won’t, but the comfortable weight of his body surrounding you, the chill of his arms against your burning skin, and the soft tuck of his chin upon your sweaty head chases away the last of your resistance. You might have pressed back—saying you don’t need his help, but it’s hard to resist the frost-gentle relief of his presence. It’s hard to be stubborn when he feels so good.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’ll feel better soon.”

The sweet caresses of his cool touch across your forehead eases your ache. Against your will, your eyelids flutter. He hums low, a lullaby you can’t name, and it soothes you gently into a dreamless sleep, comforted by a cool cradle of scales and songs.

#i'm burning up with a fever as we speak #i wrote this at like 1 am #because of the fever #if there are any mistakes no you don't see them #cold scales #naga au #naga!moon #moon x reader #naff writing #i'll add this to ao3 later #when i have more energy

[sw33tsnow]

Enchanted by the aching wounds

- (I) / (III)

Mercenary!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Harpy!F!Reader

Summary: In a world filled with chaos, mankind and mythical creatures refuse to maintain a harmonious interaction. But it seemed not all would comply the exact same.

Warning: NOT FOR MINORS, size gap, mentions of violence, mentions of death, blood, vocabs, timeline ("once upon a time") Wordcount: 2k7

NOTE(s):

I've been working on The UK history for my field and came up with this blog's idea. I'll try my best to bring the vibe (might appear some grammar errs)

Inspired by: Maleficent (Angelina Jolie's role) and the incredible mini-serie Songs that sound like sea-foam - @halcyone-of-the-sea

THE SECOND PART || THE THIRD PART

Mother Nature - Nak created everything. She shaped mountains with scarce ores for the Dragons to guard, blew the wind and guided the Elves and Centaurus to bring seeds to the arid steppes. Whenever a precious life passed away, Nak would shed Her tears of sorrow and they would flow into vast oceans, becoming a great home for Sirens and Mermaids. Oases and islands, the same as floating land on the water surface, surrounded by sand and deep inside where the trees were so dense, there are jungles guarded by the Harpies. That's your kind, being called by an intimate name - the Aborigines, given by Nak and friends from other species. The reason was because jungles were the combination of nearly all the quintessence that Mother Nature has ever formed. Harpies' deep knowledge of flora and fauna impressed the meadow fairies to come back to learn, your kind's mastery in predicting the taste and temperature of liquid attracted the water fairies, and the respectful manners toward the mountains always pleased the Dragons.

Then the Sky came. He called Mother Nature his muse, allured Her and succeeded in making Her give birth to a short-lived, disgusting species called human. They're stupid, always curious and impatient. Nak wanted you - her beautiful children to treat them like family, just like the Sky treated Her. Yet unexpectedly, the Sky abandoned Her along with these brainless mortals for his new interest - the Moon. When He was still by Nak’s side, their passionate love resulted in endless harvest and warm sunlight illuminated the entire land but when He left, Mother Nature was drowned in inconsolable grief and forgot Her duty, causing what we called The ice age today. Those weak mankind rebelled because they couldn't stand the harshness which nature has given them. They sharpened their own weapons and started to hunt food, they exploited the mountains to take away the essence, and then started dividing territories and killing their own kind to assert their power.

Mother Nature's fury has risen, Her tantrum was beyond imagination. The mountains roared and spewed boiling melted rocks that burned fields dared to cross their path, the calm coastline was replaced by angrily tsunamis, the vast pastures turned to lifeless soil, and the forests became somber and dreadful. Mother Nature was unable to dissuade. She was your mother, their mother, but the mortals didn't know better. Instead of reconciled and coordinated, foolish humans with vague knowledge began to imitate your kind. They formed classes as you have your clans, their patriarch preferred to be called king, and your warriors were called guards in their language. They robbed your ores and molded the gold into cramped shapes entitled crowns, wearing them on their heads as if to represent their power. With endless greed, the mortals yearned for exotic garments and accessories so they did not hesitate to slaughter your brothers and sisters only for feathers and claws as the materials.

Faith vanished when the whines from families who lost their members and the desperate prayers couldn't reach Nak, She has banished you all, Her own blood. The survivors from all remaining species have gathered in the far-off island, separated and protected from the ugly world which mankind has conquered.

Afraid of being hanged for failing to track the left traces of you fairies, the vassals forged stories to delude their majesty. Spreading rumors about your kinds’ extinction and turning you fairies into mythical creatures that they chose to tell their later generations as bedtime tales. 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Reckless and brutal

The stories that you heard from the elders as a child told you all. Mankind is truly bloodthirsty. Time flies like an arrow, the war raged non-stop, the deafening explosions of the weapons they called 'guns' and the mournful screams of all things did not subside for decades. The mortals did not give up easily as they silently seeked for you creatures with the excuse that you fairies would take revenge. They massacred villages, shed no mercy on newborn infants to harmless old ones, women were captured to satisfy their animalistic desires and men who defied orders were killed unhesitatingly. However, not only you fairies had to shed blood, humanity also refused to spare their own people. 

Foolish

Well, you aren’t on the same page. Humans are indeed ugly and cruel, but they have superior intelligence, which was clearly unfair. They learned from their previous mistakes in order to correct and improve themselves. Without special-given abilities, mortals built their own boats to help them travel on the sea, put up their own huts called houses to live in and start a family, they also learned how to herd animals and grow crops. 

That's also why you're here, chained below the sodden hold of an enormous royal cruise.

Your naked body was covered in wounds and coagulated blood stains from the whip, your hair disheveled and your legs were shaking from the loss of strength from being knelt for too long. The surrounding dark space limited your vision, there were some collision sounds that came from some valuable objects, the whimpers of animals and the jingling sound of the chains on your neck and your wrists as they bump into each other. On the main deck, the nobles were eating, drinking and dancing to the melodious music of the violin, guests all wearing masks as requested in the invitation. This ship's indeed well-known as a venue for clandestine auctions. Alcohol, jewelry, paintings, drugs or any other illegal items would be converged here for the wealthy to throw their money around. Attendees were way more crowded than usual thanks to the rumors about a special creature on display waiting to be owned here - you, to be more specific.

During the final purge on the island where you fairies were hiding, your parents sacrificed themselves to protect you from impending death. All by yourself, you had to hunt for your starvation, had to learn how to fly and use the gift you were given - mankind called it magic, without receiving any guidance. You came to realize that you were the last Harpy, the last child of Mother Nature - Nak while eavesdropping on a conversation between pirates. Couldn’t hide forever, you disguise yourself as a human-being and blend in the human society. Years of working like a dog, you have earned enough money, which the mortals used to trade for goods, and opened a pub of your own. You have learned their language to communicate and lived in peace for such a long period until a group of strangers ambushed and brought you to this cruise. Even though the time serving for pirates and monarchs' forces has whetted your battling skills, you’re outnumbered and were forced to surrender. 

They brutally tortured you, stimulating your wild's instinct to rise and revealing your true self before their eyes. They treated you like an animal, feeding you filthy stuff that even the most foolish creature wouldn't put in their mouth just to keep you from dying. If you dared to resist or went on hunger-strike, they would avoid damaging the valuables of your body and force you to submit by slicing your flesh. Devastated, you no longer have the strength to find a way to escape but accept your fate, being locked up and sold like an actual commodity.

In the hidden corners of the ballroom, four men with sturdy built frames were quietly observing every movement with hawk eyes. All four of them were dressed in late Victorian formal attire, after all it’s considered a formal event with plenty of royalties appearing. Standard plain white shirts with detachable white collars tucked inside the waistcoats, ascot or ties by choice. Their trousers and frock coats were not the same shade, perhaps to avoid unwanted attention. From head to toe, the costumes were meticulously tailored based on each individuals’ measurements because the job they undertook required quite a lot of manual work.

Beneath the giant painting hanging between the two paths leading to the balcony, a brunet with a black mask was staring at the end of the hall. That’s where the door leading down to the lower deck was, where his team had to reach as claimed by the instruction. The term of the contract was short and simple - his team’s party wanted the most valuable 'thing' in this auction.

Normally bland businesses like these would never be accepted, but they’d be fools if refused such huge sum. What’s more?  Free of charge handmade pieces of clothing and the chance to sneak those expensive liquor wouldn’t be unpleasant after all. 

The gentleman had begun to move. He lightly tapped on the bench where two charming men were sipping wine as if commanding, they immediately finished the booze before standing up and followed him. The brunet gave an oblivious glance as if observing the surroundings, a tall figure appeared out of nowhere and joined them as all four men quietly disappeared behind the door, not being seen by anyone.

Carefully removing the masks and cumbersome collars, the men gently pulled out the small arms attached to shoulder holsters hidden beneath their long coats. Checking the magazine again, a masculine face and neatly trimmed beard, seemed to be the Captain, motioned the other three to stick with him as they entered the hallway.

"What exactly are we looking for, sir?" The pretty boy with dark skin whispered in curiosity.

"We shall find out soon, son" The Captain replied 

Their eyes never left the dark path ahead. Gently approaching the hold, there were two guards positioned by the stairs armed with rifles absentmindedly chatting with each other. With his index and middle fingers pointing forward, in the back, the tallest man moved like a ghost behind the guards as he pulled out a knife grabbed around his thigh to stab one’s neck before raising the gun to shoot right between the other’s eyebrows. The cheers along with music and the guests' lack of alertness successfully masked the loud gunshots just well. They gathered up and began to hide dead bodies into the nearest wine barrels. Bounty hunters and petty thieves would leave evidence and traces behind but these men were professionals, could possibly tell by their swift movements.

All sorts of illegal services are offered in the black market in order to complete dirty jobs which customers didn't want to get involved with. And The One-Four-One, one of the most well-known mercenary teams, utilized by both the government and merchants, they're qualified plus always ensured to complete deals in their agreement. As long as they’re paid properly. 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Your dizziness was gone by the loud noise coming from outside, gunfire, you confirmed. Pulling yourself together, you dragged your sore body deeper into the darkness of the hold as your pointed ears perked up due to the sound of expensive leather heels on the wooden steps. Adjusted your breath and narrowed your eyes, you peaked up to the direction where the noise came from while purposely clacking the chain to entice those humans. As soon as two bulky men carefully approached and stood in front of you, using one leg to knock one of them down, you snatched the gun from his hand and aimed straight at his forehead. Your right knee firmly pressed on his chest and your left foot pinned his wrist down, not allowing him to sit up.

"Steamin' bloody...."

"Shut yer trap or ‘ll crush ye barnacles" You gritted your teeth and forced the gun harder against his head. Your gift could not be used if your mind were unclear, so there’s no other way but to improvise under this circumstance.

Opposite of the silky feathers image, the primaries of your wing were like sharp blades pointing at the adam's apple of the man behind you as goosebumps exploded on your entire body. The man was quiet, so quiet that you almost couldn’t realize his present when you attacked the human below you. He calmly pierced down at you, only his beautiful chocolate brown eyes and messy blonde hair were visible because the man wore a tubular cloth around his neck. His high nose bridge and lips were hardly seen beneath the stretchy material as it pulled up to cover more than half of his face. 

"Savvy?" You asked with an unemotional face and voice.

"Easy, ma lady.....easy" The dark-skinned boy knelt on the floor, one hand raised in the air to show that he had no intention of harming you, the other hand gently placing the gun on the wooden steps.

You didn't let down your guard, only turned your eyes to the boy, his wine-red cutaway spread out on the wet floor so delicately.

The blond didn't step back, he put his gun back in the holster and slowly took off his coat. You followed his every move as you retracted your wing, bringing it to block the front of your body while crawling down from the man lying on the floor. The faint scent of gunpowder and burnt orange peel tickled your nose as the blond man draped his large coat over your smaller shoulders, his calloused hands grazing your shoulders, leaving an indescribable itchiness on your skin. After helping the shorter man on the ground to his feet, they all backed away so as not to tower over you.

"Ye're one of them, eh, ma lady?" Your pupils shone brightly in the darkness as you focused on analyzing the older man in front of you.

"....Are ye mercenaries?" Sounded more like a statement.

"Aye ma'am" The man you have just pinned down to the floor was now brushing his suits while answering you with a grin on his face.

"Apologize for my previous acts" You glanced, "Am I yer negotiation?"

Your voice hoarse and your lips chapped due to dehydration, but still managed to deliver your words clearly. You retracted your wings and horns back inside. Couldn't stop peeking at mountain of a man leaning against the pillar, your claws which have been replaced by mankind’s fingers dug into the thick garment he handed you. 

"No" the blond grunted, "The requirement was the thing, they'll get the thing."

Word for word. You silently thanked him when he finally opened his mouth and spoke, his voice low and seductive, better than you expected. The gentleman was always silent but his expressionless eyes never left you. His decisive words and gentle gestures made you drunk, years of going through your heat by yourself, controlling desires has never been this difficult to you. 

"Simon" Simon, you mumbled, your lips thinned to a line as if just his name was enough for you to smile like an idiot.

"Blimey, Cap, ye saw how she held me down"

You understand why the Captain hesitated. Mercenaries’ jobs were neither easy nor safe, would’ve to pay with your life if you’re negligent. But the ridiculous hair man got his point, not only your other self could never be a burden, you alone were completely qualified for their team.

"Miss, ye ever been on battlefields?" The Captain sighed before asked you

"If the Tudors And Stuarts count" You answered bluntly, "Also an old salt on Sir Francis Drake and Anne Bonny's ships". Tilting your head, you slightly smiled as their eyes widened.

An impressed whistle was blown, the boy with the red cutaway walked over and patted the Captain's shoulder, whose face looked down and shook his head in defeat. The blond gentleman walked over to where you sat to unchain you as the oldest man cocked his head like a command, careful not to hurt you.

"Thank you" You said with sincerity, rubbing the scratched and bruised skin on your throat and wrists.

"Can ye stand, ma lady?" You nodded in response, "I still can walk, they spared my legs out", but seemed to receive disagreement from the rest.

" ‘ll carry ye" The blond spoke softly, "Allow me" 

Lifting you up effortlessly, he placed you on his bulky arm and the other held the gun. Nodding to the other three, you all quietly disappeared from the dark hold. 

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #cod simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley ghost #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #simon x reader #simon ghost x reader #x female reader #x fem!reader #x female y/n

[quitealotofsodapop]

While most celestials do confuse reincarnations for their original selves, I think Iron Fan would have spent enough time in the mortal realm to learn to see the difference so the confusion over their reincarnations doesn't last long. And since she knows Wukong spelled the entrance, that means he somehow wanted this group of people to have access to his sacred home. It on Fan has enough of a brain to realize these were likely the Pilgrims' descendants and reincarnations rather than the Pilgrims themselves abdvthey just happen to have access because Wukong would never deny his troop or their decendants.

And Iron Fan isn't one to go against Wukong's wishes, not when he's sleeping just a bit further into the cave, buried under his favorite peach tree. So she does the courteous thing and brushes off her centuries of neglected hostess skills and offers them tea, only slightly threatening them.

Tang is absolutely delighted and near has a meltdown when PIF confirms that this is indeed Aolai, and not only that, but Water-Curtain Cave itself. Hecwas standing in the home of the Monkey King himself!! Pigsy brings him back to reality by asking the former celestal why she was there, since the last he'd checked, the Demon Bull Family had no reason to be anywhere near the Monkey King.

Iron Fan finally having company after so long, explains that there was much behind the battle between DBK and Sun Wukong that is and shall remain unknown to mortals and celestials alike. Namely, that DBK had done what he'd done by provoking the Monkey King on a misguided attempt to protect his only remaining sworn brother and had not listened to reason when she had warned him of the foolishness of his plan. When asked what DBK had been protecting Wukong from, PIF refused to answer.

Then, a curious baby dragon began digging, having slipped out to play with the monkeys. PIF has had to gently scold and chase monkeys away from her brother's resting spot for many, many years, but she hadn't accounted for company and a dragon. By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late, and Wukong's stone covered nose was exposed.

PIF wishes she could blame the dragons, but even she knows Wukong wouldn't have wanted that

PIF understands reincarnation a lot better than most Celestials, simply because she's more aware of Buddhist teachings + understood that the Tang monk back in the day was the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada. Redson himself has a soul thats seen a powerful previous life.

So when Iron Fan sees a Not-Monk (too sassy/gay to be a real one), a short Pig demon, and a tall buff fish demon suddenly start hanging around her brother-in-law's island one day; she gets a gut feeling that its "almost time".

Part of her believes it's fate giving a clear sign that Wukong is to awaken soon, and will require the company of his companions even in their new lifes to move forward.

So she leaves her post for barely a day at most to pick up Redson from Guanyin. Her family derserves to be reunited in whatever way it can.

And her little fireball runs off into the jungle of the island to play with a baby dragon he saw...

And when she finally catches him and makes their way to Water Curtain Cave, the whole squad are already there and half-dig up Wukong...

PIF hasn't had to play hostess in centuries, but she tries her best to make her company feel at ease - especially since the Not-Monk appears to be close to fainting at every piece of information she divulges.

Oh gosh if Mei had been the one to dig up Wukong as a curious baby dragon (and maybe a "its ok" from the spirit of Ao Lie), that would be so cute. PIF thought Mei was busy playing with Redson when she finally notices two pairs of little hands digging into the ground by the peach tree...

#century stone egg au #stone egg talk #lmk aus #lmk princess iron fan #lm pif #lmk tang #lmk mei #lmk red son #long xiaojiao #lego monkie kid #lmk

[lavampira]

OCKISS24 — DAY 2

prompt: rain [@ockissweek] pair: swtor ocs; cadrien x minaiph [belongs to @hythlodaes] word count: 1050

The first morning back on Dromund Kaas, it rains.

