#I am angry beyond measure

[petalpoet]

i lost robin two days ago to THIS FUCKER

and I'm still angry about it because then i proceeded to get him AGAIN YESTERDAY ON THE STANDARD BANNER

[moe-broey]

Ran out of answer spaces but! I felt it was important to split off Team Plasma since there is a significant ideological difference between them (as far as I remember each ideation of Team Rocket has the same goals/beliefs, Giovanni himself just stepped down and changed his mind)

That said! This is less about favorite gen and more about believing in the beliefs -- especially interesting to consider if you align with the Main Villain and their outlook, or if you believe in the so-called "cause" that may or may not be true, or have some truth to it (like, if you wanted to help Pokemon like og Plasma and Aether Foundation).

Sorry to lump Yell and Star together, I was going chronologically!! You'll have to specify which and why in the tags haha (if you want to that is!)

And honestly that goes for any choice, sell it to me. Why should I join Your team?

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

"I'm angry at you" Tim forces out.

It's been a long time coming, the words that have been circling his mind for years. Rotting the back of his throat.

Jason is Bruce's son in a way that he will never be. It's just a simple fact.

Maybe he could have picked a different time maybe a family dinner wasn't the place, but he was the one that spent year's of his life having to dodge bullets and murder attempts. He had to spend month's in physical therapy after the tower.

The place he felt safe was ripped away because Jason who is traumatized he hasn't forgot that fact, decided to hunt him down and hurt him.

Maybe Robin isn't a child, but Tim Drake was.

He turns to Bruce who's face is of course blank he's the one who wants Jason here yet not an emotion in sight.

Turns back to look Jason in the eye the man who's sitting next to Damian sometimes he wonders if Alfred does it on purpose a way to remind Tim that his murderers will always have something he doesn't.

He will look him in the eye he will not falter today.

"I was a child, I should have never been the exception to your rule. Say what you will about Robin being something else but you didn't care about Robin you cared it was me"

Silence it's funny how comforting it can be.

"I should not have to sit at the same table as two of my attempted murderers and pretend that it's ok. You are both traumatized I understand that but it will never be an excuse for traumatizing me. I see the Red hood and Robin in my nightmares."

He turns to look at Dick who as always is to the right of him once again pointing to Alfred doing this seating on purpose.

"You are a hypocrite who has never shut up about drying but goes out his way to kill another Robin."

He sees Alfred step forward closer to Bruce he wonders what the point is will he say anything, not likely but why move he almost asks yet if he doesn't finish he never will.

"This was your home first it still is, but I have bled and given more than you will ever know to secure my place here. So Bruce I do not ever want to partnered with either one of them in the field. You or Dick are the only options. You will not argue with me this is me laying my boundaries which I am entitled to."

He stares at Alfred loosing the blank look to let some of the anger out. He wants him to know.

"You will also never again force me to sit at a dinner table across from them again. Whatever British Passive-Aggressive gesture this is. You have no right to do. I will never forgive you for my birthday."

Dick goes to interrupt he doesn't let him.

"Bruce and Alfred have my full permission to discuss the psychological torture they put me through as my birthday present. But from now on none of you get to treat me as if I am some replacement or placeholder. I am a person with feelings, I will not be treated like a doormat."

He makes eye contact with each of them Alfred, Bruce, Jason and Damian.

Before turning to Dick for the last part.

"You are the only person here who has never deliberately hurt me, your my brother and I love you. I want to spend more time with you and I am specifically requesting that you come with me when I leave this table. We can get dinner or hang out but I need you to leave with me."

----------

Bruce is speechless.

How did he do this, his child is sitting at his table trembling and he can't move.

His child who just spent ten minutes defending himself and he is doing nothing.

Dick interrupts what he can admit is a pity party.

"Your my brother, I will happily follow you to the ends of the earth and if we leave now we can go to the Thai place that you like."

He can't let them leave he has to say something.

Tell Tim that he loves him, that he can fix this that this isn't the end. That it matters but before he can there gone.

His boys leave.

His precious sons, one loyal to a fault and one hurt beyond measure and what did he do nothing.

What he always does nothing.

[a-hound-will-die-for-you]

Pride and Jealousy

Masterlist

Summary: Sandor has serious self-esteem issues, which makes him insanely jealous and possessive of anyone who gets close to you. After a huge argument, things between you two go cold as ice. But Sandor’s not ready to let you go. He will fight for you. Even if it means doing the one thing he swore he’d never do. [Reader's POV!] Word count: 5600 Notes: highborn lady f!reader x Sandor Clegane; preestablished relationship; huge argument; jealousy; possessiveness; a bit of rough treatment; Ser Loras is kind to you; you're angry and hurt - but Sandor will fix it. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3 Dedicated to @mrsrincewind for their incredible art about Sandor <3.

You barely had time to brace your hands against the mattress. Your chin sank into the silk pillow as a rough hand seized your hair, shoving you mercilessly down against the bed.

“Sandor, he didn’t touch me!” your voice sounded muffled by the fine sheets.

Above you, the towering form of the King's shield loomed large over your helpless body.

“He laid hands on your waist,” he growled, and his knees sunk deep into the mattress on either side of your bare thighs. 

“He was taking my measurements!” you twisted and kicked backward as his free hand pushed your skirts higher.

The man's arm snaked around your middle and hauled you up so that your knees were left dangling in the air. The motion only stoked your fury. You tried to drive your heels into him. As if you could hope to harm one of the deadliest men in the Seven Kingdoms. But the dark figure pinned you more firmly to the four-post bed and let out a mocking, cruel laugh. 

“Let’s settle this like we always do, woman. By bloody fucking.”

That was your bond with Sandor Clegane.

Raw, primal, and savage. A thing forged not in silk or songs, but in need and flesh.

Your connection went beyond conventions and the traditional forms of courtship. No honeyed words, no pleasantries to soften the edge. What existed between you, neither of you had yet named. But it burned. 

In a court full of schemers, Sandor had become your loyal fighting dog. A strong and steadfast ally who sought pleasure in the shadows of your chamber whenever his duties afforded him a respite. But for all that he was fierce and deadly, he was just as damned insecure when it came to you. The man hated himself more than anything else in the world, and that festering self-loathing convinced him that he was unworthy of your attentions.

You had lain together more times than you could count, yet every time he walked away from your door, the shadow of the thought that it might have been the last time he held you in his arms, tormented him.

Ironically, that self-contempt never drove him to step back and set you free.

Gods, no.

You were the best thing that had ever happened to him in all his wretched life, and the fear of losing you terrified him more than burning in the fires of the Seven Hells. For all of that, he had become fiercely possessive and aggressively hostile toward any man who dared to come near you.

Of course, you were well aware of it.

You had confronted him about it on several occasions. But instead of the situation improving, it had only worsened. And there were many men now with broken ribs and noses, all for nothing more than offering their hand to help you down from a carriage.

That very afternoon, the court’s new tailor had come to your chambers to take your measurements for a new gown. Hours later, word reached you that the poor man had been found beaten in an alleyway. Three molars was he seen to spit out.

It was intolerable. 

When Sandor came to your room later that evening, you raised your voice before he even stepped past the threshold. You would not endure another outburst of savage jealousy, no matter if he was the king’s dog.

The argument was fierce. One more among the countless ones you'd already had over the same matter.

He did not yield to your shouting. Gruff and scornful, he flung back every reproach with twice the venom. Both of you said things you regretted the moment they left your mouths. And then, in an attempt to end the quarrel and set things right, Sandor resorted to what always worked for you both.

He lifted your body mid-sentence, cutting you off in the roughest way and tossing you unceremoniously onto the bed.

You both enjoyed the fantasy of the helpless maiden being forced by a warrior. Every time, Sandor would ravage you with the fury of a charging beast, claiming every inch of you while the intense pleasure drowned your reproaches in gasps and moans.

But tonight, you weren’t having it.

As you kept fighting and begging him to release you, the hand gripping your head released you to shift behind your back. The metallic clinking you knew all too well told you he was unbuckling his belt. You kicked harder, striking his thigh. The attack only earned you another coarse laugh and a harsher grip on your hips.

“That’s it, woman,” came his vicious voice from above, “give me an excuse to get rough.”

Furious and with a fire rising uncontrollably in your chest, you screamed and braced your hands on the mattress, shoving hard to twist beneath him. So much rage must have poured from your throat that the man, startled, eased his weight for you to turn onto your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, and your hand shot upward in a wide arc aimed at his scarred cheek. The man caught your wrist with the swiftness of a wolfhound, stopping you just an inch from his face.

You had never reached this point before.

Something shattered between you.

You both were breathing hard from the surge of adrenaline. Your lips parted and trembled. In his eyes burned a storm of fury and endless sorrow in equal measure. He released your wrist roughly and tilted his burned chin upward.

“Go on. Slap me if that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely, offering you that terrible, ruined face.

You stared at him with a glacial glare, but the words you spoke next were colder still.

“Get out. If you cannot master yourself… if you cannot do it for me and set aside your pride over this, then do not come back to me,” your heart thundered against your ribs as though the Smith himself were trying to shatter your ribcage from within.

Sandor’s dark eyes dimmed in an instant. He gave you the emptiest, deadest look as he straightened up. The space that opened between your body and his burned like a wound. He didn’t speak another word. Only fastened his belt in silence, bowed his head, and turned toward the door with heavy, miserable steps. 

The sound of the iron bolt slamming shut made you flinch, though that wasn’t why your hands were trembling.

-*-

An entire sennight passed without either of you speaking again. He didn’t come looking for you. And you spent your days surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting, distracting yourself as best you could with the tasks of daily life - reading, chatting, or embroidering. 

You would lie if you said you didn’t miss him terribly. Every morning, you woke to find your bed empty and cold, and the aching pain in your guts only grew with each passing day. 

Often, when you found yourself in the Great Hall and King Joffrey honored you all with his presence, your eyes would drift toward the space behind the throne. For just a few seconds, they would linger on the threatening shadow that always stood there - alert and vigilant. Yet you would barely catch a glimpse of his worn chestplate before your gaze quickly withdrew, fearing you would meet his eyes. 

Before you even realized, the week had turned to two. The court was immersed in preparations for King Joffrey’s name day. Banquets, royal hunts, tournaments... Everyone spoke eagerly about it, for an event of such caliber was always cause for joy and merriment. 

