#Personal Air Cooler Market

[lokisgoodgirl]

Daylight Orgy: The Rite (IV)

Masterlist for The Rite is HERE My regular Masterlist is HERE Summary: (4) You confront Loki about Fandral - and the rules of the Rite are bent to breaking point. (w/c 4.1k) Warnings: 18+ only. Minors DNI. Asgard Loki! x FReader. Smuttish (+ 3rd party smut). Jealousy. Loki being a naughty prince.

Had you been expecting Loki to follow you?

That he’d thunder down those spiral steps and throw the bronze door open? Tear across the market square half-naked and yank you by the shoulders to say, ‘Stop – that scoundrel is a lying vagabond…’ ?

Yes, obviously.

But he didn’t.

You couldn’t settle back in your chambers. Picking things up, putting them down, moving to the window - always on edge for a knock that didn’t come.

‘The pleasure of the subject is only one part of the ritual. You cannot possibly fulfil the second.’

The fuck was that supposed to mean? Loki never mentioned a second part. As far as you knew, all you had to do was lie there and let him eat you out, not contain any enthusiasm, and try not to die from overstimulation. Sure…there might be other weird shit, it was the Asgardian Royals after all – but this seemed important.

If Fandral’s telling the truth, that is.

You frown, staring at a wiry bird shifting over the rooftops. Clearly, Fandral's a shit-stirrer. Clearly, he’s jealous, Loki had said as much. You’d be pretty jealous too if you were the only person in the inner-circle Loki hadn’t fucked over the past five centuries. An unexpected wrench of envy twists your stomach.

But the prince you’d seen in the Weaving Rooms was entirely different to the one that stared down from frescos and observed his worshippers with cool disdain. A smile that lit up his eyes, the inflection of a breathless chuckle as you caught him by surprise, a faint blush that could be mistaken as humble, the hesitant lust which thrummed beneath his skin as you’d pressed to him –

‘I need to see you,’ he’d said. ‘Every day from now until then.’ Like you meant something to him, and it felt…real.

Was it really a game? Would he pull the rug at the last minute before the ceremony? It was very on brand, you’d admit. The thought sends a violent shudder up your spine.

The next morning, there’s no knock at the door from Loki’s apprentice. No letters, no nothing. Anxiety creeps to anger, and with every inch the sun moves up the sky, your feet get itchier. Does he think I’m just going to sit around and wait for him? Fucking gods. Maybe I should just tell him no – then he’ll have do the Rite with Fandral, see how that works out. Serve him right.

But then… the thought of Loki crawling on top of that smarmy, coiffured arsehole invades your brain. Shit. You shift down the corridors of the court towards the interior palace. No one looks at you today. The golden doors of the main entrance to the royal quarters loom, and you swallow, heart loud in your ears. A guard side-steps in front of you with a cock of an eyebrow as effective as a raise of his hand. “I’m here to see Prince Loki,” you say. The eyebrow cocks higher. “You know how many people try that every day?” He looks down to your feet, and back to your face with a sneer. “Most of them dress better for the occasion. Or at least bring a bribe.”

You stare at him with heat creeping up your neck. “He knows who I am.” He laughs. “I bet he does.” “He does!” “Look…” The guard cups your elbow and ushers you to the side, glancing towards his peers at the other end of the door. “I don’t want to embarrass you, love. Just do yourself a favour, and leave.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m here to see Prince Loki,” you say again, harsher this time. “Can someone just go and tell him I’m here? He’ll be pissed if he finds out you turned me away.” The guard flinches fractionally, studying your face. Eventually he leaves, and five minutes later, he’s back. “Come on,” he says gruffly. No apology, very nice. The gold door slams and the bustle of the outer court disappears. The air is cooler in here, a strange stillness hanging like perfume. More marble carves in large arches along the corridor, open to garden running up the middle of a courtyard. Somewhere, water trickles - but you can't see it. “He’s drunk,” the guard says without looking back. “Excuse me?” “The Prince. He’s drunk, and he has company.” You frown. It isn’t even midday. Suddenly your throat feels very tight, and you feel very small. If Loki had wanted to see me, he’d have asked. He���d have sent for me. So much for being aloof and interesting. Your irritation towards Fandral blooms with new fervour: not only has he ruined your excitement; he’s ruined your hot-girl-mystery.

The guard stops abruptly and you collide into his shoulder-guards. He clears his throat, stamping a staff twice.

You roll your eyes, shuffling around him. Through an open set of doors is a room like something from the whispered tales of olden Asgard. Chiffon flutters at the windows, long plush cushions lining the floor draped with blankets that shimmer in sunlight. In the corner, some blindfolded guy is plucking at a lute. Platters of nuts, grapes, sweet cakes lie half-demolished across the floor, and twice the amount of goblets as people. And then...your jaw goes slack.

Bodies shift in the room, two dozen, at least - all moving to their own rhythm like waves rippling to shore. A woman sits perched on the windowsill; you can’t see her face, only her legs wrapped around a man’s arse as he slowly thrusts into her. Her hair shimmers like spun gold; lips stained with rich juices while she pants to the ceiling. On the cushions, a man and woman lie side-by-side, kissing languidly as two other men busy themselves between their respective thighs. People are fucking…everywhere: sets of two, three, four. Norns. You’re trying to find somewhere to set your eyes that doesn’t involve breasts, or glistening body parts, or faces twisted in pleasure that you definitely shouldn’t be witness to. And then, they land on Loki. He's looking directly at you with a lazy, dark delight. The Prince lounges across a gilded chair in the corner; one thigh hiked over the armrest and the other stretched to its full length. His boots look more obscene on him than usual, today – sprawling like that.

The laces of his shirt are undone, dark tangles of hair spread over his shoulders and pearls of sweat glistening on his collarbone. With a mildly horrifying lurch of your stomach, you notice the ties at his groin are loose, too. But he’s not got someone squirming around his cock, and that’s something, at least. His lips move, but no sound comes out. You frown as he waves a hand, beckoning you through the doors. Dangling on the precipice of a flee, you feel one foot move in front of the other – and then your face feels like its slathered in jelly: cool, wet slime sliding over your skin. You lurch out the other side of the doorway with a gasp...and then the sound hits. Moans of pleasure ring to the high ceilings: grunts, mewls, groans of names you’ve never heard as they wring pitched ecstasy from each other. Loki’s smile grows. “Just a small silencing enchantment.” He shrugs and clicks his fingers. The door slams behind you. A few pairs of eyes flicker in your direction before re-focusing on their work. You can’t blame them – you’re entirely overdressed. Picking your way across the floor, you come to a stop beside him.

This…isn’t what you’d expected. He rests his head back, half-lidded eyes clouded by whatever’s swirling in his goblet. “You realise it’s not even midday?”

An impish smile lifts Loki’s lips, a flash of tongue nipping over the bottom one. “I am a second son of the crown, famed for hedonism and the sensual pleasures…how else should I fill my days?” Your eyes rise to the couple fucking on the windowsill. “Could we talk somewhere?”

A frown ghosts his forehead, and Loki reaches for your hand. His eyes have sharpened, and he looks almost sober. “We’re all friends here, it’s just…a release. A club, if you will. We can talk here, unless you’re uncomfortable.” Your tongue pokes against your cheek. You have no right to ask this, and yet, “Have you ‘released’ today, then?” One of Loki’s brows rise, lips rippling in a closed smile. “Yes.”

That jealousy you’d been fighting settles like a stone. Loki’s eyes slide between yours, slivers of sapphire sparking beyond deep pools of black. “Although not with any interference from another,’ he adds huskily. “I’m…saving myself, it seems.” “Oh?” “Mmm. Delayed gratification is a powerful lure.”

As the hum leaves his lips, Loki shuffles on the chair: back straightening and the leg hoisted on the armrest shifting. You try not to let your gaze drop to his crotch, but it’s a moth-flame situation. He’s hard, of course. Behind you, someone orgasms.

Heat pools in your lower belly, arousal blossoming like liquid shadow, and you know for a fact if you move – there will be a slip between your thighs. You’ve never been somewhere like this – sex has always been private, quiet. Loki’s looking at you with something close to innocence. Perhaps it’s the way you know there absolutely no way you can fuck him – no way for him to touch that hot mess gathering between your folds, and no way for you to suckle the head of his cock as he tangles those long fingers in your—

“Did you hear what I said?” You clear your throat, swallowing. “Sorry, I was…somewhere else.” “Mmm,” Loki hums again, brushing a finger by his lips to stifle a smile. He lowers his thigh from the armrest and pats it: once, twice. Like a magnet, you slide onto his lap. Across the room, a woman being fucked against a pillar frowns at you over her partner’s shoulder. An arrogant thrill soaks up your spine while Loki’s nose brushes down your cheek; lips lingering on the curve of your neck, his breath gloriously cool against the heat of your skin.

“What did you want to discuss, little owl? Here, in my den of debauchery.” His fingers dance up the folds of fabric at your midsection, cupping a breast and beginning to toy at the nipple. It feels so fucking good: too good. He pinches it gently, rolling against his thumb, knowing exactly what he’s doing; you exhale against his cheek, and it makes it almost impossible to whisper, “Fandral.”

The fingers still, and you can feel Loki frowning without even having to look. “What?” he growls. It’s all you can do not to grind against his thigh. He’s wearing a tight pair of leather trousers, so at least none of the mess between your legs, probably soaking through your dress, will get on his skin. But he might touch me. He pinches your nipple, eyes narrowing. A hiss erupts from your throat, tapering to a moan. “Fandral,” you say on the exhale. “If it’s not too much trouble, desist from moaning that rube's name in my presence, darling.” You frown. “He said you’re messing with me; said you don’t have any intention of us doing the Rite together, and that he’ll be the—”

Suddenly you’re airborne, Loki’s strong hands scooping you like a bag of feathers and manoeuvring you to one of the long pillows on the floor. He looms over you on his hands and knees; one set on either side of your left leg, a wild veil of black hair hanging around his jaw. His lips part, and the impossible muscles of his shoulders shift beneath the drape of that slutty shirt. “He will not,” Loki says. “Did that cunning little mouse say he was visiting Lagertha for any other reason than to have his doublet mended?” His breath is tinged with the sweetness of primrose wine. “You are my chosen partner; he has no sway in it – and certainly no say in it.”

The gravel of his voice is bass to the continuum of groaning that sings between pillars. Desire scorches your skin, tightening your thighs and twisting your stomach so taut it might snap. Your gaze shifts fractionally to the side, catching sight of a beautiful man with bronze hair glittering like a copper coin as his cock sinks inside against another man’s ass: again, again - a hand fastening to the back of his lover’s neck. The second man moans: guttural, primal. “Do you like that?” Loki’s breath licks the shell of your ear, his hands shifting the skirts of your loose dress up your parted legs like water. The digits slide down your arms, guiding them above your head. You can’t look away: the men are poetry together. The one taking everything the other has to give grips the back of a chair, his knuckles white, his jaw trembling and cock hard at his stomach as the fingers cradling his neck tighten.

If Loki can’t ravish you, if he can’t touch your cunt which aches for his tongue – then you’ll settle for his voice. And the heat radiating from the collar of his shirt. And anyway, you’re pretty sure his voice alone will make you climax in 3…2…1— “I want to know everything,” Loki says: dark, filthy, and…honest? Your pussy clenches so hard you almost whimper. “You’ve told me about your life, but now I wish to know your desires…your deepest fantasies. I crave that knowledge like an orgasm I cannot sate.”

His husk lingers heavy over any other sound, filling your mind with strange, inadvisable, thoughts of forever. “What you like,” he hums, “what you want…how I can pleasure you beyond anything you’ve shared with another, and how I can haunt every moment your mind wanders from now until eternity.”

The god’s lips graze your pulse point, and you can feel the thump of blood beating against his skin. “So, I ask again,” he says as the figures fucking in front of you blur, “do you like that?”

A stab of air rips down your throat as you gasp, “Yes.” Norns, right now you’d let him flip you over and sink into your ass in a second.

Without warning, one of Loki’s leather clad thighs presses against your clit. Sparks explode from your centre, tendrils of utter desire rippling across your body like the drag of a lit match. Fear widens your eyes, and amusement dances in his. “Your arousal cannot touch me through these,” he says coolly, taking his time over every syllable. “My hands remain here…” Loki’s eyes dart up to his fingers encircling your wrists, and squeezes. “My sword remains sheathed, and my leathers are merely...” He presses the flat of his lower thigh against your clit again, “A tool.”

“That’s cheating,” you say breathlessly. Loki’s lip twitches in a knowing smirk, a half shrug conveying, ‘What did you expect?’ “Don’t you want to play with me?” His eyes narrow, and another lance of need spears through your core. Your lips roll together, stifling a moan as your brows draw tight. “You’re drunk,” you say. But you don’t believe it. Loki’s pupils are still wide and deep enough to drown in, but it’s not the primrose wine. Unbelievably, it’s you. For now, you decide to let yourself imagine he doesn’t just need you for the Rite; that it could be more – that he could be yours.

The weight of his attention lies heavier in the air than the aroma of sex, and his thigh grinds against your pussy; catching the spot above your clit with each, gentle tug.

“Fuck…Loki,” you whisper, back arching off the cushion. His chin rises, smouldering beneath half-lidded eyes. “Talk to me,” he breathes. You want to dig the heel of your palm against his solid cock bound beneath the crotch of his leathers. You want to feel his animal god-lust pulsing under your hand - more fuel for the violently dirty fantasies you’ll create in your head later as you writhe beneath the sheets alone.

Loki tuts, squeezing your wrists again. You offer a weak, breathy struggle. “No, little owl. Not today, not yet. I want to be destructively engorged with the sight of you…denied what I want while I hear you come undone.” “Loki,” you whine again, face hot and a hum growing in your ears. This is crazy. And yet…

Loki’s thigh moves in wicked waves against your clit; his eyes burning into yours, those thin lips parted and flushed, and ragged exhales scraping from his throat like he’s sinking inside your cunt. “Talk to me,” he says again, but this time, it’s a beg. A silky voice sounds from behind his broad shoulders, accompanied by an immaculately shaped set of nails sweeping across his collarbone. The woman who was glaring earlier. She lowers to his ear. “Can I offer you relief, my prince? Since this one cannot?”

