#Fortified Salt

[marketdevelopment]

Fortified Salt Market: Forthcoming Trends and Share Analysis by 2030

Global Fortified Salt Market was valued at USD 5.29 billion in 2021 and is expected to reach USD 9.30 billion by the year 2028, at a CAGR of 8.4%.

Salt is an ideal porter for micronutrient fortification and micronutrients such as iodine and iron can be found through salt, which ingurgitated by an individual provides various nutritional benefits, this micronutrient added salt is called as fortified salt. Fortification of salt is appreciated as one of the most cost-effective methods to tackle deficiency of iron and iodine as it is universally consumed by all income groups and age segments. Double fortified salt (DFS) is a form of table salt produced with mixed iron and iodine. When consumed in regular food, it may help to reduce iron deficiency and iodine deficiency disorders which helps to growth of fortified salt market.

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Updated Version 2024 is available our Sample Report May Includes the:

Scope For 2024

Brief Introduction to the research report.

Table of Contents (Scope covered as a part of the study)

Top players in the market

Research framework (structure of the report)

Research methodology adopted by Worldwide Market Reports

Leading players involved in the Fortified Salt Market include:

Cargill Incorporated, Tata Chemicals, China National Salt Industry, United Salt Corporation, Kutch Brine Chem Industries, Sambhar, AkzoNobel, Schweizer Salinen, Ankur Salt, Windsor Salt, Annapurna Salt, Bajaj Salt 

Moreover, the report includes significant chapters such as Patent Analysis, Regulatory Framework, Technology Roadmap, BCG Matrix, Heat Map Analysis, Price Trend Analysis, and Investment Analysis which help to understand the market direction and movement in the current and upcoming years. 

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Segmentation of Fortified Salt Market:

By Type

Iodine

Iron

Double Fortified Salt

By Application

Food Processing

Household

Animal Feed

Hospitality & Services

Others

By Distribution Channel

Hypermarket/Supermarket

Grocery Stores

Online

Others

By Regions: -

North America (US, Canada, Mexico)

Eastern Europe (Bulgaria, The Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Romania, Rest of Eastern Europe)

Western Europe (Germany, UK, France, Netherlands, Italy, Russia, Spain, Rest of Western Europe)

Asia Pacific (China, India, Japan, South Korea, Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam, The Philippines, Australia, New Zealand, Rest of APAC)

Middle East & Africa (Turkey, Bahrain, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, UAE, Israel, South Africa)

South America (Brazil, Argentina, Rest of SA)

Highlights from the report:

Market Study: It includes key market segments, key manufacturers covered, product range offered in the years considered, Global Fortified Salt Market, and research objectives. It also covers segmentation study provided in the report based on product type and application.

Market Executive Summary: This section highlights key studies, market growth rates, competitive landscape, market drivers, trends, and issues in addition to macro indicators.

Market Production by Region: The report provides data related to imports and exports, revenue, production and key players of all the studied regional markets are covered in this section.

Fortified Salt Market Profiles of Top Key Competitors: Analysis of each profiled Roll Hardness Tester market player is detailed in this section. This segment also provides SWOT analysis of individual players, products, production, value, capacity, and other important factors.

If you require any specific information that is not covered currently within the scope of the report, we will provide the same as a part of the customization.

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[greyborn2]

Was talking TES lore with my wife and inadvertently figured out a way to make a KILLING in the highly black market with a dang good cover story.

[utoshi-san]

Покупки с Тему и Тиджей макс!

Масло и бальзамы для губ понравились, очень нежные и мягкие, отлично увлажняют и упаковки мне понравились 💗

Набор мини кремов для рук спорный. Питают они не плохо, но запахи странные, резкие, не очень приятные. Типа крем для рук с календулой это что вообще?

Далее у меня тут пудра и соль для ванны, всё очень понравилось (соль была с сушенной апельсиновой цедрой).

Масло для роста волос с натуральным составом и запахом мяты, оно работает, хотя когда втираешь его в кожу головы то оно неприятно холодит.

Охлаждающий ролик для глаз офигенская штука, уже второй раз беру. Очень хорошо расслабляет глаза и снимает следы усталости.

Сыворотка для лица средняя, скраб тоже не понравился. Маски все израсходовала, почти все не плохие.

[canichangemyblogname]

My mother: “Are you trying to go vegan?”

My broke ass: “Meat is expensive.”

[novaursa]

Not Hers, Not His

- Summary: Married to Daemon as a second choice, Princess Y/N Targaryen fled across the sea to reclaim her freedom. Years later, her return reignites old wounds—and when she leaves again without goodbye, Daemon finally gives chase to the one woman he never meant to lose.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @idenyimimdenial @oxymakestheworldgoround @sachaa-ff @barnes70stark

The sun hung low over the Stepstones, swollen and red like a festering wound in the sky, its light breaking across the jagged horizon of splintered rock and rusting weapons left from too many forgotten skirmishes. Salt clung to the air like a second skin, seeping into armor, rusting blades, and settling in the joints of weary men. Daemon Targaryen stood upon the rise overlooking Bloodstone, the sea wind pulling at his dark cloak, streaked with ash and blood. The clamor of the men-at-arms echoed below—Velaryon sailors shouting orders as more siege engines were hauled into place, ballistae primed to fire again at the fortified Myrish encampments to the south.

Corlys Velaryon approached from behind, his gait slower than usual but not diminished. His armor was etched with sea-worn patterns, and though he had aged, there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes—the same fire Daemon had once seen when the Sea Snake first brought his fleet to these cursed waters.

“They’re digging in again,” Corlys said, his voice low, gravelly, and unmistakably irritated. “They know the tides better than most—wait out our thirst, our rot, and they’ll win without lifting a blade.”

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. His eyes traced the coastline like a hunter watching a wounded animal, calculating. “Let them rot in their holes,” he said finally. “If they’ve taken to burrowing like crabs, then we burn them out. Let their gods sort what’s left.”

Corlys snorted, but the sound carried little humor. “Easy to say when you’ve wings and flame.”

A slow smirk twitched across Daemon’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked thinner these days, lean and sharper around the edges. War had stripped him of the easy arrogance he once wore in court like a second crown. His silver hair was longer now, tangled and unkempt, curling around the base of his throat. Dark crescents lived beneath his eyes, and though Caraxes waited just beyond the cliffs, the dragon’s presence did little to lighten his mood.

The rider came at dusk.

He was young, pale with windburnt cheeks and a red cloak heavy with dust. The Velaryon guards let him through with mild disinterest, but the boy dismounted fast and bowed deep before Daemon and Corlys without waiting for breath.

“My lord, my prince,” he gasped, fishing out a sealed parchment bearing the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon pressed into black wax. “Raven came from the capital. Urgent word.”

Daemon took the parchment with gloved fingers and cracked the seal immediately. His eyes scanned the contents in silence, the tension drawing tighter in his jaw with each line.

Corlys stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “What is it? Not Viserys again?”

“No.” Daemon’s voice was flat. He read the letter again slower, quieter. Then he folded it once, twice, and handed it to Corlys without ceremony.

The Sea Snake read it, eyes narrowing. “The Triarchy stirs again,” he muttered. “More ships spotted gathering off the southern coast—typical.” Then his voice shifted tone, like his tongue caught on something unexpected. “And...your lady wife has returned?”

Daemon said nothing.

“She’s returned to King’s Landing,” Corlys pressed, flicking his gaze toward him. “From Lys, it says. Without fanfare. No dragon. No escort. Just walked through the gates like she never left.”

The silence that followed hung like iron between them. The crash of waves against the cliffs became louder, crueler, more mocking.

Daemon exhaled through his nose. “Did Viserys send for her?”

“No mention of that. Just that she’s taken up residence again in the Red Keep. Your old quarters.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t flicker, but something in him bristled. He turned back toward the sea, fingers twitching at his side. “So she returns now.”

“She’s your wife,” Corlys said carefully. “You should be glad she’s come home.”

Daemon’s laugh came bitter and short. “She left because it was home. Because Viserys made her feel like a concession. Like I’d been thrown scraps after asking for the crown jewel.”

“You asked for Rhaenyra,” Corlys reminded, blunt. “And you married her sister.”

“Not by my choice,” Daemon snapped. “Nor hers. He married us out of spite, thinking he could bend us both into obedience.” He looked again to the sea, as if her face might form in the water. “And I let her go. Thought time would harden her. Temper her pride.”

Corlys crossed his arms. “Maybe it has.”

Daemon turned then, finally meeting his eyes. “Or maybe she returns only because she’s finished running.”

Corlys held his gaze. “Then what will you do?”

A gust of wind tore across the cliffside, salt and sand whipping around them like whispers. Caraxes stirred below, the deep rumble in his throat rising like thunder from the pit of his belly.

Daemon didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The gods had already taken too much from him—his pride, his brother’s trust, the crown he once reached for with bloodied hands. But this? This woman Viserys gave him as punishment? She had clawed her way free of that insult, turned her back, and flown east like a storm waiting to be reborn.

And now she was back. In his city. In his rooms.

His queen of ash and fire.

“Prepare the sails,” Daemon said coldly. “We return to King’s Landing.”

The morning broke over King’s Landing with a brooding stillness, the kind that made even the gulls go quiet. The fog had rolled in off Blackwater Bay in a low, wet blanket, smothering the towers of the Red Keep and casting the harbor in a murky gray gloom. The city was only beginning to stir—fishmongers dragging their carts through the mud, the gold cloaks yawning at their posts, whores slipping out of back alley doors before the sun could shame them. No horns. No banners. No fanfare.

Just the sound of leathery wings splitting the clouds.

Daemon Targaryen had returned.

The sails of the Sea Snake’s swiftest longship had been furled before the ship could even dock, and Daemon, armor still clinging with the scent of Stepstones ash and blood, stepped ashore like a storm in the flesh. Caraxes was nowhere to be seen—left to circle above the cliffs beyond, for now—but that absence was no comfort to the city. Word spread fast. The Rogue Prince, the exile-turned-commander, had come back unannounced, and with no small measure of fury in his stride.

It was the sound of another dragon that truly sent the court into a frenzy.

A screech—high, furious, unmistakably female—split the sky as Daemon crossed the courtyard of the Red Keep. He paused, head tilting up toward the misted clouds. Through the fog he saw her—she—wings vast and violet-hued, like the dusk over Valyria before the Doom. A she-dragon of unnatural grace and fury, cutting across the sky with her jaws open and fire threatening at her throat. Not a docile beast kept to the Dragonpit. Not a creature of men’s cages. She was free.

“Vaelora,” Daemon murmured, lips parting as his eyes tracked the shape, awestruck despite himself.

She wheeled once above the Red Keep, a defiant cry echoing down into the capital, sending birds fleeing and hounds howling across the city. Then she turned, vast wings beating down against the fog, and flew out toward the open sea—chasing wind and freedom like the wild thing she had always been.

Daemon watched until she disappeared beyond the mists.

His jaw tightened. She had let her dragon fly unchained. Or perhaps, no one here had dared try to bind it.

He moved through the gates of the Red Keep like a blade being drawn, fast and direct, ignoring the startled gasps of the court ladies, the hushed whispers of the pages and handmaidens, the hurried bowing of stewards who scrambled aside with clumsy reverence. His boots echoed against the stone floors, dragging half the Keep into alert before he even reached the throne room. Ser Harrold Westerling was the first to meet him at the base of the steps, face drawn in disbelief.

“Prince Daemon—your return was not announced.”

“I was not inclined to send ravens,” Daemon said, brushing past him.

“His Grace is indisposed—”

“I doubt that,” he snapped. “He’ll be quite disposed once he learns I’ve come.”

The door to the throne room groaned open. Inside, the great chamber was quieter than usual—less bustling with sycophants and flatterers than in years past. But the man on the throne was unmistakable: King Viserys I, aged more than Daemon remembered, thinner, paler, with lines of grief etched deeper into his once-noble face. His crown sat heavy on his brow, and he turned slowly when he heard the approaching steps.

His eyes went wide.

“Daemon.”

The name fell from his lips like a dropped goblet.

“Brother,” Daemon said with a thin smile, stopping at the foot of the Iron Throne. “You look well. Older. But not altogether dead. A miracle.”

Viserys didn’t rise, but his fingers gripped the arms of his seat as if the iron beneath him might suddenly melt. “You were in the Stepstones.”

“I was.” He removed his gloves one finger at a time, each movement deliberate. “But I heard a curious bit of news. A raven spoke of things I could not ignore.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, but kept his tone composed. “We received no word you intended to return.”

“I didn’t intend to. But imagine my surprise when I learn that my wife is nesting again in the Red Keep—without so much as a word to me.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed. “Imagine how that might feel.”

The silence that followed was thick as oil. Viserys looked away, his expression unreadable. “She was free to return. This is her home.”

“Oh, now it is?” Daemon said coldly. “Strange, I remember you treating her more like a mistake. A punishment to be bound around my neck.”

“That is not what I intended,” Viserys muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“You intended to wound me. You succeeded. But you wounded her worse.”