The ladies whispered among themselves at the imminent arrival of the handsome knights who would ride in the jousts. Most attention was on the Tyrell and Tarly houses, though some lesser houses like the Swyfts, Leffords, and Westerlings also drew interest. Such a display of beauty, wealth, and power left hardly anyone indifferent.

You, however, paid no mind to the ladies' gossip. Nor did you care in the slightest about the upcoming events. Dismissing your ladies-in-waiting, you spent most of your time in solitude, wandering quietly through the blooming gardens around the Red Keep.

Your mind wandered time and time again to Sandor Clegane. You missed his gravelly voice, the scent of metal, earth, and sweat after a day in the training yard. You missed his presence, feared by all, but comforting to you. You couldn’t understand how a man who had told you he was willing to lay down his life for you couldn’t set aside his pride if you asked him. Perhaps there were different kinds of courage? Perhaps you weren’t important enough to him?

Your thoughts caught in your throat as you fiddled with the peas on your silver plate. You didn’t even know why you had come to lunch in the Great Hall that day. Your stomach struggled to accept the food, and the frantic hustle and bustle of the servants, carrying banners of the houses for the next day’s tournament, was irritating. With a long sigh, you placed your ivory-handled fork on the table and made to rise.

A beautiful white rose greeted you as you stood, held by delicate hands that extended it gracefully before your eyes.

"For you, milady, if I may be so bold,” the bearer of the rose spoke. “I saw you admiring the flowers earlier in the gardens, and though none could compare to your beauty, perhaps this one might help soften the sadness in your eyes."

Your gaze focused on the young man. He was lovely as a maid, with a crown of chestnut curls and eyes like molten gold. The knight of flowers, you thought. Of course, the guests had already arrived for the festivities, and you had hardly noticed. He would likely be competing in the joust tomorrow.

“Thank you, Ser,” you said, taking the flower and smiling politely at him. He offered you a radiant smile of his own, full of perfect white teeth.

“Ser Loras Tyrell, at your service, my lady,” he said in a pleasant voice, then gently brought your hand to his lips.

Your smile seemed to please him, as he offered you his arm with an elegant movement that made his cloak flutter.

“It’s a splendid day. Will you walk with me? I promise to be an entertaining companion and keep you safe from... any possible bee stings we may chance upon in the garden."

His boldness, combined with his light sense of humor, made you laugh. It was a discreet laugh, but sincere and spontaneous. You realized then that you hadn’t laughed in a long time. After a brief moment of thought, you concluded that you could use some flattery from this man who seemed more than willing to make you smile and delight your ears.

“Of course,” you answered, taking his arm.

Loras Tyrell kept his promise to be a pleasant and courteous escort. He was everything Sandor Clegane despised. A man who set himself upon a pedestal, the very picture of all the virtues enshrined in the noble code of chivalry. In little more than an hour, he had boasted of his valor and piety more times than you cared to count. 

You had long since ceased to be a girl who believed in such fool’s tales of gallant knights. Sandor had seen to that. And far were you from being the swooning, starry-eyed damsel the famed Knight of the Flowers had taken you for.

But truth be told, you were enjoying yourself, and his knowledge of the different types of flowers that adorned the garden was quite impressive. You were both watching with interest the way the fruits of the trees had ripened, when the childish voice of King Joffrey came from behind you.

“Ah, Ser Loras, I see you are enjoying… the flowers of the court.”

“Your Grace,” you immediately turned and curtsied, lowering your eyes to the floor. The boy was vile and cruel, but for some reason, he seemed to take a liking to you. Who knew for how long.

He prompted you to lift your face. Behind him, his guard dog loomed like an imposing, dangerous black shadow. You didn’t look at him directly, but you felt his eyes first settle on Loras’s arm around yours, then on the white rose you held in your hand. The king’s fingers, laden with gold rings, gently brushed your chin. 

“And what better flower than my lady. Beautifully bloomed, but still not watered.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Ser Loras replied, his caramel-colored eyes gazing at you.

Fortunately, you were an expert in the art of subtlety. But by the gods, it was hard to maintain your composure and not scoff at his words. Out of habit, your eyes searched for a hint of complicity in Sandor’s gaze. He would usually return your glance with a nearly imperceptible twitch or a roll of his eyes. 

But today, your gaze did nothing to change the unreadable face he wore. His eyes were fixed on a point behind you, and his mask of indifference felt like a thousand wasp stings to your already shattered heart.

The conversation between the two men continued, talking about the weather and the joust the following day. After an exchange of compliments, the king made his desire to continue his walk known. Ser Loras made a small bow and secured his arm around yours. You lowered your head as the little Lannister held your hand to kiss it.

The small royal procession resumed its march, and so did the metallic clinking of Sandor’s armor with every step. He stood more than a head taller than your escort as he passed by your side. His white cloak brushed your hip in passing, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his brow set in a deep frown. On another occasion, he might have slipped a gauntleted hand over your skirt without anyone noticing. Impossible to do so now, with his fist tense and closed around the hilt of his sword.

Your walk with Ser Loras lasted little longer. Your guts were twisted into the world's tightest, ugliest knot, but you could not tell him so. The setting sun on the horizon provided the perfect excuse to retire to your chambers. Even so, he insisted on accompanying you.

Once in your room, your mind spun around the way Sandor had ignored you in the gardens. You collapsed onto the bed, still dressed and with your shoes on, and covered your face with your hands. 

Was it over? Was this how your encounters would end? 

You were angry with him for being unable to contain his possessive impulses. What were these terrible jealousies born of? Hadn't you shown him, time and time again, by dishonoring your name and risking your reputation, that you had no affections for anyone else? 

Affections, you thought. When had he ever shown you affection? Desire, yes. Lust and passion, too. But affection? Your body shuddered at the thought. It was true that The Hound was not a man of sweet words. But still, you longed for him to verbally express his feelings for you.

If he had any. 

Nothing would please you more than to hear from his lips what every lady dreamed of hearing from her chosen knight. A bitter and sad laugh escaped your chest. You were ashamed of longing for those words, but most of all, you knew he would never utter them in his life.

Your eyes wandered across your room until they landed on the upper frame of the door. You remembered your first kiss. The way you had stood on your toes in the hallway, tugging at his gorget to pull him down to you. He had pressed his lips to yours with inexperienced fervor as you stumbled blindly into your chambers, so enthralled that he forgot to duck upon entering and struck his forehead against the frame.

That night, you had been equals. 

For you, it was the first time you had a man between your thighs, his body starving for warmth as it entered yours, pressing into your maidenhead with a wildness you had never known before.

And for him? It was the first time he kissed, and was kissed in return. The first time he held a woman in his arms, chests bumping against one another as you looked him in the eyes - unafraid, and with no coin to be counted afterward.

Uncontrollable sobs shook your chest. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly in search of some comfort.

It never came. You slept poorly, on a pillow soaked with bitter, hot tears.

-*-

The next morning, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted the little sleep you had managed to grasp. Heavy curtains were drawn apart, and the sudden, bothersome light that poured through the window fell cruelly upon your reddened eyelids.

“My lady, we must make haste. In less than two hours you are expected in the stands,” urged the sharp yet pleasant voice of your handmaid.

You let out a groan most unbefitting of a lady as the woman helped you sit up in bed. Without saying a word about why you had passed the night fully clothed, she unlaced your shoes and prompted another maid to bring a porcelain basin filled with cold water. At the far end of your chamber, two girls pulled your new dress from the wardrobe and brushed it with haste.

“My lady, your face looks weary. Are you unwell?” the same woman asked, frowning as she patted your cheeks with a damp cloth.

You shook your head, though you should have said yes, had you remembered your duties for the day.

“Thank the gods,” she added as she refreshed your neck and shoulders. “It would be a shame if you could not attend the tourney.” 

Your eyes widened at once. 

The tourney.

“Oh no.” You stared at her with round, tearful eyes. “No... I don’t want to go…” 

"You must go, my lady," she said, helping you to your feet. "The king expects you in the noble stands. The entire royal family is counting on your presence… and the lords." 

A short gasp escaped your lips as she stripped you down, leaving you as bare as on your name day. Behind you, the other girls whispered to one another about how handsome the knights might be. You cared for none of it. All you wanted was to return to your bed and weep.

While you put on fresh smallclothes, your handmaid held up two dresses, one in each hand. You shook your head, refusing to cooperate, but before you realized it, she had tossed them both on the bed and was pulling a tight corset over your head. You grasped one of the bedposts and let her lace the strings, too exhausted to protest.

“My lady, many knights will look at you today…” she tried to lift your spirits as she cinched the garment around your waist.

You exhaled, dry and mocking. You had not the slightest interest in any knight watching you. The maid mistook your contempt for mere doubt, and as she chose the more elegant of the two dresses you had dismissed, she went on, hopeful. 

“Perhaps one of them might even fight for you.”

You barely heard her. Your arms and legs had gone weak as the beautiful velvet gown slipped over your skin. 

Once fully clothed, you let your weight fall onto the chair before your vanity. Someone had left a silver tray with grapes and a honey-scented tea on it. As your handmaid undid the messy braid from the day before, you picked a grape and bit into it. Its juice burst across your tongue, far too sweet for the sadness that lingered within you. When the maid finished a hairstyle that highlighted your beauty and grace, she leaned slightly toward you and smiled at you through the mirror.

"The whole court is talking about how Ser Loras Tyrell was enchanted by you while you walked the gardens yesterday."

You sighed. The memory of your garden stroll brought with it a far more bitter one. Sandor Clegane, standing behind the king and ignoring you. The woman must have mistaken again your frailty for love’s weakness, for she carried on.

“He is a handsome man. All the ladies of the court envy you.”

“They’ve nothing to envy,” you said in a somber tone. The last thing you needed was all the women of the court against you.

Your handmaid smiled again, then held up a lovely pearl necklace between her fingers as she looked at you through the mirror. You shook your head, and she frowned when she saw you reach for a simple silk ribbon instead, tying it around your neck as an ornament. It was not the choice she would have made for such a dress, but given your mood, she let it be.

“You look radiant," she said in a last attempt to draw a smile from you. "They say Ser Loras always rides with a white rose tied to his lance. I’m certain he’ll ask for your favor and offer it to you.”