It’s hushed, but you were meant to hear it.

Loki doesn’t even look at her; his fingers stay curled around your wrists. “No,” he says through gritted teeth. She slinks away and the flames licking up your belly burn brighter. The meat of his thigh muscle stills, and the ache of its absence makes you frott against his knee.

“Talk to me,” he commands with an air of finality, chin lowering. “Tell me what you like, what you want.” Even if he let go of your arms, that stare would pin you in place. Every inch the prince; every inch the god – even in the middle of a daylight orgy.

“I want your mouth on me,” you whisper; squirming beneath his mischievous smirk. “I want it…slow, then heavier…then slower.” “Slow?” Loki hums, titling his head. That tongue darts over his lips. “And firm, but…soft. Wet. And loud…I want to hear you taste me.” Gods’ bones, has anyone ever been this ineloquent? But Loki doesn’t seem to mind. His face tells you he knows exactly what you mean; exactly how you like it. He’s imagining it, just as you are.

Your eyes dart to his crotch and the thick outline of his manhood strains against heavy creases. His hips shift, a small hiss filling the air between you. “What else?” he asks in a breathless voice that’s so unlike him. You bite your lip as his stare falls down your chest - flimsy drapes of silk threatening to expose your breasts. You wonder if he’ll let go of your wrists. And if he can control himself if he does. “And I want your cock, too…obviously.” “Obviously…” he goads with the spectre of a smile. The god leans forward, nudging the silk aside with his nose and capturing a nipple with a firm suck. Loki’s thigh begins to shift against your pussy again, and a strangled moan rattles in your throat. The groans of the men fucking a few meters away reach crescendo and they tumble over the edge in a sweaty, groaning slip of sex.

“I want you everywhere,” you gasp, losing any shred of remaining modesty with the smear of your heat against his leathers. “My cunt, my mouth, my ass—” “—Like them?” he stammers, thick brows drawn together. “—Like them. I want you so deep inside me I forget my own name, want your skin smacking my shoulders, want you pulling me onto your cock as you fuck me like I’m in heat and you can’t control it—” “—More,” Loki gasps, and your eyes fly open. His face is twisted with furious need, lines deep in his forehead, strands of onyx hair buffeting at his lips. His thigh slips against your slit – it’s absolutely soaked, and his hands tremble where he’s holding you in place. The words that shape your lips are calculated in their depravity: aimed to kill. “I want your cum dripping between my thighs; dripping between my breasts…” At that, Loki groans. “I’ll lick it off myself…before I suck you clean, and swallow everything you have left…my prince.” Loki’s jaw slackens like the orgasm shattering him is an unseen foe with a knife to his neck. The jolt in his hips sends the thick thigh driving against your clit and you crumble right alongside him with a garbled cry of his name. He falls on top of you in a mess of ferocious need; lips working, breath gasping from your lungs and the beat of his heart strong against your ribs. But still, his hands don’t leave your wrists.

“You are a wonder,” he breathes, galaxies swimming in his pleasure-drunk stare. And for a moment, you forget that you’re a means to an end; that after the Rite you’ll go back to being a nobody - and you believe him.  

Loki barely has his wits back when someone clears their throat at the door. “Your brother - Prince Loki.” “My what?” “Your brother, the crown prince. He’s outside.” “Nine hels. What does he want?” Loki didn’t wait for the man to respond – he’d save the wretch that particular misery, and Loki’s misery at having to listen to the bluster of his explanation. He dips to your cheek, drawing his nose down the line of your cheekbone, inhaling against your sweat-damp skin. “I’ll return shortly,” he whispers. And below him, you shiver. A thrill spreads in sharp veins under his flesh. Loki strides past the guard looking at the ceiling while his cheeks flush an alarming shade of scarlet – and the door shuts quickly behind them. Thor stands with his arms folded, one ill-groomed eyebrow rising as he says, “Are the reports true? That your Rite partner is in there?” Loki can’t contain the eye-roll. “If you think I’m so foolish as to compromise myself at the eleventh hour before my ascension to the royal line; then truly there is no hope for you, brother. And she has a name, you know.” Thor’s gaze drops sceptically to his thigh. “What’s that?” He gestures to the glistening slick down one of the leather-clad quad muscles. Norns. “It’s not breaking the rules, I checked.”

With a flick of his fingers, the slick evaporates. And even though he’s sure (almost, sure), Loki rubs his fingertips together. Nothing. He breathes a secret sigh of relief. It would just be like Thor to ruin everything without actually intending to. “Of course you did, Loki. How studious of you.” “Can you spell that?” He snorts. “Besides, your partner was Lady Sif – you had centuries to cultivate the bond. And father and mother were partners…it’s a completely different situation. I must do what I must within the confines of the ceremonial rules.” “And whose fault is that, Loki? You could’ve had your pick of partners had you not rutted through them in a jamboree of wine and carnal gluttony.” Loki’s lip twitches, and he sucks the bottom one between his teeth. “I couldn’t have selected better if I’d had the centuries to spare, actually. Not all of us need hundreds of years to woo someone.”

The bemused crunch of Thor’s brow makes a flutter of satisfaction blossom in his chest. “I assure you, brother – all aspects of the Rite of Successional Pleasure will be fulfilled, I’m sure of it.” Thor's eyes narrow. “She’s been told of the second requirement?” “No, but I believe doing so will make it unnecessarily…challenging. She doesn’t need to know, she only needs to feel.” “You realise her feelings for you must come willingly. Un-influenced by magic?”

Loki glares, spine stiffening. “I shan't need to use my powers to wring pleasure from her body, why should I require it of her heart? Is that so hard to believe?” “In such a short amount of time? Yes, brother. I’ve known you over a millennia, and most days I still don’t care for you.” Loki’s fist flexes at his side as Thor, regrettably, continues. “The Rite is an expression of our benevolence to bestow pleasure on another freely, but it is also a test of our means to win their affections; their loyalty.” “And I will not fail,” he snaps. He and Thor stare at each other, unblinking, until his brother breaks first with a long, whittling sigh. “I hope you’re right, brother,” he says. “And be more careful, it would be unfortunate if you were to be undone by your own…passions, as usual.”

Heat prickles beneath Loki’s skin. “What would you know of my passions? Thor’s cape flutters as he turns, before glancing over his shoulder: ignoring him. “As much as it pains me, choosing Fandral as your partner for the Rite may be the wiser choice…it’s not too late. You know he already harbours those feelings for you – the deep ones the ritual requires. If there is any doubt, brother—”

“—There is no doubt,” Loki lies, fingernails digging in to the soft flesh of his palm. “I still have two moons until the ceremony– wars have been won in less.” He keeps his expression flat as Thor’s eyes soften. “If only love was as simple as war, brother,” he says in one of those rare displays of wisdom that make Loki want to punch him in the face. “She’s not one of us. I would say try not to break her heart, but it’s inevitable, is it not.” It isn’t a question. Loki swallows as his brother’s footsteps fade, glancing back to the golden door. He waves his hand, releasing the enchantment muffling the guard’s ears.

“Get her out of there,” he murmurs. “Escort her, offer my apologies; instruct her to change, and meet me in the gardens at sunrise.” "My prince, she will ask—" "—Sunrise," he snaps. A pain throbs behind his eyes.

The guard nods, and Loki tries to ignore the pulse of his heartbeat in his throat, and the unfamiliar itch of guilt spreading with every echoing thud of his boots around Asgard’s gilded halls.

Next Chapter: Illusion & Truth The Masterlist for The Rite is HERE Comments in tags ❤️ Plz be silly with me 🍰🥳

[impishcupid]

{BEGIN ID)

A video with the caption “Wow that was powerful! Never thought a ‘boycott Israel’ advert would move me to tears”

The video starts with a man grabbing a can of Pepsi from a cooler in a store, and placing it on the counter. He asks the price, to which the cashier tells him it costs two dinar. The shot then shows 13 versions of this interaction at once, where he hands over the 2 dinar and takes the can of pepsi, equalling 26 dinar.

After the product is scanned, we return to one shot and the cashier is counting his money. It then switches to show the pepsi delivery driver being handed the wad of money while delivering the stores supplies. This part of the video features many rapid transitions. The first transition is to the pepsi driver using a money counting machine to count his money, then we see many rapid cuts that interchange close up shots of the “100” on hundred dollar bills and images of stock market prices rising and falling, likely representative of that money changing between economies and countries.

It then transitions to a businessman counting money, which he places in a briefcase and leaves his office. He presents the briefcase to a colleague, which transitions as the case is opened to the colleague opening the case to show a weapons manufacturer. The weapons manufacturer then begins building with a variety of hammering, sawing, and ends with spray painting. He then presents his creation: a bomb. The person being presented to comments that it’s perfect.

It cuts to a plane flying through the rain on a darkened night, to which someone says to the pilot “do you have eyes on the target?”

The pilot responds “yes, i have visuals.”

The pilot then says “Sir, are you sure about the coordinates? I see civilians nearby.”

The camera then pans to a little girl, looking between 10 and 13, walking with an older man, either her brother or father. He is trailing behind her, and as she turns to look at him, she also looks up to see the plane.

While she is looking at the plane, an audio overlay of the pilot being told “do it.”

The shot then shows a close up of the bomb being dropped and it’s trajectory through the air, as it gets closer and closer to the ground. As we reach the ground, the camera actually zooms in on the innocent child’s eye, the tip of the bomb still in frame and clearly about to land on her face.

The moment in time freezes as the older man hugs her tightly, and she stares at the bomb. The shot cuts between a full body of her being embraced, the man hugging her with his back attempting to shield her from the bomb, and her face close up, staring at it. The moment in time resumes in extreme slow motion, as a pulsating ring is heard getting louder and louder as the nose of the bomb gets closer to impact. Right before the bomb lands, the screen cuts to black, with white text saying “Boycott.”

{END ID}

I posted this under ten minutes ago (it’s 4:29 EST 03-02-2024) and i’ve already gotten more notes then most posts I post.

That’s good.

Be vocal, be loud, never stand down

[iliketangerines]

Imma keep it short and simple..Raiden x Belly dancer?? It can be whatever you want (fluff, smut, wtv) but like Fengjian has a festival and theres belly dancers there and after they pass through she bumps into Raiden and its like an instant connection

sparks with you

a/n: RAIDDEEEEEN

pairing: raiden x gn!reader

warnings: none :)

Raiden can’t pull his eyes away from you as you dance on the stage, fabric flowing about you and the jewelry shining in the low light of the fires as you dance

it’s hypnotizing, and Raiden wishes that you would perform again as you bow and exit the stage to the back

he pulls at the collar of his clothing, taking in a deep breath and focusing his attention back to the stage, to get his thoughts away from you

no matter what he does, however, he can’t stop thinking about you, the way you moved across the stage, the way your body rolled and swayed on the stage

the jewelry had made your skin glow and the make-up adorning your face had only made you an entrancing figure on the stage

you were elegant and beautiful and perfect all rolled up in one, and Raiden can’t help it as his eyes stray to the curtains every so often to look for you

he flinches when the last performance ends, a roaring applause echoing in the audience that pulls him from his thoughts, and he raises his hands and starts clapping as well

Kung Lao elbows him in the side, laughing at him and asking what’s on his mind, and Raiden only ducks his head and says he’s just a bit worried about the upcoming tournaments

the champion excuses himself for some air and snakes his way out of the audience, murmuring quiet apologies to the people he bumps into

as he squeezes out of the crowd, he breathes a sigh of relief, bodies no longer pushed against him or random elbows and joints whacking into him, nobody asking if he was the champion and then wishing him luck on the tournaments

as much as he loved participating in the tournaments, it was tiring having to constantly worry about whether he would win or lose

the air is cooler and smells like fresh flowers as he walks down the street, taking his time in calming down and trying to get his thoughts off of you again

his stomach growls at him, and he slightly flushes, looking around to find a vendor that he could possibly go and get some food from

rummaging in his pockets, he finds a few coins and wanders around the street, looking for something that looked like he would actually eat

he didn’t like wasting food and he didn’t want to spend his last few coins on buying something he wouldn’t eat

something wafts in the air, and his stomach practically growls at him to follow the scent

Raiden hurries on over, following the source of the smell, and sure enough he finds a cart selling food that looks like he could stomach

placing down a few coins, he asks what he can get with these coins, and the vendor blinks at him and smiles, asking if he was the champion

Raiden lets out a nervous laugh, and nervousness churns in his stomach as he says that he is

the vendor lets out a loud laugh and says that he can get whatever he wants, and Raiden purses his lips and lets the vendor explain some of the most delicious dishes he sells

picking out the first one, Raiden watches as the vendor makes it, chopping and cooking and frying in front of his eyes, and the person slides it toward him, giving him a wink that he made extra

as Raiden bows his head, the vendor then calls out for Raiden to tell everyone where he got it from and good luck on the upcoming battles, and the champion calls out that he will and thank you

it seems that there were always some similarities between cultures, it reminded him of home, back in Fengjian when he would go to the bustling night market and all the aunties would pinch his cheek and tell him to tell others where he got the food from

picking up the food with his fingertips, he sits down on the curb of the street and stares at the half-bustling streets and listens to the yells and calls of the vendors trying to get people to eat some of their food

someone sits next to him, and he looks to his side in annoyance, wanting some alone time away from Kung Lao and Johnny and Kenshi, but he finds you instead, a colorful cloak drawn around your body

he stares awestruck, forgetting that he was in the middle of chewing as he stares at you, and you look to him, tilting your head at him

your make-up has been wiped off, and you wear none of the jewelry that you had on stage and you look just as beautiful to him

closing his mouth and swallowing his food, he introduces himself, voice cracking, and he clears his throat and tries again with a gentle smile

you laugh and introduce yourself, your name rolling off your tongue and echoing in the Raiden’s ears

it’s a beautiful name, suits you perfectly, and you eye his food, asking where he had gotten such a large portion of food, you were absolutely starving

he glances down at his food and says that he got it from a vendor down the street but that you can share with him if you want, the vendor gave him too much anyway

your eyes light up in surprise, and you eye the food and then him before something clicks in place in your head

you ask if he’s the champion, and Raiden slightly wilts before responding that he was the champion of Earthrealm

he had hoped he could escape the title and the pressure for a while, to forget about the worries and to not worry about losing and having the entire fate of Earthrealm on his shoulders

waving him off, you say that you shouldn’t have brought it up, it was nice to get away from titles sometimes, you weren’t just a belly dancer, you’re also just an Edenian

Raiden blinks at you and nods in agreement, and he holds his food out to you again

your hand goes down and grabs a utensil, picking up some of the food and placing it in your mouth, and you hum at the taste

Raiden watches as you eat his food, his stomach no longer growling, but his heart pounds in his chest like a drum

you polish off the rest of the food and thank him for the food, and you stand up and hold your hand out for him to take

his hand moves toward yours, and you help him up and ask for his name

he responds with his name, and you grin at him, saying that the food was good, but you know an even better place, if he was up for it

Raiden nods, saying that he’d love to find some more spots, and you grin at him and hold onto his hand pull him along, spinning a story about the restaurant and why you loved it

for a moment, Raiden was just himself, not the champion or the Chosen One, and he smiles at the back of your head as you drag him along

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E

Chapter Rating: M

AO3

ONE TWO THREE FOUR

FIVE

Today—is exceptional.