And not just a simple shower, but a downpour that spatters heavily across the balcony, thunder rumbling through his bare feet as Cadrien stands beneath the awning. He’s heard others complain of it endlessly over the years. Too dreary with all the rain, too humid with its untamed, sprawling jungles, too dangerous should the spires fail, but to him, it’s home.

A home where Min and he have finally returned.

Cadrien sips from a steaming mug of tea, taking in the rhythmic sound and flits of energy through the Force as a crack of lightning strikes a distant spire. It reminds him of a conversation with Jaesa as an apprentice years ago, how beauty can be found in the Force, too, that it isn’t all that the Sith say. That the manner he perceives as a Miraluka is no less than the way others may see and experience awe.

But none of the morning’s beauty comes close to capturing his attention like the vibrant figure that materializes behind him.

Familiar hands easily wind around his bare waist, palms rough from a life honed in battle yet gentle as they slip across his skin. Equally familiar lips press to his nape with a breath that ghosts down his spine, and he tilts his neck in anticipation of another kiss there, but instead, those same lips meet the gnarled scar of his shoulder.

“You know, it’s much too early,” Min says, his deep voice still thick with sleep. “We could still be in bed for another few hours.”

Cadrien resists the urge to laugh. “You could’ve stayed if you wanted, Min.”

“The problem with that is you weren’t there to keep me warm. You left me, cold and alone, to brood in the rain.”

“I’m not brooding,” Cadrien grumbles.

A quiet breath huffs against him as Min shifts, draping a soft fabric around both of them. A blanket, Cadrien thinks distantly, one that he must’ve dragged off of the bed in his drowsy search for him. The idea threatens to pull his lips into a hint of a smile, and he can’t suppress it once Min hooks his chin over his shoulder to rest, comfortably fitted as if he belongs there, always, like every slope of Cadrien has been shaped for him and him alone.

“It’s… peaceful,” Cadrien adds, leaning into the taller man. “I’ve missed mornings like this.”

Min hums. “It has been a long time.”

“Too long.”

Bitterness seeps into the low rumble of his own voice, more than he intends. Min assuages him with a sweep of his thumb on his abdomen, still holding the blanket around them, careful not to jostle his tea, but a comfort all the same. Cadrien reaches for the arm around him, giving a grateful squeeze before threading their fingers.

At least when Korriban had fallen, when even the remnants of the Dark Council had bowed to Zakuul’s reign, they still had each other. The Claws had stood in defiance and were hunted across the expanse of stars both charted and uncharted, so much time wasted to the pride and foolishness of others, but their partnership has always been their greatest strength, and so they still live.

Min draws him from his thoughts with a kiss that finally meets the slope of his neck, his lips curling in a smirk against his tender skin. “Now you’re brooding, Cade.”

“Perhaps,” Cadrien concedes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. We’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

“Then tell me about home,” Min says, slipping into that genuine curiosity that always brings him back to two boys among Korriban’s sands, one trailing after the other with an endless supply of questions. Once it had pestered him, but Cadrien has grown to love it more with each day. “What is the rain like to you?”

Yet another familiarity, this one. A habit they’ve forged in seeking the galaxy in each other’s view. Cadrien pauses with his mug halfway to his lips, considering the words to paint the visual for him. Min is patient, rubbing small circles into his skin with his thumb, as he grants him that time. Rarely so patient with others, but always with him.

“Faint, but… flickering. Brief flashes of the Force with each drop. The lightning is brighter, but more distant.” Cadrien ducks his chin, the dangling jewel on his mask brushing his temple with the motion. “You drown it out, though.”

“Me?” Min blurts with a startled laugh.

“You’re the brightest, most vibrant part of everything, Min.”

It’s ridiculous, really, how his heart races in his chest. Cadrien has sworn his love to this man a million times over by now, and the same in turn, but still, his admission leaves him raw, so exposed under the gaze he knows has found him, even if he can’t see it. And yet, never has he felt more safe than he does with Min’s arms around him and his heart in his hands.

“Get rid of this,” Min demands as he reaches for his mug, leaning away only briefly to set it aside somewhere, anywhere. “I need to kiss you now.”

Cadrien fully laughs this time, low and rough, but turns to face him more fully. A moment barely passes before Min crashes into him, palms cupping his face as their lips meet. The blanket flutters away from them, faint from their residual touch on it before it vanishes, his entire perception nothing but the glowing man in front of him. His own hands reach for Min’s hips for purchase, letting one slide beneath the hem of his shirt and up his warm torso to feel for the jagged scar that once saved his life.

Min’s urgency melts with the touch. It’s a simple understanding, their mutual devotion and how far each would go to ensure that the other continues to breathe, and the fact that they can savor this moment on the world where they built their names together is a reminder of the worth. There’s no need for rush when they have the rainfall and thunder crashing around them, and their languid touch with each kiss, and the promise of more mornings like this one, an entire future ahead of them together.

#dani writes things #ockiss24 #ockissweek #oc: cadrien tirai #minaiph #cadrien/min #swtor #swtor fic

[bloodpen-to-paper]

DSMP Finale Things that make me feel like I'm back at the Beginning

-Tommy's checklist, especially finishing his base with Tubbo

-Shroud set free

-Zombo the Second cured and set free by Eret and Tubbo years after they first caught it

-George sleeping through most of the event (but being there for the End)

-Tommy banning Dream, specifically by tricking Sam into giving him Op

-Tommy blowing up the hotel (with Sam rigging it up for him)

-Eret fixing all their old builds/restoring all their stolen beacons

-"I don't give a fuck about Spirit" speech throwback

-Tommy and Tubbo revealing what's in how to sex (the first volume) and it being the most stupidly funny thing ever

-Tubbo and Sam visit the ocean monument where they first met

-Tubbo and Eret jungle base visit where they became friends

-Tommy and Dream walking the prime path

-Punz finding his house griefed after being inactive for months

-Prime farming

-Huge donos

-Accidental media share opening up on Tommy's stream

-Dream respawning in the prison because he forgot he set his respawn there

-Puffy giving people (Antfrost) weednip

-Eret museum visit, appreciating it and walking through memory lane

-Hannah got her elytra back

-Philza doing hardcore while important DSMP stuff is happening

-Chat hoppers in Philza's chat telling him to go on the DSMP

-Philza telling them to fuck off

-Hannah on the cake path

-Tubbo trying to visit Michael, raging when he can't find Michael, and Sam finding Michael in Ranboo's base after Tubbo already left

-Visiting Techno's base

-Catmaid Antfrost skin

-Oogway visit (and people messing with the item frames)

-Punz, Sam and Tubbo trying to get Hannah's elytra

-Boomer roasting people

-Foolish build appreciation

-Seapeekay getting a part in the museum

-Mentions of El Targay and McPuffy's

-Eggpire site visit

-Visiting Alyssa's builds

-Bass boosted go pros and autotune shenanigans

-Tommy failing an MLG bucket clutch

-Dream spawn killing Tommy to the disc music while Tubbo defends him and saying he wants the discs (throwback)

-Church Prime

-Hannah's frog statue

-Puffy's builds being destroyed as collateral damage

-Everyone freaking out over George joining

-Callahan joining and immediately leaving

-Group dance session

-Punz smack talking people on instinct

-Ponk asking people for food cause he never has any

-Sam being stacked with everything everyone needs

-Hbomb innuendos

-Maidbomb mentions

-Skephalo jokes

-No one being prepared to go to the end and having to get ready in a rush

-Peeople getting lost on the nether highways and taking wrong turns

-People getting pushed out of the portals when there's too many trying to fit in at the same time

-"I WAS HERE"

-Everyone forgetting to bring ender eyes for the End Portal

-Callahan summoning withers in the end

-George continuously dying to endermen

-Tubbo killing the enderdragon and respawning at world spawn

-Bad staying on brand and wanting the enderdragon egg

-Tubbo and Tommy on a bench, listening to discs and watching the sunset

-Warden Sam and Prisoner Dream moment

-Techno's temple in the New World

-Skeppy joining after all the action already happened

-Sharing screenshots, secrets and final thoughts

-Puffy, Bad, Sam and Eret visiting all the sites and reminiscing

-o7

#it hurts and ill never forget it #thank you all for this community #share all your moments and memories #what youll miss and what youre excited to see #love you all #goodbye Dream SMP! #mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #tommyinnit #tubbo #philza #technoblade #eret #badboyhalo #skeppy #captain puffy #antfrost #awesamdude #boomerna #hannahxxrose #punz #dropsbyponk #seapeekay #callahan #georgenotfound #dreamwastaken

[hereforthefanficsandromance]

Fan Prize Story #3: Finding the Way Back Chapter I

Masterlists

AO3 Blogger Tumblr Audio Versions ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

Chapter Summary

Cal doesn't return from a mission forcing you to venture out into the Kashyyyk jungle to rescue him and face your greatest fears. Rating: 18+ Words: 1.2K

This story was made for @angeldarkness95 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

The heat of the explosion forces sweat to bead along your forehead, dampening your neat hair. It was closer than you would have liked, but your reddened skin remains unburned. You smile at the flames engulfing the wretched Imperial base; it was an eyesore anyway. 

Something tugs at your mind, reminding you that this mission was a dual effort, bringing your attention to Cal. “That’s odd…” 

Fear consumes you, urging you to rush to aid Cal, but you push away the lies. You cannot believe such trivial feelings, only facts are reliable. Cal completed his portion of the mission, since the base blew up so spectacularly. He is on his way back to the ship, just like you. 

You shake your head and begin the journey back towards the Mantis. Cal must return from the opposite end of the base, where he completed his portion of the mission. Despite the tugging in your head, you keep your thoughts on getting back to the ship. Cal will meet you there. 

You speak aloud to your worry, hoping to rest the fear. “It’s probably nothing.” 

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

It takes over half an hour to get back, even keeping your pace at a light jog. As you enter the loading door, Greez and Cere look up from their seats at the table. 

You flash them a victory smile and glance around your current housing, grateful to be away from the wildlife. “Mission complete! Did Cal beat me back?”

Cere raises her dark eyebrows. “Cal has not returned yet.” 

You shrug and sit on the bench seating in the middle of the craft, enjoying the downtime while Cal makes his way back. You suspect Cal’s return will take twice as long as yours, assuming he doesn’t get distracted. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. BD probably ran off to scan something.” 

Cere joins you and sits at the opposite end. “I hope you’re right. He’s not late…yet.” 

You chuckle. “You know how Cal is, always getting distracted by something.” 

You pass the downtime with your feet resting on the center table, enjoying peace after exerting yourself all afternoon. Blowing up an Imperial base is easy enough, like taking clams from a Gungan. The bucketheads stand out against the greenery of the forest, making them easy to target. 

The difficulty was the dangerous fauna, which blends into the landscape, hiding from view, using the element of surprise as its chief advantage. You shudder at the thought of the multi legged creatures; the recent memory making your skin crawl. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

You lower your feet, boots sounding on the grated floor as it becomes clear Cal is actually late. Cere makes multiple efforts to reach him on the comms, but radio static is the only response. You take up leaning against the loading door frame, surveying the edge of the forest for Cal’s unlikely return. 

Guilt creeps in, pondering if the tug in your mind had been a warning of Cal’s inevitable absence. You reject the notion, reminding yourself that you cannot trust in the Force anymore. It has failed you in your time of need, and you won’t be so foolish twice. Minutes drag by and you find it difficult to relax, despite your statuesque frame in the doorway. 

Cere joins you, worry etched on her forehead. “We still can’t reach Cal on the comms. Kashyyyk does an excellent job blocking our signals.” 

Greez’s voice rings out from the kitchen. “Kid, did you see anything out there?” 

You answer Greez too loud, nearing overly defensive. “No! I mean, Cal definitely completed his part of the mission, or the explosion wouldn’t have been so spectacular.” 

He raises two palms in a mock shrug. “How ‘bout the Force? You can feel each other through it, right?” 

Your face heats at the thought of feeling Cal under any circumstances, causing you to stutter your attempted response. 

Cere interrupts. “That’s not exactly how it works, Greez.” 

“Well, what do I know? I’m just the guy who takes care of all you Jedi. You could at least fill me in on how it works.” 

Cere joins Greez in the kitchen, attempting to explain the Force. You’d find comfort in their banter if icy dread wasn’t washing over you. Absent minded, you pull your favorite stylus out of your pocket and spin it to soothe the discomfort of worry. 

You wonder if you were wrong to ignore the tug, if you’re too late now. Eyes closing and breathing slowly through your nose, you push aside the endless array of outcomes. Your mind, a creature of habit, attempts to slip into meditation, but you don’t allow it. Only focusing on your breathing and keeping one foot in the present. 

You stare at the tree line, willing Cal’s appearance to put an end to the internal suffering in your mind. He doesn’t, and each second wears on you. 

What if he’s horribly injured, or worse, dead? Regret seeps in, knowing that you didn’t tell him the truth about your feelings. How he takes your breath away when he stands too close, or how your heart flutters when he cracks a joke in his low and husky voice. 

Finally, you succumb to the panic, moving into the ship to retrieve a supply bag, tossing your favored item into its depths. Cere and Greez perk up, watching you with interest. 

You spare them a glance as you move methodically to ensure the bag is well stocked. “I’m going to go look for him. He’s been gone too long.” 

Cere nods. “Stay safe out there. The Kashyyyk forest is dangerous. Keep your eyes up.” 

You press your lips together. “I’ve got this. I’ll bring back Cal in one piece.” 

She gives you a tight-lipped smile, standing to bid you goodbye. “May the Force be with you.” 

You don’t acknowledge the language and exit the ship. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

As you enter the web of trees, your ears attune to the roar of life around you: chirping, screeches, and rustling from above. The noise puts you on high alert, each hair on your body standing on end. The heightened state forces you into paranoia; keeping a hand on your lightsaber and jumping at shadows, fearing the worst. Though it is not the perils of the jungle that terrify you, but the man awaiting your rescue. 

You had a lover, a normal life, years after the purge. He had meant everything to you, but it’s clear you did not hold equal value in his heart. 

Adrenaline courses through your veins at the memory and the dangerous terrain. You focus hard to calm your breathing, but the longer you go without meditation, the more difficult controlling your body and mind has become. 

You speak aloud in a low tone, trying to soothe yourself as one might soothe a child. “It’s not a big deal. Cal’s fine. Nothing happened to him.” 

Your mind takes the words and runs in a different direction, making you aware of the possibility that Cal is, in fact, luring you deep into the woods to betray you. If one man could betray your love and trust, why wouldn’t another? Perhaps it’s your fate to be cast aside for a richer opportunity, to feel the flame of love and burn in its heat. 

Your feelings for Cal are likely blinding you to his true nature. His good looks are a distraction; his muscular form, his flaming hair, his kind eyes. 

“No! Cal wouldn’t do that…I hope…” 

The image of his eyes crinkled as he laughs at your joke, flashes before your eyes. He wouldn’t, would he? You want to believe the best in him, but you grip your lightsaber hilt tight as you move through the jungle. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

Need to Rant with Others Who Have Read This Story?

Join My DiscordIt's free! Members get updates, sneak peaks, bonus content, events, and countdowns to new chapters. We'd love to have you, even if you just lurk!

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

Love/Like/Hate What You Read?

Comment (please!) on AO3 or Blogger Anonymous/Comment/Message/Reblog on Tumblr Compliments feed me Constructive Criticism improves me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

Next Chapter

#HereForTheFanficsAndRomanceWorks #Cal Kestis x Reader #Cal Kestis x You #Jedi Fallen Order #Jedi Survivor #Jedi Fallen Order Fanfiction #Jedi Fallen Order Fanfic #Jedi Fallen Order Fic #Jedi Survivor Fanfiction #Jedi Survivor Fanfic #Jedi Survivor Fic #Fallen Order Fanfiction #Fallen Order Fanfic #Fallen Order Fic #Star Wars Fanfiction #Star Wars Fanfic #Star Wars Fic #Cal Kestis Smut #Jedi Fallen Order Smut #Fallen Order Smut #Jedi Survivor Smut #Star Wars Smut #Cal Kestis/Reader #Cal/Reader #Spotify

[heart-of-a-rebel16]

Jules’ Star Wars Fanfic Masterpost

(There’s a bit of an obvious theme here)

Point of Impact | 7,014 words | hurt/comfort | tw. for graphic depictions of violence

There were times that Garazeb Orrelios wished he had died on Lasan.

Not that he would ever say it out loud. Karabast, he’d rather be fed feet-first into a sarlacc than admit that to anyone. But some nights, when even the stars seemed dim, when the Ghost was silent as the grave, the thought would creep up on him, wrap its slimy tendrils around his heart and squeeze tight.

(In which Zeb has a Bad Day, and Ezra finds his footing in the Ghost Crew)

Hold Me Close | 3,380 words | hurt/comfort, fluff | no tws.

“Why would you love me?” Kallus asked quietly, staring at the floor. In his peripherals, he could see Zeb’s ears flicker in surprise.

“I hunted you and your family down time after time, I killed your people. I’ve done horrible, horrible things.” He looked up, vision blurred by tears. “Why would you love someone like that?”

Zeb hummed in though, bringing the human close to his chest.

“Can I tell you a story?” He asked softly. Kallus scoffed wetly and returned his gaze to the floor.