Her effort failed, for you froze.

Gods help you if the man were foolish enough to do such a thing.

-*-

No matter how quickly your maids worked, you were among the last ladies to arrive at the festivities. The master of ceremonies had already begun announcing the tournament. The knights who would face each other had been called, and their titles declared.

The noble stands teemed with color and silk, each house proud in its finery. Ladies whispered behind lace fans while their lords murmured wagers on the tilt below. It was crowded with spectators from all corners of the realm, and the seat you usually occupied had already been taken by another lady. As soon as she saw you, she rose and offered you your chair, but you motioned for her to stay, taking a seat lower down with a poorer view. 

More discreet, you thought. Much better.

Once settled, your gaze drifted to the royal stand, where the king and queen offered you a slight nod of acknowledgment. You did the same, with an elegant but brief curtsy. 

It did not escape your notice that Sandor Clegane was not behind the lions. Instead, two members of the Kingsguard stood on either side of the king. You found it odd that, on such an important and crowded day, the royal family had dispensed with their dog’s services. The king had many enemies, and many of them were fool enough to try to harm him even in broad daylight.

Then your gaze swept over the muddy jousting field. The earth had been compressed, but the rain had left the ground soft and unstable, unfavorable for heavier horses. Squires and stableboys ran from side to side adjusting saddles, sharpening lances, or preparing ornate armors. 

You leaned back in your seat with disinterest. The rasping, scornful voice of the Hound could almost be heard in your head, mocking the false fanfare of the knights and the fevered glances the perfumed ladies cast upon them. The man had infected you with his distaste for such a circus, though the little girl inside you still sometimes dreamed of romance.

Only sometimes, and always in embarrassment, for he was right. They were cunts, the lot of them, with coin and nothing better to do.

With little enthusiasm, you watched as several knights took the field. The stands roared with fervor when Ser Jaime Lannister unhorsed Lord Bryce Caron in a single tilt. You merely sighed under your breath and offered a brief, courteous clap. Then came Ser Balon Swann, Lord Renly, and Lord Beric Dondarrion, all of them as effective and victorious as they were boring to you.

The entrance of an elegant, grey mare, led by a young squire, confirmed that the next participant would be the Knight of the Flowers. The ladies in the stands gasped, and a great ovation arose from the spectators as Loras Tyrell, in his silver armor adorned with sapphires and black vines, appeared before the crowd. A white rose was indeed tied to his lance. You immediately lowered your eyes.

By the Seven, may he not see me and approach. 

Your eyes were still fixed on the ground when you heard a familiar neigh and the sound of heavy horse hooves sinking into the mud.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Stranger. 

The applause of the stands dwindled, and you immediately raised your head to look at Sandor Clegane, guiding his enormous, ill-tempered stallion across the tiltyard.

“Do not worry, my lady,” said a nearby lord. “Ser Loras is skilled with a lance and will defend himself.”

You barely heard him, so focused you were on the black steed and its rider. He wore the same battered, blackened armor as always. Unlike his opponent, he did not look at the crowd. His gaze was fixed on his nervous mount, which whinnied and resisted. 

You looked at the horse with a tightness in your chest. You knew him well. When you crossed paths with Sandor in the stables, the sullen animal would nudge you gently with its muzzle. Sandor often jested about this, reprimanding him for stealing all your attention. The black destrier was as strong and stubborn as they came, and the jousts made him nervous. That was why Sandor rarely participated in them. And that was why he was patting the beast affectionately as they were met with boos and jeers from the stands. 

Your blood boiled in your veins. Normally, no one would dare boo Sandor Clegane. But in tournaments, there were always favorites, and the anonymity of the stands gave rise to such things. In any case, as much as it enraged you, Sandor was used to not having the favor of the crowd. And he couldn’t give less of a damn.

Once he managed to calm Stranger down, he placed his dreadful, dog’s helmet on, put a foot in the stirrup, and mounted upon the warhorse in search of a lance. Meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell was helped into the saddle by his squire, more concerned with the mud staining his gleaming armor. Then, the Knight of Flowers spurred his mare into a slow trot, and wherever he rode, was met with applause.

From the other side, the Hound had already chosen any available lance to compete and was rotating his right shoulder to warm up. He then leaned forward in his saddle, whispered something to the horse and tightened the reins to urge it into a gallop across the tiltyard. 

“Whoa!” he bellowed, and the horse’s hooves sank into the mud as its rider brought it to a halt before the noble stands. The ladies gasped and squealed. The lords hissed. You watched the scene with wide eyes, unable to understand.

Sandor Clegane seemed confused. He looked this way and that at the crowd, angrily raising the visor of his helmet to get a better view. The horse, sensing its rider’s confusion, snorted nervously. Sandor yanked the reins to one side and urged the animal forward a few paces along the stands, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. Some women looked away as he passed directly before them, but he kept searching.

Searching.

Then you understood. He was looking for the place where you always sat. The spot that, due to your tardiness, was now occupied by another lady. 

In an almost involuntary act of compassion, you leaned forward and rested your arms on the wooden railing, making yourself stand out in the crowd. And just then, Sandor Clegane’s dark eyes fixed on you.

“Hyah!” he bellowed, and Stranger seemed to recognize you as well, for it trotted cheerfully up to stand right in front of you. 

The women around you held their breath as Sandor’s gloved hand reached for his helmet and yanked it upward, freeing himself from it before you. You felt your blood pulse strongly through your veins. The entire crowd fell silent as the man gazed at you wordlessly, with a seriousness that surpassed his usual sullen expression. His black eyes were locked onto yours like two dark prayers. Still, you could see the devotion behind the darkness. A devotion he had never failed to hold since the first time moment your paths crossed.

“Hey, dog!” you heard the impatient voice of the king shout from the royal stand, “your place is on the other side!”

At this, some in the crowd laughed. Yet Sandor did not avert his gaze from you, nor did you from him. Stranger took a step forward without any command from its rider, and in that moment, the man raised his voice, speaking before the entire kingdom the words he never thought he would say in all his miserable life.

“I ask for the lady’s favor!”

The crowd fell silent once more. The request was more a roar than a spoken plea, likely an attempt to impose his will over his own embarrassment. Your bewilderment kept your body from reacting, not even a breath of air entered your lungs.

Sandor’s deep eyes stared at you with intensity, waiting for your answer. His face was serious, but the unscarred side of his face betrayed a sadness. The soft chuckles returned to the stands, and you realized that your inaction was making a fool of him.

You snapped back to yourself. With a force that nearly made you jump from your seat, you stood up and said in the loudest, clearest voice you could muster.

“You have it, Sandor Clegane. May honor and victory ride with your lance.”

The last words came out somewhat hoarsely. No knight had ever asked for your favor, and you’d never rehearsed the scene. You didn’t know if your words had been the right ones, but what mattered was showing your support to him. And the way the harsh lines of his face softened made you think you had done it right.

Your lips trembled with emotion before curling into a beautiful smile. His eyes lit up at that, and the unburned corner of his mouth twitched upward into the grimace he often made when he saw something that pleased him. 

You thought that with that exchange, the man would turn Stranger and the tournament would begin. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in the sand, staring at you. Around you, whispers began to rise again in the stands. You looked at the people, confused, and Sandor’s voice made you focus your eyes back on him.

“The token, my lady…” he said softly, his brow quirked with slight amusement.

Oh! How could you be so foolish! You had to give him something! Stricken with the nervousness of feeling all eyes on you, your mind seemed too clouded to think clearly. 

You weren’t wearing jewelry, nor a veil. You weren’t wearing gloves, nor had you made a flower crown... Your hands fumbled clumsily over the sleeves of your dress, searching for a handkerchief, but finding nothing. Then they climbed up to your neck and, trembling, untied the simple silk ribbon you had chosen that morning. 

Sandor removed his leather glove and raised his hand to meet yours as you held onto the railing. Were it not dulled by blows, his spaulder might have nearly gleamed with the movement. He closed his hand around yours, and his thick thumb briefly caressed your knuckles. Your heart seemed to leap out of your mouth. The roughness of his hand felt incredibly sweet against your skin after so many days without his touch. The gesture was inappropriately intimate for such a moment, and even the horse seemed to notice, for from the royal stand they watched the animal wag its tail and bring its rider even closer to you.

“Dog!” the king called out with a mocking tone, “Your beast seems to be in love with the lady!”

Sandor grunted, making himself heard over the laughter that echoed through the stands.

“Aye!” He growled, then you heard his voice again, a rough whisper meant for your ears alone. “He loves her. Deeply… and more than his own damn pride.”

The warmth that spilled far beyond your chest made your heart swell, and you laughed, breathless and lowering your head to hide the flush that bloomed across your cheeks. In his eyes burned a desperate question he could not bring himself to ask, but the glimmer in your eyes when you looked up again, put an end to his torment. 

Reconciliation. 

You were granting him leave to come to you that night. 

Sandor drew his hand away from yours and carefully tucked the ribbon into a slit of his vambrace. Then, he dipped his head to you, and after you nodded, kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place upon the tiltyard.

-*-

Ser Loras proved to be a swift and skilled opponent on horseback, but Sandor Clegane won the tournament that day. 

How could he not, with you by his side? 

But that night, amidst tears and caresses and embraces in your chamber, he won something far more important than applause or a purse of coins. For as he made a commitment of restraint, he earned your forgiveness and your trust. He earned the delight of your smile, and the warmth of your laughter. And kissing you almost as a knight of old would, he earned the beats of your heart, sealing his bond to you with a promise of loyalty and eternal love.

...............

Thanks for reading! <3

What do you think? A comment would give me life, and encourage me to write more :)

[andy-15-07]

Marcus Acacius x f!reader where he hurts her by mistake 🤧🤧🤧

The Weight of a Warrior's Heart

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 869 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The torches lining the dimly lit chamber flickered as Marcus Acacius stood at the far end, his shoulders tense, his breathing ragged. The weight of Rome, of duty, pressed heavily upon him, yet none of it compared to the weight of his own actions.

Y/N sat on the edge of the stone bench, clutching her arm where his grip had been too strong moments before. The sting of it was nothing compared to the sharp pain in her chest. She had seen Marcus angry before—seen him cut down enemies with a blade as swift as a viper's strike—but never had she thought she would be at the receiving end of that rage.