Just like every day has been since you tossed your old job aside and traded it in, becoming an apothecary’s assistant. You don’t glance at the window as your feet pad against the floor. Clothes hastily thrown on, you step out of your hovel and relish in the drizzle that showers your skin. The air is cooler now, a season’s shifted, and even though there’s an argument in the street and someone bumps into you, nearly knocking you into a puddle without so much as a glance (let alone an apology), you practically skip to the apothecary. To Qimir.

You’re not what you’d consider completely free, but you’re certain this is as close as you’re going to get.

Running errands isn’t glorious but it’s far more rewarding than your last job. The clients are often pleased, though you wonder on occasion, exactly what you’ve handed off to them. Sure, this job is by no means a glamorous one but at least you’re helping people, right? If not, well that’s a potential moral dilemma you can ruminate on another day. After all, Qimir praises you for meeting his expectations and that’s enough. You’re not willing to give up what you have with Qimir. The tasks are simple enough and enjoyable even, often accompanied by his skillful cooking that he always shares, as well as his sense of humor. He’s eccentric and maybe even a little unhinged but who isn’t? Besides, he’s the first person who’s made you feel anything in years.

And you are grateful.

You are thankful.

You are.

Now, as you sweep the floors, the occasional rustling of the bristles interrupting your thoughts, you steal a glance at him. There’s a cloaked customer speaking with him but his eyes flick to you, holding your gaze for a few unnecessary beats, brows lifting and eyes wide. You’re used to this shared communication and try not to laugh at his silent longing for the interaction to be over. You mouth an encouragement before he’s back to his effortless and awkward charming behind the counter.

At some point, you realize, months into your arrangement and long after your self-exacted debt is paid, your affection’s warped into something more than thankful gratitude. Loyalty? Maybe. Or—dare you say it—trust? Somehow he’s smoothed out some of your rougher edges and you’ve grown fond of wrapping yourself up in his reminiscent laugh as you lie down at night, succumbing to sleep with a smile on your face. Somehow, you’ve grown to consider him a friend through many conversations, critiques and shared philosophies. But beyond that, simmering beneath the surface of friendship, is desire.

He’s not just boss or friend.

No. No

You want him. All of him.

Yes.

Simply put—you want to fuck him.

Here in the apothecary and outside of it.

But you also want all the little intimacies that come with it too. Holding his hand for extended lengths of time while shopping in the market or anywhere really. Combing your fingers through his hair when that dappled light of morning graces your eyelids. To be the one prompting the first smile of his day; the kind that crinkles around his eyes. Share a shower and watch the suds slink off his wet skin. Embrace him. Hold him. Be intertwined in his inner life that you don’t yet fully know.

All. Of. Him.

A smile and his hand squeezes the departing customer’s shoulder in a good-bye and the cloaked figure doesn’t even notice you as they pass, slipping through the door.

His eyes drift to you again. Lingering just the way yours does on him. Or maybe you just imagine it that way. He throws you a smirk—is it knowing? There’s no telling. As he returns to his work and you to yours, you can’t help but steal more glances here and there. He bites his bottom lip when he concentrates and no matter how many times he pushes his hair back, it always comes undone. It’s more endearing now than the first time you saw it happen. The cut of his jawline juts out with the tilt of his head and your mind wanders off into inappropriate territory.

You wonder if his stray locks would stay tucked behind his ears if he were lying flat on his back, your palm pressed against his chest.

Your hand grips the broom handle tighter.

Envisioning what that half smile he gives would look like beneath you spread out on that counter, his hand curling around the cusp of your shoulder, you forget that you should be working. Sweeping. Instead you imagine. Imagine what his moan would sound like in your ear as you demand that he wait for your commanded release, while you sink down on him. Imagine the expression he’d wear when he obeyed and you praised him for once, for being so utterly good for you. What it would be like to strip away that kindly apothecary persona and see what kind of man you could coax out of him with the stroke of your hands. The bite of your teeth. Clawing of your nails. The touch of your lips and toying of your tongue. Would he become a beggar? A worshiper? An undone, complete, mess of a man? Or would you finally bring out a different side of him? Less soft, silly, gentle, tender, sweet, but more—

“Uh, are you okay?”

His voice pulls you from your fantasies with a flurry of blinks and you flush, embarrassed to be thinking of him like that and so blatantly too. Especially as he stands in front of you, mixing another concoction so innocently. If you keep up the daydreaming, he’s certain to appear in your nightly ones again. Which would be inconvenient when you’ve been purposely avoiding dreams with an effective sleeping draught. Avoiding them ever since you let your desires get the best of you. It can’t happen like before, even if that helmeted figure is an unforgettable visage inked into your memory.

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, attempting to dissipate the cloying tension. “Just daydreaming.”

“Oh?” His lips pull into a smirk. “About me I hope?” A brow quirks and he’s teasing.

If he only knew.

You offer a half-hearted chuckle and turn away, your cheeks on fire. “You wish,” you reply, as flippant and casual as you can manage.

He chuckles as you sweep the same spot on the floor for the fourth time in a row. Stepping past you, he flips the shop sign closed as the sky grows darker. It’s that time to head home but you wouldn’t mind sweeping the same spot one hundred more times if it meant you had the whole evening with him. Brushing against your hip on his way back, he rounds the counter.

“Mm,” he hums. “I need a drink.” Your fingers still, curling around the thick broom handle as you glance at him. He’s disappeared below the counter, rattling glasses together as he pulls two out from the lower cabinet and sets them on a tray. “Join me?”

“I never say no to a drink.”

“Good. Drinks always taste better when shared with another. Wouldn’t you agree?”

No. You don’t agree. Others tend to complicate things. Even things as simple as drinks. But a drink shared with Qimir specifically, is an opportunity you’re not willing to turn down.

“Yes,” you say, and return the broom to its dusty corner of the room.

—

More than one drink in and Qimir’s fiddling with the radio. First there’s static and then a steady beat pulses out of the speaker and he’s bobbing his head while his third drink sloshes over the side of his glass.

“Oops,” he says with a grin he throws your way. “Come here.” A crook of his finger beckons you.

Peeling yourself off the wall, his summon and smile is irresistible so you take a few steps over to him and throw back the smidge of amber liquid at the bottom of your glass and set it on the counter. “Now what.”

“Now—” He combs a hand through his sweaty locks then takes your hand. “We dance.”

“I haven’t had enough drinks for that.”

Hand clasping around your wrist tenderly, he tugs you toward himself, bangs instantly swooping right back down in front of his eyes as his fingers skim along your forearm. Your eyes fall where his fingers linger, dusting along your skin before he lifts them and snakes them around your waist. They press firmly into your back and you’re not sober enough to handle the touch casually. You’re positive you’re flushed but maybe it can be blamed on the liquor.

With his other hand, he raises his glass to your lips. “I’ll share.” He tips the rim, glass brushing against your bottom lip and liquid dribbles into your mouth. There’s a hint of cinnamon and a slight burn as you swallow the liquor and he watches you, with raised brow. “Better?”

“You tell me,” you reply with a grin as your hip bumps into his, throwing you both off beat. You also step on his feet.

“I can’t tell if the drink is hurting or helping.”

“What do you mean? Clearly my dancing is now exceptional.”

“Oh that’s what it’s called when you crush my toes? Exceptional?”

“Except-toe-nal.”

“Time to cut you off. The bad jokes are coming out.”

You snort. “So that’s where you draw the line? You can’t handle a few bad jokes?”

“Everybody has a weakness.”

You shake your head with a laugh as his hips sway back and forth, thighs brushing against yours.

“Noted.”

Between the jokes and jibes, and all around silly dance moves, laughter pours out of you freely as he spins you in his arms, twirling you all around the small space of the apothecary. You’re dizzy and you’ve been dizzy a thousand times before. But it’s been so long since you’ve allowed yourself to feel this way. Allowed yourself to have fun.

At some point he drops his glass off at the counter and entangles his hand with yours as you continue to dance through two more songs. And between the buzz of your liquor laden veins and the awful lip-syncing you both partake in, your mind drifts, relishing in the way his hand fits perfectly with yours. There’s something about the way he holds you. Close but not too close. Intimate yet slightly aloft. You can’t trust your reactions to him, unable to differentiate what’s real and what’s your own projection.

Midway through the third song, he stumbles and you go with him, landing in a heap on the floor. Pulling yourself up onto your elbows, heart thudding from dancing, or your wayward thoughts (you can’t tell which—maybe both?), the laughter dies down. You’re enraptured by him. He’s beneath you, bottom lip tucked behind his top teeth and he reaches up, fingers hesitating just before they brush your cheek. Tentatively, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pulse beating through every part of your being, you slant your head, lips parting instinctively as he thumbs your temple. His eyes are searching yours and you inch closer to his lips, gaze flicking to that bottom one, aching to release it from behind his teeth with your tongue. Breath matching his, you're seized in stilled time and you want him. Need him. A hum whispers in the back of your throat as your eyes close with the thought.

That need tugs at you, fraying your resolve at the seams—

“I should go,” you say, eyes wide and yanking yourself off him, scrambling away and back to your feet.

You offer your hand to help him up too. His thumb circles your skin as he accepts your assistance and he holds your hand longer than he needs to.

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he slowly releases your hand, wiping at something invisible on his cloak.

You gather up your belongings and make your way to the door. Turning back you say, “thank you. For the drinks. And the dance.”

“Of course. We should do this again sometime.”

You give a small nod before slipping outside, into the night. Briefly you back up against the side of the apothecary, catching your breath and attempting to cool off. The drizzle doesn’t dissipate the desire devouring you from the inside though. You were successful at avoiding blurred lines with Qimir, but you know when you return home, you’ll be foregoing your sleeping draught. And you’ll be dreaming of him.

[sunderingstars]

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 ⌝

pull back your eyelids / i’m lost in your iris

— iris, pastel ghost

ao3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k, teen & up

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: wriothesley gets caught in the rain.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥: genshin impact, wriothesley/neuvillette, wriothesley pov, oneshot, present tense, angst, hurt/comfort, canon compliant, introspection, sad old man neuvi, i started writing this before we knew much about wriothesley so apologies if anything ooc slips through

— happy 100 followers !! 🎉

It’s not that Wriothesley dislikes rain. By all accounts, rain is a good thing. It’s helpful for watering flowers and sustaining oceanic life and ushering in cooler weather, but as all good things are wont to do, it sours in excess.

As a man, Wriothesley finds the low rumbling of an oncoming storm calming. As a warden, he finds it a welcome deterrent for criminals. As a Fontainian citizen, however, Wriothesley finds it more cumbersome and, quite frankly, annoying than the previous two, especially when delivering documents to the Palais Mermonia.

A light drizzle is doable. Atmospheric, even; mesmerizing, the way water dances slowly against windowpanes and newly-locked shop doors, the way his boots sing softly against stone and the air hangs with a thin, cool sheen of mist, dappled with the early life of street lamps under a darkening sky. Despite Fontaine’s penchant for sudden weather changes, Wriothesley usually appreciates the ambience.

Today, however, the sky does not share this sentiment. He’s less than halfway across the lower fountain square when he senses a crackle of electricity in the air, hears the low rumble of thunderous intent from above. When he looks up, he finds light gray replaced by an ever-darkening steel. It doesn’t take an expert to know his day is about to get worse. There are only a few minutes at best before he’s caught in the downpour, which isn’t nearly enough to cross the distance to the Palais Mermonia with the papers tucked under his coat still intact. All that’s left is for the maw above to split open and pour — and pour it does.

In a shorter amount of time than he feels dignified disclosing, Wriothesley finds himself completely soaked and taking shelter under an awning, cursing himself (and by proxy, his overconfident nature) for leaving his umbrella back at the Fortress of Meropide. None of this would even be happening if he’d stuck to his core tenet: never go outside. It’s short. It’s simple. It’s there for a reason. It’s why he sends his documents by carrier instead of dragging himself topside at the whim of anyone — no matter how attractive they may be — who doesn’t have firsthand experience working in the Fortress. Unfortunately for him, he is not immune to Fontaine’s justice system. He is also, apparently, not immune to the Chief Justice of that system, at least not as far as fatigued letters asking for personal favors go. It seems Neuvillette being slightly inconvenienced is enough to get Wriothesley running errands these days.