“I don’t think this is the time for a story, Zeb,” he muttered back. The Lasat let out a short laugh.

“Well too bad, ‘cause yer gonna hear it,” he said.

(In which Kallus has a nightmare, and Zeb tells him a story.)

Stripes | 1,837 words | blaschko lines | tw. for implied sexual content

“Y’know, you got stripes too,” Zeb remarked as Kallus' lips mouthed a hot trail all the way down to the juncture of his neck. “You got stripes and dots.” Kallus’ head whipped up so fast it made Zeb jump a little. “Really?” He breathed, and Zeb didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so excited before. “Yeah, you do,” Zeb replied with a lopsided smile. “If I show you, do you promise to go to sleep after?” (In which Zeb can see human’s stripes, and Kallus want to learn more.)

I’ve Come to Make an Announcement: Saw Gererra is a Bitchass Motherfucker | 22,350 words | multi-chapter, complete | angst, whump | tw for torture, graphic depictions of violence

Voices floated ahead of them. Three, as far as Kallus could tell. They could take three, he was sure of it. “Are we negotiating or shooting?” Zeb asked, drawing his bo-rifle. “Let’s hope for the first option,” Kallus responded. “Maybe we can reason with them.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they were foolish. Saw Gererra was not a man who could be negotiated with. One of the voices sounded closer, just around the bend of the hall. Kallus took a deep breath, then exhaled. He could do this. The voice’s owner rounded the corner. Tall, muscular, shrouded in darkness. Pointed ears swiveled this way and that, pinpointing any and every noise. Every thought in Kallus’ mind came to a screaming, screeching halt. It’s you. I know you. (In which Kallus’ past and present clash, courtesy of one Lasat mercenary)

Jules’ Pride Month 2023: Star Wars Edition | 9,187 words | multi-chapter, completed | anthology | no tws.

exactly what it says on the tin, lads.

Stars Go Dim | 36,950 words | multi-chapter, in progress | force sensitive Zeb AU | check tags for tws.

There were things that Zeb just… knew. Things others didn’t. Things others couldn’t.

He himself never noticed. To him, it was the most natural thing in the world, to be part of the Force. Colors were sharper, noises louder, things unseen felt. How could he know that no one else felt every living thing in their very soul? How could he know that the feeling of oneness, of connection was completely, solely his?

(In which I make Zeb Force-sensitive because why the fuck not)

Of MSE-6 and Men | 3,834 words | multi-chapter, in progress | fluff, hurt/comfort | no tw.

Sometimes an MSE would playfully tap against the side of Kallus’ boot and run away warbling to the high heavens. Other times, they would nudge against Kallus until he gently lifted them from the jungle ground and onto the ruins so they could be near him.

He’s playing with them, Zeb realized fondly. The little buggers adore him.

And Kallus adored them right back. Every time one of the mice would bump against him, his smile would get bigger, his eyes light up even brighter. More than that though, his hands would flit and flap in short bursts. Occasionally, even a rolling chirrup would come from his lips, and the MSEs would return it in kind.

Zeb had never seen him do that before. But then again, he had never seen him so happy before. It was a nice change of pace from the usual serious front Kallus put up.

(In which I aim my autism beam at one Alexsandr Kallus)

The Care and Keeping of Lasats and Ex-Imperials | 4,739 words | multi-chapter, in progress | smut. It’s smut lads | no tws.

Humans and Lasats alike both need a lot of care

Bones and Other Broken Things (Whumptober 2023) | 30,531 words | angst, whump, hurt/comfort etc. No MCD | multi-chapter, completed | check Ao3 for tws.

31 days of Rebels whump! Check first chapter for table of contents.

On the Day | 598 words | ficlet, prose | no tws.

On the day that liberty died, a bundle of hope was born by the name of Ezra Bridger.

A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing AU notes | 1,165 words | multi-chapter, in progress | au notes/text dumps | includes art! | check Ao3 for tws. | original concept by @canonkalluzeb

In which Kallus is actually Cal Kestis.

Shackled | 3,586 words | completed | sheep in wolf’s clothing au, angst | tw for implied psychological torture

“Psychometry is quite rare, even among Jedi. I cannot imagine you have much control over it, given your insistence on always wearing gloves.” Thrawn was studying Kal’s hands, as if the explanation to his power, to his curse, would jump right out at him like words on the pages of a book. “I am not here to torture you, Cal Kestis. Merely to…test my hypothesis concerning your power.” (In which Kal and Zeb get captured by Thrawn. It doesn’t go well for anyone.)

The Bar | 3,487 words | completed | Zeb backstory (refer to Doulos stories in my Whumptober collection | hurt/comfort | tw. for implied/referenced sexual abuse and groping |

A Jedi, a Padawan, and a Lasat walk into a bar. It does not go well for the Lasat.

(In which Zeb’s past rears its head. Kanan is a good friend.)

#This will update :) #star wars rebels #swr #sw rebels #agent kallus #alexsandr kallus #zeb orrelios #kalluzeb #garazeb orrelios #sheep in wolfs clothing au #ezra bridger #ghost crew #rebels

[bits-and-babs]

War Cry || Llewyn Davis x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> WordCount: 10.7K!!!!

-> In a world where Bob Dylan’s attempts to break through in the folk scene fail, a Vietnam Veteran uses his voice to bring the war to an end.

Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!

TW/CW: another slow burn, Jas loves plot. IM SORRY. AU. Alternatively named “Llewyn gets his happy ending”. Description of PTSD and Injury. Vivid description of war, lots of historical references because I’m a nerd. Mention of pregnancy (not related to reader). SoftDom!Vibes? Cock-warming, elements of denial. Delayed gratification. NOT proof read, we live and die by the grammar sword.

Phantom pain shoots through Llewyn’s leg as he wakes suddenly, tendrils of stabbing pain that wrap their way up his tibia bone. The sensation swiftly washes away as quickly as it appeared as he regains consciousness. His back against the couch cushions heaves with panicked breaths as his fingers grasp at the armrest in an attempt to remind himself where he was; Jean’s place.

Familiarity cleanses his muscles, tense with nervousness as he casts his gaze over the living room that he had spent so much time inside without ever having owned it. The ivory painted walls that feature hairline cracks in the plaster close to the ceiling, manilla curtains that had discoloured after years of smoked cigarettes and the metal bars of the overhead light shade that wrapped around the bulb and caged it inside.

It doesn’t take him long to settle his shot nerves, a groan of frustration rattling in his lungs as his head drops back against the musty couch. The screams of his past that haunted his every waking moment had finally leaked into his dreams, waking him from much-needed sleep and adding to his torment. Llewyn wasn’t a pious man, but he was beginning to think it was some form of divine punishment for his transgressions.

Foolishness was his only justification for his willingness to sign away his soul to take lives from others. When he branded his name to that enlistment paper with a biro pen that he distinctly remembers skipping repeatedly as he attempted to sign it, Llewyn was convinced he was doing something right with his life- finally. They’d handed him a rifle and uniform and ordered him to defend foreign soil in the name of freedom. It was the second time he had enlisted in the military, but the dichotomy between both experiences could not be clearer.

Battling the Vietcong in the humid heat of the Vietnamese jungle was nothing like his first enlistment, in which he never saw action. Llewyn had never seen such depravity, not ever experienced the metamorphic participation of taking another person's life. The suffering of children who walked through napalm and the seemingly endless slaughter of civilians that were considered collateral in the effort to eradicate the Vietcong, like vermin, from their own land. Somehow, even ‘freedom’ didn’t seem enough vindication for causing such life-changing destruction and trauma in his wake.

Perhaps the ink skipping on the page, leaving chasms in his signature with the first pass of the pen to the point it was barely recognisable, was a sign. He never should have filled in the gaps.

Sitting up from the sofa, Llewyn brushed his fingertips over the concaves of his flesh that had been left in the wake of the bullet that had passed through it. The only evidence he’d ever seen action, the lead slug was ironically the grounds for his honourable discharge and the reason he had the depravity behind- physically left the depravity behind. Mentally, he continued to hold his rifle with shaking hands, index fingers fumbling with the trigger as he abandoned all notion of battling for pride in his country, and instead fought selfishly for his own life.

Grasping blindly for his guitar in the dark, Llewyn flips the latches and opens up the worn leather case. His beloved guitar sits idle, the grain in the wood of the body practically glowing in the faint moonlight that seeped through the fabric of the curtains. He doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, he picks up a piece of paper so aged and worn from months of folding and unfurling it, pondering over the lyrics that he could pair with the musical notes he had previously scribbled in his practically illegible handwriting. The wordless tune had settled in his head the moment the soles of his feet had landed on American soil after his discharge. A foreboding, enraged melody that spelt out effortlessly the emotions that had overwhelmed the relief he should have felt.

Heaving his worn and tired body off the sofa, Llewyn is careful not to stumble over the coffee table he knew rested somewhere before him in the dark as he dragged his hand across the wall in search of the light switch. He wouldn’t have it on for more than a few moments, just until he was able to obtain a pen. He didn’t fancy waking the light-sleeping Jean and having to face her vitriol this early in the morning.

The ridge of the switch presses into his fingerprint after a second or two and Llewyn turns on the light with a gentle ‘tck’, though in a house when he was so desperate to be quiet to ensure he wasn’t kicked out, it sounded as though bombs had been dropped. Deciding not to waste any time, Llewyn is quick to move to the table near the front door, where Jean kept her keys, stepping carefully over the floorboards to avoid the pieces that he knew would creak under the pressure of his body weight.

A pen sits on the table, a gift from the Gods, because Jean certainly wouldn’t have blessed him like that. He snatched it like water in a desert, like he needs it to survive. Perhaps he does. Maybe the feelings would grow exponentially, and his skull would explode under the pressure of his own thoughts if he didn’t get them down on paper. It was possible that actively writing his frustration, his guilt, down would be almost like putting a pin back into a grenade.

Having obtained his tools, Llewyn turned off the light once more. Retracing his steps towards the sofa was easier this time, and he fell back onto the cushions with a gentle sigh. He’d stayed on this couch so many times it practically moulded to his body, and yet he was never comfortable. It wasn’t as though there was the solace of a bed’s mattress to hold him and the weight of his daily emotional distress. A bed to call his own, in his own home. A place of solitude and belonging.

Reaching through the darkness, Llewyn takes ahold of the curtains, pulling them apart to flood the living room with mild, pale lighting from the moon. It lights the page balanced on his knee, bathing it in a gentle glow. It wasn’t as though he would have to worry about waking his hosts this way, and this could focus entirely on his emotions, the words he wishes to convey.

Tucked in the side of his guitar case is a crumpled pack of cigarettes, smushed down between the edge of his guitar and the walls of leather that protected it. Llewyn flips the lid on the misshapen box and pulls out a cigarette from the last two that had been rattling around in there as he’d battled to find somewhere to stay since his deployment. He’d told Jean this would be the last time he stayed in her living room, but he was sure she could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Llewyn’s cigarette habit had been bad before, when he was constantly trailing the country in search of a record label who would sign him. War had exacerbated the issue significantly. Most of his money went to smokes now, and he used them so often he swore he exhaled more tobacco than he did carbon dioxide. Placing the roll in his lips, Llewyn’s hands shake as he lights it with a lighter that had been gifted to him by one of the members of his platoon as a discharge present.

It was a simple, sleek silver lighter. Scratches littered the mirrored metal after many years of use, and on one side was an intense dent that gouged the silver and distorted the reflection of Llewyn’s face. He had been told by the Marine that gifted it to him, Martin Foster, that it had saved his life in a tussle with the Vietcong when the lighter in his breast pocket had deflected a bullet that surely would have killed him. Claimed Llewyn clearly needed it more than him, given he’d been shot.

Turns out Foster needed it more than Llewyn. He learned on his arrival back in America that Foster had died mere hours after Llewyn left, in a napalm strike.

Exhaling the burning tobacco with shaky lungs, the smoke seems to cleanse the page in his lap, drifting over the paper's grain and curling off the edge into the abyss of darkness. With a click of the pen, Llewyn knows exactly what he plans to write about, and the song title comes to him in a flash of images in his exhausted brain. The Tet Offensive and the slaughter of the Vietcong, massacres of villages of seemingly innocent people that superiors deemed to be harbouring the enemy with little to no evidence to support their theories.

With firm and bold strokes of his same scratchy writing, Llewyn brands the paper with the title, the anger rising in his chest as he spells it out letter for letter with a pressure far exceeding what is needed to transfer the ink to the page.

“Masters of War.”

____________________________________________

Cigarette smoke whirls around your head in slow-motion silver waves, the clientele creating an artificial fog that hazes your view of the stage where a man sat on a stool, readying his guitar beneath the pearly spotlight to begin a performance. Your palms catch on the bar-top, hours of alcoholic drinks drying into a sticky texture that has you peeling your skin from the aged wooden surface with a grimace.

Forgiving the frankly disgusting condition of the small tavern, it was a relief to finally climb out of your beloved VW campervan for a while and have a strong drink. You’d been sat in the passenger seat for over five hours as your friend and fellow protester Darryl drove down the highway with Jane insisting in a particularly loud voice that it was definitely this left turn that would take you all to New York. It was certainly the throbbing headache that developed from their consistent bickering that made you momentarily consider just why you were doing this.

It was a temporary query. The doubt dissolved like salt on your tongue upon arriving in The Empire State and seeing the paper boys stood in 4 foot of crystal white snow holding out manila news pages with the headline STREET CLASHES GO ON IN VIETNAM; FOE STILL HOLDS CITIES; JOHNSON PLEDGES NEVER TO YIELD. Paired with the horrifically violent black and white print of the execution of Nguyễn Văn Lém, it caused anger to burn your throat like bile, and your resolve hardened.

No amount of freezing sleet or red hot vitriol from passers by would stop you from imploring the government to stop the senseless slaughter in Vietnam, to stop sending soldiers as sacrificial lambs and bring America’s boys home. You’d protest and scream until your lungs shrivelled up.

Truthfully, the majority of your nerves came from the concept of being arrested for your dissent. It wasn’t uncommon for demonstrators to be apprehended by police claiming they intended to restore ‘law and order’, even if their only objection manifested itself in the form of holding up a picket sign.

“Surely a whiskey can’t be that riveting,” Daryl mused to you, noting the way you’d been staring absently at the amber liquid, twisting the crystal glass on the bar top. Broken from your reverie, you glance to your friends, smiling weakly as you shrug.

“Me and Mr. Jack Daniel’s were having an intriguing conversation about the success rate of student led protests,” you admit, watching them force a pitiful smile. They too questioned their ability to make change, you knew they did. Perhaps it wasn’t about actually forcing change as it was standing up for what was right- to know your conscience is clear.

“Don’t question it,” Jane reaches over to squeeze the flesh above your knee comfortingly as strings of a guitar sound from the stage, a gentle background sound to your busy mind. You give a single, listless nod as you look back to the beverage sloshing in the glass between your fingers.

So engrossed in your self pity, you don’t notice the random notes from the instrument on the stage falling into tune, fingers forcefully pulling angered chords that matched the bitter tone in the musician's voice when he began to sing. When your exhausted brain finally synched with your eardrums, you’re shocked to hear the lyrics form a symphonic protest.

”… the death planes

You that build all the bombs

You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks”

Turning swiftly on your barstool, the uneven legs almost give way beneath you at the sudden movement. Grabbing the edge of the wooden bartop, you look over your shoulder at the body that the voice belonged to. A man, hunched over on a barstool equally as unbalanced as your own sings into the argent open mic as he violently strums agonisingly angered notes from his stringed instrument that is famed for its love songs.

He’s scruffy, thick raven curls askew upon his head and falling into his eyes as he sings. An equally dark beard shades the lower half of his face, the matching moustache framing his thin lips as they sound out his increasing anger for war generals. His frown forms furious creases upon his brow, eyes tired looking thanks to the deep circles that frame his under-eye but irises ablaze with acrimony.

“You that never done nothin'

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it's your little toy

You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly.”

The spotlight on his body highlights the protruding veins and dorsal muscles on the back of his palm, straining as they force the strings down onto the neck of the guitar while he wrings out every riff. He’s vehement, each word spoken with a firm tone that indicates he believes every word.

Glancing to your left, you take in your friends’ baffled expressions. They’re absorbed by his every word, listening raptly as he strings the war mongering politicians from the rafters of the bar’s ceiling with his rhetoric.

When you cast your gaze over the small congregation of the bar’s customers sitting before the stage, you note they hold a very similar fascination. Some sit wide eyed and open mouthed at his audacity to sing about such topics, others grin and nod their heads in avid agreement- regardless, they are listening to his every word, taking in their meaning.

The thought forms before this stranger even manages to reach the final verse of his powerful song, and you’re abandoning your drink at the bar to push your way through the seated individuals in order to reach the edge of the stage. From this angle, you can see the curve of his nose, the length of his lashes. He’s pretty beneath all his hair and worn clothes.

With a final flourish of the strings, the man's impassioned song earns him a standing ovation and thunderous applause from the small crowd. Maybe it’s the lighting, but you’re almost certain you can see tears welling in his eyes as appeared to take a moment to commit this support to memory. Standing from his stool and bowing before the crowd as they cheered, he catches you waving manically from the side of the stage in a desperate attempt to capture his attention.

He pauses for a moment, thick dark eyebrows raising and creasing his forehead as he looks at you in question. The crowd continue to applaud even as he approaches you, their cheers ricocheting off the stone walls of the pub. It’s noisy enough that he doesn’t hear you the first time you speak, and you’re forced to repeat your question by shouting it.