A muscle jumped in Viserys’s jaw. “Daemon, do not twist my words.”

Daemon stepped closer. “I’m not here for your words. I saw Vaelora in the sky. She flies like she hasn’t tasted chains in years. Which makes me wonder—has anyone even tried to leash her since Y/N returned?”

Viserys’s silence was telling.

Daemon’s gaze narrowed. “Good. Let them be afraid of something. If they won’t fear you… they’ll fear what you brought back into your gates.”

And with that, he turned and walked from the throne room, his black cloak flaring behind him like wings.

The Red Keep’s lower halls were strangely silent as Daemon passed through them, his boots soft against the stone. The corridors were still familiar, despite the years—tapestries unchanged, the same dust gathering in corners no one dared sweep. He moved like a shadow beneath the high-arched ceilings, keen-eyed and silent, ignoring the stares of courtiers too cowardly to do more than whisper behind their hands.

It wasn’t until he passed through the royal cloister and emerged onto the outer terraces that he was stopped—by none other than the Hand himself.

Otto Hightower stood like a crow in his fine green robes, that insufferable pin gleaming against his chest. His face was drawn tight with suspicion, not fear—Otto did not fear Daemon, but despised him, and Daemon had always found that far more entertaining.

“My prince,” Otto said, his voice low, disdain barely masked. “I trust your arrival was sanctioned. Or shall I presume you’ve simply decided the laws of courtesy no longer apply to you?”

Daemon didn’t pause, didn’t slow. “They never did.”

Otto moved to intercept him, jaw tightening. “She has returned here in peace. Do not disturb that peace with your temper.”

Daemon smiled, razor-sharp and false. “My temper? Seven Hells, Otto, don’t strain yourself pretending to care for her well-being. You’d have seen her shipped to Oldtown and wed to one of your milksop cousins if Viserys hadn’t bound her to me instead.”

Otto’s lips thinned to a cold line. “You are not the only dragon in this castle, Prince Daemon. Tread carefully.”

“And you are not the only snake,” Daemon murmured, brushing past him like smoke. “But unlike yours, my bite leaves fire.”

He didn’t wait for the response—there was none worthy of hearing.

The gardens were heavy with the scent of late summer roses and damp soil, a tangle of green and gold overgrown in the absence of a queenly hand to tend them. The sun pierced through high boughs and latticed leaves in shifting rays, casting light like bars upon the stone paths. Somewhere a fountain murmured, drowned under the chirp of sparrows and the low hum of bees. And there—among the foliage, beneath the arching canopy of flowering myrtle—was she.

You.

You sat perched along the curved lip of the dry fountain, legs crossed beneath flowing violet skirts, hair pinned carelessly with silver combs that caught the sun. Your dragon’s colors were echoed in your eyes—those unmistakable lilac irises that had haunted Daemon across battlefields and fever dreams alike. You didn’t look at him as he approached. Not as a wife would. Not as a woman who had once shared a wedding bed, or crossed oceans to escape the shadow of a throne.

Daemon stopped a few paces away, folding his arms. “No kiss? No welcome? I thought I might at least earn a glare.”

You exhaled through your nose, expression unreadable. “If you came for performance, go to the mummers on the Street of Silk.”

“You were always better than any mummer,” Daemon said dryly. “Even when you weren’t trying.”

Still, you didn’t look at him. Your gaze remained fixed on a cluster of wilting irises near the edge of the fountain, as if they held more meaning than his entire existence.

“I didn’t come back for you,” you said finally, voice flat. “If that’s what you think.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, quieter. “I thought you were content hiding behind the sea. Or have the brothels in Lys lost their charm?”

You turned to him now—sharp, beautiful, wild-eyed. “I came because mother’s ashes are being moved to the crypts. No one thought to tell me. Grand Maester Mellos sent a letter two months late. Apparently they assumed I wouldn’t care. They were half-right.”

Daemon blinked. “I didn’t know.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know much about me, husband.”

He studied you—how your jaw clenched, how your fingers toyed with the edge of your sleeve like you were reining something in. “You could have told me. You could have sent word.”

“And you could have let me go when I asked.” You stood now, straightening, letting your words slice clean. “You could have refused Viserys. You could have chosen no one, but you asked for Rhaenyra and got me instead. So don’t act wounded now, Daemon. I spared us both the farce. You should be grateful.”

He took a step toward you. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I was never going to want you?”

You gave a bitter smile, eyes like wildfire just before the burn. “Wanting me would’ve meant wanting something you didn’t ask for. That’s not in your nature. You take what you want. And you didn’t take me.”

There was a pause. The air hung thick with too many unsaid things.

“I’ll be gone again soon,” you added before he could answer, tone clipped. “Vaelora hates the city. I don’t care for it either. Just a few more days. You’ll be free of me again.”

Daemon’s expression twisted, but he said nothing as you turned from him, violet silk trailing like smoke as you walked back through the myrtle arches and away toward the upper steps of the garden path.

And as your silhouette vanished between the flowering trees, another figure entered the clearing from the opposite side—graceful, silver-haired, and wearing a smile too warm to be unknowing.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra said, approaching, her eyes bright. “I heard you’d returned.”

Daemon didn’t turn to her yet. He was still watching the spot where you had stood. His silence said more than he wished.

“I see you found her first,” Rhaenyra added softly.

Finally, he turned to greet her, though the smile he gave her was strained, and far less triumphant than it once might’ve been.

Rhaenyra watched Daemon closely as she descended the final steps into the clearing, her skirts whispering over the flagstones, hands folded before her like the proper lady she was meant to be. But there was nothing proper about the way she looked at him—eyes drinking him in, searching for something familiar beneath the soot-stained armor and war-worn scowl. Daemon Targaryen had always walked like he owned the world, chin high, gaze bright, daring the gods to strike him. But now there was something quieter in him, something pulled taut behind the eyes, like a blade too long unsheathed.

“Uncle,” she said again, gently this time.

He turned to face her, and for the first time in her life, Rhaenyra didn’t feel the spark of mischief or the teasing heat that always lingered in his presence. There was no sly smile tugging at his lips, no mocking tilt of his head. His eyes were shadowed, unfocused, still caught somewhere in the wake of your voice—still haunted by it.

“Rhaenyra,” he answered, and even his voice was different—rougher, hollow around the edges.

She frowned, stepping closer, her brow furrowing with cautious familiarity. “You’ve changed.”

Daemon scoffed lightly but didn’t deny it. “War tends to do that. Stepstones are not courtly games.”

“And yet you’ve always loved war.”

“I loved winning.” His eyes flicked to her at last, and the look in them made her still. “But some battles aren’t worth the cost.”

She studied him—truly studied him. The Daemon she remembered from before had always danced along the edge of madness and charm. Now he seemed like a man who’d seen something in himself he didn’t want to recognize. A dragon that had flown too close to fire not his own.

“You came back for her.” The words left Rhaenyra before she could second-guess them. They were not accusatory, nor soft. They simply were.

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. He looked past her, toward the empty garden path you had vanished down. The silence stretched between them, weighted with more than time.

“She didn’t even look at me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I was a ghost.”

“You are, to her,” Rhaenyra said plainly. “She was never what you wanted. And she knew it.”

“She’s everything Viserys didn’t want for me,” he muttered, dark amusement flashing for a breath. “Too wild. Too proud. Too much fire, not enough obedience.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “And now?”

“Now I see he was right to fear her.” His eyes sharpened. “And I was a fool to let her go.”

Rhaenyra's lips parted, then shut again. The look on her face flickered, an old wound rising beneath polished calm. “You asked for me,” she said softly. “You stood before our father and asked for me.”

“I thought I was making a move,” Daemon said. “I thought claiming you was how I’d force Viserys’s hand. I didn’t care how much damage I caused. But marrying her wasn’t punishment, Rhaenyra. It just took me too long to see that.”

She looked away, chin tightening. “She bled for you. You never looked back.”

“I look now,” he said. “And she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a long moment. When she finally looked at him again, her expression had settled into something older than her years, something that reminded Daemon—painfully—of Aemma. “She’s not like the rest of us. We were raised to twist, to kneel when it served, to hide the worst of ourselves behind courtesy and titles.”

“She never hid a fucking thing,” Daemon muttered.

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “She never did. That was the first thing you loved about her. And the first thing you tried to break.”

Daemon flinched—just slightly.

Rhaenyra stepped past him then, her fingers brushing his arm in quiet parting. “Don’t chase her unless you’re willing to burn. She’s not waiting to be claimed. Not anymore.”

She left him there in the gardens, surrounded by sunlight and the scent of dying flowers, while your ghost lingered in every breath he took.

The skies above King’s Landing wept ash and sun the morning you left.

The city stirred beneath a bleary haze, thick with the scent of brine and hot stone. From the high terrace of Maegor’s Holdfast, Daemon stood still as a statue carved in blackened steel, one hand resting on the stone balustrade, the other clenched so tightly at his side the knuckles blanched white. Beside him, King Viserys leaned heavily on his cane, the weight of years and regret pressing down into his hunched frame. His breath came slower now, more labored than even Daemon remembered, but it was not illness that sickened him this morning—it was sorrow.

Above the rooftops, you rose into the sky atop your dragon, the she-dragon Vaelora screaming with pride as her wings cracked the wind. Her violet-hued scales shimmered like a living bruise against the dawn, silver light catching the ridges of her spine as she beat a wide circle over the Red Keep. Below, smallfolk gathered in awe, the guards paused mid-march, and even the ravens quieted in their cages. No fanfare. No escort. No farewell.

Just you, flying alone—again.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Viserys said, his voice thick and wavering as he followed the dragon’s ascent with dulled eyes. “Not to me. Not to her brothers and sister. Not to her king.”

Daemon’s jaw flexed. He didn’t speak.

“She was always too proud,” Viserys murmured. “Too wild. Like her grandmother. I tried to make it right, binding her to you—” His tone faltered as if he heard the foolishness of it in real time. “I thought it might calm her. Anchor her here, with family. She was so young then. And you…”

Daemon turned his head, slowly.

Viserys trailed off.

Your dragon banked toward the open sea, wings carving through mist, then surged forward, vanishing into cloud and light.

Daemon’s breath left him in a sharp exhale.

“Daemon,” Viserys said behind him, quietly now, almost pleading. “Don’t.”

But Daemon was already walking.

“Daemon—”

He didn’t answer. His cloak snapped behind him as he descended the tower steps in quick, precise strides. Servants scattered in his path, startled by the look in his eyes. He moved like a man possessed—lean muscle coiled beneath the layers of black and crimson, expression locked in something between fury and desperation. The Red Keep blurred past him. He crossed the yard in silence, reached the stables without a word, and threw the reins off the nearest saddled horse without waiting for assistance.

The beast neighed at the sudden command, but Daemon mounted in one motion and dug in his heels.

Hooves cracked against the stone as he tore down the hill road, out past the Gate of the Dragon and toward the black maw of the Dragonpit.

The city’s morning song grew faint behind him. The wind roared in his ears. His heart pounded like war drums, each beat echoing one name—Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

By the time the Dragonpit gates loomed, the keepers had barely thrown them open wide enough for his passage. The great domed structure rose like a mausoleum, the bones of old stones etched into the very foundation, but Daemon did not slow. He dismounted while the horse was still moving, letting it stumble to a halt as he strode forward.

Caraxes waited in the shadowed inner court, crouched low, his crimson wings curled like a sleeping serpent.

The dragon raised his head before Daemon spoke a word.

Daemon reached him, one hand on the scarred flank, and the old wyrm huffed smoke from his nostrils in greeting—ready, always ready.

“You saw her,” Daemon said softly, stepping closer. His voice was different now. “You felt her go.”

Caraxes snarled in answer, wings twitching.

Daemon climbed the saddle. The stirrups were cold iron, the grips worn smooth by war and wind. He settled himself like a man returning to his throne, then leaned forward, whispering through clenched teeth.

“We’re going after her.”

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - Northern Frost Southern Sun

Summary - In the unforgiving North, a Southern princess struggles with her political marriage to Cregan, feeling like an outsider. As she voices her insecurities, their bond deepens, transforming their alliance into a passionate connection that bridges the divide between their worlds.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Martell reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2124

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Born into nobility, my life had always felt scripted—a path inked not by my own desires but by the hands of the men around me. 

My father, my uncle, my brother, even the echoes of my grandfather shaped the walls around me. 

As a daughter of House Martell, the rulers of sun-drenched Dorne, my existence was predetermined, my fate a strategy in the game of thrones woven by my father, Prince Qoren Martell himself. 

A Martell daughter, after all, was a prize to be bartered, and he had chosen a formidable match.

He pledged me to Cregan Stark, Lord of House Stark, in the distant, unforgiving North. 

A union as calculated as it was unfeeling, our marriage was intended to bind the desert heat of Dorne with the ice and shadows of Winterfell. 

It was a pact, a quiet promise to fortify our realms and maintain a precarious balance in the ever-shifting powers of Westeros. My father assured me it was for our people, for peace. 