Not that ruminating on it will help him in the short term, though. Right now, all he can do is stand, soaked through like an abandoned dog, and look at the sky with a sort of annoyance he only reserves for those Fonta salesmen who market products to prisoners. He doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself — or more accurately, his spine, which tends to abandon him as soon as he sits down with an envelope and pen.

It’s easy to slip into frustration with each new rumble of thunder. Frustration at himself, his decisions, his godforsaken penchant for leaving the Fortress with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He feels more strung-out than he has in ages. He wracks his mind and pockets in an attempt to find something even semi-helpful for the rest of his journey, only to come away empty-handed. He’s marginally glad the papers tucked under his coat are still dry, but it doesn’t help his mood in the way he’d hope.

Getting wet tends to have this effect on him. A light drizzle does nothing to knock him off-guard, but being genuinely, honestly drenched? It’s a nightmare. For someone who lives his life surrounded by water on all sides, he really doesn’t like coming into contact with the stuff (tea notwithstanding). Something about it just sets him on edge. Even now, he can feel his clothes soaking through. It’s maddening. He’s not even sure who he’s more angry at: himself or the sky.

Luckily for him, salvation comes in the form of a kindly shopkeeper across the street who, after seeing Meropide’s Head Warden suppressing shivers, takes it upon themself to bring him an umbrella. One mildly-embarrassing exchange and a thank-you later, and Wriothesley is resuming his trek to the Palais.

The umbrella helps. It’s a bit loud and the wind shakes it from time to time and the yellow polka dots definitely ruin his intimidation factor, but it’s nice. Nicer than trying to run in a downpour, anyways.

As he walks, he lets himself admire the scenery. It’s not something he gets to do often, far too caught up in Meropide’s internal affairs to even spare a glance topside. The city looks nice like this, he decides — soft and quiet and gray. It seems free, somehow. Caught in limbo. A state of escape from the expectations of everyday life; away from the pressure of being correct in its judgment, from the mountains of paperwork dripping ink and signatures, the cold catch of metal against skin. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere that reminds him to breathe.

He’s only a few turns away from the Palais proper when he notices something strange. Something different from the graying rock and darkening sky. Something so vaguely off-putting that it stops him in his tracks, puts him on alert, causes years of training to kick in as muscle memory guides his hand towards the handcuffs at his hip.

There is someone standing near the edge of a garden. At first, they’re difficult to see. The city has many gardens in the most unlikely of crevices, and this particular area overlooks the rising sea in a way that cuts half of it from his sight, hidden behind an entry arch. All he can make out is a dull swish of blue. As he draws closer, however, his hands relax, trading places with the tension now emerging onto his brow.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” he calls out, confused. He half-expects the man in front of him to be a hallucination. That the real Chief Justice is busy waiting for him in his office while Wriothesley is going slightly insane on the street outside.

He walks closer. Despite his attempt to ease the harshness with which he walks — the stomp of his boots, the rattle of his chains, the clank of the cuffs at his side — he can’t succeed in the way he wants. He never can, not with the Chief Justice.

When he passes under the arch enough to see Neuvillette clearly, he calls out again. This time, the figure turns.

Neuvillette’s eyes are clouded over, distant and unmoving. Rain slides from him in small waves, splitting into rivulets down his cane, dripping from the tips of his hair, darkening the hues of his outfit. If Wriothesley was a wet dog earlier, the Chief Justice is nothing more than fur and bones.

A lingering moment passes. When the warden’s presence registers, Neuvillette’s eyes lighten ever so slightly.

“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”

The Chief Justice makes no move to take shelter, only continues to stand, fully humbled, against the onslaught of water.

“What are you doing?” Wriothesley asks.

It’s an understandable question. Not even Lady Furina stands in the gardens while it rains. In fact, most people would consider behavior like this the recipe for catching a cold, moreso a very strange thing to do. If this were anyone else, he’d escort them straight home. He wouldn’t feel right letting someone put their own health at risk without doing something about it. Unfortunately, Wriothesley doesn’t have that kind of authority over Neuvillette — if anything, the Chief Justice should be the one ushering him inside on account of where they are.

But neither of them do that. Instead, they both stand, staring. It’s a strange sort of purgatory, the kind that makes them oblivious to the rain pooling near their boots, makes them stand on either side of the garden arch as if locked in an oceanic standoff. A great being of water and the chained structure of Fontaine, slowly submerging. It reminds him of the last time he found Neuvillette in the rain; the way their world moved in limbo, waterlogged, hazy, until the other man took his umbrella.

It’s not as awkward as he remembers. Just… melancholic. Slow, in the way water rises, step by step, year by year. Wriothesley isn’t sure why the Chief Justice is here, but that doesn’t mean he can’t find out. He regrets not asking last time. He doesn’t want to pry but… well, quite frankly, he’s worried.

He calls Neuvillette’s name again.

For his part, Neuvillette continues to look like he’s coming down from a very high place. When he opens his mouth, he makes nothing clear. Wriothesley isn’t sure what “taking a walk” is supposed to help him understand. It is quite literally his job as a warden to ask questions and get answers no matter who it is. The only reason he’s holding back is because of the Chief Justice’s status. Now, even that is beginning to fray.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley asks. He doesn’t mention how unusual Neuvillette’s behavior is, or how far he is from his office, or how the bow in his hair is beginning to slip and tangle with the oddly-moving, cobalt strands of hair flattened against his back.

“Why would I not be?” comes the response.

Wriothesley resists the urge to scoff — not because Neuvillette has offended him in any way, but because the words are so rehearsed he can practically hear the Chief Justice saying them in the mirror. It’s a deflection, too, one he’s heard far too many times in his career.

It occurs to Wriothesley as sure as his many years of training: Neuvillette is hiding something. Perhaps not in the way a warden is used to, but in the way a friend might. Although neither of them are partial to vulnerability, he’s learned to pick up on the Chief Justice’s quirks — the downturn of his mouth, the small furrow of his brow. It’s all there. It worries him.

It’s not something he can ignore, either, not a one-time occurrence he can brush off as a fever dream anymore. Two time’s the charm, and Wriothesley decides to take a metaphorical leap. To cross the distance between their positions. He steps over the arched threshold, umbrella in hand, and comes to stand in front of the other man. The gradient Wriothesley’s eyes are met with threatens to swallow him whole. Nevertheless, he persists.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says.

Neuvillette blinks. His eyebrows twitch. “I am not lying.”

“You might as well be.”

It seems the Chief Justice can’t muster a response to that. Gone are the quick wit and decisive motions of his court persona, instead replaced with an almost shy, drowning ocean of a man who can’t tell up from down. This goes beyond the softness Wriothesley has witnessed on occasion. It’s something he doesn’t think he’s seen at all.

When the other man continues to offer no counter, Wriothesley sighs. He does a quick survey of the garden, then brushes past Neuvillette to stand beside a waterlogged bench. In a moment of impulsivity, he sacrifices his fur coat to act as a barrier between him and the bench.

“Rest, then.” He sits and pats the space beside him. “Archons know how long you’ve been standing like that.”

If Neuvillette had the energy, he would most likely be offended at the roughness of Wriothesley’s words. As it stands, he takes the Duke up on his offer, though not without hesitation. By the time he’s settling precariously on the bench’s edge as if he’s worried the wood will absorb him, Neuvillette has managed to look at every single part of the garden besides Wriothesley.

The man in question isn’t surprised. He knows he isn’t the best at comforting people. Never has been, even when he found himself taking on the responsibility of caring for Sigewinne. What he’s learned, though, is that despite his gruff appearance, he still has a way of pulling people into his orbit, making them feel at home. A “nice heart on the inside,” as Sigewinne once put it. It just takes people a while to see.

Wriothesley doesn’t press. He doesn’t continue to ask questions — partially because he’s not sure what to say — and he doesn’t continue to fuss over the state of Neuvillette despite his mind so desperately telling him otherwise. Getting the man to sit was a large enough feat. Anything beyond that needs to come on his own terms.

The silence they slip into feels tentative. Fragile, like the churning clouds above them are glassy, storm-bottled, threatening to shatter at a moment’s notice. Like whatever peace they’ve created can be broken into pieces by a single crack of lightning, a single swell of the sea. The rain continues to wash over them. Though it parts gracefully through Neuvillette, it splatters onto Wriothesley’s umbrella in messy drops, rattling the metal underneath.

He considers offering the Chief Justice shelter. It won’t do much, but it could be an olive branch. He eventually scraps that idea, however, for fear of insulting a man that in many ways could hold a grudge so strong it would impact him for years to come. He’s never been too caught up in the social intricacies of Fontaine’s nobility, but he doesn’t intend to ruin anything because of it.

Instead, against both his common sense and better judgment, he lowers his umbrella, clicking it closed. The cold dart of water assaults him almost instantly. Neuvillette’s incredulous voice follows close behind.

“What do you think you are doing?” the Chief Justice asks. A glance to his face tells Wriothesley it’s genuine.

The Duke shrugs. “Figured if you have to deal with the rain, you could at least use some company, right?”

“Well, yes, but—” Neuvillette’s mouth gapes, open and fish-like, floundering. “I mean— Really— You do not—”

“Relax,” Wriothesley says. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Neuvillette huffs, the first expression of anything other than confusion and despair Wriothesley’s seen since he arrived. Taking this as a good sign, Wriothesley decides to test the waters.

“Standing miserably in the rain isn’t exactly the picture of a healthy mind, you know,” he says.

“I know.”

Neuvillette offers nothing else and Wriothesley fights every urge in his body to continue pestering. Time. It’s just time, he reminds himself. So he waits. And waits. The thrum of the rain and the sea merge into one, into the quiet thud of heart in his ears.

Eventually, Neuvillette sighs. “I am old, I suppose.” He tilts his head upward. The gray reflection of the sky darkens his pupils. “Too old.”

As Wriothesley follows his vision, a low flash of lightning echoes against the rain. When his eyes return, the Chief Justice’s face is half-obscured by soaked hair.

“I feel as if the world is moving on,” Neuvillette continues. “That I am standing still and it is moving past me, and I do not know how to move with it. That I am fated to watch it decay.” Then, softer, “Is that a strange thought?”

Strange… There are many things Wriothesley finds strange about Neuvillette — his bathysmal eyes, his missing vision, his uncanny ability to predict the weather — but the way he views the world is not one of them. Wriothesley has always understood the Chief Justice to be an old soul, regardless of what that means. It’s not surprising someone like him feels this way.

Wriothesley must have been silent for too long, because Neuvillette coughs lightly as if trying to dispel his own mind. “My apologies. I understand this matter does not concern y—”

“No.”

“No…?”

“It’s not strange. Not to me, at least.”

“I—” Neuvillette flounders for the second time, star-split eyes wavering between the sky and the man beside him. “You truly believe so?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Wriothesley asks with a shrug. “That’s life, isn’t it? Looking at the present and realizing how quickly it passes. Watching the world turn around you. Watching it change. The way I see it, it would be stranger to not feel helpless when faced with it all.”

He must have done something right, because Neuvillette allows himself to sag. Only minutely, and only at the shoulders, but to Wriothesley it looks like a puppet being cut from its strings.

“What do you do?” Neuvillette asks. Soft, quiet, unsteady; the rumble of an ocean far beyond what a Duke is capable of handling, some deep ache human hands can never reach. He does not look at Wriothesley.

Wriothesley looks at him, and hopes that even for a moment those waves might part for him to see a glimpse of sea below. “I don’t know,” he says. The rain is so loud it drowns his voice, but Neuvillette hears. He always does.

A resigned smile paints the Justice’s face. “That is alri—”

“I don’t know,” Wriothesley repeats, “but I don’t think we’re meant to. I think we’re just meant to live.”

“To…” Neuvillette furrows his brow, testing the words out. “…live.”

“Yeah.”

The Chief Justice slips back into silence. Whether he’s contemplating, zoning out, or simply thinking about his next import of Snezhnayan water, Wriothesley can’t tell. What he can tell, though, is that he’s bleeding. Not physically, and not somewhere Wriothesley can see, but somewhere deep. Somewhere between his cane and crossed hands. Somewhere under those impeccable robes. Somewhere that, no matter how much he tilts his head away from Wriothesley, can’t hide the tear-tracks of the sky.

Wriothesley doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t need to know everything. But he knows this: the rain feels like grief. It drips from his umbrella, palpable, and when it meets his skin it sobs.

Neuvillette speaks like the rain.

“Wriothesley,” he says, half-grounded, half-lost. His voice is steady. His voice is blood. “What if…”

Rain water catches on his lashes as he drifts them close, merging at the corners and sliding in thin streams down his face. A muted crack of thunder sounds beyond the clouds.

“… What if I do not know how?”

Wriothesley blinks. Shifts in his seat. He wants to reach out and brush Neuvillette’s cheeks, to wipe away that tear-stained sky, but his hands are rough and calloused, and he fears their contact with softness may scratch too deep. Instead, he bridges the distance between them in a different way, soft and insistent; only for a moment, only enough for Neuvillette to feel the warmth of their shoulders touch, to feel the light pressure of Wriothesley’s head leaning against his, cushioned by a barrier of silky hair.

He’d never thought the Chief Justice to be a man wanting of knowledge in anything, much less anything Wriothesley could offer. It stirs a strange pride in him, the feeling he has something to give. Some way to help.

He thinks carefully on his next words. In the end, he comes back to what he does best — honesty. Gut feeling. What he truly wants to say, not what he thinks he should.

“It’s never too late to learn, right?”

Neuvillette hitches. The clouds continue to rumble, but he doesn’t pull away. “I fear I am not the best student of philosophy.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “It’s not philosophy.”

This time, Neuvillette turns to look at him, confused.

“It’s life,” Wriothesley clarifies. “Just life. The only way to know is to live.”

Neuvillette falls silent.

Wriothesley thinks he’s beginning to see, now. It’s not that Neuvillette’s problems stem from himself, as the Chief Justice seems to think, but rather his circumstance. He doesn’t know how to live because he hasn’t been allowed to. His position forbids it. Perhaps that’s why he sends his letters, pesters the Duke to deliver documents in person under the guise of overwork. He’s lonely, plain and simple. Wriothesley doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him sooner.

