#I am not already kinning both of them no

[pixel-yuri-ceo]

i’ll make a pinned post later fuck off

okay well one thing i’ll clarify ig

i do SEMI-ic with this blog? mostly in a kin way. so if a tag is tagged with ‘- S’ at the end, it’s STAT, and if it’s tagged with ‘- M’ at the end, it’s melanie. doesn’t really matter much tho

[violet-jessop]

insane that once a month i lose my mind alongside my uterus' lining

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

I mean me too but not for the same reason as OP

admittedly closer to Henderson's reasoning (I want to study these boys like BUGS and also have a very long talk with them)

it's actually so funny that hendriksen chained them together and locked them in a tiny cell with one tiny bed thats exactly what i would do to them too if given the chance

they are literally right where i want them

[asherasgayagenda]

Probs Kohaku or Aira.

anon you’re so neat for saying that (i agree)

ask game

[pathologicalreid]

next of kin | S.R.

disaster strikes and you and Spencer try to take custody of your younger sister

part two

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: actually might be gn! but i'm too scared to say it is. death, orphan-ing, funerals, child custody issues, blood, general cm violence, like actually an abhorrent amount of death. sorry i killed your parents for the sake of my fanfiction can we still be friends? word count: 3.33k a/n: this is the fic that this post is about. i am in fact my own worst enemy. i hope y'all like it actually genuinely i am most definitely overthinking this. if your name is maya im sorry that sucks.

“What did your parents say?” Spencer asked, walking into the conference room that the local precinct had offered to you.

You had been staring blankly at your phone since you got off the call with your mother, “Uh, they said thanks, but no thanks.”

The uneasy feeling had settled in your stomach as soon as you found out the team was being called to your hometown, and you had been nauseous ever since you found out the UnSub’s pattern.

Married couples with an older child who had moved out and a younger child who was still at home.

Your little sister was a surprise, you had incorrectly assumed your parents were done having kids.

Until today, you wouldn’t have traded Maya for the world, but now you sat in fear of your family being targeted by a serial killer. Hotch had offered them a protective detail, but they declined. Self-righteous as they were, they told you it wouldn’t feel right for them to accept help that couldn’t be offered to everyone.

Clenching your jaw, you stood at the table, “I’ll go by later and check in on them.”

Spencer had met your family twice by now. Last Christmas he had tagged along to meet them and celebrate with your family before the two of you spent New Year’s with his mom. Then, while your sister was on Spring Break, they flew out to Virginia, and you and Spencer had shown your family around Quantico and the District.

Maya had loved Spencer, partially because you loved him, but mostly because of his magic tricks.

“Do you want me to go with you?” He asked, stepping up next to you and placing a hand on the small of your back.

You sighed and shook your head, “No, not if you’re needed here.” You reached up and cupped his cheek, smiling softly, “Thank you for offering, Spence.”

He nodded affirmatively, “If you change your mind,” he offered. Gently, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before the two of you returned to the rest of the team.

The fact that your parents lived only five minutes from the police station gave you some relief, but you still felt tightly wound. Everyone had noticed. You just needed this case to be over.

The porch lights were on when you got there, and you used your house key – which you had never taken off of your keychain - to open the front door. “Hey, kiddo,” your dad greeted from the couch. A peek into the kitchen showed you that your mom was wiping down the counters. It all felt so eerily normal.

It was dark by the time you had gotten there. Maya was already asleep, but you tip-toed into her room anyway and kissed her goodnight before going back downstairs. Once you had hugged both of your parents and told them you loved them, you made your way back to the police precinct.

By nearly three in the morning, there was no new information, and the team was starting to consider calling it a night until the police chief got a call.

“We just got a call. Lady reported shouts coming from her neighbor’s house at 86 Meadowbrook,” he informed you, putting his hands on his hips and looking around at the team.

None of them even spared him a returning glance, everyone’s eyes were on you.

Blinking rapidly, you nodded assuredly, “I have to go get Maya.” You didn’t even recognize your voice even as you said it. It couldn’t have been your voice. That was the rasp of someone far away from you.

All of the other voices around you were muffled, you couldn’t hear what people were telling you, let alone understand them.

Maya. Maya. Maya.

Brown eyes. There they were, right in front of your face. “Let’s go get her,” Spencer whispered.

You had been speaking out loud. Repeating your sister’s name like a prayer without even realizing it.

Hotch let you go with them, but he made it abundantly clear to you – and the rest of the team – that you weren’t working this case anymore.

Surrounded by reverent voices in an SUV, JJ drove while Spencer stayed in the back with you. He held your hand tightly in his.

The house was closed off with police tape. Bright yellow plastic fluttered in the wind as you watched your team and other emergency personnel enter and exit. At your insistence, Spencer went in to get Maya, it felt like it had been hours before he walked out, carrying her in his arms.

Carefully, he brought her to you, and you pulled her close to your chest, blocking her eyesight as two body bags were brought out of the house.

You didn’t hear anything after that. You just let yourself be moved to wherever you needed to be, holding your kid sister as she cried for your parents.

They had to take their bodies to the hospital even though they were already gone, and you needed to be the one to confirm their identities. Spencer stayed with Maya while you were busy. She had cried herself to the point of exhaustion, you were grateful that she was sleeping, and then you felt cruel.

By sunrise, she was still asleep, and you had been set up in that same conference room from earlier. Sitting across from you was a social worker, a representative of the state. Your lips had parted in shock as you looked at her, “What do you mean they denied my request?”

In an attempt to be helpful, JJ worked with you to file an emergency request for custody of Maya, and the case worker had just told you that the request was denied. “The state doesn’t believe your request is valid,” she told you.

Your mouth went dry, “I don’t…” you glanced over at your little sister. “Our parents were murdered last night, and they won’t let me take custody of my sister?” You asked indignantly, peering at the social worker. It wasn’t her fault, somewhere in your grief-ridden brain you knew that, but you couldn’t help the feeling that she was somehow your enemy.

“They don’t believe you can provide her with a stable living environment,” the social worker, Brittany, explained.

Narrowing your eyes, you responded, “A stable living environment like a foster home? I’m her sister. We’re family – the only family each other has left.” You stood up, excusing yourself for a moment before walking out of the precinct. Once you were outside, you promptly hurled into the bushes.

That was how he found you, to the side of the building with your hair haphazardly moved out of your face, dry heaving into the shrubbery. Gently, Spencer placed a hand on your back before starting to rub small circles on your back, “You should eat something, love.”

You just shook your head in response, you weren’t hungry. “They won’t let me take her,” you whispered morosely, straightening up, you kept your back facing him.

“What?” He asked, his hand abruptly stopping its movement on your back.

Taking a deep breath and sitting on the curb, you looked up at Spencer. “The state thinks I’m not stable enough to take her in,” you said, resting your chin in your hands.

Your boyfriend crouched down so that he could sit next to you, “Are you going to challenge it?”

“Of course I am,” you cried. “But what happens to her in the interim, Spence? She gets placed with whatever foster home here and I go back to Virginia? I see her when the family court resolves this in two years?”

Treading carefully, Spencer cleared his throat, “What are you going to do?”

Defeated, you shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m…” your voice trailed off. “My parents are dead, Spencer,” you murmured softly, tears welling in your eyes.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, “I know, darling. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” you whispered, leaning gently into him.