But I knew what the alliance would cost me: the endless winds that sliced through bone, the chill that would burrow into my soul, the lonely shadows that clung to Winterfell's walls like phantoms.

The North was all I had dreaded—an imposing land where silence lingered thickly in the air, and winter settled in more than just the stones. 

Every breath was laced with frost, every glance held a guarded judgment, as if they wondered if this southern-born woman could ever survive in a world so different, so grim. 

And always, there were whispers—"the Dornish wife"—spoken softly yet deliberately, trailing me like spectres through the dim corridors.

Yet amid the cold and the solitude, Cregan Stark surprised me. 

He was not the man I had envisioned: distant and unyielding, a creature as cold as the land he ruled. 

Instead, Cregan had a quiet strength, a kindness that seemed out of place in such a harsh land. He understood, perhaps better than I, the challenges I faced here. 

With subtle gestures and quiet assurances, he tried to ease my discomfort, his attentions more thoughtful than I'd dared hope. He never pressed, but he was there—a grounding presence, a warmth that, little by little, began to soften the edges of my isolation.

A moon had passed since our union. I was neither entirely happy nor entirely sorrowful; I was simply... here. 

Somewhere between contentment and restlessness, caught in a place that wasn't mine yet somehow, piece by piece, was becoming so. 

Winterfell was no closer to being home, but Cregan's attentions made the frigid halls more bearable, his patience an anchor as I drifted, my heart searching for familiarity in a sea of foreignness.

One evening, as twilight painted the snow in hues of indigo and grey, I stood on the balcony, gazing out across Winterfell. 

The frosty landscape stretched endlessly, an ocean of cold where dawn seemed forever on the edge of arriving but never quite here. 

As I watched the endless expanse of snow, I remembered the hot, golden sands of Sunspear. 

In Dorne, the sun-kissed our skin, the scent of ripe figs and sea salt filled the air. Here, every corner held a chill, every shadow seemed to whisper secrets.

In that stillness, I heard a voice—a voice I had come to know well, warm yet edged with the subtle command of a lord.

"What's on your mind?" Cregan's words reached me, low and tender.

Startled, I turned to see him leaning on the railing beside me, his gaze thoughtful. His presence was a welcome warmth, and yet I found myself instinctively closing in, the winter wind cutting through my gown.

"Nothing," I replied, a feeble defence as my voice carried softly into the chill.

He studied me quietly, his eyes catching the slight shiver that ran through me as the wind nipped at my shoulders. 

"Doesn't look like 'nothing,'" he said, his voice low. "You're cold. Come inside." 

Without waiting for my reply, he draped his cloak over my shoulders, guiding me toward the warmth of our chambers, stopping by the hearth as the flames crackled to life.

"I don't belong," I murmured, staring into the fire. My fingers traced the thick Northern fabric of my gown—a cloth I'd hoped would make me feel less like an outsider. 

The weight of the words hung between us as if spoken aloud for the first time, stirring the silence in the dim room.

"What do you mean, my love?" Cregan's voice broke the quiet, a softness I hadn't expected. 

He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine with a rare vulnerability as if my answer mattered more than the words themselves.

I took a long, steadying breath, watching the flames dance and trying to gather the right words. 

"They still see me as different," I whispered. "A stranger, from a land they neither know nor trust. I try to blend in, to be... what I think they want. But sometimes, I wonder if they'll ever truly see me as one of their own." 

My voice trembled as the truth spilt out, deeper than I'd intended. "They whisper, Cregan when they think I can't hear. They don't trust me. And some days, I'm not sure they ever will."

Cregan listened in silence, his gaze steady and unwavering. 

Without a word, he reached for my hand, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle as they enveloped mine, grounding me in the midst of my insecurities.

"Give them time," he said softly, his voice like a balm. "The North can be as harsh as winter itself, slow to warm, but it's not unyielding." 

His hand lifted my chin, guiding my gaze up to meet his. In his eyes, I saw not just kindness, but an unwavering strength, as if he could will my doubts away by the force of his conviction alone.

"You belong here, with me," he said, his voice a quiet promise. "No whispers or frost will ever change that."

I felt his words settle over me like a cloak, their warmth reaching parts of my heart I hadn't realized were cold. But still, uncertainty lingered, stubborn and unrelenting. 

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Cregan shifted closer, his presence wrapping around me like an unbreakable fortress.

He cupped my cheek with a tenderness that both surprised and soothed me. 

"You are the heat I've always been missing," he murmured, his voice low and thick with meaning. 

Slowly, his hand drifted down, sliding under the folds of my gown with a touch that sent a shiver through me—a sensation born not of the cold, but of something deeper.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a laugh escaping as I fought back my nervousness.

"Showing you." His voice was gentle, a playful glint in his eyes. "Showing you that you belong."

With a tender confidence, his hands moved, sending ripples through me that melted the tension from my body. 

His touch was warm and steady, his fingers tracing up my sides, and for the first time since coming to the North, I felt my fears begin to ease as if his presence alone could erase them. 

The doubts, the whispers—they all faded as his hands explored, each caress a quiet reassurance.

His gaze held mine, unwavering, and in that moment, there was an intimacy that transcended touch, a promise woven in the quiet between us. 

He leaned in, his lips finding mine, capturing them with a gentleness that made me feel like I was being seen for the first time. His kiss was both soft and fervent, his lips warm as they moved against mine, igniting a fire that outmatched any northern hearth.

As his hands roamed over my body, rough and calloused from years of wielding steel, they were uncharacteristically gentle, tracing the lines of my skin as if memorizing each curve. 

His fingers held a kind of reverence, as if I were something precious, not just the wife bound to him by a political alliance but a person who was cherished.

In that moment, he lifted me, guiding me slowly towards the bed, never once breaking the kiss. 

I felt myself sink into the softness of the furs as he laid me down, the flickering fire casting its amber glow across the room, cocooning us in its warmth. 

There was a tenderness in his touch as he caressed me, his movements slow and purposeful, each gesture a quiet declaration.

The world outside the chamber ceased to exist; there was no cold, no looming suspicion, no whispers echoing down the corridors. 

Only Cregan and the fire between us, burning bright and fierce.

His lips trailed down my neck, each kiss a spark that sent warmth radiating through me. He paused, his gaze seeking mine as his hand found the ties of my gown, his touch both reverent and questioning. 

I met his eyes, giving him the permission he silently sought, and with careful, deliberate movements, he began to untie it, each pull of the fabric a slow unveiling.

As the gown slipped away, leaving me bare before him, I felt no vulnerability, only an overwhelming sense of being cherished. 

Cregan's eyes held nothing but admiration, and in that look, he banished every doubt, every whisper that had haunted me since I'd arrived in the North.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice raw and thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

His words soaked into me, warming those fragile places hidden within, and I felt myself drawn to him, my fingers threading into his hair, pulling him close. 

His warmth was a balm, a grounding presence I needed as his lips found mine, slow and deliberate, speaking promises only we could hear.

With a practised, fluid ease, he shed the last of his clothes, his gaze never breaking from mine. 

His bare skin met mine in a press that was both electric and soothing, each inch of contact igniting a surge of feeling, of completeness that made me gasp. 

His hands traced down my sides, exploring the curves and lines of my body, as if they held secrets he'd yearned to know. 

Every touch, every brush of his fingers sent shivers across my skin.

He lowered himself, aligning our bodies with a reverence that made my heart ache. 

When he settled between my thighs, his touch shifted, moving from a delicate exploration to a quiet, steady possession. 

His grip on me tightened, anchoring me beneath him, and his eyes held a ferocity that was matched by the tenderness in his touch. He was wholly mine, and I, his.

"You're mine," he whispered his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through me. "Mine."

"Yes," I breathed, my fingers pressing into his shoulders as I clung to him, letting myself believe it. "Yours."

He moved with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust a declaration, an unspoken vow that silenced the doubts within me. 

Every part of me, every fragment I thought too broken to matter, felt seen, treasured. 

The warmth grew between us, winding up in intensity as he continued, his movements steady, yet laced with a simmering need that built with each passing moment.

His hands roamed over me, possessive yet reverent, fingers tracing gentle lines along my skin. His lips left trails of warmth, soft whispers mingling with our breaths. 

The connection between us thrummed with a strength that felt sacred, binding us beyond words, deeper than the physical.

Our rhythm intensified, his hands gripping my waist, his lips capturing my moans as we chased the rising wave together. 

The air was thick with the sounds of our bodies, the soft crackle of the fire, the murmurs of our whispered names.

In that moment, there was no North or South, no whispers of "the Dornish wife." There was only Cregan and me, bound together by a love that had taken root in the most unlikely of places.

When the climax came, it hit with a force that left us breathless, a bliss that surged through us like fire and water, fierce yet softening. 

He held me through it, our breaths mingling as we trembled in the aftermath, our hearts beating as one.

Cregan collapsed beside me, his arms wrapping around me as he pulled me close. We lay there in the afterglow, our bodies entwined, the fire casting a soft glow over us.

"You belong here," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my soul. "With me."

"I do," I replied, my heart swelling with a newfound certainty. "I belong with you."

As I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I knew that no matter the challenges we might face, we would face them together. 

The North might be cold and unforgiving, but with Cregan by my side, I felt a warmth that could withstand any storm. 

And in his embrace, I found not just a home, but a love that would endure.

A/n - I am such a sucker for any Dornish reader works 😝

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

[highprettybabyy]

Seeing Red

Part 1 - The Last Person Alive

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: after weeks of surviving alone, Y/N executes a risky plan to clear out a nearby mall in search of supplies.

warnings: enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore

AN: grrr

word count: 3.4k

—//—

Your chest ached from the relentless sprint through ruined streets, the cold air burning your lungs with every breath. Your entire town was gone - consumed, broken, rotted from the inside out. Street after street teemed with the undead, their grey, sloughing bodies collapsing in on themselves as they shuffled forward without purpose. You could barely look at them anymore. The wet, rattling bellows that wheezed from their throats had turned the very air into something putrid and hard to breathe, like the world itself was rejecting what humanity had become.

You kept to the alleys, moving low between skeletal buildings and twisted fences, inching toward what was once your house - now fortified into something less like a home and more like a bunker.

It had been only a month and a half since the outbreak. Barely any time at all. The news hadn’t even caught up before the cities were overrun. Airports, subways, motorways - the virus spread faster than thought, faster than fear. Entire countries collapsed in under two weeks. Governments fractured. Military forces turned on their own to buy time. And none of it made a difference.

You remembered when it hit your hometown. One minute, the campus was buzzing with assignments, awkward coffee dates, and eye-rolls in the lecture hall - the next, blood smeared the corridors. Screams echoed through dorm rooms. Students leapt from windows. No one got a warning. Just a sudden, brutal end to the world you’d known.

-

After a careful check of your barricades, you slipped inside the safehouse. Your home’s entryway had long since been stripped of sentiment - the cheerful welcome mat now faded and torn, the door itself reinforced with scrap metal and bolts. You gave your shoes a wipe on instinct, a relic of old habits, before scanning the room with practised precision. Curtains drawn, lights off. No movement.

Only then did you flick on the lantern and drop your duffel bag onto the kitchen table with a dull thud. The metallic clatter of canned goods and the hollow thunk of tools echoed through the silence. Your fingers, still caked in soot and grime, fumbled with the zipper.

Inside: ten tins of food, a bag of potatoes, a hand axe, a machete, screwdriver, hammer, a few jars of jam and chocolate spread, crackers, two cabbages, and somehow - miraculously - an entire smoked ham. Not bad for one run. Your legs still ached from the weight of it, your speed in tight alleys compromised.

You chopped the cabbage and potatoes with dull focus, tossing them into the skillet with a slice of ham, letting the sizzle distract you from the quiet. Some salt, some pepper, a little drizzle of hot sauce, and done. You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, plate balanced on your lap, eating with absent urgency as your eyes flicked toward the papers scattered on the coffee table.

Survival lists. Supply logs. Plans. Everything mapped out in ink that was starting to smudge from repeated contact with dirty fingers. You chewed carefully, blowing on each bite even as steam fogged your eyes.

You picked up a pen and clicked it once. Twice. Three times. “Hammer… check. Screwdriver… check.” You scribbled down new notes, your handwriting slanting harder the further down the list you went. A generator was next. The solar panels on your roof were already beginning to fail - they’d been a miracle early on, but you weren’t an electrician. A book on wiring would help. Seeds, tarp, rain catchers, a trowel. You needed to think long-term now. Fresh food was a fantasy unless you grew it yourself.

-

The mall was always going to be dangerous. You knew that. But even you hadn’t expected it to still be this bad.

You crouched behind the ancient oak that overlooked the parking lot, eyes scanning the broken concrete stretch that used to buzz with Saturday crowds. Dust-covered cars sat in frozen disarray, doors hanging open, shopping carts tipped like skeletal animals on their sides. And zombies. So many of them. Maybe two hundred, all twitching and groaning and slipping around in loose circles like puppets on broken strings.