“That settles it, then,” he says abruptly, patting his knees and standing up. It’ll be hell to walk in waterlogged boots, but he’s dealt with worse. It’s not a long walk, anyhow.

“Settles what?” Neuvillette looks as bewildered as the swirling sky above him.

“You’re coming home with me.”

“What?” The other man blinks as confusion startles raindrops into his eyes, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. A barely-visible shade of pink dusts his cheeks. “Wriothesley, I— I understand a man such as yourself is used to the vulgarity of a prison environment, but I urge you to—”

“—Tea,” Wriothesley says. “I’m inviting you for tea. My townhome is about a block away.” Then, as a purely indulgent smirk begins to play at his mouth, “What did you think it was?”

Neuvillette blanches, then clears his throat. “Tea… of course.”

“Mhm,” comes the unconvinced response.

Despite Neuvillette’s initial hesitance, he stands, now facing Wriothesley. His hair still drips with sorrow and the sky still drips with grief, but his eyes lighten just enough for Wriothesley to see coral beneath those storm-swept waves.

“Do you have water from Springvale, by chance?”

Wriothesley snorts at his excitement. “‘Course I do. I’ve been stockpiling all the bottles you give me as parting gifts.”

“You… don’t like the taste?”

“Nothing like that,” he says, waving away Neuvillette’s concern. “It just didn’t seem right to use them on regular days at the Fortress. Figured I’d save ‘em for special occasions. Today can be one, if you want.”

He turns, clicks open the umbrella, and extends it towards the other man — a futile gesture given the fact they’re both soaked. Much like the first time, Neuvillette stares at its handle blankly, distantly, as if observing it from behind a curtain.

It occurs to Wriothesley that Neuvillette might find him bothersome. Might see his concern as pity, his curiosity as corruption. That perhaps all he wanted was to be left alone. The Duke of Meropide is not an insecure man, but he can’t help it this once. For a moment, he lets his worries take the form of disdain — narrowed eyes, cold stares, buildings with a single set of echoing steps. Solitary, soaking treks across cobblestone. He wonders if he could come back from the aftermath of such a storm.

Yet still, he stands. Rain beats dully against his umbrella.

It’s only when Neuvillette takes a slow step forward, curling his fingers around the handle above Wriothesley’s, that the tension in his chest eases.

“I’d like that,” the Chief Justice says quietly.

As the warmth of their hands bleed through silk and leather, Wriothesley thinks his heart may burst. A strand of glowing hair falls across Neuvillette’s face like moonlight.

“Of course. Great. Cool.” The Duke wrenches his eyes away from the scene in front of him, turning to lead them both out from the garden.

As Neuvillette follows suit, he asks, “Are you… going to give me the umbrella?”

Wriothesley about passes out. “Yes! Yes, of course,” he says, almost dropping the handle entirely as he releases it. “Shit. Sorry.”

Neuvillette coughs in a suspiciously laughter-like cadence. “You are forgiven. Although—” He sighs and tilts the umbrella so they can both shelter underneath (not that it’s much use to either of them — even the documents, long-forgotten against Wriothesley’s chest, are beyond saving), “I should be the one apologizing.”

“What for?”

It doesn’t seem easy for Neuvillette to elaborate, so after a few seconds of the older man’s mouth opening and closing, Wriothesley answers for him:

“Nothing. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Tension eases from the Chief Justice’s shoulders. He seems hesitant, slightly doubtful, but the words are enough to banish the worst of his stress. He shifts closer to the Duke.

“Thank you,” he whispers. It almost gets drowned by the rain, by the retreating dregs of thunder beyond the sky, but Wriothesley hears. He always hears. And he smiles.

Together, they step beyond the garden arch and onto the stronger weight of stone, Wriothesley leading Neuvillette towards home.

The rain beats dully against their umbrella.

© written by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[twsthc]

savanaclaw headcanons and projection 🦁

...this is what the poll from like last week was for. sorry heartslabyul and diasomnia fans teehee </3

⚠️ warnings: self harm, eating disorders

last updated: may 4, 2024

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR !! 🦁🥩

🇲🇱🇹🇿🇰🇪 UNLABLED + INTERSEX TRANSFEMNEU (she/him)

APPEARANCE HCS:

Leona is actually the twst character I've drawn the most

I hc all beastmen to have fur everywhere thats elastic and akin to mink skin

You know the texture of squishmallows? It's like that.

╰Doesn't include the thick hair in other places (head, facial, armpits, chest, pubes, etc)

Lots of scars in general + healed dermis self harm scars on thighs

Has a flat nose like a cat

RANDOM HCS:

Savanaclaw mom/big sister...

Overstimulating thunderstorm? Go whine to Leona. Diasomnia students bothering you? Get leona to deal with them. Your food is too hot? Cry to Leona.

During freshman year she was way more outgoing and extroverted but eventually She mellowed out (depression moment)

She used to change hairstyles a lot before settling on freeform dreads

Also got into way more fights back then (also how she became housewarden)

Now she is (kind of) calm. Tranquil. At peace. Has depressive episodes. Relaxed.

Mostly does her own thing, and if that "thing" isn't sleeping it's some other bullshit the underclassmen roped her into

SHE CAN SEW AND MAKE JEWLERY

╰While wandering the castle one day, Leona stumbled upon the servants quarters. They taught him life skills (mending clothes, cooking, etc :3)

Despite being a big sis figure if she doesn't want to do something she Will Not.

And if she does do it afterall it's because she gets something out of it.

NPD, GAD, PDD (persistent depressive disorder)

RUGGIE BUCCHI !! 🍩🌼

🇺🇸🇧🇷 UNLABLED + TRANS MAN (he/him)

APPEARANCE HCS:

Similarly to Leona he has a furry textured skin

Though his body hair is more coarse and longer due to him being a hyena

He has a lazy eye and tipped ear similar to Ed from The Lion King

Probably my second most drawn twst character :3

Healed epidermis self harm scars on inner wrists 🥶

RANDOM HCS:

He's like the cooler afrolatino Luke Blovad

He's either winning the idgaf wars or dying on the battlefield

Has an insane collection of weird shirts from thrift stores

And he makes it work every single time! his outfits go crazy!

More connected to his AADOS/Gullah side than his Brazilian side

Though he does speak Portugese!

In fact, he speaks multiple languages because polyglots are marketable

The type of person to take a half empty bottle of ketchup and rotting apple from an empty ass fridge and make dinner happen

Constantly going to Scarabia to snag their party leftovers

Used to be a scene kid!!!! This is canon and true!!!! Pls trust me

diabetes, GAD, MDD, undiagnosed ADHD

triggering content ahead !!

he has bulimia nervosa

╰fun fact! a lot of food insecure people have eating disorders

self harmed a lot from the ages from 10-12 before eventually stopping at 13

he stopped after his grandma found out and started checking his arms regularly (#projecting)

JACK HOWL !! 🐺🌵

🪶🇪🇬 PANROMANTIC ASEXUAL + GENDER CURIOUS (he/they)

APPEARANCE HCS:

WAY thicker fur than leona and ruggie

Trims his body hair a lot because he overheats in savanaclaw easily

RANDOM HCS:

The type of guy to be totally in love with the world and nature

They're just like. Wow. We were put on a spinning rock. With food to eat, and water drink, and air to breathe. I love being alive.

Had a little garden back at home and named every single plant

Remembers small things about people and brings them up in conversation

╰Hey dude I got you a Chipotle bowl. How did I remember your exact order? You told me. Yeah, I know it was a year ago, but--

Random but I think he dresses how Tupac did

Not even to be tough

But because he's a black suburban kid

(I'm a black city kid but this is probably how black suburban kids dress trust)

Loooves chewing on things. Has one of those chew necklaces

Autistic with botany and physical health special interest

[sapphicsigh]

Y'all are so weird (derogatory) for pressuring actors to confirm their sexuality for YOUR comfort. You do realize that REAL PEOPLE CANNOT QUEERBAIT RIGHT?! GET A GRIP!!! Y'ALL ARE ACTIVELY MAKING PPLS LIVES WORSE!!!*

*if you think forcing kit connor to come out of the closet was a good thing, then ur a freak (derogatory), and u need to rethink ur entire life

Queerbait is a term that was created to describe how TV SHOWS & MOVIES market their project as queer to entice queer viewers to watch and there's no follow thru/delivery. Queerbaiting can also occur unintentionally at first and then when the showrunners/writers realize the audience's reactions they can start to intentionally lean into making their characters do gay shit. The writers lean into a queer reading of the relationship to gain queer viewers and (most importantly) their money (think Supernatural and Sherlock). Cas confessed his love for Dean (duh, obviously he loves him) and then was sucked away into super hell. 😀 cool/s. When John and Mary got married, they were dancing together at the reception, and SHERLOCK LEFT BC HE WAS SO SAD. He couldn't stand to be there and feel so alone. He had to go brood elsewhere, he was brooding so hard.

Killing Eve was probably one of the gayest shows I've seen in my entire life but they (Villanelle and Eve) never got together.

Queerbaiting sucks. I understand the hatred for it. I hate it too!!! But it's not an individual issue and is not going to be solved by harassing 18yr olds on Twitter (incredibly sick & twisted (derogatory) btw). Do I find it annoying that Harry Styles is purposely vague about his sexuality? Yes! Absolutely! It's weird asf. At best, he's actually queer, just incredibly private, and at worst, he's straight but wants to maintain an air of mystery around himself to seem cooler/edgier. No matter how annoying/cringe YOU PERSONALLY find a celebrity and how they describe (or don't) their sexuality it DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO THAT (very personal) INFORMATION!!! Queerbaiting is an industry wide issue and is a product of our society's deep rooted homophobia! If you can't understand that, then you should try learning about queer history and the Hays codes.

[levi501ackerman]

Steel Heart Chapter 15:

The Man in the Forest

Hange x Reader Chapter Index Masterlist AO3

Megan's Note: For the vibe of this chapter listen to "Maleficent's Theme" by Tchaikovsky. Or look up and listen to the song "Maleficent's Evil Spell" from George Burn's adaptation for the Disney version of Sleeping Beauty. You'll know the vibe instantly. I also feel like you'll figure out when to play it LOL! Posted: 8/23/24

Word Count: 4.3k

After a filling dinner of roasted chicken, most knights were ready to go to bed. When twilight was cast over the sky, the camp called it a night and headed off to bed. The following morning, the plan was to eat, pack, bathe, and then ride to a farm owned by the Reeves family—a father-and-son company with close ties to the Royal family and the Kingdom. 

Dimo and his son Flegel made their wealth by building a large company with different farms near the districts. The company handles and distributes meat and produce to markets in every district and nearby villages. The farm that Hange said they were heading to in the morning was a farm that happened to be Flegel’s main residence—a spice farm growing and distributing goods such as saffron, wasabi, and other common spices. 

Levi gave you a second cup of tea with a higher dose of the sleeping pills, then packed away the empty kettle. You stayed by the fire while Levi and the knights packed up the camp. Since being in the forest, the air was cooler and the shadows of the knights were eerier. The knights walking back and forth to the horses would disappear out of sight once leaving the illumination of the fire. You could barely make out who was approaching the camp until crossing the threshold of the light. Would you have time to react if an unwanted person came from the shadows?

Hange emerged from the tent, holding a lit candle and a bag and walking to the dark abyss. They disappeared out of sight nearly instantly and made you feel alone. You looked around at the desolate campsite and decided to return to the tent. As you went further from the fire, the chill air crept onto your back and neck. The feeling that someone was watching you made the hairs on your neck stand up. You gripped your cloak and hurried into the tent. You could barely make out the silhouette of the table and chairs in the tent.

You knew Hange’s story was something they made up to scare you, but the feeling of being watched didn’t leave you. It’s something that could happen. A Marleyan Cult member hiding amongst the trees watching and waiting to take you. You carefully walked to your bedroll, removed your cloak and crawled inside. You noticed you were holding your breath and released it.

I’m safe with Hange

A light appeared in the tent and Hange returned. You noticed their shirt didn’t have the dirt stain on the front. Then you realized Hange was wearing the pale yellow collared long-sleeve shirt. You and Hange weren’t twins anymore. 

“Why aren’t you wearing the matching white shirt, Hange?” You whined. 

“Oh, the shirt with the dirt on it?” Hange put their free hand on their hip and raised their eyebrows skeptically.

“Duh,” Hange scoffed, then chuckled to themselves. “We aren’t twins anymore!”

“So that’s what your whining is about?” Hange grabbed the white shirt from out of a bag that was on the table. “You’re pouting about not being twins, huh?”

“UGH!”

“The Princess wants me to wear a dirty shirt just so we can twin,” Hange said, licking their thumb and wiping the stain of dirt. “It’s not coming off—I’ll wash it in the river tomorrow,” they said to themselves. 

“Can you wear it? Please?!?!”

“I can’t say no to Princess Y/N,” Hange turned around and unbuttoned their pale yellow shirt. You turned over in your bedroll, giving them privacy. You wanted to peek at their body, but the thought of getting caught was embarrassing. If Hange caught you, you wouldn’t know how to explain yourself. Plus, bathing in the river makes it easier to gaze at Hange’s body. “Alright! We’re twins again!”

“GOOD!” You turned over to see Hange’s arms up, presenting themselves in the white shirt! The top three buttons were undone, pleasantly revealing their cleavage. Thank goodness you were far enough away for Hange not to be able to distinguish where you were looking. Now that you were alone again, you wanted to know Hange’s dating history. The girls' names, what they looked like, or what they were like as Hange’s girlfriend. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you were confused about why you were nervous about asking Hange. They were dismissive of your questions earlier about their dream girl. Earlier, you speculated that Hange didn’t want to share about their past relationship. Perhaps you could ask one more time and if they didn’t want to share, you wouldn’t bring it up. At least you’d try. “Hey, I was wondering something . . .”