"Y/N," his voice was hoarse, almost hesitant as he took a step closer. She flinched, and that alone shattered something inside of him.

"Don't," she whispered, eyes glistening. "Just don't."

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, as if trying to steady himself. "I didn't mean—"

"But you did," she cut in, her voice trembling. "You grabbed me, Marcus. You—" She shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of the memory. "You hurt me."

Regret clawed at him. He had been drowning in frustration, in things beyond his control, and she had only tried to soothe him. But instead of accepting the comfort she offered, he had lashed out—not with a weapon, but with his temper, with the force of a man who had forgotten how to be gentle.

"I wasn't thinking," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I—" He stepped forward again, but this time, slower, measured. "Please, let me see."

She hesitated before extending her arm slightly. His hands, calloused and familiar, traced over the faint bruise forming on her skin, and he exhaled sharply, as though the sight of it wounded him more than any blade ever could.

"I would never—"

"But you did," she repeated, her voice softer this time. "And you can't take it back."

A long silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid words. Marcus clenched his jaw, feeling the unbearable weight of his failure—not as a general, not as a soldier, but as a man who had sworn, even if only to himself, to protect her.

She looked away, blinking rapidly, her walls rising once more. "Maybe I should go."

"No." The word left his lips too quickly, too desperate. He reached for her but stopped himself before making contact. "Don't leave like this."

Y/N finally met his gaze, and for the first time, she saw something beyond the steel and fire of a warrior—she saw the man beneath, broken, ashamed.

"If I stay, things have to change," she murmured. "You can't let this—whatever this is—consume you so completely that you forget the people who care for you."

His throat tightened, the battle inside of him raging. "You are not just someone who cares for me, Y/N."

"Then prove it."

Marcus Acacius was a man of war, of bloodshed and conquest, but in that moment, he knew this was the most important battle he had ever faced—one he could not afford to lose.

His hands, once so sure and steady on the battlefield, trembled slightly as he reached for her again, this time with nothing but reverence. "Tell me how," he said, voice raw. "Tell me how to fix this."

Y/N's lips parted, her breath uneven. "Start by never making me feel like this again."

His nod was immediate, but she could see the torment in his eyes. "I swear it," he whispered, voice carrying the weight of an oath. "On everything that I am."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled, the distant sounds of the city beyond the palace walls a stark contrast to the stillness between them.

Then, cautiously, Y/N reached for his hand. He stilled at the touch, as if afraid she might pull away. But when she didn't, he exhaled a shuddering breath, pressing her fingers to his lips in silent repentance.

"Marcus," she said softly, and for the first time that night, she saw something shift in his gaze—hope, fragile yet unwavering.

Perhaps this battle was not lost after all.

He lowered their joined hands, reluctant to let go. "Stay," he whispered, not as a command but as a plea. "Let me prove to you that I can be the man you deserve."

Y/N studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. When she found none, she sighed and gave a small nod. "I'll stay," she said, her voice quiet. "But only if you promise me, Marcus."

His grip tightened, as if anchoring himself to her. "Anything."

"No more walls," she murmured. "No more shutting me out."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "No more shutting you out."

A faint smile ghosted her lips as she leaned into his touch, resting her forehead against his. "Then I'll stay."

Marcus closed his eyes, breathing her in, the warmth of her presence easing the storm within him. He had been a man who conquered lands, but tonight, he would fight the hardest battle of all—to keep her heart safe, and to never let his own hands be the reason it ached again.

[everlastingdream]

The first time it happened, all agents took their weapons out the moment Lena entered the building like she owns it.

Alex considered firing everyone who let her past the guard post and then shoot her. In the leg. Maybe.

"Take it", Lena threw something at Brainy, who somehow was completely calm. It relaxed Alex too, since Brainy was an expert on calculating danger level of everyone.

And then Lena just turned around and exited the DEO, like she was dropping of their lunch or something. And she was still fighting with Kara!

"What the hell, Luthor!?" Alex shouted to her back, only to recieve resolute "Shut up!" in return.

Alex sputtered, because: excuse me, but you came to the secret underground goverment facility like to your own office! Brainy muttered something, tinkering with the thing Lena brought.

"It's anti-kriptonite suit", he said in wonder, already running some simulations on his tablet. "She shouldn't has figured this out for ahother five years".

"Brainy, test this thing in every way you can, and if it's safe, take it to Kara immediately", Alex grumbled, but her sister's safety was more important than Luthor's strange wims.

/ / / / / / / / / /

Next time everyone still grabbed their weapons, but wasn't ready to shoot just yet, as Lena angrily stormed into the building. Perhaps it was because despite her stare she complied with every security measure guards asked of her.

Which didn't stop her from slamming thick file into Alex's chest.

"What the hell, Luthor!?" Alex saw how Brainy grabbed Nia's hand to stop her from standing up.

"Shut up", Lena returned, as she went back without any explanation.

Alex was left with papers and strange sense of deja-vu.

Looking through evidence on their resent villain and drafts of some devices to counter his powers, Alex thought about how Lena always choose time when Kara was absent from the building.

/ / / / / / / / / /

When they reached fifth visit like that no one was surprised anymore. Because everytime they would be stuck, Lena will miraculously appear with what they need. But she still stubbornly refused to talk with anyone besides Brainy and only about science behind her inventions.

This time she confidentely walked into the building, but Brainy instantly stood up. Everyone around them tensed, powers and guns ready. Lena opened her mouth to protest but he forced her to sit under bewildered eyes of everyone in the room.

"She's injured", was the only thing Brainy said, as he pried another helpful thing from Lena's hands.

"Am not", Lena replied, and Alex noticed how she slurred her words a little. "Take this shit and let me go".

Nia was already out of the room, fetching medical supplies, when Alex moved Brainy to the side to check on her.

"Left side, one inch lower than her ribs", he told Alex. Nia, who put Alex's medical bag down, gently rubbed his back, even if it was almost invisible that he was worried.

Alex pressed her hand under Lena's jacket where he instructed, and her fingers returned covered in blood.

Lena was still swearing, when Alex cleared her wound - bullet hole - and dressed it.

"You need medical attention, Luthor", Alex said quietly. After everything she was still angry at the other woman but it didn't mean she wanted her dead.

"If I show it to someone, I'm as good as dead", Lena chuckled, cleary half-delirious from pain and pain-killers. How she managed to get there on the sole willpower was beyond understanding. "Even if you want it, I would like to live a little longer".

Alex didn't answer. Couldn't. Even if she knew it wasn't true, some part of her wanted Lena to believe it. To suffer.

It was a shameful, selfish thought.

/ / / / / / / / / /

"Lena?" Kara's weak voice sounded incredibly loud in the quiet of their usual exchange.

Lena stiffened and promtly turned to flee in the middle of her conversation with Brainy.

"Lena!" Kara could catch up to her in the blink of an eye, but somehow near Lena she always forgot she has powers.

Lena spent too much time talking over some sort of mathematical models and Kara wrapped up her mission early.

"Please, wait!"

"Leave me alone", Lena gritted through her teeth, but even Alex saw tears in her eyes, as she sped up.

"She's hurting", Brainy supplied from Alex's side, as they both watched this strange chase.

"She's injured again?" Alex asked with small pang of guilt.

"No, she's hurting emotionally. More than she shows."

He didn't add anything else. They watched door slamming into Kara's pitiful face.

/ / / / / / / / / /

"Why are you helping us?" Alex asked her about a month after Lena and Kara's dramatic meeting.

"Shut up", Lena answered, tired as hell after three all-nighters they pulled to rescue Kara from another dimension.

"It's getting old, Luthor. Spill the beans".

Perhaps it's exhaustion, perhaps it is somehow sisterly look in Alex's eyes, but Lena is silent suddenly, before almost pushing words out.

"You said you will turn over the world for your sister, didn't you? I had someone like that once. My big brother, who would be the only one to treat me like a person in the place that was supposed to be my home. Who protected me from everything he could. And whom I admired so much I wanted to be just like him".

Alex tensed, as always when talking about Lex. But Lena's voice was quiet, and her face already wet from tears she seemed to hold for so long, and Alex shut her mouth this time.

"When he did all that he did, I was disappointed. But I still loved my big brother. But when he first tried to kill me? I was heartbroken. The person who withstood father's beatings in my place tried to kill me", Lena chuckled through her sobs.

Alex never allowed herself to think about Lex past his atrocites. She couldn't afford any pity for the person who tormented her sister and her family. But right now there was another little girl beside her who lost her only family.

"You said you will turn over the world for your sister, didn't you?", Lena turned to her. "I killed my brother for her".

She didn't said anything after that. Just cried herself to sleep. And Alex was just sitting there, left alone with shocking news and even more shocking realizations. Lex was dead. Lena was the one who killed him. He told her Kara was Supergirl and she still killed him.

/ / / / / / / / / /

"Don't pity me, it makes my skin crawl", Lena said the next day, when she was given her own pass to the DEO. She threw it on the table right in front of Alex, and agent considered asking 'what the hell, Luthor' just for the fun.

"I'm not. But after what you did for my sister and what you continue to do, the least I can do is to give you free entrance".

Lena sat beside her, tired and feverish from overwork.

"Don't care about me either".

"When will you talk to Kara?" Lena scowled when Alex ignored her, but still took the pass.

"Never, perhaps. I look at her and see the dead body of my brother. It's not something a little talk can fix. And she will blame herself, burdening me with another endless boundle of her apologies".

"She will learn of his death eventually, and then she'll found out how he died. It will happen anyway. And yes, of course, nothing will be fixed just because you too will talk. But maybe you can relieve some of your burden, and maybe several small talks will help you both".

Lena didn't lift her head from the shiny surface of the table. But she nodded tiniest bit.

/ / / / / / / / / /

Lena kept coming to help. Kara kept trying to talk to her.

One day Lena conceded, and then she screamed at Kara for an hour in the empty conference room and stormed out.

They had reverse situation later, when Lena came injured once again. Kara screamed about her being reckless, and they eventually reached her past sorrows.

They screamed, then talked, then whispered. And slowly started to smile again. Later came tentative touches, lunches and game nights.

So when almost two years later Alex found them in the kitchen doing something she would prefer to erase from her mind, everything finally became as it should.