You opened your duffel and carefully removed a small CD player. No batteries, not yet. That would be suicide. You checked your jacket pocket. Lighter. Yes. Then - batteries. Good. You exhaled slowly.

The alcohol bottles clinked softly as you lifted the bag again, each one filled with potential destruction. You crept along the edge of the woods behind the mall, the path mostly clear - the natural world still hesitated to welcome the undead. You’d noticed that. Birds and bugs still scattered at their approach.

When you reached the clearing, you worked quickly. Three liquor bottles. Two vodka, one whiskey - didn’t matter. You stuffed them with lengths of rope soaked in ethanol from your last scavenged supply run, laying them in a rough triangle around the speaker. One side open. One long fuse, enough time to escape.

Once everything was in place, you inserted the batteries, snapped the lid shut, and slid the CD inside. The label was half-smeared, but you knew the track by heart. You checked the volume. Maxed out.

Breathe. You flicked the lighter and held it to the rope.

Go.

You lit the fuse and slammed the play button, already turning on your heel as the opening bars of “…Ready For It?” thundered out into the sky.

Adrenaline tore through your veins. You sprinted across the grass, back to the safety of the tree line, the thudding bass behind you acting as bait. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Not until you crested the hill and collapsed against the bark, gasping.

You peered down just as three stragglers came into view - slower, less coordinated, but still dangerous. Only three. A miracle.

You rose shakily and drew your machete. The first one went down easy, its head split clean from its shoulders. The second staggered into your swing, and your blade jammed in its skull.

Shit.

You tugged hard but the blade wouldn’t come free. The third was nearly on you, jaw slack, teeth barely attached to grey gums, its lower face practically disintegrated. Drool hung from its chin in strings. You gritted your teeth, heaved the machete sideways with the weight of the corpse still attached, and launched it forward, straight into the last zombie.

The impact knocked them both off their feet, sending them tumbling down the hill like grotesque bowling pins. By the time they reached the bottom, they were in pieces.

You blinked, heart thundering. “Blehhh,” you muttered weakly, dragging the machete through grass and bark to clean it. If you strained your ears, you could still hear the chorus of the song. The speaker was stronger than you’d thought.

You looked out over the fire. Smoke smeared the sky like bruises, and the horde below burned like a funeral pyre. The zombies hadn’t even tried to escape. They walked into the flames, mindless and relentless. You just hoped the fire wouldn’t reach the forest.

The wind was on your side.

You slid down beside the oak tree and watched them burn.

-

Surprised was an understatement. The halls were mostly clear, a few stragglers here and there, but nothing you couldn't handle with a strong swing with your machete. A few of the lights flickered, suggesting that the solar panels on the roof were giving out slowly. Dust, leaves and zombie grime covered the floors.

The mall was too quiet. A kind of stillness that made your ears ring. After weeks of shrieking, snarling, and the wet squelch of rotting flesh dragging across broken pavement, the absence of sound was worse than noise. You kept your steps light as you moved down the corridor, eyes flicking from overturned benches to shattered storefront windows. There were mannequins in pieces on the floor, stiff arms and pale, bald heads strewn about like dismembered remains. The daylight that managed to filter in through broken skylights was soft, filtered through soot and ash, painting everything in a grayish-yellow haze. But there was no movement. No moaning. No skittering. And for the first time in days, you let yourself hope.

You’d done it. You’d actually pulled it off.

The CD player, the liquor trap, the long fuse - everything had gone to plan. You’d lured most of the undead from the perimeter to the empty field beyond the mall’s edge, right into the fire. Their bodies were so dry, so soaked in decay, they caught like matchsticks. It had been a grotesque spectacle, watching them stumble forward into the flames without hesitation, drawn only by the sound. You felt sick as you watched it, but satisfied too. It gave you a chance. A real one. And now, walking through this half-collapsed temple of consumerism, it almost felt like you’d found a piece of the old world again. That illusion of calm, of stillness, almost made you forget where you were.

You exhaled a long, shaky breath and wiped your palm on your jacket. Your machete dangled loose at your side, and you took a moment to pause by an abandoned juice bar, eyes scanning for any signs of life, or death. Empty. Just like the last four. Your pulse began to slow, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as the adrenaline haze began to fade. For a second, you imagined making it through this trip without a scratch. Collecting everything you could carry - batteries, canned goods, maybe even a jacket that wasn’t torn to hell - and heading back home. Safe. Alone, but safe.

That was your mistake.

A sudden crack split the air behind you. Wood shattering, metal groaning. You spun on instinct, eyes wide as the gate to the sporting goods store exploded open. A flood of bodies spilled out, grotesque and twitching, their skin hanging in tatters. You didn’t even have time to curse before they were on you.

There were so many.

Fifteen at least, packed together in the dark back of the store like diseased rats, their hunger boiling over now that the door was gone. Their eyes were milky, their limbs jerking erratically as they lunged forward as one. You ducked back just in time to avoid the first swipe, your machete swinging up in a wide arc that took off the lead zombie’s head. It hit the tile with a heavy clunk, rolling once before stopping at the base of a broken vending machine.

The next one grabbed at your arm, and you grunted as you twisted free, plunging your blade up through its jaw. The crunch of bone and the warmth of blood reminded you that hesitation meant death. You moved quickly, slicing through arms and necks with swift, practiced swings. One went down. Then another. You lost count after eight.

Your breathing became ragged, sweat pouring down your back as the weight of exhaustion began to slow you. You could feel it happening - your arms shaking, your grip faltering - but you didn’t have time to stop. The ninth zombie barrelled into you, its body heavier than expected, sending you tumbling backward across the floor. Your back slammed into a metal display rack, pain blooming down your spine. You scrambled to your feet, driving the blade through its eye socket with a scream, and then twisted just in time to avoid another bite.

There were five left.

And nowhere left to run.

You were backed into a corner now, boxed in by collapsed beams and heavy furniture that had once been part of a demo area. You could barely lift your machete, your vision blurred at the edges, but you held your ground. Blood dripped from your cheek, your arms, your knees, you weren’t even sure how many wounds were yours anymore.

You gritted your teeth, raised your weapon one last time, and prepared to die fighting.

Then, a sound louder than anything - BLAM - and the zombie closest to you crumpled as its head exploded in a spray of black and red. Another shot. Another body down. You stared, stunned, as gunfire lit up the corridor, each blast echoing off the tile and metal until only silence remained again. The last of them dropped, twitching once before going still.

You blinked, your brain struggling to catch up to what just happened. And then you saw her.

She stepped out of the shadows like a ghost from your past. Combat boots, ripped jeans, a dirt-smeared army jacket hanging off her shoulders like she stole it off a corpse. A military-grade mask covered most of her face - one of those black, moulded types you’d only seen soldiers wear back when the military was still pretending they had things under control. She lowered her rifle with practiced ease, cocked her head slightly.

You knew who she was before she even took it off.

Jenna fucking Ortega.

You were so out of breath you couldn’t even muster a proper insult. “Jesus Christ,” you rasped, still dazed. “Jenna?”

She tugged the mask off slowly, like she had all the time in the world, revealing that familiar expression - that impossibly punchable smirk paired with eyes sharp enough to slice you open. Her hair was longer than you remembered, wild and messy, and somehow she still had the nerve to look good. She stared at you like you were a roach crawling out from under her shoe.

“Of all the people still alive,” she said flatly, voice edged with dry disdain, “it had to be you.”

Even now, covered in blood and ash, you managed a scoff. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome for the zombie barbecue out front.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for just a second, you saw something flicker behind them. Surprise? Relief? It vanished as quickly as it came.

You straightened up slowly, ignoring the ache in your knees. “You gonna shoot me next, or are you here to criticise my machete form?”

Jenna snorted, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “Please. If I was gonna shoot you, you’d already be dead.”

Before you could reply, a long, low moan echoed through the mall.

You both turned your heads in unison.

The last few stragglers - four, maybe five - had been drawn by the noise. Shuffling from the lower floor, crawling over the rubble, stumbling straight for you.

You looked at Jenna. She looked at you.

“Truce?” you said.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

--//--

AN: i hope you liked it grrrr <3

AN: haven't proofread as much as i probably needed to lol

Part 2

[titsoutfornature]

do you ever think about how vulnerable specialized labor under capitalism has left us?

do you know where to get folate, calcium, iron, iodine etc without buying pills or mass-produced fortified foods? do you know how to process out anti-nutrients in edible substances (like corn, cassava, etc)? do you know how to save and store seeds from various types of edible plants? do you know how to preserve meat without a freezer or salt? how to remove bittern from sea salt? how to find water in a drought and how to purify it? how to treat dehydration?

what happens when it's your money or your life? when militaries target supply chains during war?

[solbaby7]

someone requested [ Manhattan + salt rim + neat ] and I accidentally deleted it but i remembered!!

warnings: leashes (yup like for dogs 🤭) minors dni, thank you thank you thank you thank you for this request 🥵

—

Azriel knew it was going to be an issue—you spending so much time with Nesta Archeron.

He’d found it cute at first. His sweet girl making friends with someone as prickly as death incarnate, until he’d started noticing the changes. How kind words shift into a biting wit; adopting a darker kind of humor that leaves his brows raised and tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Come bunny, it’s time to get out of bed.”

Perhaps it’s in that learned behavior where you find the gall to part your lips and mutter, “No, I’m not going.”

It’s surprising—your defiance. Enough for him to pause in the middle of his morning routine, thigh holsters half buckled with an array of sharpened daggers and switchblades laid out before him. “Say that again?”

“To training,” You elaborate, mindlessly toying with the fraying edges of your nail varnish. Soft sheets swallow you whole, thick pillows and duvets emitting Azriel’s comforting scent all around you. “I’m not going today.”

For only a second he falters before his movements start up again, deft fingers easily buckling strips of leather and filling the slots with weapons. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m feeling like I don’t want to sweat under the burning sun all fucking day.” Your eyes are too busy rolling at the thought to notice the tick of Azriel’s jaw, the strained way he tightens his belt. “Nes and I are going shopping after brunch instead.”

“Oh?” There’s a pause, a tense silence that forces you to lean up on your elbows, neck craning to peer over at the Illyrian. Though, Azriel’s not getting ready anymore and he’s lounging too comfortably for someone who’d been adamant on following the guidelines of his rigorous schedule. The clock tick, tick, ticks away and for some reason he’s not reaching for his top or the crossbody holsters he slides on after. His hair is still dripping wet from his shower, not even bothering to work his styling pomade through. “Says who?”

He just sits there—watching, waiting. Staring at you like one of the prisoners he chains up in his dungeons; prodding at the barriers of their restraint until the spymaster tore it to shreds. You hate how well it works, chipping away at the fortified walls you’d built in your new friendships. How easily Azriel’s able to walk up to those borders and send them crumbling down with nothing more than a look.

It should be embarrassing, the affect he has on you. The way one arched brow has your spine instinctively straightening, throat rolling with a swallow as you struggle to muster up the same confidence that burned through you just moments ago. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

Azriel hums low in his chest, shoulders relaxing and head nodding once, twice, three times before that stoic expression melts into understanding. “I see, that’s probably my fault. Got a touch lenient—allowed room for a little too much…hope.”

“Hope?”

Alarm bells begin ringing the further he settles in the chair, thick thighs spreading wide and veiny forearms eat up the space along the armrest. “Hope,” he agrees. “Give a good pet a little too much freedom—too much hope and all the necessary structure begins to waver.” You’re caught like a fly in a trap, limbs sticking to the carefully spun webs Az’s woven until your struggle only leaves the metaphorical ropes twisting and knotting tighter. “Don’t worry, I’m a good trainer. Won’t let you slack for a second—even if you do bat those pretty lashes up at me.”

Your mouth goes dry when his wrist flicks, two fingers beckoning you closer in silent command. A part of you hesitates; resists the rigorous discipline and rules put in place to keep you safe. Protected. But Nesta said that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself without some overgrown bat looming over your shoulder. Right?

You obey anyway, praying that Azriel doesn’t hold the contemplation against you.

The Mother doesn’t seem to hear your plea, too occupied with more deserving persons to spare a second glance at the predicament you’d weaseled your way into. Each step closer feels like knowing wrong and choosing the sin anyway, solidifying your fate and dealing your destiny with the devil for all time. “Sit.”

A huffy breath of irritation before you ease down to your knees, leaning your weight back against your calves. “I’m not some fucking dog.”

“No, you aren’t,” His hand smells of body wash when a thumb runs over the curve of your cheek, blunt nail tracing against the shape of your mouth. It’s almost sweet, toeing the line of possibly romantic when you hear it—the squeaky strain of fresh leather. The cool bite of the latch registers too late, a metallic click locking it in place. “But lately you’ve been acting like one. My rabid mutt.”

Manicured nails grip at the newest accessory but it doesn’t budge no matter how much you tug at it. Your cheeks flame, a mix of fury and pure embarrassment from the rush of arousal that soils your panties when each breath grows just a bit labored. “You fucking collared me?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll buy a muzzle to match.” He catches on to the way your thighs clench together, lips snapping shut as your brain fights to decide whether you want to scream back a “fuck you” or “fuck me”.