“Oh yeah? Let me take two more bags and I’ll be all yours!” Hange held the candle in one hand and leveraged two bags in the other. As they walked out of your shared tent, you contemplated how you would approach Hange on the possibly sensitive topics. Maybe ask with a preface of only sharing what they want. Perhaps lie to Hange? Tell them you have only asked these questions to help with your future relationship with a stranger. Fairy Godmothers Christa and Ymir wouldn’t approve. Those two would slap you and tell you they didn’t raise a liar. Though they did withhold information about your life, wasn’t that a lie?

Your heart continued to pound and the anticipation of asking Hange clouded your thoughts. You stared at the side of the tent and it was like you couldn’t hear or feel anything—only think. It wasn’t a big deal just ask Hange. They were your friend. You toyed with the fabric of your bedroll, balling it between your index finger and thumb. When Hange came back into the tent, you could hear them shivering. Their shoulders were to their ears and they were holding themselves.

“It’s so cold out there,” Hange said as they walked to their bedroll and placed the small candle on the ground. The low light created an effortless glow to illuminate their pleasant features. Hange’s thick lashes behind their glasses were feminine and doe-like. 

Woah.

“U-Uh . . .”

“Is something wrong, my dear?” 

“I um—I was just thinking of something?”

“Care to share?” Hange turned around and began undressing themselves. You wanted to turn away from them, but truly, you were enamored. Your mouth was agape, and thoughts swirled in your head. Even though Hange was interested in girls, how could the knights around the camp pay attention with them around? Some of the knights must be crushing on Hange. Hange set their glasses down and sighed.

“I was just thinking—thinking about my marriage to Prince Marco—” You sounded unsure and with the realization you could play it off as nerves, you continued confidently. Though Hange’s naked body was right next to you, the top of the tent looked really cool. “—Thinking about how to be a good girlfriend. What do you think makes a good girlfriend?”

“You mean a wife?”

“Yeah, that.” Hange crawled into the bedroll and pulled it up to their neck. You noticed Hange was facing you and proceeded to mirror them, knowing it was safe to look. They had their eyepatch on still and you pulled the covers all the way to your neck. 

“That’s a long answer, Princess,” Hange whispered as the outside camp became silent and the knights headed to bed. “I’m afraid it depends on the person, but a good baseline is being a good communicator, compatible, and respectful mostly. Arranged marriages are standard for royal families; married couples typically learn to love each other. Or at least be on a friendly level.”

“Friendly?” You whispered and Hange nodded.

“The marriages aren’t for love; it's to unite the royal families for trade or for allies.” Your heart sank at Hange’s words and the thought of your marriage being for a price other than love. It felt like a heavy, unknown cloud of responsibilities looming over you. “You’re going to be Queen and be the Ruler of the Walls.”

“What about Prince Marco?” Hange scoffed and revealed a dimple on their face from smiling. The dimple on their cheek gave Hange an added cuteness and adorable aura to their face. 

“Yes, the King is important, but really, the Queen is worshiped by all. I mean, she’s growing the heir. The Queen is the one who holds the bloodline of the Royal family. A man could wander the earth not knowing they have a child with multiple women, but every woman will know if an heir is theirs.” The thought of submitting yourself to the unknown Prince Marco to conceive an heir made you feel uneasy and . . . violated. You didn’t want to do that. But maybe it was not as bad as it seems—maybe it’s something you’ll learn to enjoy, like how you’ll learn to love a stranger. 

“Hange . . . what’s a good partner for you?” Their eyes darted away from you and there was a hesitance behind their voice. “You don’t have to answer I just—I just don’t want to think about making heirs with a stranger.”

“That’s quite understandable, Y/N.” There was a pause from Hange. They were gathering their thoughts, and you hoped Hange would share about their past relationships.

“I prefer a girl who is fun. They make me laugh and don’t let the weight of their problems always weigh them down. Also intelligent and have a vested interest in learning more about the world. Knowing there’s so much more we haven’t discovered! And I guess loyalty. But in the end, most relationships come down to compatibility, respect, and mutual devotion.”

“Levi told me that relationships also have to deal with going through hardships together, willingly.” Hange brought their hand from out of their bedroll and tapped your nose. You smiled fondly, knowing that they were going to do that. 

“Levi was right.” The candle flame flickered and the wax droplets raced down the candle stick and gathered at the brass candle holder. “There are many types of hardships that can affect relationships. Outside forces and inner conflicts . . . I dated a girl who had a hard time accepting her attraction to girls. She finally felt confident and told her parents, but her father was unhappy. He loomed over her, being the devil on her shoulder and eventually, she ended our relationship.” Hange admitted and you looked away from them. When Hange was telling the story, they didn’t sound sad, it must have been a long time ago and they had time to heal from the pain that was brought by that girl—the girl who wasn’t willing. 

“I’m so sorry, Hange . . .” You whispered.

“Don’t be. Another example of a hardship is when I lost my eye. I was dating a girl and learning to accept my new appearance. In the end, I let my insecurities get to me and I thought she wanted to be with prettier girls and so I ended it . . .” Hange rolled onto their back and closed their eye. You studied their face. The lovely features from their aquiline nose to their soft lips all complement each other to create their face—the face in oil paintings and the face you like looking at.

“Hange . . . you are really pretty, please believe me! But I also don’t care what you look like. I care more about who you are; you, Hange Zoe, are my best friend.” Hange didn’t react to your praise. It was like they were deciding to do something—to choose how to respond to you. They breathed evenly for a few moments, and then, under their breath, they spoke. 

“That’s because you are a kind soul, Princess. Through the horrors you’ve seen, you remained kind. Even after the Marleyan Cultists captured you, you still don’t hate them . . . only feared them.” You didn’t know how to respond. Should you hate the Marleyan Cult? You only hated that they were hunting you. You didn’t even know of the Marleyan Cult until you escaped Shiganshina with Sir Miche Zacharius. Though you were with many knights, you wanted to learn how to defend yourself if needed. Levi and Sir Zacharius told you that all the knights would lay down their lives for you, and they have, but you still want to learn to defend yourself. 

“Hange . . . I’ve been wanting to learn how to fight and I know I can’t learn to be great in just one day, but maybe some tricks on how to not be helpless?” Hange’s eye fluttered open and they craned their neck toward you. Then, their fondness grew.

“You have tackled me twice already and slapped Eren pretty hard,” then Hange started snickering to themselves.

“What?”

“I’m just imagining, little ole, you tackling some big man,” Hange amusingly giggled and their contagious nature caused you to join in. “But anyways, Levi would be a good person to ask because he has great instincts. Plus, he knows how to go against people twice his size.”

“Okay, that is a good idea. Maybe he can teach me or give me tips during downtime! The only thing I know is Sir Zacharius told me to go for the neck and kick them in the balls,” Hange burst out loudly. They couldn’t contain their laughter and their shoulders were jiggling up and down. They slapped their bedroll as they caught their breath.

“He would tell you that,” Hange reached for the brass ring along the candle holder and clutched it between their thumb and index finger. “We should go to sleep.” The tent became pitch black when Hange blew out the candle. You felt pleased that Hange opened up about some of their past relationships. Hange’s story of the girl who had trouble accepting their feelings for girls stayed with you. It confused you.

“Hange . . . ?” You whispered.

“We should sleep, Princess Y/N.”

“One more question!”

“ Okaaayy , what?”

“Why did the girl have difficulty accepting she liked girls?” Hange sighed and you heard them shift in their bedroll.

“Could be because she heard her father disprove of girls dating each other all her life. Could be because she expected herself to marry a man. Could be because deep down inside, she didn’t like girls dating each other and didn’t expect to be attracted to me. Her environment. Her circumstances.” You thought about your home in the cottage with Christa and Ymir. They raised you to be accepting and kind to others. Your Fairy Godmothers were in love and together. They raised you and your only exposure to love was Christa and Ymir. Ymir made sure there were fresh flowers in the vase on the table and threw out the dead ones before Christa saw them. They enjoyed each other’s company and were a team. They were devoted to one another and helped each other. You wanted a love like that. But for some reason you didn’t want that with Prince Marco Bodt. 

“Hange, how did you know you wanted to date girls?” There was a pause and the dark abyss of the tent comforted you while you waited for their reply. You held your breath, wanting to know the moment it clicked for Hange. Did they see a girl’s naked body? Did Hange have some girl save their life or give them a thoughtful gift? Perhaps Hange was just Hange. Or they met a girl that changed their life—the light in the darkness.

“When you know, you know.” 

Hange’s words stayed in your mind as you tried to fall asleep. You shivered in your bedroll. You had more layers than Hange, yet you were the one freezing. In the dark, you felt around for the brass candle holder. You felt the rim of the brass saucer and moved your fingers around the edges, feeling for the circular handle. Then, you carefully moved the candle from between you and Hange to the other side of you.

While in your bedroll, you shuffled closer to Hange. You got close enough and felt the lump of their body against your side. They didn’t move away from you and you were pleased they let you snuggle next to them. Warmth radiated off of them and after a while, you felt your eyelids droop as you faded to sleep. 

━━ ⊱ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ ♡ ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⊰ ━━

You didn’t expect to wake up; it was still dark out. You felt an ache between your legs and groaned when you realized you needed to use the restroom. If Levi hadn’t given you a second cup of tea, you might have been able to wait until morning to use the restroom. The wind softly blew the leaves of the trees rhythmically, and it felt colder than it had been earlier in the evening. There was a faint noise outside, sounding like a chorus. 

“Hange . . . ?” You shook Hange and they groaned. “Hange! I really need to use the restroom.” You whispered and they groaned and shifted in their sleep. 

“I’m naked,” Hange mumbled and was barely audible. 

“I know I’m sorry, but I need to go!” You whispered desperately. Hange shifted in their sleep and then said nothing else. You rocked them, hoping they would be annoyed with your persistence. “Hange Zoe, I have to pee really bad!”

“Take the candle and have one of the knights on rotation escort you. There should be four guarding the camp!” Hange said, half asleep. “Pee behind the tent if you need to.”

Hange went still again, and their even breaths returned. You just needed to go quickly. It’ll take less than a minute, and then you could drift back to sleep next to Hange. You felt around for the brass handle of the candle holder. When your fingertips felt the saucer, you pulled it closer, and then you felt around for your boots. 

With the candle in hand and your boots on, you stood up and shivered from the cold, hitting more of your body. You figured you didn’t need your cloak because you’d be quick and slowly walked toward the table. You grunted when your hip hit the table. You felt the surface of the smooth tabletop and placed the candle on the table. A small box was on the table and you opened it and dug inside for a match. You felt the head of the match with your fingers. Then you struck the head against the side of the box and fire spewed from the tip. 

The candle lit up the tent faintly, and Hange was deep asleep and unbothered by the light. You carried the candle in front of you and carefully exited the tent. The camp was dark, nearly pitch black. In the distance were four specks of light—knights with their own light source. You carefully looked at the ground and walked toward the closest one. 

“Hello?” You whispered into the abyss and the light in the distance shifted. As you came closer, the flame in the distance approached. When you were a few feet away from each other, you saw a man with really short hair like Connie’s and you recognized him talking to Eren, Jean, and Connie. He trained with them when they were younger.  

“Your Highness? Is something wrong?” He whispered and his skinny eyebrows furrowed. 

“Franz . . . right? I—uh, need to use the restroom and Hange’s asleep. They told me to have one of the guards escort me . . .” Franz Kefka blushed and stared at you. He was caught off guard by the request. “I’ll be quick. Just go with me into the forest and then give me privacy . . .” 

“Right, I’ll protect you, Princess Y/N.” He said, and you both used your candles as a guiding light. You carefully walked and avoided tripping over the rocks and twigs on the ground. Chills were on your back, and you felt like you were being watched. You followed Franz into the forest. Franz drew his sword, and you looked around the dark abyss as if looking would help you see better. “We don’t need to go far since it’s dark. Just go ahead and I’ll be here if anything happens.”

“T-Thank you, Sir Kefka,” But something was holding you back from leaving Franz’s side. A foreboding feeling and the hairs standing on your neck did not help. The ache between your legs was about to burst, so you went a couple of trees in front of Franz. 

When you were a few trees away from him, you set your candle on the ground. You looked over your shoulder to see Franz’s flame in the distance. You couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see you. Behind a tree trunk, you undressed yourself. You held the small dagger inside your boot as you urinated on the ground. You felt better after releasing yourself and quietly put on your clothes. There was an odd noise in the distance and you froze.

Your heart raced and you shoved your boots on and picked up your candle. The trees stood large and tall, surrounding you. You heard it again—the noise. It sounded like a chorus. You gasped and looked around, but only the abyss of darkness was seen. You pivoted toward Franz’s light, but the sound of your name in the wind had you frozen in place.

Did I just hear . . . ?

The chorus of your name dared you to walk deeper into the forest. Chills were on your cheeks and your breath was visible before you. You could barely breathe and your shoulders tensed up.  

Someone was calling your name.

The pleasant chorus called your name again, beckoning you.

Like a trance.

You held out your candle and listened to the chorus—a sinister falsetto among the trees deep within the forest. You obeyed the voice calling for you and walked further from the camp. Your hand shook as you held out your knife. There was a crunch of twigs under your boots, and you passed trees, searching for the voice. 

The chorus lured you away from the camp. The twist in your stomach told you to turn around—to not follow the voice. But the temptation from the song of your name was controlling you.

Follow the voice. 

Give in to the calls.

Franz’s light was invisible behind you and the melody of your name stopped. Was this where they wanted you? You followed the call obediently and you listened for another call. You swore someone was calling your name. Then you sighed and turned to go back to camp.

Your breath hitched. A few feet away, a silhouette of a man stood, his eyes glowing in the abyss.