“What is your name?!”

There’s a flicker of disbelief in the man’s expression, doubt that swirls in his pupils as he tries to recognise you. He can’t. You’ve never met him before.

“… Llewyn. Llewyn Davis,” he clarifies, slow to answer as he pulls the guitar strap over his head.

“Llewyn. I wanted to ask you something- Can I buy you a drink?” You stumble over your sentences, struggling to find the right way to approach him with your frankly ridiculous idea.

Before you even have the chance for uncertainty to spiral in your stomach, Llewyn is nodding, holding up his guitar at its neck. “Sure. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” You answer back, leading him towards the bar where your friends are staring at you incredulously from their seats where you left them. It’s not as though you wouldn’t be looking at yourself in disbelief if you could.

Llewyn pulls up another barstool as you settle into your own, ordering another pair of Jack Daniels and pulling out your purse to pay the bartender. You can feel the folk singer’s eyes on you, waiting impatiently for your explanation as to why you had practically dragged him from the stage side in a moment that he had appeared to wait all his life for.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to the scruffy man, noting the dark brown button up shirt with a white t-shirt peeking through the collar underneath. “I- I haven’t really thought this through,” you admit to him, seeing him give a curt nod that ties your stomach in a knot, “But I wanted to ask you if you would join us on our trip to protest against the war in Vietnam in Times Square tomorrow.”

It catches him off guard. You can tell by the way he blinks, practically gormless as he stares at you. He opens his mouth to answer, momentarily distracted by his glass of whiskey being set in front of him on the sticky bartop. Allowing the words to sink in, you turn to the bartender and hand him what you owe with shaky hands.

“You want me to protest?” He repeats to you, as though he doesn’t understand the five words from his native language. You nod quickly, unable to look him in the eye as you launch into a tirade.

“I don’t know if you realised, just then, but you words moved people, Llewyn. There are thousands of people all over America who want their soldiers home, who see no need to continue the violence. You perfectly captured that anger, you gave it a voice. I have no doubt that if you played that song at the protest tomorrow, it would drive people to push for withdrawal!”

Llewyn watches you with a look of utter disbelief, like you’ve just told him the earth is flat. He appears unable to accept your compliments, his own feelings of inadequacy leaking through his expression and the way he seems to physically recoil from your words of support. When he opens his mouth to speak, to refuse, you’re quick to talk over him.

“An eighty-two year old woman from Detroit set herself on fire in protest just four months ago, Llewyn. She made the ultimate sacrifice to spark a conversation surrounding the suffering in Vietnam. I’m not asking you to self-immolate, I’m asking you to fucking sing.” Your words are harsh, clinging to your throat like the petrol that doused Alice Strauss the day she set herself alight. You were pleading for her, for the soldiers still fighting for their lives, for the children in Vietnam whose bodies you had seen discarded on dusty tracks printed on the front of The New York Times.

“Hey,” Daryl settles a hand on your shoulder to your left, trying to quell your rising anger with a gentle touch, “You can’t force him to take a stand for something. It’s his choice alone.”

Scrubbing at your face with your palms, still gummy from the dried alcohol they had stuck to at the bar, you exhale forcefully. So caught up in your frustration, you almost miss the words that Llewyn murmurs to your right.

“I’ll do it.”

You pause. Fingers still over your eyes, it takes you a moment to peel them away from your face to glance at Llewyn. He’s glancing down into the amber liquor in his glass, not unlike you had moments ago, as he resigns to your cause.

“Are you sure?” You have to ask. Need to know that he’s entirely willing to submit himself to the principle belief and fight.

Looking up from the glass, his deep down eyes gaze into your own. They’re still exhausted, clouded by what seems to be years of broken sleep, but there’s a conviction there, the embers of a rebellion sparking in the warmth of his irises as he repeats himself with force.

“I’ll do it.”

____________________________________________

”Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe

But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain.”

The softer strums of Llewyn’s guitar sound quietly from the back of the campervan as Jane continues the drive towards Times Square. The sun is rising, painting the cloudy sky a rusty marmalade colour that reflects in the puddles the tyres of the van drive through on the road.

Fatigue pulls on your eyelids, reminding you of just how late the four of you had returned from the bar last night. Having taken the time to hear Llewyn’s story, you’d practically been thrown out for staying way past closing time.

”You fasten all the triggers

For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch

When the death count gets higher

You hide in your mansion

While the young people's blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud.”

You learnt that Llewyn was a veteran, discharged honourably after suffering a bullet wound to his leg that impacted on his ability to run. He admitted some of the horrors he had witnessed, from the destruction of Vietnamese villages to the smell of napalm clinging to victims' skin. It appeared that he had simply been grateful that someone was willing to listen to him unloading his grief.

Three very strong drinks into the conversation and Llewyn had delved into the trauma of his personal life too, apparently on a roll. He shared his inability to hit the big time in music before he joined this military thanks to his own ignorance, impatience and lack of critical thinking skills. He’d been homeless at that time, sofa surfing. He had a daughter, one he thought had been aborted following an agreement with his child’s mother.

Grief clung to him like the stench of cigarette smoke on clothes. Not only was he mourning the loss of his fellow infantrymen, but also the loss of time he had spent consistently choosing the wrong path over and over again, perpetuating his own infinite misery.

“I want to make it right,” he’d whispered as the inn keeper had called out for final orders, eyes holding an exhaustion that certainly wasn’t just thanks to his lack of sleep. He was depressed, clinging desperately onto life for a reason even he couldn’t discern.

Even now, as you watched him strum the strings of the guitar with calloused fingers, he looked desolate.

“Llewyn.“ You whisper his name softly, afraid to startle him from his song. His eyes flick up to you from where they had been settled on the guitar neck, gazing at you through his long, dark lashes.

“Hmm?”

“It’s Welsh, isn’t it?” You ask, hopeful you hadn’t just insulted a long history of Scottish lineage. He pauses his strumming for a moment, watching you with a small smile.

“It is. How did you know?” His intonation lilts with pleasant surprise, clearly not used to people recognising his unique name.

“What does it mean?” You answer him with another question, watching as he sets down his guitar back into its leather-clad case. The case is worn, the material torn at the edges from bumps and scrapes, being set on floors made of all kinds of materials for what seemed like many years.

“It means ‘leader’,” he admits, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’d be hard pressed to believe in fate, but the irony of this chance encounter is not lost on you, a chill creeping up your spine.

“Are you?” You ask with the beginnings of a smile playing on the edges of your lips, “A leader?”

He shakes his head, digging around in his guitar case to find the packet of Marlboro cigarettes he’d been quickly working his way through in the few hours you’d known him. He places a crooked smoke in his lips while he digs around in his pockets for a lighter.

“I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue what leadership was if it shot me in the face.”

“… You have a chance to change that now.” You point out, watching his frustration grow as his hands violently palm around in his trouser pants for this missing lighter.

“I’m coming to sing a song, not start a counter rebelli- where the fuck is it?” He grumbled, scowl casting a shadow over his eyes in the golden sunlight that bled through the windscreen of the van.

“The silver one?” You ask, and he nods again, totally absorbed in finding the missing item. Even when you pull it out of your own pocket and hold it out for him, it takes him a moment to realise what you were offering him. “You left it on the bar counter. I thought it looked important, so I picked it up.”

He’d been very drunk by the time you left the bar, basically draining your purse. It hadn’t mattered to you though, knowing deep down from the pain laced between his words of utter devastation that he was in dire need of someone to listen to him. To understand.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, making his appreciation known with a weak smile when he takes it from your fingers, sparking up a flame that dances from the head of the lighter.

“You’re not just singing,” you continue the conversation, watching as he lights the cigarette, small embers floating from the smouldering tip. “You’re rallying for the cause, Llewyn. That is leading.”

He watches you for a moment, puffing smoke from his lungs and taking the cigarette between his index and middle finger. It’s as though he’s considering your words, allowing them to sink in as the campervan comes to a stop.

“I suppose I am,” he admits quietly, nodding as he glances down at the swirls of grey floating up from the cig in his hand.

The click of the handbrake being set catches your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Daryl climbing out of the van. The chanting of many distant voices seeps through the open door, and you feel a rush of adrenaline run through your body.

“We’re here, guys. Grab your things,” Jane smiles, looking over her shoulder at the two of you. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so amped up, but you scramble to your feet, quick to pick up the signs that you, Jane and Daryl frequently used in your demonstrations. The slogan ‘Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?’ scrawled across a white background in blood red was often the most effective, causing outrage and discussion wherever you went.

Fumbling with the signs, you’re quick to open the back doors of the VW Campervan, ready to launch yourself into the one thing that had been getting you out of bed for months. Before you manage to step down onto the rain soaked pavements, however, fingers wrap around your wrist.

Looking over your shoulder, you find Llewyn watching you with a small smile. The pad of his thumb presses gently against your pulse point, and maybe it’s the remnants of the copious amounts of Jack Daniels from last night but your mind swims when you look into his warm, espresso eyes. “You look nervous, Mercy Warren.”

You can’t help the singular laugh that forces its way from your throat, amused by his comparison between you and the real genius of the American Revolution. “I am.”

“Hell,” he scoffs at that, brushing his thumb gently against the sinews and veins in your wrist as though he was playing them like guitar strings. Maybe he was, given the way your skin heated beneath his touch. “I’m the one getting up there and singing, sweetheart.”

The subsequent wink he gives you before releasing his hold on you makes you feel as though he’s instead taken your throat in a tighter grip, your breath hitching slightly. You’re thankful that he steps out before you, leaving you alone in the back of the campervan to contemplate what the fuck that just was.

“C’mon Mercy! We’re headed out!”

____________________________________________

”You've thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world

For threatening my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain't worth the blood

That runs in your veins.”

Tears stream down the cheeks of the woman beside you as she holds up her sign in defiance of the police presence that had been called in to oversee the protest. Emblazoned on her placard are the words ‘WE WON'T FIGHT ANOTHER RICH MAN'S WAR’ in orange paint.

She, alongside fellow protesters and passers by, watches Llewyn perform on stage. Not unlike in the bar you had met him in only hours before, the hundreds- maybe thousands of people watching were overwhelmed with emotion. Anger washes some expressions, tear tracks stain others. You note that even the police that stand on the outskirts of the large crowd in their riot gear are watching him, almost entranced by his emotive performance.

”How much do I know

To talk out of turn

You might say that I'm young

You might say I'm unlearned

But there's one thing I know

Though I'm younger than you

That even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do.”

News cameras held atop journalists' shoulders circle like vultures, no doubt recording Llewyn’s staging in order to stream it to the world on tonight’s news round. It’s exactly what you had wanted, to have his message beamed to those who couldn’t make it to the protest, to have them hear his message and side with the cause.

So caught up in your assessment of your surroundings, you don’t notice that Llewyn has played his final chord until a roar of applause sounds, cheers and clapping and the stomping of feet. Chills work their way down your spine and goosebumps raise on the skin of your arms when you see Llewyn stand, pressing his palms together in thanks as the crowd begin chants of “Leave Vietnam now!”

Pulling the strap of his guitar over his head, Llewyn pushes through the huge crowd towards you, amazement plain as the sun in the sky when he enters your line of sight. His eyes are wide, and he’s grinning from ear to ear as he takes in the calls of his name, men and women alike patting him on the shoulder in encouragement as he passes them to get to you.

“Llewyn!” You yell over the din, excitement buzzing through your veins at the thunderous approval of your fellow protesters, “That was incredible!”

He laughs incredulously, his head on a swivel as he takes in the fired up crowd, emboldened by his very own call to arms. They chant and cheer, making it clear to the civilians present in New York, and the politicians sitting at their extravagant desks in congress that they wouldn’t stand for the slaughter of innocents any longer.

Hearing him shout your name above the commotion makes your heart skip a beat. He must have gotten it from Daryl or Jane, but it sounds so beautiful from his mouth, in his voice that you don’t even press him for answers. You just nod, indicating that you’re listening to what he has to say.

What he does tell you damn near makes your heart stop altogether.

“I’m coming with you wherever you go!”

Words catch in your mouth as you gaze at Llewyn with an incredulity that makes him smirk, enjoying leaving you speechless. He wants to come with you to more protests, join you in your fight to bring troops back home. Seeing how the crowd responded to his song, you’re certain that it’s because he’s being shown support in his musical career for the first time in his life. But there’s something more to it, the twinkle in his eye something you see in all the protesters you work with.

Uprising.

You open your mouth to accept, to agree, to tell him ‘a million times yes, Llewyn,’ but your first syllable of approval is drowned out by a loud shout of his name over the crowd, a man in a crisp black suit pushing his way through the hoard of people behind Llewyn, urgently waving his hands to capture his attention.

“Mr. Davis!” The man calls, and Llewyn turns on his heel to face him. The poor man seems to have run for more than just a few moments, face flushed and skin shiny with sweat in a complete separation to his slick, meticulous appearance. “Mr. Davis, I am from Warner Brothers records, I’ve just run five blocks to come and ask you to sign for our label, sir!”

Once again, Llewyn gawps at the man with complete disbelief as he pulls out a piece of paper from a briefcase he held at his side. Despite the pride that wells in your heart, you can’t help the desperate sadness that creeps inside at the notion that a record deal would tear him away from you- his promise to tour the country in protest forgotten with the sweep of a pen over a dotted line.

The man begins prattling off terms and conditions, but you tune out as your mind is swarmed with thoughts. You barely even process the racket that the crowd makes, too caught up in your disappointment to even notice the shouts of “Give Peace a Chance!”

Perhaps it’s utter selfishness for you to expect a man you’ve known all of twelve hours to give up a life changing opportunity in order to fulfil a promise he made to you only moments before, but the ache of disappointment ebbs at the edges of your consciousness, pushing into your mind despite your attempts to cast it away.

The ridiculous dismay you felt was utterly uncalled for. Through an agency, Llewyn’s song would be distributed worldwide. It could bring about a turning of the tide, the anti-war sparrows outnumbering the pro-war hawks. One could only hope that the desperation in Llewyn’s voice would translate on a radio.

Over the noise of thousands of angry voices, and the buzz of your overwhelmed mind, you hear Llewyn’s answer. It takes the floor out from beneath you and knocks the oxygen from your lungs.

“I absolutely will sign. On the condition that you allow me to protest, and all proceeds from Masters of War go towards our campaign trail and relief for Vietnam War vets. Ask Mercy here for the details you need.”

You could have married him then and there.

____________________________________________

The funds from Llewyn’s song make your campaign life much easier. Your purse is no longer empty, thanks to your new companion insisting that you use the money he had earned from royalties for anything you need on the trail. You no longer need to check the pavement for pennies in order to pay for gas, and you find yourself worrying less and less about where you were getting food from.

Llewyn continues to play at protests, but six months on from being signed he tends to draw in much larger crowds. Protests that had begun in the thousands eventually expanded to the tens of thousands, and each campaign ended up on the front page of newspapers, the evening news and the 10 o’clock radio.

Progress otherwise had been slow. Still the American government was sending out young men in uniforms as a sacrifice to the war machine. Panic laced the air, rumours of the first draft since World War Two floating amongst the city people. You’d like to pretend that you felt as though these huge crowds your events drew made much of a difference, but Lyndon B. Johnson continued to laugh at you from his desk in the Oval Office, playing God with the lives of your fellow people.

Tomorrow was the gathering that had been organised for Washington DC. Maybe it was exhaustion talking, but you were certain that you had now been to every single state in your crucade. Laying on the bed inside the van and staring at the ceiling, you sigh as you count through each capital city. Philadelphia, Baltimore, Boston-

“Hey Mercy,” Llewyn’s quiet voice cuts through the silence of the van, shocking you from your thoughts. You’d almost forgotten he was still here, Daryl and Jane having left for drinks at the local bar a few hours ago.

“Hey, Llewyn,” you answer with a weak smile, turning to see him still sitting in the passenger seat. In this light, you can see the effects that worrying less about money had on him. His dark circles had diminished, he looked less gaunt. Much to your surprise, he’d even allowed you to trim his hair back in Columbus, having complained the strands were hanging in his eyes when he played.

Shimmying around the seat to make his way into the back of the van with you, he keeps his head crouched to avoid banging his head. It’s silly, but you can’t help but smile at him like this, all crooked and walking at a slant.

“You’ve been real quiet,” he points out, careful not to sit on your legs before settling down on the edge of the bed. You notice he looks concerned, eyebrows pulled down slightly into a frown.

You hum softly, considering how you would put your feelings into words. It was hard to admit sometimes, given everyone’s morale had to stay sky high to commit yourself to a campaign as long and tedious as this, but you were tired. Tired and fed up and hopeless. Opening your mouth to speak, the words die on your tongue before they even pass your lips.

“It’s okay. I know,” he murmurs softly, settling his hand on your knee beneath the bed sheets. “I feel it too.” You have no doubt that he does. Despite a good night's sleep and the money from royalties giving him financial security he could have only dreamed of when living on Jean’s couch back in Greenwich Village, he still looked emotionally exhausted.

“I just-“ You let out an exasperated sigh, overwhelmed by the threat of tears stinging at your eyeballs as you glance back up at the ceiling in an attempt to stave them off. “I just want it to stop, Llewyn. I just want to have that moment, that wonderful moment where they announce the war has come to the end. Maybe I’ll be so excited that I’ll have my very own V-J Day kiss.”