You land somewhere in the middle, words stern but tone leaking with curiosity. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A hellish grin splits across the handsome lines of his face, like a wolf straining in the seams of sheep’s clothing. “Try me.” He’s lost the concept to time when such fun prey has found itself stuck in his crosshairs. Such a sweet lamb should know better than to wander away from its shepherd—heaven forbid something should happen to you. “Test me, I dare you. I’ll walk you through town like some purebred if you keep acting like you weren’t taught to act with decorum.”

He means it too. You know he does. Even after all these years, you still had yet to hear words Azriel’s didn’t back up with action. Instantly, your eyes lower, head bowing in order to conceal the pinpricked pupils that dialate with desire. It burns in your belly, a cacophony of fantasies lashing against your eyelids at warp speed.

You in your shiny collar, name engraved on the customized nameplate with Azriel’s information on the back right under “If Found, Return To”

It’s purely involuntary, the desperate whimper that cuts through the bedchambers and Azriel pats at your head like some pampered pup in need of comfort. Offering love and fond coos when you easily correct the behaviors he doesn’t enjoy.

Obedient. Disciplined. Loyal. His.

“There’s a good girl. Keep that up and I’ll give you a treat.”

[theambitiouswoman]

Foods You Can Eat Instead of Taking Vitamins and Supplements 🍎🥥🥦🥑🍌

Vitamin A: Carrots, sweet potatoes, spinach, kale.

B Vitamins: Whole grains, meat, eggs, nuts, legumes.

Vitamin B1 (Thiamine): Whole grains, legumes, nuts, pork, fortified cereals.

Vitamin B2 (Riboflavin): Dairy products, lean meats, almonds, leafy greens. Vitamin B3 (Niacin): Poultry, fish, nuts, legumes, whole grains.

Vitamin B5 (Pantothenic Acid): Meat, poultry, eggs, avocado, whole grains.

B6: Chicken, turkey, fish, bananas, chickpeas.

Folate (Vitamin B9): Leafy greens, legumes, citrus fruits, fortified grains.

Vitamin B12: Animal products (meat, fish, dairy), fortified plant-based foods.

Vitamin C: Citrus fruits, strawberries, bell peppers.

Vitamin D: Fatty fish (salmon, mackerel), fortified dairy products, sunlight.

Vitamin E: Sunflower seeds, almonds, vegetable oils, nuts, spinach, broccoli.

Vitamin F (Essential Fatty Acids): Fatty fish, flaxseeds, chia seeds, walnuts.

Vitamin H (Biotin): Eggs, nuts, sweet potatoes, salmon, avocado.

Vitamin K: Leafy greens (kale, spinach), broccoli, Brussels sprouts.

Vitamin K2: Fermented foods (natto, cheese), animal products, leafy greens.

Vitamin L1 (Anthranilic Acid): Cruciferous vegetables (cabbage, cauliflower), legumes.

Vitamin P (Bioflavonoids): Citrus fruits, berries, onions, green tea.

Vitamin Q (Ubiquinone): Fatty fish, organ meats, spinach, cauliflower.

Vitamin T (L-carnitine): Red meat, poultry, fish, dairy products.

Vitamin U (S-Methylmethionine): Cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprouts.

Betaine: Beets, spinach, whole grains, seafood.

Boron: Fruits (apples, pears), legumes, nuts, avocado.

Calcium: Dairy products, leafy greens (kale, collard greens), almonds.

Carnosine: Beef, poultry, fish.

Carnitine: Red meat, dairy products, fish.

Catechins: Green tea, black tea, dark chocolate.

Choline: Eggs, liver, beef, broccoli, soybeans.

Creatine: Red meat, fish, poultry.

Chromium: Broccoli, whole grains, nuts, brewer's yeast.

Chondroitin: Cartilage-rich foods (bone broth, connective tissue of meat).

Copper: Shellfish, nuts, seeds, organ meats, lentils.

Coenzyme Q10 (CoQ10): Fatty fish, organ meats, nuts, soybean oil.

Ellagic Acid: Berries (strawberries, raspberries), pomegranates.

Glucosinolates: Cruciferous vegetables (cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower).

Glucosamine: Shellfish (shrimp, crab), bone broth, animal connective tissues.

Glutamine: Dairy products, meat, poultry, cabbage.

Inositol: Citrus fruits, beans, nuts, whole grains.

Iodine: Seafood, iodized salt, dairy products.

Iron: Red meat, poultry, beans, lentils, spinach.

L-Theanine: Mushrooms, black tea, white tea, guayusa.

Lignans: Flaxseeds, whole grains, cruciferous vegetables.

Lutein and Zeaxanthin: Leafy greens (spinach, kale), corn, eggs.

Lycopene: Tomatoes, watermelon, pink grapefruit.

Magnesium: Spinach, nuts, seeds, whole grains, beans.

Manganese: Nuts, seeds, whole grains, leafy greens, tea.

Melatonin: Cherries, grapes, tomatoes.

Omega-3 fatty acids: Flaxseeds, chia seeds, walnuts, fatty fish.

PABA (Para-Aminobenzoic Acid): Whole grains, eggs, organ meats.

Pantothenic Acid (Vitamin B5): Meat, poultry, fish, whole grains, avocado

Pectin: Apples, citrus fruits, berries, pears.

Phosphorus: Dairy products, meat, poultry, fish, nuts.

Prebiotics: Garlic, onions, leeks, asparagus, bananas (unripe), oats, apples, barley, flaxseeds, seaweed.

Probiotics: Yogurt, kefir, fermented foods (sauerkraut, kimchi).

Potassium: Bananas, oranges, potatoes, spinach, yogurt.

Polyphenols: Berries, dark chocolate, red wine, tea.

Quercetin: Apples, onions, berries, citrus fruits.

Resveratrol: Red grapes, red wine, berries, peanuts.

Rutin: Buckwheat, citrus fruits, figs, apples.

Selenium: Brazil nuts, seafood, poultry, eggs.

Silica: Whole grains, oats, brown rice, leafy greens.

Sulforaphane: Cruciferous vegetables (broccoli, Brussels sprouts), cabbage.

Taurine: Meat, seafood, dairy products.

Theanine: Green tea, black tea, certain mushrooms.

Tyrosine: Meat, fish, dairy products, nuts, seeds.

Vanadium: Mushrooms, shellfish, dill, parsley, black pepper.

Zeatin: Whole grains, legumes, nuts, seeds.

Zinc: Oysters, beef, poultry, beans, nuts, whole grains.

[dropsnectar]

Pollen and Potions: Bee-men x afab!reader

PART SEVEN

NSFW

You woke up alone. 

The cot was warm under where you had laid but the spots beside you remained cool. You reached your mind out through your bonds, experimenting. You could tell that Rena was somewhere nearby, emotions calm and smug. Lyith seemed to be outside of the hive, worry fretting itself in iridescent specks in your minds eye. That was another thing you noticed. Your minds eye was a little more present, like you were looking in two worlds at once.

You pull yourself up and start looking for Rena, tipetoing down the tunnel hall. You don't stop until you make it to the huge open room, filled with about twenty or thirty bee-men of varying appearances, colors and sizes. You could taste magic in the room, now what you recognized to be the mana of the hive, pulsing through the air. 

Everything smelled fresh and sweet, and something about the place, despite having no windows, felt refreshing and calming to you. You glance around looking for Rena, nodding and waving to Bee-men you have met before. They are all exuberant today, buzzing about you happily and greeting you with the customary hand squeeze or forehead bump. There is such a lightness about them, unlike you've seen in them before. 

You come to the corner of the room where there is another tunnel, brightly light by cool glowing orbs. The familiar orbs had been all about the area, expanded light and cool air. You welcomed the feeling, as you couldn't imagine how hot and humid the hive would be without them. You felt a sudden pulse of magic from the tunnel, and an increase in the scent of sweet honey. 

You come to a room where maybe six or seven Bee-men are working. Their are pots as large as people spanning the walls, several of which the Bee-men are working with. They all seem to be holding onto a string of magic rope tying them together as they sing out in a noise that is equal part bug and human. Surprisingly, it is a comforting, pleasant noise.

 You watch, as the thread seems to pulse wide, like a snake who is swallowing and digesting a mouse, slowly moving from one Bee-men, to one pot to another. You watch as one Bee-man, unconnected to this rope of magic, brings a jar of pollen with him, keeping pace and messaging the bulge.

 On his neck is a large block of obsidian, tied with twine. He is chanting, a dark green, almost black magic working from his hands. You recognize the cute little nose and brown hair. Haven.

“If you watch closely, you will notice that young Haven is using a type of magic we call Kvasir.” A hand is on your elbow and you turn to see Elder Bisou. 

“The magic is neither personal, nor Shared Magic. He… i do not know the word in your terms. He calls on the Kvas of old, our first ancestors, and they lend him the ability to bake the pollen's life into something we can layer into our magic. Much like salt is to humans. It is a hard skill that takes many hours. He must not falter his breath or devotion, lest he have to start all over again.”

You blinked, surprised your favorite gossip had such a vital role. Though in some ways it made sense. Haven had such a way with words, he could spin an enthralling story over the most minute of details. He really was a good orator. And apparently a Bee like Priest? You wondered what Bee-men afterlife looked like. 

Elder Bisou however, had more to say.

“After the nectar is fed through our magic and blessed by the Kvas, it is to be fermented for three days out in the sun, and then portioned and dried until it is the proper consistency. Of course, we dry the honey with our wings, and that too is considered a blessing from the wind.”

Elder Bisou was all but chanting, a preacher on his pulpit, relaying the word of his Gods.

“The nectar is of earth and water, the Kvasir, a blessing of spirit, the Sun and the wind to ferment, a transformation that fortifies our bodies, our mana, our souls. We are one with all in the gathering, in the making, in the consuming. We have not forgotten our roots, young witch.”

His eyes were like steel as he met your gaze. “Though I hear you are much more now. It is a miracle. I thank you for saving the lives of two of our children. And your efforts to save our hive in the ways you can.” He paused here, as if their was more he wanted to say, something that made his chest stick out, the graying fur their puffing.

“Lyith and Rena shall have much to explain to you I am sure. Even if they are terrible drones, leaving you alone in your most vulnerable time. More rest will do you well.”

He turned around, about to leave you, but you put a hand to his shoulder, excitement filling your chest as you remembered.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your gardens! You see, I have this theory about the magic in the soil! I think its because of the beast men leaving. Well more specifically their… um. Waste. You guys have a treaty with the wolfmen a few miles out from here, right? I was thinking that maybe we could. Idk ask for their… fertilizer and see how that effects the ecosystem?”

Elder Bisou gave you tired eyes. “While I appreciate your passion, this is already a thought we have entertained. The issue is that we have no way of funding this “transaction”. Waste is not an easy thing to transport, or a topic welcome in embassy meetings. We only receive groceries through you humans from charity. I do not see any… kindness around the wolfmen shoveling their ‘shit’ into our backyards. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

He said it kindly but it felt like a slap in the face. You hadn't meant to open your mind to his emotions but you could feel them now, a sort of… disdain? The sort of smugness an adult holds in their throat while explaining to a child why they can't have a puppy. 

It occurred to you that this old Bee-man was a politician. And your well meaning intentions might have seemed like a slap in the face to his intelligence. Maybe. Something else seemed to be afoot here, as there was more complexity to this. You didn't need to taste his emotions in the air to know that.

You were feeling kind of dizzy.  Elder Bisou had left but you had leaned against the far wall. You could feel the bee-mens emotions without them throwing them at you, but it drained you. When your gaze focused again you noticed that the Bee-men in the room were trying their hardest to continue to sing and magic their honey, but their eyes still rested on you. Even Haven, who was supposed to be in communion with the holy of his ancestors, had eyes on you as he rubbed and chanted. 

Shame filled your heart. You had butted into a necessary and sacred process without any care. You wobbled up and out of the tunnel, hoping you had not done any harm.

Rena was on you in seconds. 

“What are you doing in there! You should have stayed in the infirmary, I was looking all over for you.” Worry, with a blood like tang filled the connection of your bond. You couldn't quite understand the emotions there, but there was pain in it. Like she had been hurt.

“Are you okay?”

“No! My Queen decides to go gallivanting around the hive before I can even tell her she is very vulnerable right now. Look at you, already stressing your mana.” She uses her hands to dust your shoulders and clothes of dirt from the floor of the hall, the only place in the hive with it, as the floors everywhere else were covered in what could only be linoleum like beeswax. 

“Where's Lyith?” You venture, feeling his own worry and a rush, as if he was flying fast, in your mind. 

“Hes getting you human food! All we have is honey here, and from what I can't tell, its not conducive to a healthy human diet.” She pulls your whole body into her arms and buzzes you off back to what you now knew as the infirmary. 