“F-Franz?” You were shaking as you held your candle toward the glowing eyes. Your eyes went wide when your candle's flame glowed on the stranger’s face. The tall man wore a suit of armor—yet he was a man you had never seen before. His piercing gaze made your heart jolt. He held a crested sword like the Knights of the Royal King’s Guard. Something inside you screamed for you not to trust the stranger. When he stepped toward you, your stomach flipped. The stranger's blonde hair had stains of blood and there was blood on the gorget of his armor.

You shrieked and ran toward the camp. You raced away, hoping help would come. From deep inside you, you let out another guttural scream. Tears filled your eyes and your heart was in your throat. 

“HELP!” You ran dodging trees and gasping for air. “FRANZ! HANGE!” Your feet pounded the ground, and you felt a pinch in your lungs. Tears were staining your face and the burn of running inflamed your throat. In the distance, you could see Franz’s flame coming toward you. The two of you rammed into each other and you screamed in his face, “THERE’S A MAN IN THE FOREST!” You cried and Franz’s mouth gaped open and his eyes went wide. The three other guards that were on rotation ran to you and Franz. You wailed and had trouble catching your breath. One of the guards told the other to alert Captain Levi and Commander Dame Hange. You wheezed as you cried and then fell to the ground on your knees. 

“Princess!” Franz bent down to your feeble form. He forcefully got you on your feet as you wailed and walked you toward the camp.

“WE’RE BEING WATCHED! THERE WAS A MAN IN THE FOREST!” You bawled. The tears were blinding you. More knights came up to you and you screamed, feeling overwhelmed and like everyone was going to hurt you. 

“Calm down!” You heard Levi’s commanding voice. You were struggling to breathe and felt dizzy. The darkness was tricking you and you couldn’t tell where you were. Knights came out of their tent to check on your loud sobs. Franz led you to a log that you recognized was around the campfire. You whimpered and wiped your tears as you were forced to sit on the log. A group of knights surrounded you, intently waiting for you to calm down. You felt comforting hands on your back as you caught your breath. Levi, Jean, Connie, Eren, Franz, and more knights were seen from the candlelight. 

“I saw a man in the forest!” You pointed toward the abyss.

“She’s distraught,” Levi said and he turned to Franz, “What happened?”

“She needed to use the bathroom, so I escorted her. Then I gave her privacy, and she ran back screaming about seeing a man,” Franz’s voice wavered. 

“Damn it! I knew Hange’s joke would spook her,” Levi said.

“NO! I saw him! There was a blonde knight with a crested sword and he was covered in blood,” You wailed. Their faces froze and you could tell they didn’t know what to say. Hange then appeared in the group and you noticed they were wearing your cloak. They held it, covering themselves and then crouched next to you. You sprung yourself on Hange, wrapping your arms around their neck. They held you as you calmed down and then they stroked your back. “We’re being watched,” you choked out. 

“Levi, she said the knight was blonde and had a crested sword,” You heard Jean’s voice. “Could he have been Erwin Smith?”

next chapter Chapter 16: These Inconvenient Fireworks

chapter index masterlist

[fusrodamnit]

Boiling Blood pt. 1

Hi! This isn't my first writing, but this is my first non-fandom writing...don't be gentle, senpai. <3

I'm basically a monsterfucker (if you've seen my blog for ten seconds it's obvs lmao), and I wanted to write something fun.

This is eventually NSFW, so MDNI, I will not be held responsible if you read beyond this warning and are a minor.

Vampires, werewolves, reader (you, y/n, y/n l/n) is a vampire, fem!reader, A/B/O, brown chicken brown cow eventually

You awake one night, your vampire nest, or apartment,being barren save for your bed (a mattress on the floor) and the occasional personal belonging, like your purse, your phone...but really, you could ditch it all with little trouble if things came to that.

You look around, your mind a haze from having been a little unlucky when hunting lately...you blamed the hunger for the strange feeling. You'd have to resort to your last bag of black market blood, you tried to be sparing with it whenever you could...it was expensive. But you couldn't always risk hunting, since sometimes people would be especially wary or alert. And the last thing you needed was to bump into someone who was a fan of vampires, too...they always proved to be trouble.

You sucked on your last provisions, wandering around your empty apartment until you decided to watch the window. You noticed the hunger was saited, but you still felt...odd. Not bad, just...unusual. Like there was something pulling you outside, to go running and hunting and find whatever it is that's calling to you.

That's when you remembered. It had been at least a century since you'd been turned, and your maker mocked you for not having your mate already waiting for you, a lowly omega. But to find someone who truly was your mate, you'd happily wait another millennia. When you were still mortal, you were a lonely soul already, odd and unusual, your lovers proved to always be disinterested in what you cared about, and you were forced to seek solitude from the mockery after a particularly scathing breakup, in deciding to be single.

But you felt like you were being pulled towards something...or perhaps...someone. You made a note to yourself to get more provisions before the night was over, but grabbed your phone and purse, locking up behind yourself so you could investigate.

Sadly, you looked as far as you could, slipping from shadow to shadow, feeling like whatever it was was still a long ways away, many miles, in fact...but you had little time before dawn, and if you risked not having enough blood next week, you could kiss your immortal afterlife goodbye. So you turned your attention on finding food.

The next night was less worrisome, as you had stocked up on blood for a while, your underworld contact came through in the clutch last night. But they proved useless in news of a new vampire being made...

You sighed, they must be terribly far, then... You looked out your window, seeing the suburban neighborhood faintly lit by old streetlights, the woods nearby looming menacingly as it was almost winter, the trees were nothing more than angry clawed hands, devoid of signs of life. It was both your favorite and least favorite season. Each one had a special meaning for you, but this one was desolate, and sometimes saddening. But the cooler air was comforting, as it meant your usual lack of air conditioning wouldn't make you suffer as much.

You got up from your spot on the windowsill and began to get ready to go to your day job. So to speak...

You were either a barista or bartender, usually. Depending on the city or town you were homed in for the moment, you could get work almost anywhere. Even once working at a fast food establishment. The smell of terrible human food had made your stomach churn, but you worked through it, explaining away your nausea as having partied too hard the night before, usually.

You were a bartender right now, and you knew your mate was out there...but you couldn't afford to ditch work, not when you needed to pay rent, and make sure you could keep your tiny fridge full of blood running. You put on your uniform, so to speak, and adjusted your breasts to make sure you got extra tips. Even if it made you a little sick sometimes, the smell of a sweaty, drunken human, as they hit on you in the smoky bar...you usually got amazing tips, which was how you were able to drift so often.

Your distressed jeans, tight tshirt with its low collar, and slashes down the sides, with your biker boots, you looked like you could be any punk-goth girl from the big city looking for a fresh start after a bad breakup. And that was your usual cover, anyways.

You arrived at work, sighing as it was only 8pm and the place was already crowded on a thursday. You went behind the bar, trading places with your coworker on their way out, you never really bothered to learn their name, just calling them "hey you" or something. They would die soon, anyways. One way or another.

You were wiping down glasses when your heart felt an ache in it. Your mate was on the move.

But they were going further away. How...your nerves were on edge as you had to make a decision.

Do you follow your mate...or do you wait for them.

But you had already been in this town for a while, a few years now...it was probably time to move on. You deliberated for a few hours during your shift, serving patrons back to back, as your mind was preoccupied with the longing tugging at your heartstrings.

When you returned to your apartment, the morning light about to break, you pull the curtains closed to be careful, and make up your mind. It was time to find a new town...maybe a city. It had been a while since you'd been in one, mostly because cities were usually full of new vampires, cocky and trying to make their marks. And a lot of them were betas, who were more than happy to bully and look down on a weak little omega like you.

The alphas were just the same as you, usually keeping to themselves, unless they had a mate. Most betas found a mate in another beta, and settled down with them for a long while, but depending on the vampire, they might move on after a certain amount of time...

You had never heard of an alpha and omega pair ever splitting, though...except there was a rumored vampire and werewolf pair...they were ripped apart by their clans, for supposedly defying the laws of nature.

But that was supposedly over three hundred years ago...peoples' opinions had changed drastically since then. And since food was less scarce, love was actually something to consider for once.

You hauled yourself onto your uncovered mattress on the floor, and laid down to sleep away the day.

---

a/n: This will be multi-part, please be patient as I slowly upload the parts. If you like it, feel free to reblog!

[regarding-stories]

When your backstory beats your story (Part 1): Aventuria

(This is going to be a bit of a crossover story between two of my blogs.)

You may not have heard of it, but Germany's best-selling role-playing game is called "The Dark Eye" ("Das Schwarze Auge"). Its first edition beat D&D to market in Germany in the early 80s and has been the dominant tabletop RPG there ever since - generating also several computer games, and finally an English edition that was able to create some hype in the US market, something which its publisher Ulisses increasingly targets (because more customers).

The game itself evolved from a very simplistic system that was fast to pick up over two more editions that revised and expanded it, only to become an overly complex monster in its 4th edition where most people needed a fan-made PC editor to create characters. I don't particularly like the system, which always tended to be "whiffy" (lots of rolling for little effect in combat) and has never been truly fixed, unable to let go of its poor game design legacy.

I have a soft spot for 1st edition, though. It's the first RPG I ever played. It's simple. You're not feeling like a complete idiot (like in many editions of D&D at the beginning). It quickly got you into playing. And there existed some decent adventures of the kind I like.

Sold by the stories

While I personally was more into dungeon-style exploration fantasy, Dark Eye adventures tended more towards stories. (I just happened to be led through an adventure of the style I loved when playing first.) The Dark Eye is probably the most-supported system on this planet when it comes to published adventures, numbering in the hundreds.

Most of these are story-based or focus on character interaction to a good degree, and in fact many Dark Eye gamers are kind of stereotyped as wanting to hang out in taverns and with nobles to have long conversations, invoke the setting gods in their exclamations, and generally be more like LARPers (Live Action RolePlaying - when you dress up). I've encountered way too many of them off- and online to disagree - just like D&D is known for its murder hobo power gamers for a reason.

But given the endless focus on dungeon adventures in D&D and saving the world, The Dark Eye can be a breath of fresh air for getting into well-rounded characters, finding solutions to complex problems, and generally, you know, actually role-playing your character.

You know, most of the things that these days make RPG streaming a thing.

A mixture of more low-key stories and various ideas certainly made it stand out compared to D&D, and to this day such preferences can make you chose one game over the other.

So it makes sense we're talking stories here. So why did the Dark Eye have a backstory problem?

Because it was like this

When you started playing in the 1980s, you basically came into a very settled civilization. There was a large "Middle Empire/Realm" which was the successor the original Empire, and it was a country spanning a big part of the map which was, politically, very static. So were most of its neighbors.

If you picked up the official zine of the setting you would hear of events such as the umpteenth "war" between two impoverished mini-states full of country bumpkins with long rivalries as a recent event. In the early 90s a part of the setting evolved towards the renaissance, but that made it seem even more static. (It was, in some ways, a mirror image of part of the history of the Holy Roman Empire of German Nation. The not-so-exciting parts, depending on your tastes.)

There were tantalizing hints that some much cooler place existed beyond the ocean, the Golden Land (or Myranor), but they largely remained hints back then. Years later, after I lost interest, it was published as an alternate setting for the game, IIRC. Think about hearing of it being hinted for a long time in the 90s and then finally starting to appear in 2000 onwards. It was just too late for me, personally.

Stoking desires but not fulfilling them was a hallmark of The Dark Eye for a long time. Because interesting things did happen, but they either happened somewhere else, far away, or outright unavailable (like Myranor, a discontinued Hollow Earth setting with Japan as inspiration), or in an even less reachable place - the past.

Splendor Of Days Gone By

There is a temptation for any fantasy author, especially authors writing setting books for players, to make up grand chronologies of past events. People generally blame Tolkien for this, given that he created a grand mythological setting with several long ages as backdrop for his "Lord of the Rings".

The reason the "Tolkien did it too" argument is rather weak (in my book) is, however, that Tolkien created his mythology as the backdrop to an engaging, much-beloved story. Compare how many people have read "The Lord of the Rings" with how many have read "The Silmarillion" and you can immediately see how Tolkien did not slack on giving us a good, dramatic story when we first heard about it.

Not so most fantasy authors.

Reading the Dark Eye's history of the setting itself, you have to wonder about the state of mind the authors. Here they put all those exciting events that almost none of their adventures contained:

A royal family of the Old Empire that fell to demon worship and incest.

A march of 1,000 ogres that razed the biggest city in the world.

Wars of conquest, rebellions, the formation of nations.

Several orc invasions.

A sorcerer-king that was in league with demons.

A magican and philosopher-king who ended that threat and ruled a looong time.

A viking era.

Etc.

I really remember reading this back in the day and, being the newbie I was, just being desperate about how boring the present was. Basically the backstory often kicked ass. It had movers and shakers, big dramatic events, and what the Chinese might call "interesting times."

Fixed After All

Eventually the makers of the game (the editorial board, as they are called), noticed themselves. Somewhere around the year 2000 games with meta-plots became a thing, especially in Germany, and big events kept changing their settings, keeping them interesting and preparing the ground for new adventures. And eventually Aventuria, the world of the Dark Eye, followed suit.

For example by bringing the sorcerer-king back and letting players be the protagonists influencing the events that end up bringing him down. What a novel idea...

Looking at the time-line since you kind of think that maybe these people realized they had buried all the excitement in their own, made-up history, because now there are events in there that are clearly inspired by what "came before" as the setting keeps marching forward.

Why it took them up to two decades to realize this is anybody's guess.

The role of backstory is typically to establish the "why" of elements in your story - or here the why of the setting. In Aventuria's case, it did the job of explaining the borders and where the various nations come from, but somehow, and rather unintentionally, it painted the picture of a dynamic and exciting world that eventually solidified and ended up as a rather sclerotic, phlegmatic version of itself.

In the end, as an author, that would have been the point to ask yourself which makes the better story. And go with that.

[dcviated]

@rfn-margot sent: New icon inspires an ask for a new season; how is Raguna handling the weather? All those leaves all over the farm and home? (And town?)