Spencer turned to kiss your temple, “It’s a good thing you’re not alone then. I’m not going anywhere.” He waited for a moment before continuing, “Give me something to do. Give me a job to take off of your shoulders.”

In the end, you let Spencer take over funeral planning. He thanked you for trusting him before the both of you went back into the precinct.

You had just hung up with a family lawyer who had offered to take your case, letting your phone drop to the floor, you let your arms hang at your side. Someone had taken Maya to get breakfast while you spoke with the lawyer.

At the sound of the phone falling to the floor, Spencer stepped into the conference room, letting the door click shut before him. “Hey, what did he say?”

Pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, you took in a deep breath, “Um, he said he’d be willing to take the case if I could put together a case plan to present before the judge.”

Before that phone call, you didn’t know what a case plan was, you could’ve gone your whole life without knowing what a case plan was.

“I need a year-long plan for how I’m going to prepare to have Maya in my custody, but he said a year is the best he can do,” you said, staring blankly at the wall ahead of you. “A year?” You whispered aimlessly, “I’m not waiting a fucking year to take custody of her. I have to take her home, Spence. I have to.” It wasn’t your intention to snipe at him, but you felt like you couldn’t help yourself.

The events of the last twelve hours threatened to take you down, but you had to stay strong for Maya.  

Taking a shaky breath, you looked up at Spencer, “Why is it that every time I convince myself that it’s going to be okay, I get tossed to the ground again?” You asked him.

Maybe because you weren’t fully convinced. Maybe it was because it had only been seven hours. You needed to remind yourself of that.

“She’s a ward of the state?” Spencer asked for clarification, holding you tightly.

Nodding absentmindedly, you rested your head on his shoulder as he swayed gently. “She can stay with me until after the funeral, and after that, she has to go with the social worker.”

The sad look on Spencer’s face told you that he was running out of ideas, and you were coming to the very same conclusion. “We could get married,” he offered.

“Stop, Spence,” you said, shaking your head. You couldn’t believe this was where he was going.

He shrugged helplessly, “I’m serious, Y/N. If we get married, they might think we’re stable, as a couple. They might give us custody.”

Your shoulders slumped, “I don’t want to get married just to get custody of my sister.” It certainly wasn’t that you didn’t want to marry Spencer, just not like this.

He nodded understandingly, “I know, but I’m just saying. If that’s what it takes, then I’ll do it.” Placing a comforting hand on your knee, the two of you sat in silence for a moment. “Do you have any ideas?” He asked you carefully.

Looking through the blinds of the conference room, you saw the rest of the team coming back to the precinct. Setting your jaw, you nodded, “I might.”

Opening the door, you had Maya go in with Spencer while you approached your Unit Chief. “Hey,” Hotch said, a glint of sympathy in his eyes. “How are you holding up?” He pulled you away from the people, wanting to give you privacy.

This wasn’t fair, they were still working on an active case. A case that was disturbingly close to you, and yet, you felt you were out of options. “I need a favor,” you blurted to him, wringing your hands. Your nervous energy made it impossible for you to stay still.

Hotch nodded, “What do you need?” He asked, studying your composure with the eye of a profiler.

You took a deep breath, “I was… I need you to call in a favor with someone. Anyone, really. The state won’t let me take custody of Maya, but I can’t let her become a ward of the state. Not when I’m right here, ready, willing, and able to take her.”

“Okay,” he responded, not even pausing to think about it.

Taken aback, you looked at him curiously, “I- that’s it? I had groveling prepared.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly as if he was trying to tell you it wasn’t necessary. “You’ve been a part of this team for years and not once have you ever asked for anything in return for everything you do for everyone else. This is the least I can do,” he told you.

You couldn’t help it. Overwhelmed, you tackled Hotch in a bear hug, “Thank you.” Your voice was low, “Thank you so much.”

Succinctly, Hotch hugged you back before you pulled away, “I’ll go make some calls.”

It was the smell.

The smell that you’d sensed countless times before on the job, the metallic tang of the blood. It should’ve been mostly dried by now – you supposed you were more susceptible to the scent, considering it was your parent’s blood, but it put you on high alert.

Emily had brought you by so that you could pack a bag for Maya, but you found yourself stuck on the landing. To one side, there was your childhood bedroom and Maya’s room. On the other side, there was your parent’s room.

“Y/N?” Emily called your name from downstairs, “Are you alright?”

No, you wanted to say, but you bit your tongue, scanning the house you had grown up in. “This doesn’t belong here,” you told her, glancing behind you as she made her way up the staircase.

You didn’t have gloves, so instead you pointed at the figurine that was resting on the bookshelves, a little bear facing in the direction of your parent’s bedroom door. “This is in the wrong spot?”

Nodding, your eyes followed the ceramic bear as Emily picked it up with a gloved hand. “It’s mine, it should be in my room,” you informed her. Your parents never changed anything about your childhood bedroom, not since you moved out. “It was like it was watching them,” you thought aloud.

“Do you think the UnSub did it?” She asked you gently, her voice was low but steady.

Blinking rapidly, you kept your eyes focused on the figurine, “Little Bear,” you murmured, “They called her Little Bear.”

Emily shook her head in confusion, dark hair swaying as her head moved. “Who was called Little Bear?”

Dropping the bag you had packed to the floor, you buried your face in your hands, “I should’ve seen it sooner.” The victimology, it all suddenly made sense to you. “When I was a kid, there was a family like mine. A brother who was in his twenties when his parents had another baby, a girl. They called her Little Bear.”

Realization dawned on Emily’s dark features, “Like this bear?”

You picked up the bag and started making your way back down the stairs. “Their mother made those figurines. The parents died in a fire two weeks ago – they left everything to the younger sister. It was all over the news. God, I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

“Hey,” Emily said sympathetically, “You had other things going on. None of this was your fault.” Her voice was stern, harsher than you’d ever heard her, as she pulled out her phone and called the team.

Your teammate drove, passing the police station on the way to drop you off. They left for the takedown, and you felt yourself floating into the precinct. Maya was waiting in the conference room for you, watching cartoons on someone’s laptop.

Kneeling in front of your little sister, you tapped the space bar, pausing the video. “Hey, kiddo,” you whispered, reaching over, and smoothing her hair away from her face. “How are you feeling?”

She had cried herself to sleep earlier, and you felt like you hadn’t been around enough. Maya sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes, they were red, but not teary. “I miss mommy,” she told you, pouting slightly.

You nodded gently, moving to sit next to her before you pulled her into your lap. At six years old, she was all gangly limbs, just starting to grow into her own person. Just old enough to understand death, “I know, baby. I miss them too.”

“They wouldn’t lemme go home,” she continued, leaning her head on your shoulder. “I wanted Thumper,” she whined, sounding younger than she was.

Looking up at the light, you silently begged for your tears to go away. “I got him for you,” you told her, reaching into your bag and producing the small stuffed bunny that you had given her as a baby.

You savored the way her eyes lit up as she grabbed the stuffed animal from you.

“So, you and Thumper are gonna come to stay with me in Virginia. Do you remember going there? You said you liked it?” You kept smoothing her hair back as she held her toy.

She was silent for a moment, “Will Spencer be there?” She asked quietly.

Smiling slightly, you nodded, “He and I live together, so he’ll be there with us.” Slowly, you started rocking back and forth, trying to soothe the both of you simultaneously.