She had a small cup that steamed in one of her many hands. She set you down on the cot, leaning you so your back was braced by the wall, then covered you in several of the room's blankets before tucking the cup into your hand. You suddenly realized you were ravenous. 

You carefully sipped on the liquid. It was sweet. Hot water and honey, and possibly a little fruit juice glided itself upon your tongue. You smiled over at Rena, your heart full as she fussed over you, picking at your hair and braiding what she could. 

“So whats this about me being vulnerable?”

Rena continued braiding, her eyes not leaving your hair.

“I don’t want to say too much until Lyith gets here. But I’m sure you’ve noticed some changes by now. Your body is very weak because your mana is growing.”

“Is that why I can hear everyone's emotions so clearly?” You grimaced. You still had a bit of a headache. At least it only happens when you talk to someone. 

“That's part of it. You're so tense, come here.” She pulled you into her lap and started messaging the tight spots in your neck, another hand gently rocking on the skin between your shoulders. You shivered, as a wave of tingles worked down your spine.

“We were hoping you’d let us keep you here for a few days so we can watch you. Until everything gets figured out.” Her voice was even but you could tell their was anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She was pushing it down though. You continued to let her wrestle your muscles into soft, relaxed flesh. She sighed in satisfaction.

“Y/n!!!” A happy voice interrupted your quiet peace. It was Haven, the small brown drone vibrating with excitement as he flew towards you. Rena acted immediately, pulling you further into her lap and crushing you to her with the wall of her arms.

“Its the middle of the day, you should be working.” Her tone was gruff.

“We are on break!” He replied, before giving her and indignant eyebrow quirk. He then pushed his full attention to you and sat on the cot. 

“Congratulations on your recent mating! It was about time, with how much those two hung off you!” His words were hollow, as you were hit hard by Haven’s intense curiosity and hope. It almost choked you as you scrambled to adjust your mind's eye. 

“We are busy Haven. And you are stressing her out. She’s still adjusting.”

“So it IS true, you can feel us!” Haven must have been concentrating his mind at you, because you were met with a tsunami of emotions. His pleasure was palpable, a variety of reds. His fondness was warm and smelled of vanilla, as well as something else you couldn’t quite understand, mixed with the hope. A hunger?

“Get out. Now.” Rena stood up, carrying you up with her before pushing Haven off the bed.

“Whats going on here?” Lyith’s tone was hard, it echoed through the infirmary.

“I just wanted to know if she had made a decision yet! Besides, we are friends, right?” He looked at you hopefully. You sighed.

“Haven, I’m not really sure what's going on, but maybe you could come back later? I think I’m out of the loop here.” You realized then that all the talking and emotions had started to make you shake. 

Haven noticed too and looked somber. His voice then turned delicately light, and he organized his face. 

“Maybe we can talk tomorrow. See you guys!” He gave you one last look and then walked out the door. Lyiths eyes followed him. He didn’t seem upset, like Rena did, but you could feel that Lyith seemed torn. Noticing your touch on his mind his eyes met yours, and a loving smile blazed across his golden features.

“You need to eat.” He brought you a plate. It was a tuna sandwich and an apple. Your stomach roared to life, and you grabbed the plate out of Lyith’s hands, tearing through the fish and bread. You ate the whole sandwich in 10 seconds and tore into the apple. Rena relaxed her grip around you and nuzzled her nose into your hair, muscles relaxing. 

Lyith took Haven's place on the cot and opened his arms. Rena wouldn’t let you move. The two of them in the room, you started to feel at peace. But there was a conversation that needed to happen, and it had to happen soon.

“So, I’m your.. Queen now huh? What does that mean exactly?”  Lyith exchanged glances with Rena. 

“Well, it’s a lot like being married. Rena and I have sworn to love and protect you for the rest of our lives. And you accepted us into your mind, heart and body, fortifying us.” He crawled forward so he could take hold of your hand, caressing the curves of your fingers.

“Exiled Bee-men often survive dying by Queen Bonding with someone who has compatible pheromones. Thats how we are able to share our emotions. But you’re experiencing more then that right?”

You nodded slowly. “I could kind of tell where you guys were at.”

“And you were able to hear Heaven's emotions without him sharing them with you. You were able to pick up his pheromones and read them, despite not having a bond.”

“A Queenbond to another species is something that takes several weeks of mating to take. Not to mention, when you were healing Lyith, your magic should have only temporarily stabilized his magic. Instead you healed all the damage that he had accumulated from enacting magic without a Queen. Even if he had bonded to a normal Queen, he would not have been able to fully use his mana again.”

“You’re mana is turning into something like a true Queen. We don’t understand it.”

Your heart started pounding hard in your chest. You took stock. Did you feel any different? No. You were tired, but you were still you. Your mind went back to all the Bee-men who’s been eyeing you in the hall. The Joy, the hope, Haven’s hunger.

“The rest of the hive… they..,”

“No. Little One, there are two hives now. Ours and theirs. They are letting us stay here now in hopes of you becoming their Queen. That you would heal them all, and stop their inevitable walk towards death.”

The stakes are so high. 

You felt sick. You had only meant to save Lyith, but the whole hive?

You had wanted to help them, sure, but they wanted you to give your whole life away to them? You wanted to save them, but this might just be too much. 

“I’d have to give up my human life. And I’d have to become some baby making factory.”

“A Queen IS the mother of the hive, but she is so much more. She is also the heart. Like you are our hearts now.” Lyith leaned forward and the three of you were in a full embrace.

“We aren’t asking you to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to become their Queen if you don’t want to. But either way, we need to stay here for a few days. If you move your body too much, it might affect your mana and make you sick. Its possible that the stress of it could even kill you.”

Lyith pulled away and kneeled onto the floor so he could rest his head on your lap. His eyes didn’t leave you. Rena continued. “We are not able to hate you anymore, little one. We will not judge you if it's too much to ask. After all, another Queen could find her way to the hive.”

Twenty years.

 Your eyes started to water. You wanted to weep for them, for these Bee-men. For Lyith and Rena and Haven and everyone you had met here. You suddenly felt so young and small. You sat there and cried for what felt like an hour. It was all too much.

When you stopped you were bone tired. You tugged on your bonds between Rena and Lyith, and their minds consumed yours. Their pain for you, their worry, but also their love filled your mind. It was a balm to you. It was so intimate, this feeling of being one with them, but you had to admit you loved it. You loved them. 

You felt a wet warmth rubbing on your thigh. You looked down to see Lyith, his eyes big and round as he kitten licked your pants. You got goosebumps. You watched him for a second, the warmth flooding your cheeks.

“Lyith…”

“I think you’ve had a really stressful day, my Queen.” Lyith’s tone was innocence itself, but he continued to lick long stripes, causing a wet patch. You swallowed.

Seeing you not pull away, he shimmied his head up to the zipper of your pants and pulled it down with his teeth.  He then licked between the zipper, once, twice, three times. His hands snaked up to the top of your pants. Rena, seeing where this was going, pulled you out of her arms. 

She motioned Lyith off you and laid you down near the edge of the cot. She tossed Lyith a pillow. He rolled you over gently and positioned the pillow under you. Your entire face started to heat at the thought of how easy this was for them. Heavy arousal from both sides filled your mind, making you feel sensitive all over. Rena took hold of one of your thighs and pulled it closer to her side on the left. She started to reach over and message the skin of your chest as she pulled your chin to kiss her. 

Her breath was hot and her lips soft. The fluff of her chest felt good against your belly, as she had pushed up your shirt. Her tongue played hopscotch with yours, moving over and under, as if to tease you more. You whined at her as you felt Lyith kissing a slow trail on your inner thighs. His hand pulled your puffy lips apart, and he blew cool air onto it. The tension in your stomach wound deeper, waiting. 

He started licking wide flat lines from your entrance up your vulva. He took breaks, kissing and licking at your labia, before working his way slowly back to your clit, sucking. The texture made you groan, as he took his time. You don’t know how he did it, maybe he had practice, maybe he--fuck. 

He moaned into you, letting you know of his own pleasure as he humped the edge of the mattress. You ached for him, as Rena nibbled and sucked on your neck. You are writhing under them now. From Lyith, from Rena, from the utter devotion the were laying in waves upon your mind. It made your core boil, their emotions coating your consciousness with the blanket of their devotion. Despite the fact that they were the ones playing your body like some kind of instrument, you were the one with the power here. The one making them so crazy all they wanted to do was make you come one more time, scream out one more time. 

“You're our universe, my Queen. Won’t you come for us, just a little bit?” Rena whispered in your ear. Despite her words, Lyiths mouth was the center of your universe right now, building you to a peak so high, you weren’t sure where it would go. Then he sang into you, a high pitched needy note, and the tension broke. Your body was pleasure and stars filled your eyes.

You were panting when you looked over at Lyith, who was staring at you with the same adoration one would give a puppy who successfully carried out a trick. His mouth was glistening.

Seeing you watch him, he dragged his long black tongue around his mouth and swallowed. 

“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” He asked with some amusement. You pouted at him, then pulled yourself up. 

You patted the seat to your right, giving him a heated stare. He obeyed with poise. You could see his dick, long and as golden as his face, with a darkening brown near his tip. It held ridges on several points and was glistening, covered in his precum.

You looked back to Lyith, giving him an innocent expression as you dragged your finger around the bumps of his dick. The skin was smooth and slippery, but it gave a little under your touch. You pulled yourself out of Rena’s arms and off the cot. You plopped down on the spot between his legs, lining your face up with his dick. 

Lyith was completely taken off gaurd, eyes wide, then rolling back into his head as you took the tip into your mouth. Huh. Even his precum had a sweetness to it that you quite liked. You tried to swallow down more of it without chocking, causing him to gasp and shudder over you. When you looked up, his eyes were soft and glazed, mouth open. He didn;t hold back his moans as you continued to lick and suck his dick. You traced the ridges of it with your tongue and pumped him with your free hand. He was quite large.

He keened and gasped, letting out whiny thank yous and sputters. When you glanced over at Rena, you saw her with her own hands on her cock, her eyes never leaving your mouth as you worked Lyith down to babbles. Eventually it was too much for him and he came, beautifully blond lashes fluttering as he shot his load down your throat. You coughed and let go of him immediately, not used to how much fluid was coming out of him. You almost swore you swallowed down something small and squishy? Like a boba ball, but you were probably imagining it. There was just so much cum. 

“Was that.. Good?” You asked sheepishly. All he could do was nod at you as he laid back in the cot. It had seemed like at some point Rena had gotten off too. The room was full of panting and you took your place in the middle of your lovers, sated and happy.

“So… do you guys have showers in this place?”

Guys I would love some criticism for my smut. I've written so much lately that they all just kind of blend together. I will probably come back and edit this entire part at some point, but for now, here it is in all its unedited glory! And yes, at some point Lyith will have his turn inside reader, but for now, he will have to make do with being one of readers favorite sweets~ I hope you liked it! And yes, their will be more parts and more smut.

PART EIGHT

[shiyorin]

Hello, I just want to ask. Have you ever considered writing mermen au? I delulu you wrote mermen au but it turns out you didn't. Can I have mermen Dorn? (⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠)

You don't delulu because I actually wrote about mermen au and then deleted it because I didn't really like it ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠•̥⁠`⁠ʔ

But anyway

#Mermen au. Rogal Dorn x F!Reader

#These follow my Mermen AU setting

#Summary: Rogal Dorn is a hermit crab-merman. Rogal Dorn in heat. Rogal Dorn meets you. It is love at first sight. It is just romcom

Rogal Dorn adjusted the elaborate shell structure on his back, ensuring the reinforced load-bearing struts maintained proper alignment. The shell, a massive, spiraling fortress of calcium carbonate and other minerals he'd painstakingly assembled, was his pride. Unlike other hermit crab mermen who simply occupied abandoned shells, Dorn built his own, fortifying it with layer upon layer of meticulously placed materials.

The mating season had arrived, as it did every year, and Dorn acknowledged the biological imperatives coursing through his body with the same stoicism he applied to everything else. His gonads were swollen with unfertilized eggs, creating a constant pressure in his lower abdomen. His genital opening, normally sealed tightly against his amber-gold tail, had begun to loosen in preparation for spawning.

These were simply facts. Uncomfortable facts, perhaps, but hardly worth emotional distress.

Dorn swam through the deeper waters off the coast, his powerful arms cutting through the currents with practiced efficiency. His inspection of the eastern reef fortifications was complete, and he found them adequate, though several support columns would require reinforcement before the next storm season.

He had no particular destination in mind. The urge to mate was present but manageable. Unlike Fulgrim, who became insufferable during mating season, or Angron, who became even more violent than usual, Dorn prided himself on maintaining control. If a suitable mate presented himself, Dorn would consider the proposition. If not, he would handle the matter privately, as he had for the past several seasons.

A flash of movement above caught his attention, something breaking the surface. Curious, Dorn altered his course, ascending toward the shallower waters. His practical mind analyzed possibilities: perhaps a feeding dolphin, or a human vessel requiring inspection for potential threats to merman security.