It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound humorous coming from you. The exhaustion from months of endless struggle to hear a ceasefire order was taking an emotional toll on yourself and the team.

“That what you want?“ He muses, squeezing your patella over the duvet cover. “He didn’t even know that woman he kissed, you know? She was some kind of nurse or something-“

“A dental assistant.”

“Ah- Yes! A dental assistant. Would you really want to kiss a stranger to celebrate the end of a war?” He asks, his intense eyes settled on your face as he speaks to you. There’s an edge to them you haven’t seen before, something that melts your insides like ice you opted for in your glass of whiskey the night you met him. You remember the taste of it like it was still against your lips. You remember that whole night as clear as if the memories you constantly replayed were like a VHS tape.

“Well, who would I kiss otherwise?” You continue his playful conversation despite your pounding heart, enjoying the lightness you feel in your chest when you’re with him. “I only know Daryl. I think Jane would fucking drag me behind the van from here to New York if I took him from her after wanting him all this time.”

“I knew she liked him!” He says loudly, and you can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles that has Llewyn’s lips pulling up into a goofy smile of his own. “I could tell!”

“Why, because she wouldn’t sleep with you, Llewyn?”

“No, because she wouldn’t sleep with Daryl! The girl looks at him with these big doe eyes and still won’t make a move- regardless, we’re getting off topic here!” He insists, wagging his finger at you and causing you to laugh again.

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly at him, crossing your arms across your chest with a dramatic sigh. “So what’s your big idea then, Mr. Elvis Presley?” You tease him, knowing deep down that he’d loathe to be compared to the king of pop.

“Well,” he gives you this look, one that dared you to call him Elvis again, before continuing with his grand idea. “You could kiss me.”

It’s like a napalm bomb blows up beside your ears, a ringing sounding alongside your heart stopping shock, staring at Llewyn as he watches you expectantly.

“Y-You?” You stumble, and Llewyn doesn’t even hesitate to nod, confirming that you had indeed heard him correctly.

Silence settles between you both, but you’re acutely aware of the sound of your shaky breath exhaled from your nose. Llewyn’s palm on your leg feels like it’s burning though the covers and setting your skin alight.

“You don’t even have to wait until the end of the war, either. Hell, it doesn’t even look like it’s going to end…” he murmurs, his fingers massaging your thigh through the fabric of the bedding.

Is Llewyn Davis asking you to fucking kiss him?

You gawp at him, jaw slack, and Llewyn can’t help but chuckle as he takes up your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up by your chin. “Do you still want me to dip you in the middle of Times Square, or will a bed in a VW campervan down the back streets of Washington DC do?” He mumbles under his breath, amusement laced between his words and eyes set on your lips.

“This…” You trail off for a moment, the pad of your thumb brushing up against your jaw rendering you momentarily speechless, “This will do.”

He gives you barely a moment to register what is happening when he leans over your body and finally presses his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s not at all like the heavy, lusty embrace you expected from him. No, it’s slow, controlled, the soft plush of his mouth gentle against your own as he slips his fingers into the roots of your hair, holding the back of your head.

Your hands move to grip at his cotton T-shirt, crinkling the material between your fingers and leaving crease lines in the fabric that resemble shattered glass. You feel his nose nudge yours gently as he continues this easygoing, delicate show of affection.

Maybe it’s because you’re touch starved, but his touch sparks liquid heat beneath your skin, his fingertips drawing a tingling sensation on your scalp that floods to your abdomen, toes curling in the thick socks you were wearing to combat the evening cold. His beard gently scrapes against the soft skin of your chin, adding to the shiver that rocks down your spine.

“Mhmm,” Llewyn hums, pulling himself from your lips, “Are you cold?” He questions, but you’re already pulling him forward by the elasticated collar of his shirt, shaking your head quickly and catching his mouth in another, more fevered kiss. His chest rumbles with a soft groan as you pass the tip of your tongue over the expanse of his lower lip, but much to your dismay he’s already pulling away and leaving you desperate.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, I don-“ he clears his throat, stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “I don’t want to rush this- Don’t want it to be like all the others. I’m different, I’ve changed since then.” You know he’s talking about his previous one-night stands. The ones where he’d sleep with anyone and then pay for their abortion months down the line. He looks at you with a weak smile that reads ‘you deserve better than that’.

You nod once, a sort of okay? before following up with a second, more confident nod that simply said okay.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, lashes dipping low as he gazes at your lips, brushing his thumb over the shape. You part them, feeling his thumbprint press over the arch upwards, tracing over the Cupid’s bow and back down again, when he promptly kisses you with another oxygen stealing, goosebump inducing kiss that was just as gentle.

It’s overwhelming, the scent of him. He smells like cigarette smoke and whiskey and lemon-scented resin-oils he uses to clean his fretboards. It smells so fucking good, and again you’re licking into his mouth as though you’re trying to taste the delicious smell.

Llewyn allows you to explore, not giving into your desperation as he passes his tongue achingly slowly over your own. You can taste the remnants of the mint chewing gum that he’d been chewing on for the past few weeks, cool against the heat of his tongue. You had initially thought it was something he had taken up to cope with the stress of touring, but now you wondered if he’d been thinking of kissing you for that long. The thought makes your heart race.

Testing your luck, you push your hands under the hem of Llewyn’s shirt, brushing your palm up the skin of his abdomen and gently raking your nails back down. You feel him shiver under your touch, his fingers dimpling the flesh of his thighs with his grip as he works them apart to slot his hips between them.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes into your mouth as you push your other hand's fingers through his ebony curls, grasping onto the strands and using the leverage to kiss him deeper. You don’t rush, taking your time with slowly grinding your hips up into his.

Maybe the soft brush against his growing erection sparked a need in him, because something snaps in Llewyn. His hands rush underneath your shirt, fingers strumming your ribcage before lifting the heavy fabric of your sweater over your head with a more persistent movement. When the fabric leaves your body, you can see his eyes settle on the expanse of your chest and stomach, audibly groaning in delight at the sight of you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, taking in the lace bra that he can see your hardened nipples through. You shy from his gaze, but Llewyn doesn’t ease up, tracing his knuckles up your stomach before cupping his palms over your breasts and giving them a firm squeeze. “You’re beautiful.”

“Llewyn-“ you choke out, unable to come up with the words you need to ask him to do something. The desperation in your voice, thankfully, seems to be enough to voice your desires, because his lips are immediately on your skin. He nips at your neck at first, sucking red blossoms over your throat and collarbone as he slips his hand beneath your hips to give your ass a firm squeeze.

“You fit just perfectly,” he pants against your chest, giving your ass a gentle pat as an explanation. “Feel that? The perfect handful,” he muses. You give a weak giggle that melts somewhere between a wordless whine and a slur of his name when he traces his tongue over your nipple through the lace of your bra.

Your hips shift upwards involuntarily with the rush of arousal that bursts through you, and Llewyn seems to focus on that sensitivity. He keeps licking at that area before sucking through the material of your bra. The saliva that gathers in the material with his ministration feels cold when the air hits it, causing your nipples to harden further.

Tilting your head back into the pillows of the bed, you gasp softly as you feel his finger and thumb pull apart the buttons of your jeans, trailing the zip down achingly slowly. When you subtly kick your feet in a wordless plea to ‘get a move on’, Llewyn simply rolls your nipple between his teeth, causing you to yelp out his name.

Llewyn continues his slow, infuriating pace as he pulls your jeans over your hips, the drag of the denim over your thighs sparking heat between them as he keeps teasing your nipples. You could scream, could cry with how long he’s taking to undress you.

“Llewyn-“ you choke out his name in a desperate plea, the sound dying on your lips when he suddenly palms your pussy, feeling at your soaked cotton underwear and letting out a warm puff of breath against your cleavage.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping for me sweetheart,” he whispers, looking up at you through those pretty lashes and you think God that’s it. That’s how he gets them. It’s not his voice or his face- no, it’s the way he looks at them, the way he makes them feel like the most gorgeous being to ever exist.

You can feel pressure of your clit through the fabric of your panties, and you blindly chase it as you rock your hips up against the barely-there touch. It’s feather light, and you ball your fists over the covers in frustration.

“Sweetheart’s getting feisty,” Llewyn mumbles, his hand reaching to undo the belt in his jeans. It ‘clinks’ softly, but it sounds as though a gun goes off in the silence of the van. “What’s to be done about that?” He muses.

Llewyn is careful to ease out of his jeans much like he had delicately peeled your own from your skin, forcing you to wait longer and longer despite your dismay. The coil in your abdomen is curled up so tightly now, the muscles so tight that you’re almost ready to grab his guitar from the floor and smack him over his stupid fucking pretty face wit-

Your exceedingly violent thoughts given your peacenik nature are interrupted by the breathless groan that Llewyn exhales as he reaches into his boxers and fists his throbbing cock. He pulls down the waistband slowly, exposing his dick to you as he strikes it with a gentle touch.

He’s flushed purple at the tip, uncut. Veins bulge at the underside, streaks of purple-blue against the tanned skin. You drool, desperate to take him into your mouth and taste the creamy precum that beads at tip.

Perhaps it was naive to think he would just push your panties to the side, even when you beg him with a needy gasp of his name. Instead, he slowly hooks his thumb into the waistband on either side of your hips and pulls them down with an even slower pace than your jeans, causing you to sob out, looking up at the ceiling of the van as he slowly unhooks the slicked fabric from your ankles.

Llewyn, seemingly having learnt from his previous mistakes that he had claimed haunted his dreams, pulled a condom from the back pocket of the jeans he had discarded on the bed beside him. In your anguish, the tip of the plastic practically screams in your ears as you plead in your mind for him to just ‘hurry the fuck up before you do it all yourself’. Thankfully, he doesn’t tease you too long, rolling the rubber onto his cock with practiced ease before holding your thighs open and settling his hips back between them.

His lips press feather-light kisses against your collarbone, beard scraping against your soft skin as he slips inside of your aching cunt ar at a devastatingly deliberate pace. You’re almost certain you can feel every ridge of his twitching cock catch on your walls as he eases inside, the feeling of him stretching you out so leisurely causing your toes to curl against the mattress and your mouth to fall open as you watch him grind into you.

“Is this what you wanted, pretty?” He whispers to you. His voice settles deep inside you, blended with the feeling of him pressing up against something utterly devastating within you. It stings slightly, the stretch, but your jaw is still slack as you answer back with a pathetic, wordless moan. It twists to a groan of frustration when Llewyn bottoms out inside of you and just… sits there.

“Be good. Just wait,” he whispers, carefully brushing strands of hair from your sweat slick forehead and easing your knees up to your chest. Needy, you feign the need to redistribute your weight and shift your hips to take him deeper so the tip of his dick kisses your cervix. In truth, it makes the situation even worse. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, forcing them into the mattress so you’re kept completely still.

“Llewyn!” You sob, his name catching in your throat and coming out of more of a whine. Begging doesn't seem to work on a surface level, Llewyn’s intense eyes setting a blaze in your abdomen as you struggle against his firm hold. However, you’re almost certain you can feel him twitch inside you at the distress in your voice, and you cling desperately to that upper hand.

“Llewyn, I need you to fuck me,” you punctuate your whispered begging with a push of your hips against his strong hold, “Please, I don’t think I can wait any longer- please I’m going to make myself cum if you do-“ He’s glaring back at you with an immovable expression, silently insisting that you ‘wait’.

Tears well in your eyes as you throw your head back into the pillows with a frustrated, exaggerated sigh. His hands sweep up your ribcage again with a delicate touch, watching you resign to waiting until he allowed you pleasure. Goosebumps rise on your skin beneath his touch, back arching slightly into the mattress at the ticklish sensation of his rough guitar string calloused fingertips tracing gentle patterns across your torso.

In the silence that follows, you hear Llewyn’s voice cut through in a barely there whisper of “good girl” before he shifts his hips, easing them all the way out of you and tapping the slick head of his cock against your clit. The sudden sensation sends a shockwave through you, the beginnings of an orgasm launching through your abdomen and rocking you from your dick-starved haze.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his own voice strained as he slips the tip back into you and just fucking *holds* it there, edging the both of you in this potent cocktail between pleasure and torture. When your tears slip down your cheeks, seeping into your hairline, he takes pity on you, starting the laziest pace he could muster. In any other situation, this excruciatingly slow pace would do nothing for you, but he’s working you so tight that it sparks unholy pleasure through you, obliterating your body with ecstasy. “So desperate for me, Sweetheart.”

There’s no sudden thrusts. No jerking movements. Just in and out at a leisurely pace in order for you to feel every ridge of his cock, to pinpoint the exact moment his cockhead catches against the spot inside you that makes you throw your head back in bliss.

“Llw- hah- ahhh fuck-“ you sob weakly, planting the balls of your feet into the mattress and rocking your hips up at a similar rhythm to meet him in the middle, to feel him deeper.

It begins to swell almost immediately, that delightful burn that settles deep in your abdomen. You grasp blindly at the bedsheets, now damn with sweat, as you barely have the time to brace yourself against the early intensity of it, sparking bright white as it begins to flare. You can’t form the words, can’t work your lips around the foreign name that you’d been so desperately speaking for the past twenty minutes.

“That it baby? Can you feel that? I can. You’re so tight,” he murmurs, eyes studying your almost pained expression as he continues to spear that mind-blowing place inside you that makes you arch into him, makes you keen wordlessly for relief.

It’s then that you catch a glimpse of those rich, brown eyes staring down at you. They’re no longer tired, their dark circles nearest impacting on the utter adoration and reverence he held for you, something you never expected to see from Llewyn- something you initially thought him incapable of.

You throb and clench around him, the babble of meaningless syllables spilling from your voice crescendoing into a yelp as the affection in his expression throws you over the ledge, launches you over it. Every muscle in your body constricts with the pleasure that arcs through you so suddenly. You can barely discern where you are, what is happening as Llewyn leans down to press gentle kisses against your throat in an attempt to ground you through the devastating peak.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your throat, his voice ragged as he only now begins to pick up his pace, chasing after his release as your walls clamp tight around him. The sudden shift in rhythm has you sobbing out his name over and over, grasping desperately at his shoulders and digging your nails into him as he wrings out your pleasure for all it is worth.

“There it is,” he strains, “There it is, there there there!” Slamming his hips into you a little harder than you think even he intended, he cums with a heavy exhale against your throat. You can feel your walls tight around him, draining him as he rocks only slightly into you, completely wrecked.

You’re surprised that you can even feel him slump on top of you, the intensity of your orgasm making the afterglow almost numb, as though a pins and needles sensation coats your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

The van is hot now, your combined body temperatures causing the windows to steam and sweat to slick your bodies. It’s sticky and uncomfortable but you’re so relieved to have him here, in your arms.

It takes a while for either of you to speak, just listening to the strained heaves of inhale and exhale as though they were the ticks of a clock. Finally, with enough of your breath and mind back, you give a weak giggle.

“I don’t think that the dental assistant fucked him, Llewyn.”

“There’s a first time for everything, don’t you think?” You hear him muse, catching his eye as he pulls away from your chest and the two of you, in a state of delirium, burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh fuck,” you giggle, wiping tears of joy from your eyes for the first time in years as he cradles you in his arms, placing toothy kisses against your shoulder. “I suppose there is!”

____________________________________________

Eventually, Daryl and Jane get together on the campaign trail. You’re happy for them. You’re even happier for them when they announce their pregnancy, even though it means they will have to pull out of the protests to focus on the new life they’re building together. In a world so dark, so miserable, you’re glad that the two of them have found some light.

In the end, it’s you and Llewyn driving to capital cities. Llewyn performs his songs, spreads the message. You accompany him on his persistent run for peace during the day, and kiss and ease his battle scars at night, holding him through his night terrors.

They got worse with the release of the front page news article detailing the My Lai massacre, the utter horror that was inflicted upon the hundreds of men, women, children and animals in the tiny village. From that day forward, you heard an even angrier tone when Llewyn sang, the protest evolving into something more akin to revolution. You held his hand the entire time, and he wiped your tears.

That same New York Times article sparks an outrage that lights the fire for an uprising. Protests start countrywide, hundreds of thousands of people insisting that troops withdraw. People burn their draft cards, including rising boxing star Muhammad Ali. Students from Kent State University die in a police shooting while calling for peace. The government can no longer claim they have control, the Tet Offensive breaking down the carefully built, fragile upper hand of the US troops.

One night, at the height of the conflict, you sit down with Llewyn and help him pen a letter to his unnamed baby's mother. He wanted to be a part of his child’s life, regardless of how old she was now. He had been unsure, but you had insisted it was never too late to make that step.

“What if she doesn’t want to meet me?”

“Llewyn. You’re her father. Of course she wants to meet you.”

Within weeks, he had a response, a letter in feminine, cursive writing that detailed the relief to finally have heard from her father. They spoke daily on the phone, and you’d even had the opportunity to meet her.

She looked so much like her father.

On January 27, 1973, years after you convinced Llewyn to join your cause, the two of you stood in the same bar in Greenwich, New York. The tiny television mounted on the wall screens a picture in black and white. A rolling newsreel stated a breaking news story in block capital letters; PARIS PEACE ACCORDS SIGNED, ENDING WAR IN VIETNAM.

The Jack Daniels you held in your hand is launched into the air in celebration, ice and alcohol scattered across the wooden floor as the people bar cheer and roar. Troops were coming home. It was all over.