“As long as he doesn’t pull money out of my ear,” she answered succinctly, shutting her eyes as she leaned up against you.

There was approximately an hour before you watched the team return to the precinct, slowly, you laid Maya down on the couch before walking out. “It was a clean shoot,” you heard Rossi tell Morgan, and one look at the rest of them told you everything you needed to know.

The team went back to the hotel, and Spencer filled you in on the funeral arrangements he had made on your behalf. You were about to try to get some sleep when Hotch approached you and told you he needed to speak to you.

“I called a good friend of mine on your behalf, and he gave me some information. We were able to work out a plan,” he told you, sitting across from you in the hotel lobby.

You were about to tell him that a case plan wouldn’t work, but he held his hand out, telling you to wait.

He nodded before he kept going, “He was able to file an emergency request to grant you temporary custody of Maya, and it was granted.”

You felt sick to your stomach, “She’s mine?”

“Temporarily, you’ll have to take care of some formalities back in Virginia, but you have full custody of her,” he informed you. “You’re being granted family leave, and I’ve encouraged Reid to apply for it as well,” Hotch told you, reaching out and placing a hand on your shoulder. “I am… I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this but thank you for coming to me when you needed the help.”

You nodded absentmindedly, your head still whirling with the information that you had just been given. Stumbling, you walked back to your hotel room that you were sharing with Spencer and Maya.

The funeral was planned, the custody issue was solved, all there was left to do was…

“Baby?” Spencer said softly as you swung open the door, “Everyone else took Maya to get ice cream, I figured it couldn’t-“ his voice broke off at your first sob.

Everything you had held in came bursting out, all of the grief and stress and exhaustion nearly knocked your legs out from underneath you.

But Spencer was there to catch you.

part two

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[ursacanid]

I generally encourage everyone to recycle and therians are no exception.

It is a beautiful experience to make something new out of what you already have. Cardboard, cans, soda tabs, plastic, boring and/or damaged clothes.

General tip: You can mix laundry softener and acrylic paint to make fabric paint. It may fade over several washes, but the paint keeps very well if placed in a container in the fridge.

I am starting a youtube channel called UrsaCanid where I will be giving tutorials on some of this list as well as video essays about therianthropy and hopefully therian interviews down the line.

Here are some ideas for ways to create joy out of junk:

1. Masks. Thin cadboard like from cereal boxes are perfect for masks and BirdyDogs has youtube tutorial on both feline and canine cardboard masks.

2. T-shirt yarn tails. Look up how to make t-shirt yarn and keep the strad thin. Then follow the typical yarn tail instructions minus brushing it out.

3. Claws. This can be made of either just cardboard or cardboard and metal from a soda can. Either method uses a good bit of hot glue. It is difficult to explain over text, but generally you make a ring out of cardboard for each of your fingers (marking which one is which) then you form the claw with your chosen other material. You then apply it and build it up with hotglue. Fingernail polish works really well for coloring them afterward. I will have a tutorial for this up soon.

4. Make your own kin plush out of t-shirt material and put something important or meaningful inside like at build a bear. You can then paint it or sew on buttons or random trinkets.

5. Paint. Your. Clothes.

6. Collect tiny junk like soda tabs, bread clasps, bottle caps, etc and make jewlery or a sensory jar. This is a particularly scavenger aimed activity.

7. Put packaging that has your theriotype on it up as wall decorations. If it's plastic, sew it onto stuff like a patch.

8. Be resourceful. Nothing, and i mean NOTHING, has only one purpose.

Sploot wide, kick hide, take pride

-UrsaCanid

[gladiatorcunt]

summary: (dark lite) heir!jacaerys x afab servant!reader

cw: sweat/jace being a weirdo about it, dubcon, frottage, implied virginity loss, intentional use of minimal valyrian & i used a translator so don’t come for me, implications of jace intending to marry reader with or without their consent/reader thinking this is just sex but 💀, he didn’t say it but he would kill his family to make you queen, power imbalance (sorry y’all i just like it), wrote this at a vibrator’s pace (/j) so there are zero thoughts behind it

wc: 888 (✨🕯️)

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not translate, repost, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

“I am not certain about this, Jace…” You mumble, tugging at his sleeve so he’ll stop running towards his chambers. “I have to perform my duties in the kitchen, there is hardly time for this.”

Jacaerys Velaryon disarms you with a charming smile, too genuine and heartfelt to not return.

“No one will notice if I arrive at dinner a tad later than usual, there is no need to worry.”

The door is swiftly opened and shut in the blink of an eye. You find yourself gathered up in the prince’s arms and the swat to your bottom urges you to wrap your legs around his waist.

King’s Landing’s sweltering sun beats down on you from the window. Minuscule beads of sweat have already accumulated at your brow. Jacaerys hunches over you to lap them up as if he were a thirsty mutt, you can only wrinkle your nose in aversion.

“Perhaps we should allow ourselves time to get to know each other before we do this, my prince.” You attempt to convince him, upholding your mother’s belief that intimacy is to be between married folks only. It does not mean you shudder in repulsion at the thought of Jacaerys making love to you. Only that your shame will always best your lust in battle.

“Yet I feel as if I have already known you for a lifetime, issa rūklon (my flower).” He whispers, brushing a hand against the blossom he had tucked behind your ear. The pronunciation is not as confident as someone like his mother’s.

Innocent walks in the gardens with a prince were only a gateway to depravity, you suppose.

You breath hitches when his lips ghost along your collarbone. You would do well to remember that Jaceaery has the potential to be as much of a dragon as the rest of his strange kin.

Your trembling hands clutch at the prince’s bare shoulders. His clothes tossed aside with little care, all of his attention on you. To push him away or bring him closer… you are wracked with indecision.

“Shh, be calm. You are the safest you have ever been, in my arms and in my bed.” The constant repetition of possessiveness is heightened by the glint of gold in Jacaerys’s irises.

“Lift your hips for me, ābrazyrys (wife).” Your brow furrows at the unfamiliar pet name, but you pay it no mind.

Your flimsy dress glides down your body, the cheap strings tying it together are in tatters.

Jacaerys offers you no respite and instead brings both of your wrists together in one hand, pinning them to the bed over your head.

“I am still a maiden, my prince, I have never even kissed a man before.” You nervously say.

His adoring smile widens, “I know, it is the same reason I decline offers to visit the brothels. Our firsts were meant to be shared with each other.”

The soft glow of candlelight illuminates Jacaerys hovering over you, allowing the sexual tension to build. Your grip on his shoulders slackens and you weave your calloused fingers into his brown hair.

If only you knew how much it reminded Jacaerys of his mother’s wedding to Daemon, the looks they exchanged as they tied their souls together.

“We have all the time in the world.” He reassures you, despite the fact that it was obviously not true. “I’ll be gentle”.

You gasp as he cups your cheek with his free hand and gently drops his body weight onto you.

He seizes your lips in a bruising kiss that you would have previously thought him incapable of. The roughness of his tongue entangling with yours drives you to tighten your hold on his hair and pull it. Jacaerys moans at the infliction of pain and rubs his naked flesh against you. The friction of the slow movements are suddenly frustrating, you feel the oddest desire for him to move faster.

You whine in unison with him when you separate from the kiss, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips. He licks it away with a flick of his tongue as he eyes bore into yours.

“Does that feel good, ābrazyrys (wife)? Your cunt is becoming wetter by the second.” He laughs, not cruelly, and continues grinding against your body.