What he found instead was you, swimming alone in a secluded cove.

Dorn kept his distance, observing from behind a formation of rocks. You moved with surprising competence for a land dweller, your strokes efficient if not particularly powerful. Your body was small, tiny compared to a merman, with curves that differed significantly from male anatomy. Your hair streamed behind you, trailing like smoke in the water.

Something stirred within Dorn, and it wasn't merely the pressure of his egg sac.

He frowned, annoyed at his body's reaction. You were a human female. Not merely of a different species, but an entirely different biological category. There was no logical reason for his mating hormones to respond to you.

And yet…

You dove beneath the surface, your eyes open despite the salt water. For a heart-stopping moment, you looked directly at Dorn's hiding place. He remained perfectly still, his shell blending with the rocky surroundings.

Then you surfaced, sputtering slightly, and swam to the shore where a small pile of belongings waited. You emerged from the water, water streaming from your small form, and Dorn felt his genital opening pulse with interest.

"Illogical," he muttered to himself, the word emerging as bubbles in the water.

Still, he didn't leave. He watched as you dried yourself with a cloth and donned additional coverings, humans were so vulnerable without their artificial skins. You were speaking to yourself, though Dorn was too far away to hear the words. Something about your movements suggested frustration or annoyance.

Dorn had no experience with human females. His knowledge came primarily from strategic briefings about surface dwellers and their potential threats to merman security. He knew you were physically weaker than even the smallest merman, with fragile bones and limited aquatic capability. You required constant access to air and couldn't tolerate extended periods in deep water.

Objectively, you were completely unsuitable as a mate for a merman, particularly one of Dorn's status as a Primarch.

You finished gathering your belongings and began walking along the shore, occasionally stopping to pick up objects, shells or stones, perhaps. Even from this distance, Dorn could see your face clearly. You were… expressive. Your features shifted constantly, reactions playing across them without restraint or discipline.

Dorn found himself swimming parallel to your path, keeping pace as you walked along the beach. It was merely reconnaissance, he told himself. Understanding the patterns of human behavior in merman territories was strategically sound.

It was not because something about your wild hair and animated face fascinated him.

Without warning, you veered toward a rocky outcropping that extended into the water. Dorn quickly retreated into deeper water, wary of being spotted. You clambered onto the rocks with surprising agility for a human, then settled on a flat surface, dangling your feet in the water.

From his new vantage point, Dorn could hear you speaking. Not to yourself, as he'd initially assumed, but into a small device, a communication tool humans used.

"Yeah, I'm at the beach again," you were saying, your voice carrying over the water. "No, not that one. The secret one I found. No assholes with speedboats here."

You paused, presumably listening to a response.

"Because I needed space to think," you continued. "Been cooped up writing all week and my brain's about to explode."

You paused again.

"I'm fine, just needed some fresh air and ocean therapy. You know how it is when I get stuck on a chapter. Swimming helps clear my head."

Dorn watched with interest. You were a writer? This explained your presence in such an isolated location. Creative humans often sought solitude for their work.

"Yeah, I'll head back soon," you continued, laughing at whatever the person on the other end said. "Don't worry, I won't stay out too late. Just needed some me-time."

You tucked the device away and leaned back on your hands, face tilted toward the sun. Dorn studied you more carefully now. You were indeed small, with none of the impressive musculature of a merman. Your skin was lighter where it wasn't reddened by the sun. Your face was pleasing enough, he supposed, with a mouth that seemed perpetually curled at the edges, as if you found humor in everything.

You were the complete opposite of what Dorn valued: discipline, strength, fortitude. You were soft where mermen were hard, curved where they were angular, fragile where they were resilient.

So why couldn't he look away?

More concerning still, why was he imagining how you would look in the dwelling chamber of his shell, curled amidst cushions of sea silk, surrounded by the fortifications he'd built?

You stretched your arms above your head. The movement pulled your covering tight against your chest, emphasizing the rounded protrusions there. Breasts, Dorn recalled from biological texts. Mammary glands for feeding young.

Mermen didn't have them. Their eggs developed externally after fertilization.

Would you want his eggs? The thought materialized unbidden. Would you appreciate the careful craftsmanship of his nesting chamber? Would you admire the structural integrity of his shell, the perfect alignment of its defensive capabilities?

Dorn shook his head sharply, annoyed with himself. These thoughts were pointless. You were a surface dweller, completely unsuited to life in the ocean depths. Even if he were interested, which he certainly was not a relationship would be impractical at best, impossible at worst.

And yet, as you sat there, occasionally trailing your feet through the water, Dorn couldn't help but imagine. He would build you a dwelling unlike any other, not merely a shell for protection, but an entire underwater domain. He would reinforce the walls against pressure, install air pockets for your breathing, create a perfect environment where you would want for nothing.

He would defend you against all threats. He would provide for your every need. He would deposit his eggs carefully in the chamber he'd prepared, watching over them until they were ready to hatch.

Foolishness. Complete foolishness.

Dorn was about to depart when you suddenly stiffened, then lost your balance. You toppled from the rock with a surprised yelp, hitting the water with a splash.

He was moving before he consciously decided to, powerful tail propelling him toward you. You surfaced quickly, sputtering and cursing, but Dorn saw the problem immediately, blood clouded the water around your leg where it had struck a sharp rock during your fall.

"Motherfucking piece of shit rock!" you snarled, trying to swim one-handed back to shore while keeping the injured leg elevated. "This is why I can't have nice things!"

Dorn hesitated only briefly before surfacing beside you. "You are injured," he stated flatly.

You yelped again, nearly going under in surprise. "Jesus fucking Christ! Where did you come from?"

Dorn didn't see the relevance of the question. "You are bleeding. The scent will attract predators. You require assistance."

You stared at him, water dripping from your face. Your eyes widened as they took in his massive form, the elaborate shell structure on his back, the distinctive amber coloration of his tail.

"Holy shit," you finally managed. "You're a… you're a merman."

Dorn nodded once. "I am Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists. You are losing blood. Allow me to transport you to shore where your wound can be properly treated."

You regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then winced as a wave jostled your injured leg. "Fine," you said. "But no funny business. I've seen 'The Shape of Water.' I know how these things can go."

Without waiting for further discussion, Dorn scooped you into his arms. You weighed almost nothing, a disconcerting reminder of human fragility. He swam to shore with smooth, powerful strokes, careful not to jostle you.

"So," you said as he carried you through the shallows toward your belongings. "You're Rogal Dorn, huh? I didn't know mermen had names. Or titles. What's a Primarch?"

"A Primarch is a leader among mermen," Dorn explained, depositing you gently on the sand near your cloth and other items. "I command the Imperial Fists, responsible for construction and fortification of merman territories."

"You build things underwater? That's pretty cool." You rummaged through your bag, producing a small white box. "I'm…., by the way. Thanks for the save."

Your name suited you somehow, sharp yet melodic.

"First aid kit," you explained, opening the box. "Never leave home without one when you're as clumsy as me."

You extracted various items, cleaning substances, adhesive bandages. Dorn watched with interest as you efficiently cleaned the cut on your calf. It wasn't deep, but it bled freely, a long scrape rather than a puncture.

"So, were you just hanging around watching me, or do you regularly patrol this area?" you asked, not looking up from your task.

"I was conducting a routine inspection of the reef fortifications," Dorn answered truthfully. "I observed you swimming and deemed it prudent to maintain surveillance."

"Surveillance?" You looked up then, eyes narrowing. "You were spying on me?"

"I was assessing potential security implications," Dorn corrected. "Humans rarely swim in this location."

You snorted. "Yeah, because everyone thinks there are dangerous currents here. It's actually perfectly safe, which makes it ideal for when I need some alone time."

Dorn considered this information. "The currents in this area are indeed minimal. The belief in their danger is erroneous."

"Exactly!" you said, gesturing with a bandage. "That's what I kept telling people, but no one believes me. They all think I'm going to get swept out to sea or something."

You finished bandaging your leg and began packing away the supplies. "That's some impressive architecture you've got there," you added, gesturing to his shell. "Did you build it yourself?"

"Yes," Dorn confirmed. "As a Primarch, I construct my own dwellings to precise specifications. This shell contains seventeen chambers, triple-reinforced supporting walls, and defensive capabilities sufficient to withstand attacks from all known ocean predators."

"Seventeen chambers? In that thing?" You looked skeptical. "It doesn't look big enough."

"It employs principles of dimensional efficiency not immediately apparent to the untrained eye," Dorn said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "The primary living chamber alone is sufficient to accommodate three mermen comfortably."

Or one merman and one small human female, his mind supplied unhelpfully.

You were looking at him with renewed interest. "So you basically carry your house on your back? That's actually pretty cool. Must be convenient, never having to worry about paying rent."

Dorn didn't understand the reference to "rent," but he nodded anyway. "It provides security and shelter regardless of location. A practical solution to the vagaries of ocean currents and territorial disputes."

"Practical indeed," you agreed, then winced as you tried to stand. "Shit, that stings."

Dorn moved forward instinctively, steadying you with one large hand. Even standing, the top of your head barely reached his chest. "You should not walk on the injury. It will introduce sand into the wound and increase the risk of infection."

"Well, I can't exactly sit here all day," you retorted. "I need to get back to the house eventually."

"I could transport you," Dorn offered before he could consider the wisdom of the suggestion.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, carry me all the way back? It's like two miles along the beach."

"That distance is negligible," Dorn assured you. "Your weight presents no impediment."

You studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, why not? Just let me get my stuff." You gathered your belongings into the bag and slung it over your shoulder. "Okay, fish taxi, I'm ready when you are."

Dorn scooped you up again, cradling you carefully against his chest. Your bare skin was warm from the sun, and you smelled of salt and something sweeter, some human product, perhaps. He waded back into the water, where his powerful tail could better support their movement.

"So," you said as they began traveling parallel to the shore, "what's with the shell? Are you like a hermit crab? Do all mermen have those?"

"No," Dorn replied. "I am of the hermit crab subtype. Most mermen possess only a tail. Hermit crab mermen develop shells as both dwelling and protection."

"Huh." You seemed genuinely interested. "And can you like, switch shells if you find a better one? Or are you stuck with what you've got?"

"Lesser hermit crab mermen sometimes occupy abandoned shells," Dorn explained. "I construct my own to precise specifications."

"Of course you do," you said with a small laugh. "You strike me as the type who'd never be satisfied with someone else's work. Gotta build it yourself to make sure it's up to standards, right?"

Dorn inclined his head. "Precisely. Most available shells are woefully inadequate in terms of structural integrity and defensive capabilities."

You laughed again. "I love how serious you are about this. It's kind of adorable, actually."

Dorn frowned slightly. He had never been described as "adorable" before and was unsure how to respond to such an assessment.

"Are there female hermit crab mermen?" you asked, changing the subject. "Or I guess they'd be mermaids? Though that seems weirdly gendered when we're talking about fish people."

"All mermen are male," Dorn stated. "It is a biological fact of our species."

"Wait, all of you? Then how do you… you know, make more mermen? Don't you need, uh, female parts for reproduction somewhere in the equation?"

"Our reproductive system differs significantly from humans," Dorn explained, finding himself strangely comfortable discussing such matters with you. "Hermit crab mermen produce eggs which are then fertilized by their chosen partner. The fertilized eggs are maintained in a specialized chamber within the shell until they hatch."

Your eyes widened. "Hold up. You guys lay eggs? Like, actual eggs? And you keep them in your shell-house until they hatch into baby mermen?"

"That is essentially correct, yes."

"Wow." You seemed to be processing this information. "So right now, during mating season, you're… what? Looking for someone to fertilize your eggs?"

Dorn shifted slightly, the pressure in his egg sac suddenly more noticeable. "That is the biological purpose of the mating season, yes."

"And if you don't find anyone? What happens to the eggs?"

"They are reabsorbed into my body at the conclusion of the mating season," Dorn explained.

"Reabsorbed? That sounds uncomfortable."

"It is… not pleasant," Dorn admitted. "But it is a natural process."

You seemed to consider this information carefully. "So all you hermit crab guys are swimming around with bellies full of eggs, looking for someone to fertilize them? That's gotta be awkward at parties."

Despite himself, Dorn felt his lips twitch slightly. "Social gatherings during mating season are indeed… tense."

You laughed, the sound bright and unreserved. "I bet! Do you all just stand around eyeing each other's shells, trying to decide who's got the best baby apartment?"

"The quality of one's shell is indeed a factor in mate selection," Dorn confirmed seriously. "A well-constructed dwelling demonstrates the ability to provide for and protect offspring."

"So it's like peacock feathers, but useful," you mused. "That actually makes a lot of sense. Better than human men flashing their expensive cars around, anyway."

They continued along the shore, you asking increasingly detailed questions about hermit crab merman reproduction, and Dorn finding himself answering with more candor than he would have expected. Something about your direct approach bypassed his usual reticence.

"So basically, you're full of eggs right now, but nobody's caught your fancy this season?" you summarized after he explained the reproductive cycle.