[coff33andb00ks]

20 Oscar

20: pressing the other’s hand against their cheek

warnings: author doesn't understand the meaning of the word "short" and (badly written) descriptions of a wreck during a race (no injuries)

driver + number = drabble/short fic <3

Piastri just doesn't give a fuck.

Oscar is just too chill.

Does he ever show emotion except when he's laughing at Lando?

You try to stay out of comments. Hell, you try to stay off social media, it's nothing but a cesspool of people with too much time on their hands and not enough brain cells to comprehend more than the surface level of what they're shown. But sometimes you like it, because there are creative people who put out beautifully edited videos of your boyfriend. Sometimes you show them to him, enjoying his giggling while he watches and shakes his head over someone finding him attractive enough to warrant a thirty second video set to a Rihanna song.

But the comments about his emotionless black cat behavior hurt. He's so much more than how he portrays himself. He's vibrant and so full of life, and you will forever appreciate the people who see beyond his social anxiety and notice his amazing sense of humor, his passion for racing and life. They'll never know the real him and will probably never understand why you fell in love with him.

Him. The sweet and shy guy who'd come to your defense when a rude customer had been berating you over a wrong order. His voice had cut over her yelling, calm and measured, and after your manager had kicked out the irrationally angry woman it had been Oscar that had approached you to check on you, frowning when he saw your tears. His gentle tone had calmed you, his respectful stance had won your admiration, and his calling the woman a fucking cunt had made you smile.

You wish you could defend him as he continues to defend you. When a video questioning how a nobody like you had bagged a formula one rookie had gone somewhat viral he'd taken to twitter and unleashed such a beautifully worded rant that people were still quoting it more than a year later.

It's come to my attention that some so-called fans are referring to my girlfriend as a nobody. Allow me to introduce her to you. She's funny, she's brilliant, she's beautiful. She's every word you can think of to describe the perfect person and she's so much more. She shines light in the darkest corners of my soul. Her eyes are a map of my universe. When you look at us together, know that I am constantly trying to be worthy of the love she gives me, and know that if you speak ill of her you will never have my respect but you will have my disgust.

You would never ever doubt his love for you. Not that you ever had but that had cemented it. You could never come to his defense in such a way. If you even tried you'd be sneered at for being a try hard.

And really, you didn't need to. Because the one thing Oscar did not give a fuck about was anyone's opinion. Only a handful of people mattered enough to him for him to care what they thought. You were blessed to be included on that list.

You love him so much that for a while it scared you, having never fallen into the this one person is my moon and stars mindset. But now you understand. He didn't just hang them, he is your moon and stars. Your one and only and if for some reason this doesn't end in forever you'll be ruined for any other man.

It was still a shock, though, when you felt your heart stop beating as you watched his car careen towards the barrier. The front wing clipped Max's rear tire and you can't breathe, watching in slow motion as the brightly colored car tips and lifts into the air. There is nothing but absolute silence around you in the McLaren garage and you're frozen, staring at the monitor while his car flips and rolls, carbon fiber flying in every direction when it lands upside down, his helmet just visible as it slides to a stop at the safety fence.

Silence. Then pandemonium. Your world has just flipped and spun and you can't breathe, ears straining to hear him but you can only hear the crackle of the radio when Zak and Tom try to get him to respond.

Then, finally, his voice. Shaken and scared. "Are they okay? Please tell me they're okay."

Of course he'd ask after the others involved. You can finally breathe but it hurts, not knowing that he's okay. And you can't do anything but wait, heart barely beating until he's finally out, he's moving, he's giving the fans a thumbs up as he's put on the stretcher. You still can't do a thing and you've never felt more useless than you do while you're waiting just inside the medical center with Zak and Lando, who'd come to wait during the red flag.

Then the most beautiful words you've ever heard.

"He's okay."

There's more after that, about him being transported to the local hospital for a complete check, the possibility of a concussion but he's okay. And you're allowed to go see him while the ambulance is readied.

He's sitting up, looking a little pale but he's not hurt, he's in one piece, and when he sees you he gasps. You try to be gentle when you embrace him, but he steals your breath, holding you so tightly it hurts, his face pressed into your neck.

"They won't tell me - are Max and George okay?" His voice is strained and you feel his tears.

"They're fine, my love," you promise.

"I didn't mean for it to happen, I don't know what I did. I was going good and then I was upside down." His voice shakes and cracks and he's trembling, one hand fisting in your shirt. You reach for the other.

"Shh shh... It's okay my love," you whisper, your tears finally spilling when he guides your hand up, holding it to his cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. "Everyone's okay, you're okay."

His eyes meet yours and your world rights itself.

[allthingsfern]

Pissed me off, but why?

I often go to Youtube and watch videos about photography because I can always learn something, and in this one case I learned how narrow minded and ageist some photographers can be.

No, I am not gonna share the video that pissed me off, and yes, I realized I was going to watch a video by someone whose YT posts I've never watched to the end because they inevitably say something I find distasteful. Or unfathomable. Or both.

But this time I was curious because they were talking about a photo session with an iconic celebrity who died recently and the title was about the photographer's "greatest photography error" (no that was not the exact title; I am paraphrasing), so I figured I would give the video a chance. Yes, the clickbait-ish title peaked my curiosity.

But fuck, not even 2 minutes in, the photographer said that their iconic subject for the session had been photographed by star photographers when the celebrity was in their "prime." So, it is only reasonable to assume that during the photo session, the photographer approached his iconic subject as an older icon, past their prime.

Goddammit.

And it really made me mad because I thought how I would have been thrilled to have a chance to make photos of that iconic celebrity, who in their later years had a face full of character and history and lines, cracks, sags. To have captured that famous person pensive, angry, questioning, laughing, being goofy. Even as just a study of their face and the way light & dark played on the surfaces of their face.

Wow.

That would have been an incredible photo session for me. That is why I loved photographing my mom and I love photographing my friends and family and strangers of all ages. For me, their prime is occurring, blossoming in front of me and my camera every time I get the privilege of capturing the person they are at any given moment of our photoshoot, while I am blessed with making photos of them being who they are in the moment. Or moments.

No wonder the photographer who pissed me off had a hard time during the photo session and his Iconic subject was never comfortable. Apparently the photographer approached the session already thinking the icon was past their "prime," and it made the celebrity feel insecure. The iconic subject never was made to feel seen as beautiful in that moment of the photo session, they never got to feel that the photographer loved their presence. And yes, I am convinced that the people who let me photograph them, who pose for me, I am convinced they know I have a love for who they are at that moment of posing and that I want to capture my feeling for them in my photos. (Yes, as I've heard other portrait photographers say, I "fall in love" with the people I photograph.) I may not make them look pretty, but I always make them look humanly beautiful, because to me, they are always in their "prime."

And maybe the difference between me and the photographer who pissed me off is that I photograph because I want to, who I want to, and not because its a job. I do not make portraits from a sense of nostalgia and do not try to make portraits that measure up to the work of photography portrait greats. Maybe it helps that I don't have a reputation as a photographer, well, except among friends who like my photos and supportive folks on Tumblr who enjoy and sometimes laud my images. Bot to approach an iconic celebrity who is in their later years and assess them as beyond their "prime?"

Fuck. That just pissed me off.

[captain039]

Stains of red

Astarion x omega!reader

Warnings: Vampire things, blood, light gore, witch things, fantasy things, swearing, age gap, heats, smut, shameless flirting, virgin reader, indulging in pleasure xD, pining, jealousy, possessiveness

I can’t wait for the game I must write. I’ve watched too many TikTok’s on him🤣 so I may not get his characteristic. But I have an idea on them lol.

No spoilers for the game cause I haven’t played it lol

The raven awoke you as he did all mornings, cawing on your window seal making you huff and almost throw your pillow at him.

“Must you?” You said and he just cawed flying into your house and landing on your bedside table.

“Good morning” you chuckled and Pax cawed in response.

“Any hostile creatures lurking?” You said and he just cawed again fluttering his wings slightly.

“Helpful” you rolled your eyes and stretched. You started your day as you always did, some tea and toasted bread with jam, sitting on the front porch watching Pax fly away back to his family. You saved Pax when he was a baby bird, ugly little thing really with no feathers, but you raised him and now he wakes you every morning and watched the forest for you. Though you didn’t understand him, he understood you well enough. The forest felt cold somehow today though, like something cold was lurking within it and feeding off its emotions, same feeling you got from a certain vampire. Ever since your parents died to a vampire, Astarion has apparently made it his duty to check on you. He wasn’t the one who killed your family, but he was the one to tear the other vampires head off in a craze. You’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he did, nor will you forget the softness he showed younger you. You practically grew up by yourself, self sustaining beyond measures, Astarion didn’t know a thing about children, yet he didn’t let any of the village members come. He brought you food, books, clothes, anything you needed till you got old enough to take care of yourself. Your teenage years were hard, a lonely omega presenting wasn’t ideal for anyone and you felt like the gods truely hated you in those times of your heats. Astarion was neither alpha, beta or omega, you supposed it was due to him being practically dead. He just had a simple cold smell, like snow if snow smelt like anything. Due to him being the only male around you’d ever see your teenage lust was after him, a man however many years old who raised you, sort of. You cursed the gods daily because of this lust, now thought it simmered deeper within your heart and you hated it.

“Why’re you looking so thoughtful?” You heard a hum in front of you and jumped seeing Astarion there.

“Gods sake Astarion!” You glared and he laughed.

“Darling, you should be aware of your surroundings” he huffed with a smirk and you rolled your eyes. Pet names, boy did he love his pet names, darling, sweetheart, dearest, sweet thing, whatever his mind could think of and it drive you insane.

“Why’re you here?” You asked frowning slightly at his scent, a woman’s scent, a beta, gods had he bedded and fed someone before coming here? You glanced to his mouth, no red stains or signs of feeding, he bedded her then. That was somehow worse.

“Can I not see you? I am hurt” he pouted and you sighed standing up and grabbing your plate and cup.

“I have not seen you in months” you didn’t mean to snap, but you did as you walked into your cottage, him following.

“Were you not in heat?” He said casually and you flushed. You were in heat, how the hell did he manage to know your cycle?

“I was” you grumbled going to the sink.

“Not that it affects you” you scoffed, why were you angry?