“Yes…. my prince…. it feels …. so, mmm- amazing.” You struggle to reply, he was not even inside you and yet here you were bearing a striking resemblance to an animal in heat.

The sweat that your bodies produce makes the rutting sloppy, you have to frequently regain your hold on Jacaerys. His cock glides over your cunt and you throw your head back on the pillows. Something wet and sticky is smearing all over your belly every time he ruts against you.

This goes on until your body tenses up, your eyes widen and it is as if your gut clenches. Foolishly, you tug at his hair again but he just mouths ‘Yes!’ with his eyes screwed shut tightly as he keeps grinding. Your cunt pulses and a mix of white and clear fluid erupts from it and drips down to greet Jacaerys’s balls. His pace stutters then he glances down at the sight.

“Gods…. you served me a great deal. It is surely delicious, but I do hope that you are ready for me to return the favor.”

[bitkahuna]

The hobbit sighed, somewhat defeated. He understood why Thorin was concerned. Bilbo likely wouldn’t see grey hairs until Thorin is mostly grey. But another part of him couldn’t possibly understand. Why would Thorin’s age be a bad thing? He’s made it clear he finds the age and the greys attractive. “One day, you will be old. I will be, too. But not in the same way. And I will spend my days tending and caring for you, and I will be just as happy as I am now.”

Thorin looked at him, expression softening slightly. It was a sweet thought. His golden years spent with an enamored young hobbit at his side, the both of them likely still working as advisors to one of Thorin’s nephews. Frodo and his family visiting as often as possible. Or, maybe, they’d retire to the Shire and he’d try his hand at hobbit life. “One day, I will not be able to run and fuck like I once could.”

“Thorin, what is this?” He asked plainly. “Are you trying to dissuade me? Do you think I don’t know what will happen? Because I do. I do, and it breaks my heart that your body and mind may give before you pass, but damn you, I will remain by your side should it happen because it’s what I choose.” He shook his head as if giving up. “Hobbits don’t live as long, anyway. There’s always the chance I die first. Leave you with a bunch of stinking dwarves.”

Despite the hobbit’s attempt at humor, the dwarf remained silent. Bilbo shifted as the air thickened. He looked down and saw the dwarf staring up at the sky, looking at nothing in particular.

“Does it bother you?” Bilbo countered. “You act as if I’m throwing my youth away.” He blinked, somewhat bewildered before remembering something he had said earlier. “Does it bother you that I’m closer to your nephews’ ages than yours?”

Thorin took a long moment to respond, his gaze locked onto the cloudless sky above. "No.” He said finally, his voice heavy and thoughtful. "It does not bother me that yer closer to my nephews. It does not bother me that yer young and vibrant and full of life. Rather, it fills me with joy to see such spirit. Reminds me of the vibrancy and vitality of Erebor in ‘er prime." He paused, pulling his gaze from the sky to meet Bilbo's worried eyes. “But it does trouble me that one day ye may be burdened with an old, feeble dwarf who cannot be the strong husband you deserve.”

Of all things, and much to his own embarrassment, Bilbo went dark red. Obviously, he didn’t enjoy Thorin’s discomfort. He didn’t enjoy the conversation. But something about the phrase, ‘strong husband’. He liked it. He liked the idea that Thorin wanted to be that for him. That, perhaps, somehow, Bilbo deserved it.

“Caring for you will be my joy. Not my burden.” He sighed. “Thorin, I am a hobbit, not a dwarf. I am no proud warrior or sportsman like your people. Before this adventure, I already lived the lifestyle of a sedentary old man. It’s how hobbits prefer! I only do all this running around because it is how your people are, and I have chosen you and your people. And one day, it will come as a great blessing and relief to me when you finally let me live as an old man once more, even though I will not be one.” Weakly, he tried to lighten the mood with a small smile. “You’re a king, anyway. And I, your Chamber Master who’s integrated a spy network of his kin into Erebor, and swindled you of your heart. Worry less for your age and worry more for the young rake who’s made himself indispensable to your kingdom.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo, a corner of his mouth twitching as he processed the hobbit's words. In the silence that followed, Bilbo fought down the urge to babble, to fill the space with words and sounds. To chase away the uncertainty. Finally, the dwarf huffed out a breath, shaking his head in both disbelief and amusement. "I have never met a more vexing creature in all my years.” He confessed with a soft chuckle. "You charge into my life, turn it on its head, and then have the audacity to charm me into loving you.”

"Me? Charging into your life? " Bilbo laughed. "I remember it quite differently with you and your lot barging in my door for an unannounced supper." When his smile reached his eyes, the dwarf couldn’t help but note the lack of crow's feet.

“Yer so young.”

Bilbo huffed at the dwarf’s mutter. He took a deep breath, steeling his pride as best as he could before he spoke once more. His face still bright red. “I like how old you are.”

“What?”

“I like that you’re older than me.”

“You … like it?”

———

Nah I’m proud as fuck of this

Link

[rachetmath]

Family

Ruby: F*** you!

Raven: F*** you!

Yang: F*** you!!

Raven: F*** you!!

Qrow: F*** you!!!

Jaune: Why are they screaming at each other?

Nora: I don’t know. Probably, because Raven abandoned them and is the worst mother ever.

Jaune: Isn’t that your mom then?

Nora: F*** you.

Jaune: Yep. Anyways… Yo!

RYBB: WHAT?!!!

Jaune: Can’t you all talk about this? You know like a family.

RYBB: f-

Jaune: Try me. Try me and see what happens. Understand, you all can be or are on my shit list. I already have my issues with my family. I already talked to Winter about hers. I will humble all of you. 

Raven: Look kid this has-

Jaune: It’s crazy how you know about family but abandoned your kin for a bunch of strangers.

Raven: … 

Jaune: It’s crazy how you’re your daughter's biggest stalker but just like one you can barely have a conversation with her.  And attempt to take her life the moment your views differ from one another.

Raven: … 

Jaune: It’s crazy how you risked your tribe, only to give the relic to your daughter, probably the only present you’ll ever give her out the years of her life. And what’s insane is you did all that because you didn’t want to deal with Salem even though she held your tribe hostage. Speaking of your tribe where are they now?

Raven: *silent*

Jaune: Sit you no leadership, die-hard shogun ass down.

Raven: *sit down*

Qrow: Well damn kid-

Jaune: Bitch I’m older than you now but even before that I was more man than you.

Qrow: Now hold-

Jaune: I will admit you showed up when Tyrian came. However, you want to know why I was pissed and made those assumptions?

Qrow: I mean I saved Ruby and your lives.

Jaune: Yeah. You were watching us from a distance. Good. But you were late. Which means when you were late we encountered Grimm. Now what could cause that?

Qrow: Um…

Jaune: You were drunk.

Qrow: Well-

Jaune: Back to the journey to Mistral and after you could have been more useful in almost every event.

Qrow: Woah kid I was-

Jaune: Dude when you couldn’t find any hunters, you didn’t even bother trying to help any of us improve. When we were trapped in a room with Salem's allies and your sister, your first thought was to stand around, do nothing, and find out.

Qrow: Okay b-

Jaune: Raven kicked your ass. Hazel punched your back out. And the only one you were protecting was Oscar. What happened to Ruby and Yang being your nieces? Speaking of Oscar didn’t you punch him in the face and never apologize for it?