Rune Factory is a great farm sim but like all games in its genre simplifies a lot of… things. Whether it’s the fact there’s not a single bathroom in the RF series that you can see or the quizzical state of technology. On the one hand we’re magic-wielding backwater towns and on the other we have airships and flamethrower tanks. What is it? Where even are we??? I’m reaching for concrete foundations from which to build up my own version of this world and left with so many choices I feel like I’m building my own world entirely.

Well. That’s fine.

All this a preamble for me to get into… there’s a fuckton of trees around Kardia and Trampoli. Fall comes around and we don’t have to do any raking? Are you kidding? The only person who gets an excuse is Micah in RF3 farming under a tree and I guess Ares in RF5 with the dragons up in the air… There’s gonna be leaves. Neither town Raguna has lived in are windy enough that he’d escape the wrath of leaves. But! I think he’d enjoy it! It’s busy work, sure- but there’s going to be at least one or two monster helpers with him that play in those leaves. And that brings much needed laughter to our solitary farmer. Because he needs socializing and doesn’t always get much prior to marriage.

Raguna isn’t immune to jumping into leaf piles himself. The guy can be silly, especially when people aren’t there to watch. This can and should be exploited by an ask or someone or something I am asking anyone reading this to take advantage of it and !! You know!! Don’t make me spell it out.

As for the weather? Thriving. I was actually going to make a post about this as I’ve made in the past, that despite being a spring lad and that being his favorite the fall is not too far behind. Summer has its benefits. Winter brings its reprieves. Spring brings the work drive and readiness to develop but … Autumn is a time of settling and savoring. Whether it’s the shift of climate into more temperate ranges or the resurgence of the seasonal tastes that are oh so appealing not just to enjoy but to make for others who enjoy.

Raguna particularly enjoys those soft warm evenings with a hot mug of something spiced to drink. Sitting on the porch and listening to the growing wind whistle through the branches or brush the tips of the plants through the fields. He’s a reflective person and this is something you can do in any season, sure. But it’s the drink that makes it. A drink you can savor best when you feel the chill just start to pull at your skin.

The cooler weather also brings with it warmer clothing. We’ve only seen Raguna in his one outfit (two others if you count the wedding scenes) but I 100% believe he is someone who likes wearing warm hats, scarves, and layers when he’s working outside. Compared to the hot season he’s escaping; this lets the lad actually break into his wardrobe! Okay, not too dramatic. Raguna isn’t stylish by any stretch, but he does have clothes and familiar pieces he likes to wear. Soft wool-lined pieces. Collars. What have you. COMFORT. COMFY.

Also sweaters. Girls wearing sweaters? Maybe that’s my bias.

Oh yeah. And Raguna grows a pumpkin patch to give to people to carve for the season!

He’ll carve some too! They look silly! Not very scary!

And he absolutely adores the markets and festivals.

But he doesn’t do the drinking thing still.

Anything else I’m forgetting? Hm.

[wcrriorhearts]

The heat of the day was slowly making way for much cooler night air, as Elaena pushed past slaves and merchants at the market square, who were packing up their stalls after a day's work. This was the best time to steal, or to get something for free. The people here knew her and called her the silver haired doll, because she was small, petite and her silver hair very unlike anything that was common in Essos. Under different circumstances it would have given away her heritage immediately, but no one expected a Targaryen princess to grovel in the dirty streets of Pentos, begging for scraps and coins. The most they would believe her to be was some unwanted Targaryen bastard that had been sent across the Narrow Sea to die and she left it at that.

When she had come to Essos two years prior with her nurse maid, things had not been this dire, but then Dinah had caught a fever and passed away during the first two weeks they had been here, leaving Elaena behind to fend for herself. Not the best situation to be in for a six year old. To this day she pretended to still be living with someone, so no one got the idea that she could be snatched off the streets and be brought to one of the brothels, where her looks alone would make handsome money for the owners. This - as she had found out quickly - happened frequently to the other children that had no homes and were left to fend for themselves,

One of her favorite merchants, a woman named Alessandria, waved her over and gave Elaena an apple, like she did almost every evening, once the market was closing. She was kind and watched out for the children that roamed the city, so Elaena felt safe with her. Taking the fruit and thanking her in Valyrian that was not entirely as corrupted as the dialect spoken here, but also not as pure as what she had been taught back at home, Elaena ventured on, until a boy her age came running up to her. His name was Malez and they were acquainted, so she was not scared he'd steal from her. "There's a man at the port asking for a girl like you. He might be the bad man", he told her conversationally, shrugging. Elaena had told him once about the 'bad man', her uncle Aegon, and his words disconcerted her. "Does he have hair like mine and purple eyes?", she asked, fear welling up in her chest. "Yes and no. His eyes are not purple. They're more...golden, like mine", Malez declared and Elaena froze. There was only one person she knew who looked like that. "Uncle Aeron", she spattered, dropping the apple and starting to run.

The way to the port was not too far and she made it within a few minutes, hoping and praying to the old Gods he was truly there and not Aegon, but there he was, tall, broad shouldered as she remembered, questioning sailors and passersby. For a moment she hovered, unsure what to do. She was clad in the same dress she had worn two years ago, which no longer fit, was torn and so dirty it itched every day. Her silver hair was unpleasantly long and tangled, because she didn't own a brush and everything about her was dirty. Would he recognize her?

"Uncle Aeron!"

@bruiisedpetals

[volted]

Get Latest Stock Tranding Desktop

Get the Latest Stock Trading Desktop

The world of stock trading is a fast-paced, dynamic, and always-changing environment that demands quick decision-making, constant attention, and a deep understanding of market trends. With so many options on the market, it can be challenging to choose the right stock trading PC that meets your needs. But fear not - in this guide, we'll explore the best trading computers available, discussing their features, pros, and cons, so you can make an informed decision when purchasing your next trading computer.

2 Display Trading Setup

The 2 Display Trading Setup represents a viable solution for traders seeking dependable, high-performance computing capabilities. Leveraging cutting-edge technologies and hardware, this stock trading PC affords users a competitive edge. Check out this list of its compelling features:

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● Keep your system cool and quiet with the Volted Cool 290 CPU Air Cooler that optimizes cooling performance and noise reduction, ensuring maximum stability and reliability for long trading hours.

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● A sleek and modern Galax Revolution 01 case that's both sturdy and practical, offering superior cooling capabilities and noise reduction features.

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With the ability to connect up to four monitors, this setup provides the space and resources you need to stay on top of your trades. Check out these impressive specifications that make it stand out from the competition:

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Trading Stocks

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8 Display Trading Setup

The 8 Display Trading Setup is the ultimate stock trading PC for traders who demand nothing but the best. Here are a few of its noteworthy and impressive features:

● Choose between the powerful Intel i5 12400F or AMD Ryzen 5 5600X (depending on your personal preferences) for lightning-fast performance that can keep up with even the most demanding trading applications.

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● Need plenty of storage space for your trading data and files? The 1TB WD Blue/Seagate Barracuda 7200 RPM hard drive has you covered.

● The sleek and modern Galax Revolution 01 case not only looks great but it's also designed to keep your system cool and quiet, even under heavy workloads.

● With Windows 10 Pro OEMv pre-installed, you can rest assured that your trading setup is secure and optimized for maximum productivity.

Conclusion

In conclusion, choosing the right stock trading PC is a crucial decision for any serious trader. Whether you're just starting out or have years of experience under your belt, having a powerful and reliable stock trading PC can make all the difference. From lightning-fast processing and ample storage to multiple displays and low-latency optimization, the latest stock trading desktops we've explored in this guide offer something for everyone. No matter which one you choose, investing in a high-quality trading computer is an investment in your success as a trader. So, take your time, consider your options, and get ready to elevate your trading game to the next level!

[pravinratnaparkhi]

Which is the best place to buy a farmhouse near Mumbai?

If you’re looking to invest in a farmhouse near Mumbai, there are a variety of attractive locations to consider, each offering unique benefits depending on your preferences and investment goals. Popular spots like Karjat, Alibaug, and Lonavala stand out for their diverse landscapes, amenities, and overall appeal. Let’s take a closer look at what each of these destinations has to offer.

Karjat is an increasingly popular choice for those seeking tranquility, nature, and modern living close to Mumbai. Located just about 60 kms from the city, Karjat is nestled in the foothills of the Western Ghats, offering stunning views of lush green fields, rivers, and picturesque mountains. The area is perfect for those who enjoy a quiet retreat, away from the hustle and bustle of urban life, yet still want to maintain easy access to the city. Karjat is also ideal for eco-conscious buyers looking for properties surrounded by greenery and fresh air. Furthermore, its proximity to major highways, like the Mumbai-Pune Expressway, ensures convenient travel, making it a viable option for weekend getaways or a peaceful place to live year-round.

Alibaug, on the other hand, offers something completely different. Located along the coastline about 90 kms from Mumbai, Alibaug is a haven for beach lovers and those who want to be near the sea. With its sandy beaches, cool sea breeze, and lush landscapes, Alibaug is the perfect location if you’re seeking a coastal farmhouse. This area is also known for its luxurious beachfront properties, which are highly desirable for both personal retreats and vacation rentals. The rising popularity of Alibaug among city dwellers means it is also a great investment opportunity. Many buyers view Alibaug as an attractive destination not only for personal use but also as a potential rental property with great returns due to the growing number of tourists and short-term renters who visit the area year-round.

Lonavala, another favorite, is located in the Sahyadri mountain range and is known for its cool weather, scenic hilly terrain, and rich natural beauty. Situated about 80 kilometers from Mumbai, it has long been a popular destination for city residents looking for weekend homes. The cool, refreshing climate is a major draw, especially during the summer months, offering a pleasant contrast to Mumbai’s heat. Whether you are interested in a farmhouse for personal enjoyment, a vacation rental, or an investment property, Lonavala’s appeal remains strong. In addition to its natural beauty, Lonavala is well-connected to Mumbai via the Mumbai-Pune Expressway, ensuring quick and easy access. Its growing popularity as a tourist destination means there is significant potential for long-term investment as well.

When deciding which location is best suited for your needs, it’s important to think about your specific preferences and goals. Are you looking for a peaceful escape, a place to unwind with your family, or an opportunity for vacation rentals? Look for areas that are well-connected, offer safety and security, and have a solid legal framework for property transactions.

For instance, Karjat offers a combination of natural beauty and modern living, making it ideal for those who want both tranquility and convenience. Alibaug is the best choice if you’re looking for proximity to the sea, with excellent potential for high-end properties and vacation rental opportunities. Lonavala, with its cooler weather and hilly views, is perfect for those seeking a scenic getaway. 

In terms of investment benefits, all three locations offer strong potential. As Mumbai's real estate market continues to expand, these areas are increasingly becoming hotspots for buyers looking for second homes or weekend retreats. The development of infrastructure, such as better roads and amenities, is further enhancing their appeal. Whether for personal enjoyment or as an investment opportunity, buying a farmhouse near Mumbai in one of these locations offers the perfect blend of nature, peace, and modern convenience, with the added benefit of strong long-term value appreciation.

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Buy Tie-Dye Dresses,

Buy Tie-Dye Dresses,

Tie-dye dresses are making a bold comeback, and for good reason. With their vibrant patterns, nostalgic charm, and unique designs, these dresses are the perfect way to add a pop of color and personality to your wardrobe. Whether you're heading to a music festival, a casual outing, or simply lounging at home, a tie-dye dress can be your go-to fashion choice.

Why Choose Tie-Dye Dresses?

Unique Patterns: No two tie-dye dresses are exactly alike. The process involves twisting, tying, and dyeing fabric to create one-of-a-kind patterns, ensuring that your outfit is as unique as you are.

Versatility: Tie-dye dresses come in various styles, from maxi and midi lengths to flowy sundresses and bodycon fits. They’re versatile enough to suit different occasions and seasons.

Comfort and Style: Most tie-dye dresses are made from lightweight, breathable fabrics like cotton or rayon, making them ideal for staying comfortable without compromising on style.

Sustainable Fashion: Many tie-dye dresses are handmade or upcycled, contributing to more sustainable fashion choices.

Popular Styles of Tie-Dye Dresses

Maxi Dresses: Perfect for beach outings or summer evenings, these long, flowy dresses provide an effortlessly chic look.

T-Shirt Dresses: A casual option for daily wear, ideal for pairing with sneakers or sandals.

Wrap Dresses: These figure-flattering dresses bring an air of sophistication to the playful tie-dye aesthetic.

Bohemian Styles: Flowy, relaxed silhouettes with intricate tie-dye patterns evoke a free-spirited vibe.

How to Style Tie-Dye Dresses

Accessorize Wisely: Let the dress be the star of your outfit. Pair it with simple accessories like neutral sandals, a straw hat, or a minimalist necklace.

Layer It Up: Add a denim jacket or a lightweight cardigan for cooler weather.

Shoes Matter: Depending on the occasion, you can pair tie-dye dresses with sneakers for a casual look, sandals for a laid-back vibe, or ankle boots for an edgier feel.

Where to Buy Tie-Dye Dresses

Tie-dye dresses are widely available in online stores, boutiques, and even local craft markets. Here are some popular places to find them:

Online Retailers: Websites like Amazon, Etsy, and ASOS offer a wide variety of styles and price ranges.

Boutiques: Check out local or independent boutiques for handmade options.

DIY Kits: Feeling creative? Purchase a plain dress and a tie-dye kit to design your masterpiece.

Tips for Buying Tie-Dye Dresses Online

Check Reviews: Look for customer reviews to ensure quality and true-to-size fits.

Material Matters: Choose breathable fabrics for maximum comfort.

Color Preference: Decide if you prefer bold, bright colors or softer, pastel tones.

Conclusion

Tie-dye dresses are more than just a fashion trend—they’re a statement. Their vibrant patterns and versatility make them a must-have addition to any wardrobe. Whether you’re buying one or creating your own, a tie-dye dress is sure to turn heads and brighten up your day. Start exploring the world of tie-dye fashion today and embrace the joy of color!