"That is essentially correct," Dorn acknowledged. "I have not encountered a compatible mate."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Must be lonely, being so picky. Or is it that no one meets your high standards?"

Dorn considered the question seriously. "I do not experience loneliness as others seem to. My work provides sufficient purpose. As for standards… it is not a matter of arbitrary requirements, but of finding a mate whose strengths complement my own."

"And what strengths would those be?" you asked. "What are you looking for in a baby daddy?"

Dorn frowned at the crude terminology but answered nonetheless. "Intelligence. Resilience. The ability to appreciate practical solutions to complex problems."

"Hmm." You seemed to be fighting a smile. "Sounds like you've given this some thought."

They had reached a point where the beach curved around a small promontory. You pointed to a path leading up from the shore to a modest dwelling set back among trees.

"That's me, up there," you said. "You can let me off at the bottom of the path. I can hobble the rest of the way."

Dorn studied the incline critically. "The gradient is suboptimal for someone with a leg injury. I will convey you to the dwelling."

"Uh, that's really not-"

But Dorn was already moving up the path, his powerful legs easily navigating the slope despite the weight of his shell. You sighed and relaxed in his arms, apparently recognizing the futility of argument.

Your dwelling was simple but strategically positioned, with good sightlines in all directions. Dorn approved of the location, even as he mentally cataloged the structural deficiencies of the building itself. The supporting posts of the deck were inadequately reinforced, the roof lacked proper bracing for high winds, and the windows were insufficiently sealed against moisture.

He could fix all of that, of course. A few days' work at most.

"This is me," you said as they reached the deck. "Thanks for the lift. You can set me down here."

Dorn carefully placed you on your feet, noting how you tested your weight gingerly on the injured leg. "The bandage appears to be holding adequately," he observed.

"Yeah, it's not too bad." You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, then looked up at him with curiosity in your eyes. "So, do you live nearby? In the ocean, I mean."

"My primary territory is approximately three nautical miles offshore," Dorn replied. "Though I patrol much wider areas."

"Cool." You seemed to hesitate, then added, "Listen, I don't know if this is weird or breaks some kind of merman code, but… would you want to come back sometime? Maybe when I'm not bleeding all over the place? I've got a ton of questions about underwater architecture, and you seem like the guy with answers."

Dorn blinked, surprised by the invitation. "You wish to discuss construction techniques?"

"Among other things," you said with a small smile. "I'm a writer. I'm working on a fantasy novel with underwater civilizations, and talking to an actual expert would be amazing. If you're willing, that is."

Dorn considered the request. There were no specific prohibitions against sharing knowledge with humans, provided no critical defense information was revealed. And he found your direct questioning approach refreshing compared to the often obfuscated communication style of his fellow mermen.

"That would be acceptable," he said finally. "I could provide insights on practical underwater construction methods."

Your smile widened. "Great! How about tomorrow? Same beach, around noon? I promise not to fall off any more rocks."

"Tomorrow at noon," Dorn confirmed with a nod. "I will bring diagrams of basic support structures suitable for various depth pressures."

"Perfect." Your eyes twinkled with amusement. "It's a date. I mean, not a 'date' date, obviously. Just a… professional consultation."

Dorn frowned slightly at the clarification, unsure why it produced an unexpected sensation of disappointment. "I understand. A knowledge exchange."

"Exactly," you agreed, though your smile suggested you found something about the situation amusing. "Thanks again for the rescue and the ride. I'll see you tomorrow, Rogal."

The use of his given name, without title or rank, was unusual. Yet Dorn found he did not mind. "Until tomorrow."

As he made his way back to the ocean, his mind was unusually active with possibilities. The diagrams he'd promised were simple enough to prepare. But perhaps he should also bring examples of different building materials commonly used in underwater construction. And a scaled model of a basic pressure-resistant dwelling might be helpful to illustrate certain concepts.

He would need to ensure the model was sufficiently detailed to demonstrate the key structural principles. Perhaps with working airlocks to show how human-breathable spaces could be maintained underwater. And possibly a miniature version of a nesting chamber, just for completeness.

Dorn adjusted his shell, feeling the familiar pressure of his unfertilized eggs inside him. For the first time in many mating seasons, he found himself hoping they would not be reabsorbed.

After all, it was simply practical to consider all potential outcomes, however unlikely they might seem.

[thecglcatalog]

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[definegodliness]

Bleed

I am not free, At one point my mind Erected its ivory tower, and Reigned with iron fist; Every decree Commanded by this callous tyrant Sent shivers down my spine, Till my blood froze silver, and My body fortified To glacier.

Touch no longer Penetrates my skin, Turned shell. The lack of resonance; Glowing below surface level, at best, I find Confusing.

I have forgotten Receptiveness. Deflection is Instant, natural.

My heart turned Erymanthian boar, Razing salt pillar barricades.

Alas, futilely; Pinned with eleven spears, Before ever reaching the bastion, Hiding my humanity.

All that remains is a Faint glint in its left eye I could never place, But I reckon all it says is:

"I am still alive."

Am I?

I could never decisively answer, Until arrived,

She.

She, With those eyes That became my sky, Whereas the sun would hide in That certain gaze of hers, melting The glacier.

She, With that voice That could overthrow tyrants, Silencing its Pummeling sledgehammers with Honey and silk.

She, With that touch That whirred my atoms; Reassembled into electromagnetic Flesh, warm and glowing to All the way within.

She — Could reach.

Her fingers, In caress; in gentle Plucking each of those Eleven spears, Unafraid of the roaring beast, Already shaking Its chains, frothing from Famished maw.

Her kiss — By gods, her kiss! — And I finally know The nature of that faint glint As supernovas swallow my Every internalized Sense of self.

Her kiss, And I am almost turned A murderer, Driven by this Nigh unstoppable lust To consume her whole And become a God - Eater.

She licks my wounds To assure me, I, too, can bleed.

Still.

And I want to.

And as she sinks her fangs into My throat, She snaps The last tether, Binding Me.

I am hers.

I am her soul, as much as my own, And 'tween these stars Of undying light

At last, I am

Free.

--- 27-4-2025, M.A. Tempels © Napowrimo 27: Freak on a leash

[charmwasjess]

I legitimately didn't remember how fucking batshit funny some of the Dooku sections in Claudia Gray's Master and Apprentice were. Qui-Gon's remembering his first mission with Dooku in flashback: okay, seems straightforward enough. They land in an ongoing crisis in a battle zone, Dooku goes to talk to the generals. Then, next scene, we smashcut directly to:

"Don't be afraid." Dooku's voice rang out over even the howling winds of Shurrapak. Qui-Gon clung to the carbon-fibre-rope riggings of the Shurrapakan ship, salt spray stinging his face and hands as they rounded the cape to approach the battle from an angle the enemy wouldn't expect. "They're shielded against skycraft and energy weapons. Not against seafaring vessels!" He made this sound majestic, courageous, brilliant -- nothing like the last-minute, last-ditch attempt it really was. Qui-Gon took a deep breath and stared up at the stars. Big mistake. The stars weren't moving and his stomach was, and the queasiness that swept through him made him feel weak.

Dooku has been on this planet for less than 24 hours. There are already other Jedi there ahead of him with established generals working on the battle plans, which according to the scene just before this, are complete enough that its conceivable Dooku and Qui-Gon will miss the action. So naturally, the plan he then comes up with is "ABANDON ALL OTHER PLANS, WE ATTACK THE FORTIFIED BATTLEFIELD WITH OLD TIMEY ROPE-RIGGED SAILING SHIPS!"

And at his side?? A seasick twelve year old who has never left the Temple or seen battle!!! Who can't swim! And backing them up?? Rael fucking Averross, who Dooku was just nagging for being too eager to get into the fighting. Sure, Dooku. That's Rael's problem.

This is the most disaster lineage shit I've ever read. This could absolutely be an Anakin and Obi-Wan Clone Wars arc.

Bonus Rael and Qui-Gon Content, from earlier in the chapter:

"C'mon, then, let's go talk to the generals." Rael made it sound like the most natural thing for a twelve-year-old to do.

Rael, you crazy motherfucker, never change.

[adobealmanac]

Consecration and protection of the home

During the fall and winter, often at campfires or near the fireplace, stories of the paranormal and the unexplained are shared. These stories often center around the places that are closest to us, such as a family home, a favorite campsite, or a commonly traveled dirt road. Many people are hesitant to speak of these events, however, they often feel safe or encouraged to share them over a late-night cup of hot cocoa and s'mores.

Scary stories often get me jittery, and one thing that provides me comfort is protecting the home from stirred-up spirits and negative energies. Creating the home into a refuge is vital to the spiritual health of the home overall. While there are many ways and traditions regarding protecting the home, I will share two methods that I find the most useful.

Method 1 - Salt and Pepper Protection Ritual

Begin by cleansing your home with the method of your choosing. My go-to for this method is mopping the floors with a cleaner like pine-sol as it cleanses the entirety of the floors, which is important for this method.

Then, open all of the exterior doors. Using a broom sweep outwards over all of the thresholds. As you do this, command any unwanted energies to leave by repeating "I command ALL energies that do not serve me, that do not have good intentions, and that take away from the spirit of this home to LEAVE. You are NO LONGER welcome HERE. As I sweep, you EXIT."

Once that is done, it is time to prepare your herbs and ingredients. I use table salt mixed with rosemary, ceremonial tobacco, sun-charged beer, whiskey, or gin, and whole peppercorns. If you do not have authentic ceremonial tobacco, use the alcohol in its place. I was gifted my tobacco by a dear friend and mentor of mine who comes from that practice and cultural background. If you want to use tobacco as I do, I suggest you seek out a mentor yourself to learn about the practice. Once you have these items prepared and at hand, you may move on to the next step.

Begin by going to the exterior of your home. Using your charged alcohol, begin to offer it to the earth. If you have tobacco, offer that to the earth as you were taught to. I always give thanks to the wonderful space I occupy and am a steward of, and acknowledge that this land is older than I am and that it is my elder. I complete my offering by kneeling and touching my forehead to the earth, being sure to give profound thanks.

Now, locate the four primary external corners of your home. If your space has more than four sides or is oddly shaped, form a square around the space that wholly encompasses it. This may be represented as the fence around your property, or the outside corners of your apartment building. Beginning at the northernmost corner, pour a small mound of the salt mixture into a small dish in front of the corner, and say "As this salt is placed here today, it marks the beginning of its service to this home. It will fortify, protect, and create sanctuary here. It will blow away with the wind once its protective powers are used up." Then, soak the mound of salt in the alcohol. Repeat the above steps for the remaining three corners, going to the east, then the south, and conclude to the west.

Now, enter your home. Locate every external corner of your home and place four whole peppercorns at the base of each one. Try to tuck them in as best as you can so they are unintrusive and remain mostly undisturbed. Wet each pile with your charged alcohol and ask the pepper for its protection.

Once the above steps are complete, store the remaining alcohol and periodically pour it onto the peppercorns and salt to recharge them. If you see that the dishes of salt are low, refill them with the salt mixture.

Method 2 - Miraculous Soil Protection Ritual

This protection typically requires the 'holy' dirt from Chimayo. If this is inaccessible for you, you may be able to request some to be sent to you by the church. If you prefer not to I will teach you to make your own substitute.

To make a suitable substitute first you must locate some seemingly dry or infertile land such as cracked dirt from a drought. Now, look for signs of life in the dirt. Look for a small plant that is somehow defying the odds, or miraculously continuing to thrive in such harsh environments. Once you find a spot of soil with life, collect a cup full and leave the rest for the earth. Thank it by offering it water. Water the plant and tend to it; help it succeed at life. Then pray over a handful of table salt the following prayer:

Being of the earth. In the name of the ineffable God, and by the power of the tetragrammaton, be you consecrated in the service of the most high. Imbew this salt with the powers to protect this house and everything and everyone in it from all evil. Ometeo.

Once complete, wet the salt with distilled water and mix it into the cup of dirt. Allow it to thoroughly dry before use.

Once you acquire or make holy dirt, head to the front of your home with a small dish filled with the dirt. Begin to sprinkle it along the threshold of your door and ask for protection. State that no negativity may pass the sacred soil.

Then, sprinkle the dirt around the perimeter of the front facade of your house. Do not use too much. You should not be able to physically see the dirt. Then place the dirt on top of any plants near your front door. If there are none, consider planting a chile pepper bush for protection. Rosemary is another good option, along with juniper.

Now, repeat the above steps for any walls containing an external door. If there are none place the dirt at each corner. If there is another wall, do not place it at the corners, as it is not needed.

Once completed, pour a glass of water out from the inside of each external door while standing within it. As you do this say "As I pour this water it washes away all remaining evil. It may no longer reside here."

Protecting the home is a vital step to protecting those who reside within it. These methods are my two personal go-to methods for every home I inhabit, and I hope that you find use in these methods. Be sure to execute physical safety too, as that is equally if not more important than spiritual safety. Be sure to continue to regularly cleanse your home too, as you do not want negativity to fester within the home itself.