Qrow: That was for Ozpin.

Jaune: In Oscar’s body, don't try to defend this. Suppose a huntsman saw that, would you not be arrested?

Qrow: Okay now that I think about it-

Jaune: Oh, and when Oscar went missing what the f*** were you doing? Getting drunk, again.

Qrow: I was having a hard time.

Jaune: Screw you.

Qrow: Well at least I didn’t endanger my friends.

Jaune: At least I didn’t get one of my friends killed. Like with Clover. Which I will say, great job in letting Tyrian escape. It’s crazy how even sober you are still an idiot. Also, you’re a fraud. Qrow: Well I-

Jaune: Like now there is no comparing us, I’ve been through more shit than you will ever imagine. And I wasn’t given a choice. You were. And that’s misfortunate. Your nieces almost died a couple of times and you weren’t there to help them. I was. God I’m starting to realize why your team is a mess and why, Tai, hates you. You are both a downer and a deadbeat. Pick a struggle.

Qrow: *silent and sits with Raven*

Jaune: *stares at Ruby and Yang*

Yang and Ruby: *sat down immediately*

Jaune: So what are you all going to do?

RYBB: Talk like a family.

Jaune: Good. Now you excuse me I need to write a letter to my mother who I am not on the best of terms, right now. Bye.

Nora: Jaune? Jaune, is there something you want to talk about? I’m openly available.

Jaune: F*** you too, Nora.

Qrow: How long was he on that island?

Ruby: Uncle Qrow, we had our first argument on that island.

Qrow: Oh… s***.

[gay-dorito-dust]

BAE! I have anoþher idea of isekai reader!

Imagine reader finally meeting Daemon and they have a stand off and its ends up with reader saying "perhaps you haven't realized it yet. The only main reason why your the most unpredictable one is because well.... I wasn't brought here yet"

Both riders are menacing in their own rights and are unpredictable but the queen who never was pops and then reader becames.... "I serve you my liege" because Rhaenys is mother queen✨

Sorry if I come of as annoying, I am just so excited that one of my favorite writers in tumblr had answered my ask! Thank you for that!❤

It’s fine! It’s not annoying at all, promise! 💕

The inevitable meeting between you and Daemon was well…inevitable.

The rouge prince and the conductor of chaos finally meeting eye to eye with both Caraxes and Cannibal a few easily walkable paces behind both riders, just in the instance things went south.

Daemon: you appear out of nowhere and have stoked a fire beneath the people of Westeros and sent them all into a blind panic.

Reader/you: and yet it took you years to do even that. Why bore me when you’re supposedly meant to be raising an army for your wife *chuckles* did Harrenhal scare you stiff rouge prince?

Daemon: bend the knee or-

Reader/you: Or YOuR hOUse buRnS. Yes I’ve headed your threat plenty of times and yet I’m still finding it hard to find the energy to do so.

Daemon isn’t happy with your lack of respect towards him and the lack of obedience but more than anything he hated how you weren’t easily made scared. Everything he says slid off your back or shrugged off with ease it was irritating to say the least.

Daemon: I am the king-

Reader/you: consort. Also for any man who has to say ‘I am the king’ is no true king and besides you lost that chance long ago, so suck it up and endure being in the service of women who have more balls then you ever did for the rest of your miserable life.

Daemon growls, hand already at the hilt of his sword when a third voice intervenes in your little stand off.

Rhaenys: what is going on here.

Reader/you: *bows* it is an honour to meet you, I’m merely talking to a fool.

Rhaenys: *smirks and looks at Daemon* someone who knows how to properly greet someone I see, and while it’s true that he maybe a fool, that fool is unfortunately my kin.

Reader/you: how tragic for you my queen. A true tragedy. *smiles widely* I can gouge out his eyes for you, or clip his vocal cords so he may never speak out of his ass ever again? Or even cut off his dick so his bloodline maybe cut short! Only say the word and I shall have Westeros and all its pathetic lords and ladies with their knees bent before the rise of the new day.

Rhaenys has had heard stories about your unpredictable nature, similar to that of Dameon’s, but somehow even more so with how quick you were to cut off any challenge merely by threats and promises alone. That and perhaps your crazed smile and look in your eye was enough to unease the strongest of men who dared look into them.

Rhaenys could see that fire within your eyes and respected you for that as she smiled.

Rhaenys: I shall keep that in mind should he ever step a single toenail out of line. *glares at Daemon from the corner of her eye*

Daemon: this is between me and them *he points at you with his sword but you merely smile* do not intervene when you are not wanted. Entertain yourself elsewhere.

You and Rhaenys: would that if you were the king.

You: so I’d suggest you get back to Harrenhal and be useless seeing as how your own kin, Jace and Baela, are doing much more in support of Rhaenyra than you.

Daemon: I will-

Rhaenys: come, I’m sure cannibal is restless from staying in stasis for so long.

Reader/ you: coming my queen

You both leave Caraxes and Daemon behind without a second glance.

[vanilleandclove]

the meadow in which you lay | 2

ser erryk cargyll x arryn!reader | chapter two: lady arryn, oathbreaker

More years have past, when the sworn shields of Rhaenyra shift to that of Viserys's sons, Aegon and Aemond, both young and sprouting boys, the houses gather for the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon. Only, the funeral is yet once again marked with violence from the interference of the young and old, greens.

word count: 2k | warnings: oral sex (female receiving), slight insults to one's gender and sexuality, the reader hates the greens (her vibes are off) | a/n: two parts in one day woop woop!

previous - next

taglist: @wolvestitches @holb32 @callsignwidow

"A raven has come in for you Lady Arryn" Margot lightly curtsied, "My deepest condolences my Lady, I know how much you and the Lady Laena accompanied each other with Rhaenyra".

As you read the raven's word, you surely wondered if it was pure farce, 'Lady Laena Velaryon, wife to Daemon Targaryen, mother to the Ladies Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, has passed in her labors'. Your knees faltered, wondering if it was a curse to the years, you have not spoken to one another; Laena became a wonderful mother to her two beautiful and fierce daughters she shared with Daemon. The Velaryon blood is known to be kind, fierce, and strong, you know for certain her dearest daughters will be an image of that. You looked up from your hands as they held the message, glassy irises, blinking away the tears, your throat scratchy and dry- as if sandpaper was cutting into your larynx.

"Margot" you spoke up before clearing your throat, "Would you kindly see to it that two ravens are sent. One to the Princess Rhaenys and her Lord husband Corlys, sending my condolences for their loss. The other to my cousin Princess Rhaenyra, telling her I will be voyaging to Driftmark and will meet her and her sons there".

"You are missing one person I am afraid" Margot insinuated, you looked into her eyes, and gave her a slight nod.

"And to Ser Erryk and his brother".

Come Laena's funeral, you took note to Daemon's shock of death, everyone grieves differently especially how he was the one who stumbled upon the Lady as she wanted to die a dragon-riders death but laid to rest as a Velaryon. You dressed in your late mother's dress, attending Laena's funeral with your brother. You donned in a black dress with blue, almost white accents that were meticulously sewn into the fabrics. Your brother and his dear wife Lady Tully- now Arryn- showed upmost respect to your mourning.

"You are rather looking stunning Lady Arryn, welcome back to Driftmark Lord Arryn and your Lady wife" Lord Corlys smiled somberly, giving your hand a tight squeeze, your father always took company with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, them being a close ally to the point of family. "We already made sure to secure your sleeping arrangements for the week, the journey must have been taxing".