“Why��re you angry sweetest?” He asked leaning against the counter beside you, tilting his head.

“I’m not angry” you lies washing your cup and plate before drying them.

“You’re also a terrible liar” he huffed. You turned abruptly and huffed at him before a knock came. He snapped his head to the door alerted, eyes narrowing.

“It’s just one of the villagers probably” you rolled your eyes at the vampire and opened the door. A villager indeed, only his fingers were missing.

“Gods what happened?” You asked.

“I was chopping some wood I got distracted by something, I was putting the wood down and left me hand there!” He said and you gulped.

“Right” you said turning around seeing Astarion staring at the man’s fingers.

“Astarion” you said softly and he snapped his head to yours mouth slightly agape. He snarled and went to your room while you took the man to your other room. You were a witch of sorts, you knew few spells, mainly healing ones, hence why the villagers came.

“Sit down” you said and the man sat down. You recognised him as the butchers son, a handsome young alpha, not to sharp though apparently. You made him hold his hand on the table and began chanting softly. You moved your hands around, watching the yellow glow emit from them and swirl around his fingers. Soon enough they were back and normal apart from the blood stains.

“There” you smiled.

“Thank you so much miss” he smiled softly a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Idiot” you heard and turned to glare at Astarion in the door way.

“Excuse him he has no manners” you huffed and cocked your head at the vampire who huffed and left.

“I can’t thank you enough miss” the alpha said still flushed as he shook your hand.

“It’s alright, just don’t do it again” you laughed lightly.

“Course, I was wondering-“ he stopped mid sentence glancing to something behind you and gulped.

“Thank you” he said and disappeared quickly.

“What did you do?” You turned to Astarion who shrugged.

“He’s a perfectly nice man!” You growled and went to clean up the blood.

“He was clearly trying to fuck you” Astarion said with a scoff and you flushed and froze.

“Excuse me?” You said as you scrubbed the blood a little harshly.

“Fuck you darling, bed you, a night of pleasure?” He said like you were stupid.

“I know what it is!” You said voice going higher.

“Have you still not had someone bed you?” He said voice teasing almost though something was strange about his tone. You threw out the rag and briskly walked past him to avoid that conversation. He scared off half the village! and you were in love with him for gods sake!

“Get out my house” you huffed turning and pointing to the door.

“I just got here” he huffed.

“I don’t care” you pointed to the door again.

“So dull” he whined, but left making you sigh in relief.

You watched the firefly’s over the small lake you had in front of your house. Nice clear spring, perfect in any weather it truely was a blessing. Sometimes if it was a warm night you’d go out for a swim with little clothing, enjoy the water under the warm night sky. It was a warm night and you felt like you could use a swim. You finished tea and changed into a robe and grabbed a towel. You laid the towel by the bed of the lake and glanced around before slipping your robe off and stepping in. You walked out a bit before resting on your back and sighing, eyes closing and tuning your ears into the wild life. You could hear critters scurrying around to grab their nightly meal, an owl nearby hooting softly, a few rabbits hoping along the ground and- footsteps? You lowered your body back into the water and glanced around, you couldn’t see anyone even with your heightened senses. You listened closer, two footsteps one heavy and one extremely light, the heavy one sounded like they were running. Then you heard a scream and blocked out the noise by covering your ears quickly before the smell of blood floated on the wind. You quickly left the lake and put on your towel before rushing inside and locking the door. You panted harshly missing the red eyes that watched you through the window.

Next part ->

[stealth-liberal]

So, I am angry. I am hurt. I am terrified at the astronomical amount of antisemitism all over the world right now.

But watching my daughter (the head of the Jewish Student Union at her high school) and her friend (the head of the Muslim Student Club) bond and take measured and mature beyond their years stances about the Israel/Hamas War, about the tidal wave of antisemitism and Islamaphobia (depending on where you are) is heart warming. It gives me hope.

Here's a snippet of the conversation they had tonight at my house (we had a Hanukkah party tonight). They were talking about how they both like the goth aesthetic but how it's frustrating to buy stuff for it if you are Jewish or Muslim, or any other non Christian group for that matter. When asked why the two of them thought that, they gave the most withering 15 year old stares ever, then said:

"Because of all the crosses... duh!"

Then they talked about how to dechristianize various aesthetics for Jews and Muslims.

I am angry as hell at all the antisemites but I am not angry as hell at Islam or Muslims. I am ranting and frothing at the mouth at the antisemites and the double standards Israel is forced to deal with, but I am not upset at reasoned criticism of the current Netanyahu led Israeli government (because fuck that guy). I hate Hamas, but I've never, ever hated Palestinians.

The only way forward is together. I will always be committed to the two state solution.Even when I am furious. Even when I feel backed into a corner.

There's got to be a better way. I want what my daughter and her friend have to not seem so rarefied. It shouldn't be, and at times, it's not. I want it to be the norm all the time though. That has to be worth fighting for.

I want Jew Haters and Islamaphobes to stop running the conversation about this. Y'all don't help, not even a little.

[serickswrites]

Hello hello! It's been a while, how have you been? I still love your writing!!

-5 croissant anon

✨️🥐🥐🥐🥐🥐✨️

Hehe! My friend! Welcome. I am upright and not crying (I recently learned this Norwegian idiom and I love it lol). How are you? I'm so glad you like what I put out there.

I hope you enjoy part 2 of 'Branded'!

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, burns, brand, unconsciousness, cruel whumper

Once Superhero was certain that Villain was completely unconscious they decided they would remove the net. They had waited so long for this moment. Though they didn't need Villain's power, they wanted to enjoy their victory.

Before they pulled the net off Villain, they grabbed their power suppression cuffs. They didn't want Villain to heal the brand. They wanted that to remain on Villain's chest forever. Forever marking Villain as theirs. They grinned as they stared at the seared flesh, the skin around the brand red and angry. They had won. They had Villain. Villain was theirs.

They cuffed Villain quickly. Superhero pulled off the net with great flourish. "You won't wake for a while yet, Villain," Superhero said as they leaned down to speak in Villain's ear, "but when you do, I will be here. I will enjoy more of your suffering. Perhaps I will burn more of my victory into your skin."

***

Hours later, Villain slowly clawed their way back to consciousness. Their chest ached beyond measure. Villain had always felt pain, but it was never long lasting as their body healed quickly. But this, this was a pain that would not go away. The brand made their chest throb and burn with each breath.

Slowly they blinked their eyes open, hoping Superhero was gone. To their surprise, Superhero wasn't in their direct line of vision. Villain tried to move, crying out as the pain in their chest became sharp and unbearable. Villain broke out in a cold sweat as they trembled on the floor.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Superhero's voice came from behind Villain.

"Yes," Villain replied. There was no point in lying. Superhero knew Villain was in pain. "What are you going to do to me?"

Superhero walked around so that Villain could see them. "Anything I want."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @giga-monty @rottenmarquee @thisisjustmywhumpreblogblog @thelazywitchphotographer

@quaggasus @interdimensional-chaos @whump321

[minhio22]

Wrong Timing

Noisy

Why was it so noisy at the company house? It was late at night anyway but it's so noisy. You had accidentally fallen asleep in one of the bedroom’s there. Opting to take a nap before you went home but you probably would've slept through the night if the noise didn't wake you up.

You groggily went down the stairs, hand on the wall guiding you. If you weren't so sleepy, so out of it, you would've noticed that the noises you heard weren't the normal banter of the company. No, it was more than that this time.

It wasn't until you were standing beside snapper that you finally registered what was going on. Snapper himself was bruised and beaten, holding the phone recording what was happening in front of you. His nose was bleeding and bruised. Ah what happened here? Some of the others were lying on the ground, beaten. And Hobin was fighting with Seongjun.

You tensed up. Why was he here? How did he get here?

Snapper seemed to be surprised that you were here. “What are you doing here Y/n? I thought you already went home? Nevermind that you need to leave! It's not safe!”

“Was napping upstairs but…” You glanced at the fight in front of you. It made you nervous. Should you leave? You couldn't really fight well other than the self defence stuff you learned from Taehun but….

Hobin was getting beat up and Snapper darted towards Seongjun only to get punched straight in the face. You stood there rooted as he looked at you.

“My, my what do we have here? A little girl? Normally I would let you go however..”

You barely dogged it as you flung yourself towards your side. If there's anything you pride yourself in it would be your reflex. But damn is he fast.

Seongjun seemed surprised at your movements. “Oh? Little girl is fast. Looks like I have to go faster.”

And he did get faster. You could only dodge and weave out of his grasp in hopes of not getting hit but you know that wasn't going to last long. You never really had been in a fight, so it was wearing you out.

Seongjun seemed to notice this and at just the right time he landed a hit on you. You didn't just stagger backwards, no. He practically flung you onto the floor where you clutched your stomach that he hit earlier. It would probably bruise. How could someone hit that hard. He landed a few more punches on you for good measure.

You didn't pass out but you definitely couldn't get up. It felt like your insides had been mixed up and burning. If you could puke you would've right there and then. Your face felt like the bones there had been under some immense pressure. Seongjun seemed to be done with you as he noticed that you weren't getting up anytime soon. Perhaps as a show of mercy from him.

He went up to Hobin who was unconscious and leaning against the window and started talking about something you didn't really understand.

You were lost in your thoughts, thinking about how much it hurts. That maybe you should've ran away when Snapper told you to. Maybe you shouldn't have been here in the first place when you couldn't even fight.

It was then when you heard glass shattering, that brought you out of your thoughts. Seongjun had been flung backwards, a bit further away from where you were. You raised your head slightly to see Taehun standing there.

He was glancing, looking around at the place. Seeing the others that had fallen. And when your eyes met, he tensed up seeing you like that.

“Taehun…” you mumbled out. You could tell he was beyond pissed as he picked up the beer can that was on the floor.

“You’re quite angry, aren't you, Seong Taehun?”

“Of course I am. I don't like it when other people touch things that are mine.”

“You're going to start misunderstandings with that wordi-”

“You're the culprit aren't you? You drank my beer.” You could only deadpan at him.

You watched him fight Seongjun with bated breath. You knew he was strong, you know he had been training ITF taekwondo with his dad but that didn't stop you from being worried. His opponent was different from your typical high school delinquent. This man was a former yakuza for crying out loud.