Ugly tears of elation streamed from your eyes as you looked at Llewyn, who also cried beside you. He immediately took you into his arms, abandoning his own drink on the bartop as he dipped you as low as he could, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss of relief. Of reverence. Of adoration. Your own V-J Day kiss like he had promised all those years ago, with someone you know and love and attribute as being the turning point of everything, his words pushing a message of peace and rallying a nation to say ‘no more’.

That night, he played Masters of War for the final time, up on that very same stage where you found him. The room was packed, filled with people that spilled out into the street to see the famous Llewyn Davis. The chords are played with the same anger, his tone holding that blazing fury he had kept raging for so many years, but his eyes speak volumes. The gentle gaze he held with you tells you all you need to know. It’s over.

“Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die

And your death will come soon

I'll follow your casket

By the pale afternoon

And I'll watch while you're lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I'll stand over your grave

'Til I'm sure that you're dead.”

END

🏷 @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @crystalchrysalis19 @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @youngr0se95 @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @astroboots @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny @wakers-bonkers @ofmortems @hold-our-destiny @xcatnapsx @vermillionwinter @stormkobra-5 @bb-skyrunner @silvery-luna @sebsbelova @erenbissexual @alwritey-aphrodite @maggotzombie @deadpige0n @bakerstreethound @whatthehekko @moonnaught @cottagebunny9

#llewyn davis x you #llewyn davis fanfiction #llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #inside llewyn davis #Steven grant #Jake lockley #Marc Spector #Oscar Isaac #Oscar Isaac x reader #Llewyn Davis imagine #Llewyn Davis fic #Llewyn Davis x y/n

[faerywhimsy]

TD;DR

No one: …

Me: So I know Lestat's the main character of Prince Lestat, but did any of the other beloved characters see the warning signs of the Voice/Amel in the world before it started going around compelling the old ones into killing younglings.

Sorry, killing young ones. And what might those warning signs have looked like?

Prince Lestat is meant to be read as a sequel to Queen of the Damned and, structurally, its many view points succeeds in that goal. However, thematically, there was so much a missed opportunity in actually seeing many of our favourite characters still existing in the aftermath of maybe as little as a decade still scrambling with the grief and loss and so many abruptly silenced minds...

None of them were... doing well... post-Akasha. But then the tension begins to build again.

Slowly, at first. Disconnected fragments across the continents of the world.

Because it's not like these immortals have ever been the best at communicating directly:—

The Coven and the Courtiers - A Guide (QotD 1.5)

Khayman is with Maharet, never straying too far from the jungles of the Amazon, when he picks up the first murmurings of malcontent from the spirit they moved from Akasha into Mekare. It is not happy within its new host. But perhaps it wasn't happy in its previous host either. Akasha sat as a statue under Marius for centuries before ever waking up. Khayman wonders if they're going to have that long again.

Marius is in Brazil with Daniel. He cannot help himself from scanning nearby minds, even as he claims a hope to remain on the sidelines of their world after the disastrous end of his two millennia caring for the Mother and Father. Marius is therefore one of the first who hears word of a very early and isolated Burning that doesn't seem to have any connection back to Akasha. But it would be foolish to ignore them completely, especially when the last Burnings are still so recent.

Pandora's returned to Arjun in India, but he has begun to act strangely. Because of the veil between their minds, she can only ever understand it through the words he offers for explanation. He wishes for the sanctuary of the earth. Inwardly, Pandora wonders if it was her urge to rush to Marius' aid when he was encased in the ice. She doesn't think it was her alliance with Santino, who is now of course dead to them all. She watches Arjun—before he goes into the ground—because he is the love of her life. She watches him because something deep within tells her something's not right.

Mael was filled with a profound sense of purpose during the first Burning. He would look after Maharet and Jesse. Yet, he had failed in that. Since the Burning, Khayman has taken over as Maharet's consort and companion and that's left Mael with... nothing. His maker Avicus has a new coven in Geneva now, with immortals as old as Gregory and as young as Davis. If Avicus thinks of Mael at all, he has no cause to think it. He's had a very long life but, without any sense of purpose calling him, there is no long any care in him. Not for himself, not for any his kind.

Bianca's in Paris with her new fledgling. They never imagine anything could hurt them. Why would they? The first Burning passed them over without so much as coming near them. There's a rumour passed around Europe lately that bringing one into the blood no longer seems to be happening the way it used to. Tales of mute zombies with hearts that won't beat—truly dead things in the place of fledglings—abound. But even that's easy to ignore when Bianca and her own fledgling feel so young, and in love, and immortal.

David is one of three who were mortal during the last interaction with a Queen of Vampires. He and Jesse talk about it sometimes. Jesse has kept up contact with the Great Family in South America, just as David kept some of his contacts within the Talamasca in Britain, younger ones who didn't mind seem to mind when he became a vampire. The same ones Marius' maker Teskhamen has also given his life into the hands of. They're the ones to bring David's attention to Burnings-related incidents as they start making the news on human television stations. They're the ones to ask him if this is something they should be worried about.

Gabrielle alone is able to say that—when the Queen descended on them the last time—she was the one in risk of losing her only remaining son. She knows many think her cold, but they don't know the pain of burying a child born of their womb. Gabrielle has hardened herself because it's the only protection she's found for her heart and her time in Turkey with the ancient handmaid Sevraine has not her changed utterly. Oh, Gabrielle's not blind, she knows her son will not let this world come to an end. Nor is she—first fledgling of Lestat—unaware of the Voice that whispers to him now.

Killer is in Philadelphia and is only just a century in the blood and one of the youngest outside the "Coven of the Articulate" to have survived Akasha's massacre. Killer makes up part of the Fang Gang, the coven that lies closest to Armand in New York City, less than two hours away. He may only be notable for his proximity to Armand, and his prior connection to Davis, but even he senses the change in Armand as word begins to trickle back to Trinity Gate and the Fang Gang are forced to disband.

Armand knows already he will protect his chosen family at all costs, from any future threats or Burnings. Was there a moment he considered taking them all underground where none would find them should anything resurface? Yes, though he'll never admit it. There was always that concern that the Sacred Core residing in Mekare would corrupt her. Is that what they are starting to see now?

Louis can hear nothing for himself, of course. But Lestat's visits to Trinity Gate begin to grow more and more sporadic and Louis can see Armand grows steadily more tightly wound as the world around them changes again. But still Louis counsels his love and companion to pause. Wait. Be vigilant, but if Khayman and Marius have told them they are already watchful of possible threat, they are likely not the only old ones to do so.

Benji's too much like Armand; he will protect the ones he considers his tribe. He never really understood how the old ones isolate themselves, hasn't really had enough interaction with them to recognise it in any real way. For him, immortals live like they do in Trinity Gate. Benji's radio show begins slowly, like a modern analog of Armand's Théâtre des Vampires, in that no human hearing it will believe, but blood drinkers will find what they need.

I was going to suggest Lestat's probably one of the youngest immortal to actually hear Amel's voice. Then I remembered how strong in the blood Daniel's always been depicted for his age. So yeah he's mad, but that's not helped by the fact Amel started yammering at him from the same point as Lestat. "He rages," said Daniel. "When he's gotten into my head, he's raged."

Cause it's a psychic blast, people. Even Lestat acknowledges, "the Voice is working on a number of fronts".

In any case, all of this is more or less the outline of what I've been thinking of as the QotD 1.5 head canon, something that's being played out in How They Get to Trinity Gate as we get to the pointy end of the fic.

#nik re-reads TVC #queen of the damned #prince lestat #khayman #maharet #mekare #marius de romanus #pandora #arjun #mael #bianca solderini #jesse reeves #david talbot #gabrielle de lioncourt #lestat de lioncourt #louis du pointe de lac #armand #daniel molloy #benji mahmoud #amel #akasha

[runningwithfangs]

Vampire Chronicles Book Review/Rant #5

Memnoch the Devil

Alright, this is gonna be long, this book is dense and Anne had me reading too many Wikipedia articles for context. 

I found a couple of news articles (here and here) discussing Anne’s Christianity, she allegedly became one in 1998 and “quit” in 2010 saying “It's simply impossible for me to 'belong' to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group.” I think it’s safe to say this book was her actively quarreling with her faith and belief system. 

(Side note, the last book left us with Louis, Lestat, and David going off to the jungles for adventures, and I was foolish enough to think we’d see that. Why does Anne hate Louis? He was your firstborn Anne! Lestat is the new favorite and David is becoming the second favorite)

So I think Lestat is Anne in this story, going through the journey from non-belief to belief. Lestat like Anne, was never religious, and he didn’t like his family’s fake/superficial faith. His atheism was further confirmed by Marius, who said he’s been around since before Jesus and saw Christianity as one of many cults over time. But now something has happened that forces Anne/Lestat to reconsider. 

At first, when Lestat talks to The Ordinary Man he doesn’t believe he’s Satan, but probably some supernatural being like himself. But then he also says doesn’t love God but hates him, like a lot of people do, because he allows atrocities to happen. (This reminded me of God’s Not Dead honestly, where the premise is that Tarzan is not an atheist at all but is actually mad at God).

Ok, let’s go. So, I like the sympathetic view of the devil, emphasizing his falling. He is a victim of God, hates evil, and doesn’t want to be evil. Memnoch is also behind so much of Christian and Hebrew lore, he’s the one who taught humans metallurgy and weaving (Book of Enoch), he’s the reason humans can get into Heaven, and he’s the reason God took the form of a human in Jesus. This story is both fun in a fanfic sort of way and satisfying in hitting these memorable beats in the Bible (like the temptation in the desert).

The book has a clever take on how God created the universe and set evolution into motion. I know some Christians do subscribe to this interpretation, including my own Catholic mother. It brings physics into Creation too, how energy becomes matter (we all know e=mc^2) because God willed it. Memnoch does a quick course on human evolution 101, from organic molecules on warm soupy ponds to fish stepping on land to warm-blooded mammals to humans as we know them now, and according to him, gaining souls, which is treated here as another step in evolution. This last part is something I haven’t heard from Christians before.

We have a crafty reconning of vampire lore and Christian lore, human souls are spirits, they explain ghosts, poltergeists, apparitions, possession, and most importantly, the spirits that witches can control and the spirit that went into Akasha and created vampires. Just when I think Anne is losing the plot, she brings it all together. I enjoyed this take that brings science, faith, and the paranormal together in a clean little explanation.

Now back to Memnoch, his whole reason for falling is that he thinks humans are special, they have souls and that makes us unique and separate from nature, which makes us holy and thus deserving of special treatment. It seems like many religions also see it that way, that humans are special and apart from the natural world, granting us both privileges and responsibilities. I can see that reasoning, and many humans over all of history have tried to prove that more scientifically, only humans use tools (wrong),  only humans prepare for the future (also wrong), or only humans love and grieve and plot revenge, that’s what sets us apart! But the more we study animals it seems like that’s also wrong. So why are we so determined to set ourselves apart? Lots to think about there. 

Now we get to Jesus, who has decided to die and be resurrected not because that’s what he thinks is cool and good, but because that will fit with the preexisting myths humans have about The Dying God (learn more at Crash Course: World Mythology). That sounds so blasphemous to me, but it’s a pretty juicy take.  

When Memnoch is tasked to find souls that are worthy of Heaven, he finds souls who are at peace with God. These souls aren’t mad at God for the pain and suffering in the world but are grateful to have had the chance to live at all. That’s pretty different from what I was taught would get you into heaven, the rules and beliefs that have to be followed. This feels blasphemous to me too, it seems too chill for Catholics to accept! 

Anyway, Memnoch gets a small percentage of souls up to Heaven, God accepts, everyone is happy, but NOT Memnoch, he wants every soul in Heaven! Even after Jesus’s sacrifice that allows more souls in, it’s not good enough. That’s when Memnoch is dammed to become Satan and rule Hell, his new job is to work on every soul, “tutor them for the Light” so that they can go to Heaven. That’s the job he’s so tired of. He’s also sick of God letting humans slaughter each other in his name and God not doing anything about it, which yeah, I’ve had that though and I’m sure many others have too.

God is painted as clumsy, and arrogant, doing things sporadically, sometimes even for reasons he doesn’t even know or understand, but Memonch argues that even with these “flaws” he’s still God and should be worshipped and glorified for the very fact of his creation. Lestat doesn’t buy it though, and that’s why he refuses to help Memnoch, that and the dying part. I wonder if that’s a struggle Anne was having.

And in the end, it’s left ambiguous as to whether that was really God and Satan or some other preternatural being that made illusions happen. Armand seemed pretty fucking convinced though. I’m not upset about this ambiguity, it’s more fun that way.

TLRD - The mixing of christian mythos with vampire mythos worked out better than expected and I had a fun time reading this! I never thought these vampire chronicles would lead to meating actual!Jesus and actual!Satan but it was a good romp.

Bonus: Chekhov's period blood. Chekhov’s popped-out eyeball. 

Favorites:

Lestat “I’ve been dumped in the swamps myself.” DEAD

Again: Mojo 💗 Kept by a random woman but Lestat visits to play 🥹

The description of heaven, a beautiful chaos of souls, natural elements, and architectural elements all sprouting from one another. It made me think of some of the visuals in Dr. Strange, the mirror dimension, with the city and buildings folding and sprouting from each other. 

Lestat drinking Jesus’s blood!!! WILD. But also not wild if you believe in transubstantiation, right? Christians all over the world drink Jesus’s blood and eat this flesh every Sunday.

Least Favorites:

OMFG all of Roger’s life story. I get that Lestat is making up games to make hunting more interesting, him seeing a victim’s ghost is novel and compelling. Between that, David’s story of the Paris cafe, and the Stalker, we got a good spooky start! But Roger collecting freaky books, wanting to start a cult, becoming a drug dealer, killing his baby momma, his televangelist daughter. . .it just went on and on. We already got his deal in the last chapter! I get the religious themes, but Anne, not everyone needs a 50-page background story.

I have to put the menstrual blood scene here. Just. . .Anne, I have questions. But also no I don’t. I wish to scrub my brain of it. 

Excuse me, Armand just decides to burn himself at dawn?!? 

Smutt:

Memnoch having sex with a stone age woman and cumming so hard that God Himself had to come down to Earth to yell at him about it. Absolutely bonkers. I loved it, no notes. 

I am NOT counting the menstrual blood scene. 

Nonsense Meter:

It’s gotta be a 10/10, but I have a feeling this scale will need to be reevaluated because things somehow get even more bonkers later. A vampire being solicited by Satan himself to help him out in Hell, that’s already a lot, you throw in angel sex, eye-ball mail, and time travel, it’s a lot. *Slaps book,* this baby can fit so much nonsense in it.

Misc:

Lestat (Ch. 9) “I don’t like myself, you know. I love myself, of course, I’m committed to myself till my dying day. But I don’t like myself.” My babygirl 😢

I’ve accepted that Louis is barely going to be around, but when he showed up at the end it was nice. ☺️

I read this book at the same time as I was watching Good Omens S2 and let me tell you these two bible fan fics were getting all scrambled in my brain and sometimes I couldn’t remember what was cannon for either. But also now I can name the choirs of angels, in case of emergency Christian trivia!

#vampire chronicles #memnoch the devil #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #book review #book rant #a lot of christianity #my credentials are that I went to catholic school

[jdetan]

An Overwhelmingly Important Mission

Link finds himself on his most daunting mission ever... finding a hearty durian for his pregnant wife's cravings.

Link looked out over Hyrule Field– the land that was bright, beautiful… and utterly doomed.

The Calamity couldn’t kill me… permanently. The Demon King couldn’t stop me. But this? He sighed deeply. This is a task I don’t think I’ll be able to accomplish. Hearty Durians have been all but extinct since… Well, since I blew up the trees rather than climb them, ate every known durian in Hyrule, and then lit the ground on fire in an ill-conceived plan to boost up a mountain with the updraft. WHY did you do that to me, past Link?

Link shook his head. Regretting his foolish actions would have to wait. He had a mission, and this mission he could not fail.

*** One day ago

“Anything I can get for you, Zelda? Footrub? Heated blanket? Something for your back?” Link ran around like a cucco in a frenzy, tending to his extremely pregnant wife. “Well, I’ve been having a weird craving for the last month…” Zelda said, slowly sitting up. “But I don’t think it’s going to be possible, so… don't worry, forget it!” “Zelda, you know I’ll do anything for you. Just name it, and I’ll scour all of Hyrule for it!” Link snapped to attention. Zelda was seven months pregnant, and to Link’s mind, this meant two things– One: she was not to strain herself under any circumstances and was, instead, to be waited on hand and foot. Two: Only one craving was too extreme– Link refused to let her eat any Secret Stones. Everything else was fair game. Zelda put a finger to her chin. “Alright, fine. I’ve been craving Hearty Durian… but well, they seem to have mysteriously vanished at some point during the Calamity, so…” She sighed lightly. “If you can find one, I’d really appreciate it, but I don’t think any exist anymore.” “Zelda.” Link said, already pulling on his traveling gear. “I will find you a Hearty Durian. Please, wait for me, my sweet! I shall return soon.” He grabbed his Purah Pad and dashed outside, mounting Epona and riding away with a “HYAH!”. Zelda waved from the door as she watched Link ride off, then let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in. “FINALLY, some time to myself! I love Link, but my WORD… I’m not an INVALID!” She walked over to her study, happy to finally have a chance to run some experiments on residual Light Dragon parts. “Alright, let’s see what I can find out about my old form’s secrets…” She chuckled as she pulled out her favorite microscope.