"Anything for the Velaryons, you are a close to kin to us Lord Corlys" you nodded, "Where might Laena's daughters be, I would like to comfort them?"

Princess Rhaenys directed you to the benches, seeing the beauty that has become of Laena's children. They truly were an extension to their mother. Giving them a tight and lasting hug, the girls further sobbed into your arms, gripping onto your dress, you lightly cooed into their ears to soothe them; looking out to the view in front you, the tides were rather high.

As you left to seek business elsewhere, glancing over to Aegon and Aemond to their sworn shields, now Ser Erryk and Arryk. You gave them a light nod before furrowing your brows that met the gaze of Criston and his mistress, Alicent. You owed them no respect, especially from the events that followed but more because of how Alicent insulted your choice to not marry in order raise rumors of your sexuality and perhaps if you were born a man. You've heard it all, since then, you have not spoken a word to the Queen, nevertheless you did not give a fuck about simple formalities, she was no Queen, she was a consort whom whispers tyrannical rulings alongside her poor excuse of a father into the Kings ear, granted he was also a sad excuse of a man.

"Dear cousin" you hugged Rhaenyra, lightly petting the heads of Lucerys and Jacaerys, they have grown since you've last seen them, freckles kissing the kids face, "How is Laenor?".

She nodded, keeping a hand on your wrist, "Cannot seem to find him cousin, though, how was the journey?".

"Far too long I am afraid" you chuckled, your eyes wrinkled at the answer, you greatly enjoyed ventures from the Vale, noting that Kingsroad had beautiful scenery. "I am grateful to be staying here, Jeyne prefers to be left at home alone, she is one to be riddled angst. My brother and I tried to persuade her to come to company Jace and Luke, perhaps they'd become close friends".

Rhaenyra lightly smiled, "I'd prefer them to be in her company than that of the Queen's children" noticing the refusal to call her kin, her siblings. Jeyne was quite the cunning and caring girl, though it was not a weakness but a skill.

The night ventured on, losing sight of Rhaenyra and making your way to the Kingsguard, taking company in Ser Erryk. You took in his appearance, his beard no longer just stubble and his hair had grown, it's copper tones being kissed by fire in the dim light. How handsome he has aged, you cannot shamelessly admit how much the heat grew within your legs, may you see it to your chambers alone in the later hours. You were seemed to be a horny-stricken teen who ached to be felt and known.

"My brother and I received your raven" Erryk started, your face could not resist to smile. "Did not think you'd send one my Lady Arryn".

"You know my name Ser Erryk" you lightly snickered, "No need for formalities… my love".

You searched his eyes for an answer that his mouth could not give, your foreheads lightly touching one another, wondering if you could allow yourself to give up decency and let him break an oath, one of the highest in the realms. A complete lapse of judgement that it was, the pool that soaked your dressing underneath your dress, your heart betraying you in the way you could not understand, begging it to silence itself for you could not dissuade the knight into bedding you and breaking his oaths to the King.

"I cannot- We cannot continue" he lightly murmured, grabbing at your waist, you shuddered in the halls of Driftmark, "You make it hard to maintain a sworn oath my love" the way his affections rolled off his tongue.

"Leave me" you choked out faintly, your lips almost touching his, "Erryk. Leave me" your hand grazing his cheek. "I cannot bare to see you and not have you, need that be in love or in friendship. You make it hard to resist".

"I cannot do that either I am afraid" her whispered, finally kissing your lips just as he did when you were the age of 16, but with a harsher undertone of lust and the years of pining for one another. "I cannot please you in the means of pleasing me. Though, I can please you my Lady".

You quickly opened the door to your chambers, rushing in Erryk in order for no one to question. As you allowed the knight to undress you, you worked on his breeches. "Stop" he delicately paused your advances "This is solely for you my love". You panted as the knight's ease into undressing you, furrowing your brow as you wished to please his just as much. Your cunt quickly became exposed to the knight, his mouth salivating, begging to taste you.

As the knight firstly started with spitting on your heat, even if your wetness was sufficient enough to grant ease, he wanted to mark you, however he can. Your moans cascading through your quarters, gripping onto the table he sat you at as he devoured your cunt. His mouth sucking onto your bud, his nose inhaling the most delicate scent of you. You found yourself raking your hands into the knight's head, his locks being entangled into your fingers. Your thighs faintly shaking around Erryk's head as he held them down with one arm, the other finding purchase onto your stomach, your other hand finding his own, hoping he would please you with your fingers once more.

"Erryk" you moaned, your voice breaking as pleasure overtook your bones, "Please, take it".

"Use your words" Erryk teased, his beard tickling your inner core. You gripped onto his hair once more, in order to raise him once again to kiss him.

"Take my maidenhead" you spoke into the kiss, he simply shook his head, "Not with your cock my love".

"That is a pleasure for your husband to take".

"I do not wish to be wedded, my line ends with me, my brother suffices" you challenged. "Please" you pleaded again, he lightly smirked, before opening your legs once more and thrusting a singular finger into your cunt. Your pleasure led to you knocking over several cups and almost a candle. Staring into the eyes of the man who was the perpetrator of your ecstasy. "I'm going to finish Ser".

"Erryk" he corrected as he then added an additional digit, sending you over the edge. How beautifully you came, gripping onto his arm for dear life as no man has ever made you cum. Wishing you were to never be parted from your dear lover. Kissing him once more, you bit onto his lip, afraid of losing him to law.

"I love you" you quietly spoke, kissing his forehead, then his cheek. Finding his affections once again, painted in his eyes.

Later in the evening, as Erryk cleaned you up, clamoring interrupted, Erryk quickly grabbed his swords and left your quarters, "Stay here" was all he could muster though he could not stop you from wondering what has happened.

"You do not listen do you?" Erryk teased as you ran behind him quickly surpassing his place, despite the limp he now gave you from overstimulating your cunt, your urgency was one that led the knight to have a strain in his breeches.

As you both stumbled into the halls, clearly gaining a view of the violence, your heart leaped as you saw Jace and Luke's bloodied face, looking ahead to see Aemond's now swollen face with stitches upon his eye. You gracefully entered the hall, much to Alicent's distaste as she noticed Erryk trailing behind you, her stares stabbing daggers into you. Her spats of insults and verbal fighting with Rhaenyra as she pleaded for Lucerys's eye to be taken as a debt to be paid. You quickly defended yourself to that of Jace and Luke, forcing a barrier between the two.

"If the King will not seek vengeance, the Queen will" Alicent spoke up, a near act of treason. As she grabbed Viserys's blade, seeking her own form of revenge. You nearly were pushed back by the ideals of the Kingsguards, you saw Criston Cole rushing up to you, seeing that Daemon and Ser Erryk immediately pushing him back. You saw the gaze Criston gave the two of you, his smirk being one of a jester. The smug look being an insult.

When blood was drawn from Rhaenyra, your place with the boys was replaced by Lord Corlys. You quickly forced Alicent away. "Your insolence does nothing Alicent, the honor and dignity you parade about is gone, no longer the piss poor lady you once were, nothing more than a fake Queen who hides behind her father who hides behind the King" you wildly spat at her face, as Rhaenyra began her own testament to her once friend. How the times have changed greatly.