So far Taehun seemed to be doing fine. Dominating the fight even but that was until Seongjun grabbed his shirt but this time he wasn't slipping.

Ah he broke the glass bottle earlier so that's why.

Seongjun easily threw him over his shoulder and slammed him on the ground. “Taehun!” You squeaked out. That's gotta hurt. Seongjun walked away from him but Taehun got back up. Saying something about checking on if your enemy is dead or not first. You let out a sigh in relief.

Taehun seemed to manage to knock Seongjun out with a kick but he seemed tired out. Panting with his hands on his knees. He staggered to you with one of his hands supporting his lower back like an old man. It must've hurt him being thrown like that earlier.

Taehun kneeled beside you, pulling you into his arms. “You alright?” His gaze rove over your face, taking in the extent of your injuries.

“I've been better. You?” You gently touched his back which made his eyes soften a bit.

He didn't get to reply when you both noticed the presence of someone. Seongjun, he's still conscious?

“Seong Taehun. Where are you going? You got to check if your opponent is dead.”

Taehun instantly shoved you away, out of reach as Seongjun grabbed onto his head. That dazed you for a second until you saw that he was getting choked. You scrambled over punching Seongjun’s leg.

“Let him go!” You knew it was stupid but you didn't care. You couldn't just let this happen to him.

Seongjun clicked his tongue as he kicked at you but you didn't let go until he delivered a particularly nasty kick to you that made you stop. You curled up into yourself. It hurts so much. You think you must've broken something.

It was only a moment but you blacked out for a bit only to see Seongjun holding a pipe in his hand and Taehun’s leg in the other. You practically crawled over to him grasping on this pant leg.

“Please don't do this. Please let him go.” You were scared. That was a fact but it scared you even more if Taehun couldn't walk after this. If he broke his bones and he didn't recover properly. You couldn't face him if that happened and you just let it.

Hobin woke up and seemed to do the same thing as you did. Begging him to stop and Seongjun still had a sense of humanity as he dropped the pipe and left you guys alone. Saying that you were just kids.

You scrambled to Taehun, holding his face in your hands. He was still unconscious, his pretty face bruised slightly. Even now he still looked good somehow but it still broke your heart seeing him like this. Like that time he lost to Munseong, when he lost to Hobin. He was pretty depressed. You hoped he wouldn't be like that anymore.

A lot happened after that. Some police officers coming to arrest Seongjun, the ambulance coming to take you to the hospital, your parents fussing over your condition after you were patched up. Eventually they left when you managed to convince them that you were fine, that nothing major happened. You weren't sure if having some cracked bones was you being fine but you didn't want to worry them heedlessly, that you would live.

You sighed when your parents left, leaning further into the pillows. A lot has happened, you thought. You were staring out of the window silently until the door opened. You snapped out of your thoughts turning your head to see him standing in the doorway with his IV drip.

“What're you doing here Taehun? Aren't you supposed to be in bed? You're hurt too.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

He ignored your questions and just walked into the room nearing your bed and sat down on a stool beside you. He didn't say anything but you could tell he was thinking about something as his eyes took you in. Your bandaged form, bruised face and your busted lip. He definitely was worried about losing you but he wouldn't say that. Not now. Not when his emotions are in disarray with guilt that he couldn't protect you properly. He only managed to say one thing.

“Idiot.”

[fearfulfertility]

CONFIDENTIAL INCIDENT REPORT

DRC, Facility Operations Command, Compound Oversight Unit

Date: [REDACTED]

To: Director [REDACTED], DRC

From: Field Commander [REDACTED], FEMA Zone 7, Lincoln Unit

Subject: Incident Report: Uprising in Paternity Compound 112

Executive Summary

This report outlines the successful suppression of a surrogate rebellion within Paternity Compound 112 (formerly Nebraska [REDACTED] University). The uprising was swiftly contained despite heightened tensions. The surrogates, primarily late-term and carrying an above-average number of multiples, were incapacitated mainly by their own physical conditions, leading to minimal resistance and ensuring rapid restoration of order.

I. Incident Overview

Location: Paternity Compound 112, Nebraska, FEMA Zone 7

Timeframe: The uprising began at 6:30 AM and was fully contained within 4 hours.

Surrogates Involved: Approximately [REDACTED] surrogates were involved, with [REDACTED] individuals being the main instigators.

Primary Cause: Reports indicate the rebellion was sparked by grievances over the higher-than-usual embryo insemination quantity and perceived harm done to one "popular" surrogate.

II. Key Factors & Incident Resolution

Physical Limitations: While the initial outbreak of resistance was disorganized, the surrogates’ physical condition ultimately rendered them incapable of sustained movement. Most were too large, heavy, and immobile to participate effectively. This fact was critical in swiftly suppressing the uprising, as surrogates found coordinating or moving beyond their assigned areas challenging.

Containment Response: DRC enforcers deployed standard containment measures, utilizing non-lethal suppression tactics to control the situation. The surrogates were easily corralled back into their units. No fatalities or serious injuries (to surrogates or enforcers) were reported during the suppression phase. [REDACTED] surrogates did go into labor, gave birth, and expired since this report was compiled.

Immediate Discipline: The most vocal surrogates were sedated and isolated to prevent further agitation. The facility remains under increased security surveillance, with all surrogates under tighter control protocols.

III. Incident Timeline

05:45 AM: Overnight staff reported early signs of unrest. Several surrogates were observed agitated and exhibiting increased verbal defiance. Facility security was heightened as a precaution.

"They were on edge, becoming angry or shouting without much prodding. We figured it was just the usual complaints... nothing we couldn’t handle." - Officer [REDACTED], Night Watch

----------------

06:30 AM: Tensions spiked when a new batch of surrogates arrived and mixed with existing residents. When it becomes apparent to the residents that most of the new arrivals are carrying 12-16 babies each, anxiety and agitation spike. Facility staff notified the Field Commander [REDACTED] of the concerned behavior.

"The mood shifted fast. When the new group arrived, you could feel the tension. I could tell some regulars were livid." - Sgt. [REDACTED], Surveillance Team

----------------

07:15 AM: Tensions escalated when a popular surrogate went into active labor. Enforcers delayed removing him from the area (computer records failure), leading to visible distress and outcry from other surrogates. The situation was aggravated further when Enforcers made callous comments about the surrogate’s size, mocking how “large and fat” he had become. Approximately [REDACTED] surrogates began to converge, blocking the main entrance of Paternity Ward [REDACTED].

"It was supposed to be routine grab and go, but the poor guy was about to burst. Then, one of our own had to start cracking jokes. That’s when everything went south. The rest of them just snapped." - Enforcer [REDACTED], Central Wing Security

----------------

07:30 AM: First breach of control. Surrogates began throwing items, verbally abusing staff, dismantling barriers, and physically attacking medical staff. Security personnel responded, issuing warnings and moving to intercept.

"They were yelling, almost incoherently. It was just like raw emotion boiling over. Thankfully, most of them were so pregnant they could barely stand. We didn’t take them seriously until they started pushing past the barriers." - Sgt. [REDACTED], Response Unit

----------------

07:45 AM: Civil disorder spreads to Parternity Wards [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. Reinforcements were dispatched to contain the situation and resort order. Due to the sheer physical size and immobility of most surrogates, their attempts to advance were limited, with several going into active labor as they struggled to move.

"It was almost pitiful. They were too big... too slow... almost all of them were winded before they could give us any real resistance. Most were so big they could only pass through doors one at a time, or they'd get themselves stuck. We just had to hold the line and watch them tire themselves out." - Officer [REDACTED], Reinforcement Squad

----------------

08:00 AM: More strenuous containment protocols activated. Enforcers deployed non-lethal suppression measures, including tranquilizers, crowd-control barriers, and exploiting prenatal nymphomania, to corral surrogates back into the paternity ward.

"We had the tools ready, but it was overkill. A few of them were so far along they could hardly walk, let alone fight. Still, we couldn’t risk letting them organize." - Lt. [REDACTED], Commanding Officer

----------------

08:20 AM: A significant group of surrogates attempted to barricade themselves inside the main mess hall, but due to the heavy physical burden of late-term pregnancies, they were unable to maintain an effective blockade. Security teams quickly cleared the obstruction.

"They tried to block us out, but you could see they were struggling just to stay upright. A few even dozed off from exhaustion, and two got distracted by hunger and started gorging on what was meant to be lunch. We cleared them out in less than ten minutes." - Enforcer [REDACTED], Central Wing Security

----------------

08:45 AM: Civil disorder declared under control. The majority of surrogates had been subdued and returned to their units. Several agitators were sedated and moved to isolated paternity wards for disciplinary action.

"Once we got the agitators out of the way, the rest just... gave up. They knew they didn’t have a chance. The best they could do was sit on us and hope their fat bellies smothered us." - Sgt. [REDACTED], Response Unit

----------------

09:15 AM: The facility lockdown was lifted. Enforcers conducted sweep inspections to ensure all surrogates were accounted for and secured. Reports confirmed no significant damage to the facility or escape attempts beyond the central access point.

"Routine sweeps confirmed it: they were back in their units, and everything was quiet... a lot of crying and whining for food. It was almost eerie like the whole thing had never happened." - Lt. [REDACTED], Facility Oversight

----------------

IV. Facility Status and Future Precautions

"The same issues that triggered the rebellion ironically were the same factor that ensured its swift failure, as the surrogates' own physical conditions rendered them ineffective rebels." - Field Commander [REDACTED]

Current Facility Status: Operations have fully resumed. The facility was not significantly damaged, and the surrogates have been returned to order.

Security Adjustments: Additional security personnel have been deployed, and increased monitoring of the surrogates’ psychological state has been mandated to identify signs of future unrest.

Policy Recommendations:

▪ Adjust Communication Channels: Control information flow among surrogates to limit rumors spread within the facility. Implement regular check-ins to provide controlled updates or propaganda to reduce panic and misinformation. ▪ Regular Evaluations: Increased oversight and potential isolation of late-term surrogates about to give birth. ▪ Evaluation of Insemination Practices: Review current insemination standards to prevent future overstrain. While higher embryo counts increase birth output, they may also elevate the risk of provoking resistance.