*** Today

Link rode Epona from the Faron Jungle, glum and unsuccessful. “Hmm… so, as I expected, Faron’s a bust. The old places are all empty plains, except for that one that’s an empty plain with ‘Link Wuz Here’ written in bare soil that I made sure to salt so nothing would ever grow again… Goddesses DAMN me, I was stupid and feral back then! Not like now. Isn’t that right, little forest creature only I can see?” “Ya-ha-ha! You should start more fires!” The Korok replied, appearing in a poof of colorful smoke. “Sometimes I wonder if I took too many blows to the head…” Link muttered. “But that gives me an idea!” “Is it to start more fires, mister hero?” The Korok asked, climbing on his shoulder. “I like watching fires! I want to watch the world burn…” “Makar, did you eat malice during the Calamity?” Link asked, raising an eyebrow. “You seem slightly more… wicked than other Koroks.” “It tasted like licorice and hate!” Makar responded cheerfully. “So… it tasted like licorice.” Link muttered, poking at the Purah Pad. “Come along, I’m gonna visit your dad.” “Nooo! Not the Great Deku Tree! He sounds like Teba and that scares me!” Makar screamed as he and Link vanished in a series of blue lights.

*** The Lost Woods

“Thank you for bringing Makar back, Link. And thank you for not listening to his whispers… this time.” The Great Deku Tree said, as several Koroks put Makar in ‘naughty baby jail’ (a small pit with sticks planted in the ground making up a cage). “How can I help you today?” Y’know, Makar’s right. He kinda does sound like Teba. And Revali. And the ancient Rito Sage. Weird. Link cleared his throat, focusing his mind. “I’m looking for Hearty Durians. Zelda wants one, and I’d really like to undo the harm I caused when I… kinda obliterated the entirety of the species during my first adventure.” He blushed slightly. “Do you happen to know where any may be?” “Hmmm…” The Great Deku Tree paused, thinking. “As luck might have it, I have a collection of seeds from all species in Hyrule. I’ll happily provide you some seeds, but as for the fruit itself…” The face of the tree tightened, seemingly searching all of Hyrule. “Ah. I’ve found them. There is but one man in all of Hyrule that maintains a collection of Hearty Durians. His name is…”

*** Kakariko Village

“DORIAN!” Link shouted, kicking the door open. “You said that I could call upon you at ANY TIME to repay that ‘favor’ you owe me, right?” Dorian nodded, trying to comfort his terrified children. “Today is that day!” “Of course, Link… but what has you so agitated?” Dorian asked. “Is there any danger?” He gave Link a quick once-over. “You look like you’ve been beaten up a little.” “What? No, I just killed a few Lynels on my way here– I was bored.” Link shrugged. “I was looking for Hearty Durians– Zelda’s got a craving for them, and the Great Deku Tree said you have some.” “That’s all? Don’t they grow in Faron Jungle?” Dorian asked as he went out to harvest a durian. “You should be able to find them there in high quantities.” “It was… um… the… uh… the Upheaval! Yeah, the Upheaval! They started dying off and now they’re extinct in the wild! Anyway, one durian, please!” Link cheerfully accepted the fruit. “Thanks, man!” Link grinned, tossing Dorian a silver rupee. “See you later!” Dorian looked over at his Hearty Durian grove. “Kids… we’re about to be very rich.” He said, quietly. “Yaaaaay!” The children yelled, happily.

*** Just outside Tarrey Town

“Oh, wow… the scales and shards serve as natural batteries AND amplifiers for light energy…” Zelda jotted down some notes. “I wonder if it would be possible to replicate these artificially…” She jumped as the door swung open. “Zelda! I’m back, and I found a Hearty Durian!” Link yelled, plopping the gigantic, odoriferous fruit down on the table. “Are you doing ok? Do you need a backrub? A heated blanket? Some juice?” Damn it! There goes my thought process… shouldn’t this have taken him more than a day? I thought they were extinct in the wild after I found the last seedlings and sent them to Dorian for safekeeping! Could he have… no, that guy loves them– he eats them for every meal. He’d NEVER give one to Link unless… oh, of COURSE he’d owe Link a favor! Well, I really have been craving them… Zelda smiled and walked over to Link. “Thank you so much, Link! It’s just a shame they’re so rare…” “Not anymore! I recalled the soil outside back five years and planted some seeds! We’ve got a grove of our own now!” Link grinned. “Wait, you still have the power of recall? I thought that was tied to Rauru’s arm!” Zelda blinked in surprise. “Turns out that was one Sage’s vow I kept!” Link grinned. “Probably due to the power of love– it’s a mysterious thing.” “You heard the Stable Trotter’s new song too, huh?” Zelda laughed. “Well, as luck would have it, I’ve just made food, and the durian should go great with it!” Zelda produced a pizza and happily set about slicing the durian open. “Mmm… it’s not pineapple, but it’s so good!” Link stared in horror. Pregnancy led to strange cravings– she’d wanted pickles and fruitcake, honey-glazed curry, and worst of all, LICORICE, but durian on pizza? He shook his head. Our kid’s gonna have an even more impenetrable digestive system than I do… he thought, loading his pizza slice with a sensible topping of bacon, fish, crushed diamonds, fire fruit, and a scale from Farosh. I’ll never understand how Zelda can stand to eat that weird stuff…

#legend of zelda #zelink #fanfic #cuteness #please share #zelink community

[itsbenedict]

Two-Faced Jewel: Thunderbrush 5a

Two-Faced Moth

A conwoman disguised as a noble and the delegation of university students studying her have arrived in the jungle city of Thunderbrush, ruled by ancient dryads and organized crime. Will they manage to stay uninvolved in shady conspiracies? (No.)

Story so far | Session log index | Previous session

Last time, the party discovered some sort of boat conspiracy that wasn't really their problem, and went with Zzaiya, divine artifacts expert, to conduct some tests on Saelhen's scary macguffin bracer. Whatever it is Zzaiya discovered, it had her spooked- and Looseleaf sussed out that she was connected to the conspiracy her sister Yomi was wrapped up in.

Brilliant plan: impersonate her sister (art by Zero, god damn) to get more information on the bracer! Let's see how it goes!

The first step is the disguise. Looseleaf's never had to disguise herself before- even though disguising herself as her sister shouldn't be too difficult, it's best to leave these things to the professionals. Saelhen, in this case, is the professional, with a large stash of makeup and a variety of disguise supplies.

...Also, Oyobi tags along, assuming this is just an opportunity for makeovers. Her enthusiasm is... ominous.

Saelhen rolls a 9 and a 3 on the dice, but she spent luck and also has fucking absurd bonuses to exactly this sort of thing, which means even with the penalty, her disguise job is a full success. Looseleaf looks the part, even though elven makeup doesn't quite agree with moth scales.

Oyobi, meanwhile, does Saelhen's makeup, which is entirely unnecessary since she's not impersonating anyone, and... makes her look like an extremely specific and obscure sort of lady of the night, as a prank.

Oyobi and Saelhen then stay behind, as Looseleaf goes and has a solo session! Saelhen's, I dunno, getting ice cream or something. It's time for LL to head right back over to Zzaiya's lab, and...

Goes for it right away! Unfortunately... there's something off about her performance, and it's not immediately clear what. Zzaiya is confused and doesn't believe her- and so, as is protocol for the extremely secret organization she's a part of, asks "Yomi" for a codephrase.

"What is the difference between a god and a dog?"

What luck! She guessed the right codephrase! Apparently.

(No, she didn't. Zzaiya just doesn't want to call her bluff just yet.)

Zzaiya opens the door, sees Looseleaf-as-Yomi, and... is confused. Doesn't recognize her. Which is weird, because as far as Looseleaf can tell, she'd impersonated her sister's exact appearance perfectly!

Panicking, Looseleaf claims she recently reshaped her appearance with magic- but it's not enough.

The problem is- Looseleaf looks just like her sister, yes, but her sister would never be so foolish as to walk around looking exactly like herself when she's part of a high-stakes conspiracy. Yomi, apparently, regularly goes around in disguise. The party... hasn't encountered her before, right? Yes?

Looseleaf, caught in a web of security a bit too elaborate for a simple bluff, pivots to telling the whole truth immediately, confessing her ruse and her motives. Zzaiya doesn't seem too offended by this, and ushers her inside to talk in private.

Zzaiya is fairly alarmed about the news Looseleaf brings- about her association with the torture wizard, about the death of the torture wizard, and about Looseleaf associating with a cleric.

Looseleaf explains that she's not a member or anything, and has been deliberately keeping herself from learning more than she needs to, considering this is a conspiracy against the gods and the gods can sometimes read minds.

(Huh, what's that roll I made? They're just talking. Weird.)

She also asks about the gods and who's in on the conspiracy and who needs to be kept from finding out. Zzaiya suspects Andra (deity of Understanding) already knows, but hasn't let on, and thinks Iska (goddess of Triumph) might be willing to negotiate. But Karou, Diamode, and Ccorde- of Joy, Family, and Harmony respectively- , are apparently persona non grata.

The bracer, as Looseleaf is already aware, is significant to the Project somehow- but Zzaiya's worried about divulging any information about it, even to other members of the Project- they're a fractious bunch, and apparently working with lesser gods whose cooperation isn't ironclad- she's worried about causing a schism.

Given how much Looseleaf already knows, now, Zzaiya decides to give her associate clearance- the lowest security level. "What is the difference between a god and a dog" has different answers, and the simplest one- which demonstrates allegiance but is easily guessed- is...

Zzaiya seems confused that Yomi didn't mention this- surely it'd be a security risk, right? Why wouldn't she be worried about other moths from the village impersonating her? Looseleaf was able to do it easily enough! Why not someone else, who she trusts less?

...Looseleaf does not answer the question, and makes a hasty exit. She turns and-

Huh, another mysterious roll.

Zzaiya, it turns out, is confused and alarmed because she locked the door behind them before speaking to Looseleaf, in order to ensure privacy. The door shouldn't have been unlocked. She was standing right in front of Looseleaf and watching her the whole time, so Looseleaf couldn't have...

Her keys are missing. And they had to have gone missing during that conversation. A conversation where she was watching the only other person in the room like a hawk.

After much confusion, Zzaiya eventually hits on the idea that maybe Looseleaf wasn't the only other person in the room. She pulls out a divine artifact of some sort- a candle that purges nearby arcane invisibility magic when lit. And reveals...

...Vayen, crouching in a corner trying to eavesdrop.

Vayen, it seems... is oblivious. Claiming total ignorance. So, Looseleaf decides to burn another charge of the three-charge Wand of Detect Object she got from the Dean of Arcane Arts all the way back in session 1, to find the keys. He's going to feel pretty silly when their magic reveals them in his pocket!

...The keys, apparently, are not on Vayen. Furthermore, they're more than 1000 feet away, and can't be detected. Which is very strange, because that was not a long enough conversation for someone to cover that much ground. They're underground, so they couldn't have been launched somewhere at high speed. And remember- teleportation magic, in this setting, is broken, so there's no way they could've been poofed away! Plus, the door never opened between being locked and Looseleaf opening it. So... the culprit would have to still be in the room, right? But any arcane invisibility spell would've been disrupted, and they're not on Vayen, so... huh???

We've got a good ol' locked-room whodunit on our hands! My favorite!

Next time, in session 5b: we c̜h͏ḛ͍͙̬̤c̨͚͔̻̻̘͎͝k͏̞͙̖͚̮̹̬͞ ̡̢̘͈̠͝i̝͍͔n̴̨̡̧̮̝͉͖͔̪͇̜̲͓͙̙͚̹̖̮͉ ̷̨͈̝͍͉̠́̕͡ơ̘̮͉͍̻͜͞͡n̸̵̢̖̣̟̬̻̰͙͔̟̳̘̜̗̩̘͎̫̝̭ q͗ͯ̽ͩ͢͏͇̹̹͍̱͓͞j̷̧̝̻̲̞͚̟̪̗̠̥̟͓͉͚́ͫ̾ͥͭͧ͗͛͂̊a̽̀ͪ͒̌̊ͫͨ̔͏̸̱̙̰̪̯͎̻̦͎̙͇͓ḁ̡͉̥̬̼͒̄̓̇͌͜͡h̋ͩ͊͌͛̄͐̌̚҉́͏̸͉̝̟͎͈͔̭͓͚͖̦͝ ̛͕͈̪̝͕̦̯͎̈́ͤ́̌̈́̅̑̉̎́ͬ̈̊ͩ͂̀͟ͅl̡̮͈͙͙̰̤͕͍͙̯̰̩̙̦̯̳̹ͬ͋̌ͤ̅͂̆ͯ̎j͒ͬ̄̋̅̾ͬͭͬ̐̌̿͂ͮ͗ͯ̀͏̢̟̹̦͍̯͟w̴̙̝̗̘̺͙͕͔̬̜̮͍ͣͨͭ̓̾wͩ̿̽͒͏̡̻̦͙̭̗͙̝̬̗̯̠̩͔͢ͅx̵̡̨̛͉͖̤̥̳͓̗͎ͪͪ̇ͤͩͩͨ͘c̷͙̩̻̪̩͚͉̫̆ͫͤ͒̊̈́̊ͦ͋͛ͩͪ̇ͣ̒̓ͮ ̨͔̭̗̞͈̪̮̠͇̹̩͙̣͎̈́ͣͥ̏̐͑ͬ͞t̡͓͕͖̱̞͈̣̗͂ͯ̂ͥͫ̃ͥ͆͊̍͐͛ͨ̀̊̈́̃͡w̵̵̷̴̪̜̞̭̖̝̳̥͎̜̰̓̓̋͗͋ͩ̐̄̌͑̄ͯ͌͊̄̋ͯ̚͜x̳̖͙͙̓ͧ͂̂́͝͞ͅf̴̸͚̥̼̝̗͓̝̪̹͍̪̘̹͎̠͕̜ͫͥ͛͆͢͠͝ͅͅ ̛̍͐͂̌̓̈́̈́̍̇̈̓ͮ̚͠҉̸̠̦̰̤̩̺̞͓̱̻̹̤̮̜͕̳̬͟Q̧͔̝͚̝͎͓̲ͥ̂͑̿̿̾̒̂̅̒ͨ̇ͥͬ̕͟͝J̸͕̠̖̤̰ͤ͆ͬͯͩ͌̐ͯ̎͒͂̈͂͆͊ͭ̀̍̅̀͘A̶̴͙̫͈̙̻̖̮̲̤̬̮̱͔̲̺̥̼͎̺̎͋̔ͯͭ͗́̆ͯͣ̄ͨ̒̾̏̃͆͞A̸ͯ̒̓ͫ͌̃ͪ̈͐̓̔ͮ͗͏̹̻̥̙͇̮̘̞͉̭̀͝H̷̴͓̣̗̟̭̝̰͉́͗̉ͦ͒̍͌̀ͮ͗͊̾͡ L̯̻̼̬̯͎͚̙̠̦͚̼̟̫̺̭̲̦͢͝J̴̧̨̩͇̫̲̲̗͈̤͎̰̫̻̯̹̦̣̪͝W̶̸̹̤̪̜̲͈̟̩̻̗̖͎͜͝͞W̴̴̨̹̥͉̭͈͇̲̦͇̮̝͉̮̝̳͉̝͟͜X̧͇̰̻̗̪͔̻͢͡C̸҉͕̝͈̼̲̰̹͙̥͙͈ ̴̳͉̥̫̰̲̝̞̼̤̞͖̙̹́Ţ̴̸̢̞͈̗̝͇͉̫̠̪͓̬̀W̧̝̹̳̱̬͎̠͈͉͚͕̕͡ͅͅX̷̡̧̮̥͕͈̪͙͈͖̬̞̩̦̝͙̹͎F̕҉̘͚̥͈͍͕̪͎̦̯͍̦̙̭̬̟̕͜͞ͅ ̟̲̪͕̤̫͈͎͈̺̗͓̦ͦͯ̅̿͐̂͐̀͝͞Q̢̉ͤͥ̋̄̑̕͜͏̼̯̠̲͉͇͕̼́J͂̂̈̾ͥ͑̃̊̃ͪ̽҉̴̵̵͉̻̼̱̝̲͚͖̤̖̥̙̲̮̹̪̙͜ͅA̴͌̇́ͧͦͫ͠҉̴̻͕͈̼̩̤̝̠̗͙͚͓̼̥̭͡Á̴̸̮̳̫̖͔̦͓̜͂ͯͯͣͣ̄̏̏̎͌ͬ͜͜H̷̛̙̱̹̦̙̯̠͔̮̟̩͈̯̫͊ͣͦ͂̉ͮ͜ͅ ̨̞͎̫͍̞̩̺̯͉̮̰͙̜ͮ̑͌̎ͪͣ̎̒ͣ͝L͆͆͌ͦ͟͜͝҉̯̺͚̼̮͓̭͕̘͎̣̩̩̭̙͙J̸̧̰̣͇̰̭̟͍̭̻̻̬̪͈̝̫̇̽ͥ̎̂͘͞W̡̅͆͊̑͛ͬͪ̄ͧ̏́͑̆́͢͏̤̮̫͍͇̀Ẇ̵ͬ͛̍͆͞͞҉͍̝̞͚̣̩̰͈̰̟̪̥̳̕ͅX̶̨̛̠̤͍͕̊͂͊̉͐̔ͪ̎̓̂͗ͮ̀̇̽͋̚͜͢C͒̾̈҉͇̘̬̜̦͈̪͎͖͍͙ͅ ̤̞̟̖͎̮̇͆̍̐́͘͝Tͣ̅̍͗ͭ̓̾̐͟͢͏̯̲̘͍̙͈̣͍̝W̧̑ͧ͆̓̍͒̆́̓ͦ̒͑͏͎̰̙͙̪̯̣̼͎̙̮̣͓̖͚̲̜X̢̧̢̋̿ͮ̋̈́̑̋́ͨͬ̑̊͛ͮ̆̈̚͏̭̠̻̪̮̜̳̙͕́F̵̰̩̫̘͎̻̾͗̓͌͂ͨ̊͑ͮ̏́

Next time, after a quick interlude with Oyobi explaining the rules and regulations of the sport of Warball, we continue to Thunderbrush session 6, where the party visits the Zoology department and has a normal one with a big scorpion!