[bidisasterevankinard]

Drinks loosen my tongue

Bucktommy/ T (for implied daddy kink. It's more like a pet name really)/ 568 words

For day 3 of @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck is already in bed when the knock on the door interrupts his plans for going to the best adventure when you're an adult - sleep. With a frown, he gets back to the living room, trying to understand who can have a whole ass disaster to come to him at 1 am.

“Sal? Tommy? What?”

“Din don, parcel for you,” the older man says with exasperation, pushing his boyfriend in his hands. “He had way more than he should have and told me way more that I need to know about your ass or how deep your daddy issue goes. Have fun, baby boy. Keep daddy out of trouble. Bye,” with a finger gun and a wink Sal is gone, closing the door, before Buck can even react to the whole situation.

“Bye?” Buck says absentmindedly, trying to move his basically sleeping boyfriend.

“C’mon, Tommy, babe, help me there,” he shakes the body in his hands.

That’s when Tommy finally opens his eyes and smiles at him, “Ev’n, b’by, I’mm ‘ome,” he mumbles and kisses Buck on the cheek with gusto. Buck's pretty sure he was aiming for the lips.

“Miwed y’,” Tommy says and then hiccups, “n’d you ‘aked now,” he tries to take Buck’s sweats down, but succeeds only in almost pushing them both to the floor.

Buck pins him to the wall, “easier, tiger. All you're gonna get is cuddles. Maybe naked if you're gonna be good and let me get you to bed. Ok?”

Tommy nods, letting him take his boots and jacket down.

“C'mon, to the bedroom.”

Buck helps him and carefully makes it to the bed, where Tommy falls with loud ‘oof’. With a shake of his head Buck takes his jeans and shirt off, laying down near his smiling man, who already gets back to trying to get his sweats down.

“Now c-c-can d‘a’y have a treat?” Tommy says in his ear, but Buck pushes him off again.

“When he's sober enough for it,” Buck says, kissing Tommy’s nose, “and not hungover,” he turns away from Tommy, who snuggles closer to him, grinding his half hard cock in his ass.

“Ev’n, baaaaaa’y, please, d’a’y nee’s youuuuuuuu,”the grinding gets faster and Buck turns back to face Tommy.

“Can't you wait for the morning?”

Tommy shakes his head with a pout that can rival his own. “Pleeeease, just a tip, let d’a’y put just a tip in his ‘eautiful ‘oyfrien’?”

“Beautiful, huh?”

“The most ‘eautiful, in-cre’i’le, kin’, amazin’, w-w-won’erful,hot, sexy man of man ‘reams. I love yu so much, ‘a’y,” Tommy kisses his neck. “S-so lu’ky to ‘et you,” another kiss, “so lu’ky to ‘et you ‘ack after I ma’e a mi’take,” three more kisses, “I love you, Ev’n.”

Buck chuckles, “I love you too. And I would really appreciate you telling me all that sober, ok?”

Tommy enthusiastically nods.

“Can you wait for tomorrow before fuck me? I’m tired.”

“Noooooo, please, ‘a’y, d’a’y nee’s you nooooow. I pro’se you won’t feel a thin’.”

Buck raises his eyebrow, “Tommy, you have a nine inch dick. I will feel it no matter that.”

Tommy pouts on him with puppy eyes that are somehow even cuter when he is drunk.

“Ok,” he sighs, “let me get lube and d’a’y can put more than just a tip then.”

Before he can open his nightstand, he hears loud snores. Chuckling, he goes to sleep too.

[hexy-lynesdein]

I talked about this scene of Agatha recruiting Lilia in my priv, twitter acc back then but somehow I felt the need to bring it up again (and this time on Tumblr) since not enough people are talking about this.

I think we all, as a society, moved on wayyyyyy too fast from this scene.

Agatha lowkey didn't fw divination because she couldn't cheat her way through it. The way her face dawned in realization in each word that Lilia uttered to her.. I could almost see the thought process in her head, it's almost comical (do ignore the pict quality people 🙏🏻).

Agatha is so skeptical of Lilia at first, she's like “Okay, let's hear what other nonsense this old kooky witch has to say”. Only for Lilia to read her like an open book. And Agatha has only been standing and fucking around in her shop for like.. what? Ten minutes? And you mean to tell her this bitch already caught up on what it is that she was about to do? Bonkers!

“It's not the first time your witch kin betrayed you. But you survive, in a way few do. In fact, it's why you're here. And I am not interested.”

Her expression. These are the faces of a woman who's impressed, annoyed, pissed, and turned on by such a display of power and skill for a short amount of time. And dare I say that Agatha felt almost... a pity? Later on, for Lilia. Not because of her seeing Lilia screaming like a madman when she was in her kitchen. But rather because she knew what she was about to do. She is going to take Lilia's power, in one way or another. And that means she's going to kill her fellow centuries old, exceptional and magnificent witch. And it's a shame, really.

And on a separate note, can we also talk about the tension that Agatha and Lilia have in that scene? It screams history to me, like come on now. The show of push and pull, them going “Oh so that's how it is? Fine, let's play your game”, both witches knowing exactly what and who the other is, but the information never once scaring them and piqued their interest instead. I might be reading too deep into these but honestly for such a brief meet up, these two have so many things going on — it's kinda insane.

[corseque]

Hi! I've been following you for ages for your great Solas takes and immaculate taste in sad men. I've been thinking about this because I have a Dragon Age Inquisitor who is an abomination, what do you think Solas would think about abominations/do you recall him ever talking about them? Both Anders/Justice and the more demonic unwilling variety.

Personally I would assume he'd be initially horrified because that might seem like a violation of consent for both parties, but after learning more about them he might grow more curious/respect actual unions a mage might have as an abomination. I am basically just workshopping an OC and hitting a wall and you're the local Solas sage, so... XO

Oh, that's so nice..

Solas is more chill with willing abominations than you might think. And he seems to know all about it already. In Jaws of Hakkon, in the quest called “In Exile” you meet a young mage named Sigrid Gulsdotten who had been willingly possessed by a friendly spirit in order to teach her magic. Which is what the Avvar do culturally to make mages safer.

Sigrid was getting old enough that it was time for her and the spirit to part ways, but she didn’t want to give it up because she didn’t want to lose the spirit as a friend/confidant. Solas has a surprising amount to say in Jaws of Hakkon in general about how the Avvar interact with and relate to spirits, and he talks a lot in this quest too. He is very gentle with her. Let me look up exactly what he says. When you find clues about the mage's failed ritual to part with her spirit, Solas says (a mage in your party always speaks here):

"Residual magic. Someone was casting a spell, and was interrupted. Or stopped."

"If a mage was performing a ritual to part with a spirit, she may have needed to replenish her strength."

Then later, when you talk to her, the conversation goes like this:

Sigrid: "I could not do it! I have no close companions in the hold! No kin! I cannot lose my only friend!"

Inquisitor: "You're friends with this… spirit?"

Sigrid: "It has taught me with patience and kindness since I was a child, frightened of the fire I could suddenly call down."

Solas: "A great comfort. But you are no longer a child."

Sigrid: "Some mages need the help of a god all their lives."

Solas: "Very well. Perhaps, however, ask yourself if it is help you need, or companionship."

Sigrid: "I do not wish to lose the one who loves me."