Conclusion

While the uprising in Lincoln was contained quickly, it underscores the potential dangers of pushing surrogates beyond their physical limits. The facility’s decision to increase embryo counts contributed to the unrest but inadvertently ensured the rebellion’s failure. The DRC must balance productivity with stability, ensuring that surrogates remain physically capable of compliance, even as we seek to maximize output. Additional surveillance and controlled information channels will be vital in maintaining order.

Report submitted by: Field Commander [REDACTED], Lincoln Unit, FEMA Zone 7

----------------

Sending…

Sending...

Sending...

Read…

----------------

To: Assistant Director [REDACTED], Lincoln Unit, FEMA Zone 7

From: Director [REDACTED], DRC

Subject: Response to Surrogate Uprising Report

Field Commander [REDACTED],

I have reviewed your report on the recent uprising within the Lincoln facility, and I must express my displeasure at the situation. Such incidents reflect poorly on the DRC’s capacity to maintain order, and it is imperative that all units operate without disruption to ensure the eventual survival of our nation.

The delay in removing the surrogate in active labor and the subsequent provocation by your personnel were avoidable missteps. In light of this, I am dispatching a special assessment team to Lincoln to thoroughly review the facility’s operations, security protocols, and staff conduct.

They will be empowered to make recommendations for disciplinary action where necessary and provide guidance on how to prevent similar disruptions in the future.

That said, your report has also highlighted an intriguing outcome.

The extreme size and weight of the surrogates, carrying 12-16 babies each, clearly played a significant role in ensuring that the situation remained manageable. Their physical incapacity, due to the high-multiples pregnancies, was evidently a decisive factor in keeping this incident from escalating further.

The assessment team will also examine the potential benefits of intentionally increasing embryo counts to control more rebellious compounds or cities elsewhere in the country. If surrogates carrying higher multiples can be rendered less mobile and more compliant, we may have a strategic advantage in maintaining order without excessive force.

While high-multiples pregnancies have their logistical challenges, their ability to limit resistance could prove invaluable to our overall mission.

I expect full cooperation from you and your staff during the assessment, and I trust you understand the importance of this review.

The DRC must remain vigilant, adaptable, and ready to implement whatever measures are necessary to ensure compliance and stability.

Regards, Director [REDACTED], DRC

----------------

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

[hoboblaidd]

@skyheld asked: The motions are familiar, but the feelings are new. Once he would have approached the statue with respect and some reverence, not like a worshiper their deity, not for a blessing but for guidance. Fen'harel, we walk in your footsteps. Fen'harel, we let you show the way. Fen'harel, we remember, even if others don't. There would have been a measure of caution, because one should not trust the Dread wolf fully. There would have been pride. Now, as he sits in front of the wolf statue, he tastes only bitterness.

"Fen'harel", he says, and closes his eyes. "That is how you want to be known, isn't it? You seem intent on making the elves of my time wrong, and the Dalish of now perfectly right about you. Not the rebel fighting for the People's rights, but the Dread-wolf, stalking their dreams. If you wanted to be Solas..."

Solas. He remembers a man, soft-spoken, kind—most of the time. He remembers thinking it was good that Dhavi had chosen not some powerful emperor who'd one day choose his empire over her, but an ordinary person with ordinary ambitions who would have no reason to betray her. He didn't believe that after he found out the truth, but Abelas told him there was still more to him and—he tried to believe that, because he trusts them. And all those former slaves they he sent them, must they not mean something? After all these years, he is still that naive.

But appealing to emotion is not why he is here. "It seems to me that Casadh is our greatest hope, maybe our only hope, to save both the world that is and the one you want. And that it will take all they have to save it. So. Tell me why with every night that passes they seem to become more and more of a shadow. Tell me why they say you are in their dreams and that—they don't say you hurt them. I see their pain. I-"

He falters.

There were so many angry things he wanted to say. Now that he's talking they slip from his mind, all that justified anger, and his voice drops into a whisper. "Is this how it is? Between Dhavi and Casadh, am I always to be left watching those I love suffer at your hands? You can be kind, Abelas still says so. Or you can pretend to be kind. If it was a mask, was it really that uncomfortable that you cannot put it on again?"

-------------------

The approach of a petitioner or supplicant was a familiar feeling. In Ameridan’s time, Fen’harel had felt it from uthenera as the ragged wolf wandered the Fade. Now, trapped not in sleep but by magic, his own magic, he felt it again.

“No more than you wished to be known as Inquisitor,” Solas said evenly, his voice carried by the ancient magic he had woven into his stone visage. “I did not craft the legends of your people, nor those of the Dalish. I never sought to be worshipped or maligned. I have only ever been a man trying to free his people. A goal that I have remained steadfast in since before even your recorded histories. You know war as well as I, Inquisitor. You know none of this is as simple as the stories would paint it to be.”

But for all his practiced nonchalance, his insistence that a legend was never the goal, Solas hated the enduring picture the Evanuris had painted of him. Their lies persisted longer than his own. Yes, it bothered him to be remembered as the coward, the villain. And yes, he had mourned in the Beyond when those elves of Ameridan’s time, those who knew him as harellan rather than traitor, had been destroyed. Both for the loss of his memory, and another regret for failing his people.

“Casadh?” he repeated dimly. “You know Rook?”

It was a twist of opportunity. Ameridan knew Casadh. All Solas had learned of them was secondhand, or now what they would reveal in dreams. Varric had taught them to play their hand well. They were careful, but not impervious. His progress with them was steady, if slow. But now Ameridan could give him more. How unexpected. 

“What am I meant to do?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Ameridan's mention of Dhavi, choosing instead to focus on his goal. As ever. “Treat gently one who caged me and released the greatest evil this world has seen? They have invaded my home as readily as an enemy. Yet the only hurt I inflict, as you charge, is that I refuse to act the simpering servant, grateful for any scraps of conversation they might throw my way.

“You ask me to pretend - to lie.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “Which of us is playing into the Dalish legends now, I wonder.” 

Abelas still says so. They had lived in the world as it should be, had seen firsthand the brutality of the ‘gods’ Rook had unleashed, and t he unspeakable horrors of the Blight. The Right and Left Hands of Mythal were united again in mission. Or at least, Solas hoped they were. He could not bear another betrayal.

“Very well: tell me why I ought show them kindness, then, feigned or otherwise. What makes this child worthy of your protection? Why should I forgive the one who has chained me?”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for editing my sister’s college essay?

[☀️🛟🎓 to find it later]

I (22f) have a younger sister (17f) applying to college this fall. Her english class recently gave an assignment that was essentially “write your common app”. For context, I am known for editing college application essays, I have done so for several family friends, and I don’t pull punches. As such, I asked if I could help edit her essay, and she agreed.

It was a great essay!! I helped her out with some smaller grammatical things and to tighten up sentences, and she submitted the class assignment.

Here’s where I may be the asshole. Later that night I kept rereading the essay, and I noticed a few issues in the middle portion. I wound up heavily editing the essay on my own document to make the emotions came across clearer and to tie in some key metaphors.

The next day, I wound up asking if I should share this document with her, and she ended up agreeing. I tried to give her an out because I could tell she was a bit annoyed, but she insisted that I share it now that I brought it up. Immediately after I shared it she called me crying, saying that she felt as though I had steamrolled over her work. She was sad because she liked it, and angry that I butted in. To be frank, I did inject too much of my own voice into this rewritten essay.

My sister has admitted to feeling very pressured when compared to me, as I achieved a lot academically and have a steady career. My parents and I have tried to reassure her that she is not expected to emulate me, but no matter how many times we say it, she won’t internalize that I am NOT a bar she needs to measure up to. She doesn’t seem to realize that I struggled and failed so many times in so many ways b/c she didn’t actually see it; she was too young at the time.

I want her to grow beyond what I could achieve, and I want her to be confident in herself. She’s incredibly smart, but she thinks I’m smarter because we have different strengths and she devalues her own.

I feel guilty because it was not my intention to “lord over her” by writing her essay “better”; our writing styles are different, but her essay came across as dry and I wanted to give an example of how she could inject more emotion into the turning point, which is arguably the most important part of a college essay. However, I fear she took it badly, and I should have been more careful given how she views me.

I really don’t want her to make the same mistakes I did with my college applications, and I know that getting into college has become incredibly difficult post-pandemic. Objectively, some of her test scores are below where mine were, and her extracurriculars, while good, are slightly “less” than what her peers are doing (our high school is extremely competitive) so I want to ensure her essays are as polished and punchy as possible to give her the best shot at getting into the colleges she wants. We’re not hiring any college application tutors, so I’m the only major mentor she has for this, since our parents did not attend college in the US.

My sister and I def talked it out and we both apologized to each other, so we’re all good. I admitted to being too pushy, she admitted to not handling criticism well and putting me on a pedestal, and we both agreed to handle essay help differently in the future.

AITA here? On the one hand, I was harsh in my delivery and should have given her more opportunity to edit using her voice instead of forcibly tossing mine into the mix. One the other hand, college apps are getting tougher and tougher and she needs as much help as she can get (not a dig at her intelligence, everyone needs help these days). Though sis and I worked it out, I’m curious to know what the general opinion is.

[puckpocketed]

MISTAKE checking twitter. sorry i’m actually done firing warning shots about this. never forget there are no moral high grounds to take in ice hockey where everyone is party to horrific retributive violence borne from a warped idea of masculinity and camaraderie. there is no fucking place in ANY sport for this sort of thing. jesus fucking christ. how can any fan look at that fight and default to “it’s fine because it’s my team and it was revenge”. everything we’ve ever been told about head injuries should be enough for universal condemnation. what the fuck is this. am i insane? am i crazy for thinking this way?

let go of your stupid sports team loyalties. these are athletes at work and their bodies are their livelihoods. these are PEOPLE. the rotten expectation that anyone should “answer the bell” is fucked beyond measure, actually, and i’m sick of people expecting me to drink the kool aid about it. there’s intrigue there, there’s poetry, there’s something that compels — and yet i find i don’t care about honour codes when i see people saying anyone deserved that. i don’t care. fuck me. what are we doing here saying a kid deserved to be pulled down and beaten? what are we DOING? i like both of these teams. they are dear to me. i’m angry that it even has to be said but none of those senseless and hate-fueled reactions are warranted and i don’t associate myself with any of it. christ alive. WHAT ARE WE DOING.