#tfj log #twofaced jewel #where's 5b? don't worry about it

[ezilo]

TUC Week; Day 1, Past

Hello hello! My first TUC week! So, in honor of the past prompt, here is my little contribution, based around a day in the life a few years before the first book. I don't have the books on me so there may be some timeline issues!

Thanks for the event, @tucweek !

Snippets of a past life

Seventy-two.

Seventy-two days without his father, and sixty-eight days since Gregor had cried about it. He’d let himself in the beginning, hanging from his mother’s hand and letting her dry his cheeks. But then, one day, he’d noticed her for just a moment, standing in the middle of the living-room, hand clutching her swollen belly, Lizzie throwing a tantrum, Grandmother angrily asking where her son was. For just a moment, he’d seen his mother almost give up, collapse right then and there. She hadn’t, but he’d noticed it.

And so he had not cried since. He’d learned how to make a bottle, how much you have to shake it for the powder to dissolve entirely. He’d learned to lie to Grandmother, tell her she was on the farm somewhere, making up stories about chickens and pigs. He’d learned to sit with Lizzie and play with the Barbies.

He made his mother tea, and he did not cry. He watched how the policemen came less and less often, and then stopped altogether. He did his homework, he tucked his sisters in once his mother had taken a night job and couldn’t be home early enough.

He did not cry, but sometimes, late at night, curled up in his bed facing the wall, he allowed himself to wish, to ask, to pray.

Please, dad. Come back.

*

There were not many times that Hamnet wished to be back in Regalia. In fact it had never happened before now. Before he sat here, holding his son as his mother died before them.

“Hamnet. Hamnet, honey.” He choked on a sob. She’d always called him honey, which he’d never heard before her. It had come from the Overland, like her, a gift from above.

“Honey, listen to me.” Hannah said. “Watch over Hazard, alright?” He nodded. Hazard was confused, but he knew enough to cry alongside them. “I will.”

“Hamnet, my love. You know who you are.”

And then she was holding on to Hazard, only her son, and Hamnet was reeling for a second, lost in the memory of finding her, lost in the jungle, of telling her he could bring her to Regalia if she wanted to, find a way home to New York, but she’d shook her head. “I know who I am, Hamnet. I belong here, with you now. Do you know who you are?” And he’d found it out, with her.

Hamnet lays down with his two loves, and a part of him wishes he was in Regalia, where proper medicine might have helped her. But no – that would not have been Hannah.

“I love you, light of my life.”

*

The lessons were boring. They always were. Henry wasn’t even there to pass notes with her, in detention somewhere, and Nerissa was in the midst of another episode. So she listened to the professor go on about the history of their western defenses, until she was dismissed.

Luxa rushed to her chambers, burst in the door. Her parents were in the room, holding hands, talking in low voices. When they saw her, they jumped and then turned to her.

“Any news?” She asked.

“No, the negotiations have failed.”

“Predictable. It would have been unusual if the rats were receptive to us.”

“And what of the Overlander, then?”

Her mother stroked her hair.

“He is lost, I am afraid, dear.”

Luxa ponders that. It had been exciting when an Overlander had fallen in, though she had not seen him. But he had been scared, and attempted to rush out and leave them, going out to meet his family.

Fear makes one foolish her parents had always told her, drilled it into her until she felt it in her very bones and skin.

“Let us hope his death was quick, then.” Luxa says, and her parents look proud at her composure.

Inwardly she wonders who the next Overlander will be to fall into their world.

*

“Henry! What  of this?”

The boy looked up from his table.

“Vikus, I am sure you know of this already. I am being punished for my actions.”

“Your actions were starting a fire in the Prophecy room.”

He smirked, and Vikus almost backed away, feeling burned.

“Wood is highly flammable, Henry.”

“You don’t say. If we are done here, may I be dismissed?”

Vikus nodded shortly, and watched Henry leave, jump onto Ares’s back and disappear. He’d have to have a word with Julius, Henry's father, as perhaps Henry was not quite suited to an education in the palace. Although Julius was unlikely to believe him – he was of a fiery nature, like his son. He’d been trained by Solovet, after all.

*

“Scent Seer, your ruling?”

Twitchtip inhaled deeply. Gorl’s eyes twinkled in the dim light, menacing. “He ate the pups.” Outcry exploded around her, and then the rats gathered to tear off his head, a myriad of teeth buried in his throat.

Twitchtip is celebrated and hailed, Tara coming to thank her for the justice she has served, avenging her poor children. She relishes in the praise and the thanks, feasting all night long. Even Ripred shows up eventually, sits next to her. She shrinks a little next to him – Ripred is a legend, a rager, and a bit of an outsider to top it off.

“Good work today.”

“Thank you.”

He looks out at the crowd, eyes sweeping over, and then smirks up at her.

“How long d’ya reckon it’ll last?”

“Wh.. what? What will last?” She stammers out, unclenching and clenching her claws.

“Oh, you’re smarter than that, Scent Seer.” And with that, he leaps away.

Twitchtip’s wandering eyes finally land on a group of Gorl’s friends curled up in a corner, watching her, and she gulps.

*

“Mother?”

Susannah turned to her son. “Yes, dear?”

“I was just wondering where you were.” She smiled. Howard had always been a good boy, and he was well on his way to becoming a good man. “I am right here.” She taps the spot next to her on the settee, and Howard happily sits with her. “What are you doing?” “Trying to come up with a name for the little one”, she says, running a hand on her swollen belly. Howard smiles widely. “Can I help?” “Of course, dear.”

They bounce ideas off each other for a while, and her cheeks hurt from smiling. Howard’s childhood, so far, has been much calmer than hers, but she is not fooled by the relative status quo of these last few years. Susannah knows that wars brew here, always. It is simply a matter of when it will topple over.

But for now, she will enjoy the feeling of a quiet afternoon with her son.

“Mother, how did Vikus and Solovet come up with your names?”

Susannah smiles, thinking about her father pointing at an old, worn book in the museum.

“Have I ever told you about an overland writer named Shakespeare?”

*

His hands were trembling, from hunger and thirst, maybe, but mostly from fear. Jonathan is scared, yes, every second of his life now boiling down to survival, lying his way out, clumsily building weapons that could only work once.

He figures he’s been gone for roughly three months, but there is no sun or light here, only darkness, fur, and stone.

Somewhere above, Margaret has been born. He thinks about her, his little girl, Lizzie’s giggle, Gregor’s fingers on the saxophone, Grace’s warm smile, and gets back to work.

#underland chronicles #tucweek #let's hope this makes sense it's late

[tombofdelldracula]

WARLOCK #1-4 limited series

Grade: A

Marvel Comics | Cover dates Nov 2004-Feb2005

I originally bought this series as it was released. I liked Adam Warlock a lot, I liked cover artist J.H. Williams a lot, but Marvel was in an... interesting place in 2004. The progress of Morrison's X-Men was being unwound by Joss Whedon and Chuck Austen. Bendis was one month into disassembling the Avengers. Ultimate Spider-Man was humming along, but the rest of the Ultimate line seemed like its best days were already behind it. Even though WARLOCK #1 was joined on the stands in September by new #1 issues for Black Widow, Elektra, Gambit, Jubilee, and Madrox, there was one book that loomed large over the rest of these...

STRANGE #1

This was not an Ultimate book, but it was a big deal at the time because big deal writer J Michael Straczynski was writing it, and it was supposedly a "soft-reboot" or "do-over" of Dr Strange's origin. And that was something people seemed to want to see.

Soft reboots are not my favorite concept, and if someone in 2004 asked me my opinion on JMS? I would have pointed them to the Amazing Spider-Man arc SINS PAST that was on the stands and decline to speak on it further; some of my best friends are JMS fans.

I only bring it up because in 2004 I was foolish and reckless enough to let the stink of STRANGE #1 misinform my opinion of WARLOCK #1. It looked like a reboot to me, and I didn't read any more until after the fourth issue came out. This was a massive mistake.

Marvel describes the series like this:

In a world on the brink, human kind time is running out—but deep in the jungles of South America, a solution is being forged! A solution that will bring about a grand, new utopia... and that solution is Adam Warlock!

Here are the first three pages. I mean... it kinda feels like a reboot, doesn't it?

It's not though; it's not a reboot.

HOW is it not a reboot? I'm not telling. But I am telling you to read these issues if you have a chance. You WILL need to read all four issues for the payoff, so keep that on mind.

I reread all four issues lately and was blown away all over again.

This series is recommended for literally anyone interested in superhero comics. Pak's script works nicely, the plot is the kind of plot you should just experience rather than have spoiled in a review, and Adlard's art and storytelling has a vague Rick Leonardi vibe that I appreciate. The story sets up a potential sequel (that I don't believe we ever got to see) but is self-contained. You don't need to have read or even heard of Adam Warlock to enjoy this comic. And if you know and like Adam Warlock? Maybe you saw the preview pages above and thought "the Soul Gem on his forehead isn't a diamond! What a sad lack of detail and continuity!" you'll just have to believe me: This doesn't change, ruin, or alter anything.

WARLOCK #1-4 is definitely worth the time. It is definitely worth what I paid (wholesale in 2004), and is definitely re-readable, and I would love to see Greg Pak get a chance at a sequel.

Rereading it really took me back to 2004, to the point I thought I'd offer some annotations for just that first panel.

Page 1, panel 1

Caption 1: WARLOCK was originally set in an undefined near future. How do we know? Panel 1 mentions "troops slain" and "total killed in action." This is referring to something that was on the news DAILY in 2004: the number of American troops killed Iraq. We didn't get past 3,039 until the year 2007.

Page 1, panel 1

Caption 2: Venice is indeed still sinking and does get evacuated.

Caption 3: Threat level orange for air quality is a real thing.

And I looked up this comforting verse to save you the trouble:

Physical copies of these books might be hard to find, but they shouldn't be too expensive if you can find them. Keep an eye out; they're worth it!

Otherwise, all four of these issues (and plenty of others!) are on Marvel Unlimited, and available to purchase digitally from Marvel as well. ⚡️

#marvel comics #comics #comics recs #comic review #adam warlock #2004 #genetic engineering #messiah

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Dream SMP Recap (January 26/2022) - Hitting on 16, Dream’s Tour

Wilbur does a reading of his short story for the rest of the Las Nevadas burger arc.

Dream casually explores the server to see the new builds while Bad attempts to avoid him, fearing for his life.

---

VOD LINKS:

Captain Puffy

BadBoyHalo

Wilbur Soot

Dream

BadBoyHalo

---

You can read Wilbur’s full short story HERE.

Since it is not very long and is already in writing, this summary will only very briefly go over the basic main points of what happens to recap.

---

Stream 1: The view from the bottom of the ladder

- Wilbur and Tommy work together to build a road in Las Nevadas to divert business to the Wilburger Ranvan

- Quackity summons Wilbur for a meeting, where he tells Wilbur that he has an offer: to have Wilbur become Vice President of Las Nevadas. Wilbur is offended

-

Stream 2: Horseplay

- Ranboo and Tubbo meet up and decide to grab a meal together

- Afterwards, Wilbur calls in Ranboo to do a heist and steal Boner. Tubbo notices them taking the horse and they get into a heated argument. Tubbo walks away, teary-eyed

- Wilbur and Tommy talk about Wilbur’s scheme: a redstone trap

-

Stream 3: Hitting on 16

- Wilbur shows Ranboo the trap involving a pressure plate and TNT

- Wilbur then finds Quackity and brings him to see the trap, except instead of Boner on the pressure plate, Tubbo is inside the trap

- Wilbur and Quackity get into a brawl. Ranboo comes through and switches places with Tubbo to save him. He jumps, activating the pressure plate trap, and it goes off

---

- Bad logs onto the server and sees that most of his vegetation has been removed except for LaCactusBurg

- Bad plants numerous jungle trees and bushes at Foolish’s base, constructing a tree house stretching over the main road

- He delivers plenty of diorite to Foolish, Techno and Karl. Foolish is oblivious

- Techno snoozes

- Bad also plants tons of bamboo all around the summer home, retaliating Foolish’s retaliation from yesterday. He also gives DreamXD a face

- Dream logs on and decides to explore the server to see what new things have changed

- Dream wanders around Snowchester, finds the place Sam set up the World Eater, and then makes his way back to the mainland. He answers questions from chat and donos

- As he passes by Tommy’s summer home, he reminisces on the railway war. He waited several minutes on the track for Tommy to hit him so that he could use /kill because he thought it would be funny

- He goes to L’manburg, talking a bit about how he summoned lightning to strike Tommy that day (again, because it would be funny)

- Dream continues to walk around the main area answering more questions

- He finds the Doozer HQ, which is completely new to him

- As Dream continues wandering around the server, Bad tries his absolute best to deliver dirt to Sam

- Dream finds Fundy’s old sub trees and wants to blow them up. He doesn’t have TNT with him, so instead he puts signs on the trees making fun of their names. Chat tells him they were for charity, so he silently breaks the signs and pearls away before resuming

- He finds the signs saying to play Castaways at Puffy’s funeral and does a little trolling by replacing the lyrics with Mask instead

- He makes fun of Sam and Bad in chat for letting him break out of prison

- Dream gets into a chase with Bad, but Bad starts eating gapples so he gives up on hunting him down

- Some donos ask about future lore plans, ideas about redemption arcs, and inspirations for Dream’s character. Dream says on the subject that giving an answer would be revealing too much. He has a lot of inspirations for his character, but doesn’t want to give away what they are as that too would be too impactful

- Bad starts stream. He addresses chat with a dire tone. Dream is out and about, wandering out there! Should he go get him? No, he can’t take him alone! And Sam has been uncooperative. Sam can help, though. And he brought Dream all those sandwiches in prison, too

- Bad gets spooked by a chicken, thinking it’s Dream

- Bad decides to go to his house to stock up on supplies, sneaking around as to not get spotted. Meanwhile, Dream answers questions about Fortnite and wishes a dono happy birthday

- Bad panics in Bee ‘n’ Boo after noticing a broken window, thinking Dream must have been there. He blockades himself in to keep himself safe. Meanwhile, Dream rants about how house tour videos are stupid

- Bad needs to tell Skeppy to feed Rat. He has to make it back to his house in safety at all costs. Dream must be looking for him, hunting him down because Bad tried to stop him during the prison break – suddenly he spots Dream and screams in terror, running away for his life

- He makes it to his house, but the security isn’t good enough. Bad starts grabbing Strength potions from his stash. He needs to find Sam, and fast

- Bad starts making his way towards Sam’s island. He has to explain to Sam that Dream is out and that he’s seen him walking around. He makes it past the prison

- Dream is walking by the prison talking about his Twitch and YouTube demographics. Bad is terrified at the prospect that Dream might be able to go invisible and holes himself underground to cower in fear

- Bad realizes that the reason he keeps building around Foolish’s place is because it’s so far away. It’s safe from Dream! He starts walking over. Meanwhile, Dream places a sign on the flower shop saying “Obama for Dream SMP.” Bad walks down the path past the shops thinking Dream is behind him

- Bad spots Dream at the Nether portal and screams, bolting it in the opposite direction

- Dream wanders away from the portal and Bad starts to cautiously sneak back, hoping to get through while Dream isn’t paying attention

- Bad goes toward Spawn, talking to himself

Bad: “He...he doesn’t want to kill me! I – I – I gave him sandwiches, right? He remembers sandwich – SandwichBoyHalo, right? The guy who gave him sandwiches? I – I even gave Ranboo...I gave Ranboo those – those plans...I thought...you know...I thought it – I thought it was the right thing to do, you know...?”

- Bad eyes the portal. No, it must be a trap...where else could he find a portal?

- Dream stops at the bank to tab out. Bad heads towards the bank thinking he can get to Karl’s tunnel and spots Dream. He’s terrified and runs away, throwing his valuable items down hoping that Dream will take those and not hurt him. He stumbles into Punz’s Punzo Chunk and dies, ending stream there

- Dream continues to casually wander around and answer questions, exploring Kinoko

- Technoblade logs on and tells Dream to show everyone his house. Dream says that he definitely, totally does have a house and would show it, but he can’t reveal it because he’s being hunted right now

- He continues wandering. 

His inventory has three stacks of golden apples, several god apples, three and a half stacks of obsidian, a Totem of Undying, two shields, several Netherite tools, stacks of Ender Pearls and a single unsigned book and quill

- Dream pauses in front of Spirit’s grave and sighs, remembering how Sapnap turned them into an item frame by accident

- He answers more questions, admires how pretty L’manburg is, and runs down the railway to Pogtopia. He ends stream there

---

Upcoming Events:

- Hannah’s lore

- Puffy’s lore

- Manatreed’s stream?

#dream smp #dream smp recaps #long post #long posts