Here is a playthrough that has this dialogue:

At the end of the quest, if you recruit Sigrid for the Inquisition, Varric, Sera, Vivienne, Iron Bull and Cassandra have strong negative feelings about it, while Cole approves. Solas doesn't seem to approve or disapprove, as far as I can tell. He doesn't say anything, at least. When talking to the Shaman about this Avvar practice, you get this conversation:

Inquisitor: "You let spirits possess your mages on purpose?"

Shaman: "What better teacher than one woven from magic? The spirits in the hold have helped us in this way for hundreds of years. Once a mage masters their powers, their teacher departs, duty ended. Unless the mage is weak."

Inquisitor: "What happens to these "weak" mages?"

Shaman: "Their teachers stay with them and the other gods watch them both, so neither soul turns sick. If one does sicken, or the mage stands in risk of harming the hold… One day, they do not wake in their bed. It is very sad. It is what must be done."

Solas: "It is kinder than what happens in many mage Circles."

So Solas seems to understand the reality that abominations become corrupted more easily, and that it's probably best for abominations to separate willingly.

Solas offers to separate Lucanis and Spite, and says their forceful combination was "a crime against [them] both" so I can only assume that it's the willingness factor that he gets upset by, along with him always being upset at the thought of spirits becoming corrupted.

[tnt-kokoo]

Can you do Sae x female reader x Rin? The brothers are fighting for her love

OHHHH YESSS thank you for the ideaaa- I am not sure what kind of story you expected but I'll think of one!! Hope you'll like it ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Itoshi brothers

Sae itoshi × fem!reader �� Rin itoshi summary: Visiting your old childhood friends not knowing both of them had a crush on you was sure interesting.

warnings: sibling fight, cursing

Walking out of the airport, your eyes searched for something,

or rather someone.

After you heard about the U-20 game with both of your childhood friends, Sae and Rin, you just had to visit them and that's that's you just planned to do. It was more of a secret only you and their parents were involved with.

They really had to make sure that both of their sons wouldn't murder eachother while living in the same house. So now, the Itoshi father was waiting for you outside with a sign spelling your name out, while the mother was at home preparing delicious meals and making sure the boys don't do anything.

'Welcome home Y/n'

Seeing the man that made sure you were always welcomed into the family waiting there with a smile, you couldn't help but run to him.

With a nice welcoming, both of you got in the car and made your way to the Itoshi residence.

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Opening the door carefully the two of you made sure no one was there and when walking inside the house you could already smell the food that made the nostalgia bigger. Hearing some footsteps walking down the stairs you look over and see the one and only Rin Itoshi. The boy who was a bit younger than you and always part of your games back then.

When he saw you, he couldn't believe his eyes...

His long time crush was back??

Oh man, the younger boy had the biggest crush on you and would willingly let you hug and style his hair, something only you were permitted to do (except for his brother ofcourse). He stood there infront of you still not moving and making sure he wouldn't blink because he was afraid that if he would blink, you would dissappear.

Not wasting another second, you made your way to him and gave him a warm and comforting hug and his arms started to move and enclose your figure as well. His eyes started to get wetter as he himself didn't know the reason why.

Was it because he completely trusted you? Or was it because even after he lost Sae, his brother, that even you had to leave him?

Whatever it was, it was enough for him to start losing a few tears and his parenst, as well as you started comforting him.

The noises made the older itoshi brother confused as he came down the stairs like his brother did moments ago. Still a few stairs up, he looked at the two holding eachother and instantly his eyes widened as he realized it was you who was hugging his little brother.

"Y/n?" Sae Itoshi said.

Stepping away from the tall dark haired boy you noticed your other friend waiting for you. With a smile you opened your arms for his and he took the chance to embrace you within seconds. This made Rin clench his fists as jealousy took over him. After their big fight, he couldn't even stand to know that Sae felt the same for you like he did.

"I have missed you two so much!" You said this while letting go of the older one.

"I missed you too."

"I missed you too."

As both of them said the same thing at the same time, they couldn't help but glare at eachother. This wasn't left unnoticed by their parents and yourself. After that mama Itoshi made an excuse by saying you should go wash your hands since food will be done in a moment.

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At the dinnertable you sat next to Sae who had to (discretely) fight his brother for the place. While Sae sat next to you, Rin hoped to atlesst get a place infront of you, but sadly that place was reserved by his mother who was there first so now he sat infront of sae.

"Say Y/n, how have you been?" The itoshi mother asked to which you responded with, "I have been kinda overworking myself so I am even more happy to come back and see my best friends again." Giggling, the father responded by saying something while both of the boys were daydreaming.

'She came just to see me' Rin though as his eyes started glistening.

Sae on the other hand though 'If she were my girlfriend she wouldn't even need to work'

Both of them took a quick notice about the one sitting infront of them and already knew what they were thinking about so Rin started by kicking his foot against Saes leg who kicked back as well. While trying to not catch the attention of the others they couldn't help but glare at eachother.

"....Rin?"

The boy was now giving his whole attention to you as Sae kicked one last time to which the dark haired one couldn't help but grunt slightly.

"What did you say, Y/n??"

"I was just saying congrats for winning the U-20 game.. but are you alright?" Your worry for him made the younger itoshi blink as his ears reddened. You cared for him? He knew you loved him more than his brother!

Even if asking such a normal question, the boy couldn't help but think you were trying to tell him that you liked him back. Before his daydreams catched up to him he answered back a 'yea' with his normal emotionless face trying to stay calm.

"So Sae, I've heard you're the star player of your team? Didn't expect any less of you." You smiled at him as the older felt his heart beat faster,

"Thank you Y/N.." He didn't knew how to handle a compliment coming from you.

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After dinner the boys got ordered to help you bring your stuff to the guest room. Walking behind the two boys who fought about who could carry more of your stuff wasn't the most amusing scene. This time it was Rin, who carried more since he stepped on his brother's foot before he could grab the rest of your stuff.

As you entered the guest room, you could hear soem whispering behind you from the two boys.

"Leave her alone pipsqueak"

"I am taller than you, asshole"

...

....

......

"Uhm, thank you..?" You say unsure after noticing the tense atmosphere around you.

With them stopping their fight they quickly and left you alone to unpack.

While you unpack, the two were arguing outside,

"Why can't you just stop?? You already have everything- you don't need Y/n as well??" Rin said, "And that why I need her. Because she IS my everything." Sae began and finished with, "But what do you know, she just thinks of you as a little brother." After that Rins eyes widened in shock and anger.

He wanted to say more but was interrupted by Sae "Did you never notice? Plus, you only know her because of me so forget it. Forget her." Jealousy was visible in the older itoshis voice as Rin clenched his fist and bit on his lips to stay calm (as calm as possible that is).

As the red hair wanted to continue, Rin couldn't hear it anymore and pushed his brother against the wall, to which the older one reacted instantly.

After their little physical fight, a familiar eternal voice interrupted.

"What is your guys problem?!?"

Pushing them apart and waiting for an answer you stood there with both of them feeling embarrassed.

"I like- no, I love you, Y/n" Sae said first since he was afraid that if he was just second too late, Rin would take his chance. But it was completely different. The younger one was rather shocked at his sudden confession and chocked out another confession himself.

Now standing there with no sound around was a plague to the itoshi Brothers as they feared they scared you away.

"Who will you choose..?" Rin asked.

...

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ᯓᝰ: So idk if this ehat you hoped for but I couldn't think of another scenario