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dreamauri · 7 months ago

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♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter three fernando alonso x fem! driver! reader ( fluff -> angst ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (4.5k words)

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III, PAPER SOLDIER . . . ( Your fourth to seventh years in Formula One, 2015 -> 2018 ) // content warning . . . ( contains non-descriptive smut, Yn is 23 years in the beginning of the chapter and 25 by the end, really fucking long ass chapter )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the 2015 season began, you couldn’t help but feel the absence of Jenson Button. Walking into the McLaren garage without him felt wrong—like something essential had been ripped away. Jenson had been more than a teammate; he was your anchor in a sport that constantly threatened to drown you.

But Fernando Alonso didn’t try to replace Jenson, and somehow, that made things easier. Instead of trying to mimic the camaraderie you’d had with Jenson, Fernando brought his own brand of companionship. He didn’t hover or press; he simply existed, radiating his unique mix of confidence and charisma, until you realized how much you enjoyed having him around.

By the second race of the season, you were surprised to find yourself laughing more than you had in months. Whether it was during strategy meetings or post-race celebrations, Fernando had a way of lightening the mood with his dry humour and his sly, knowing glances.

“You don’t always have to overtake on the outside, you know,” he teased one afternoon, smirking over his coffee. “But I suppose drama is part of your brand.”

“And I suppose being smug is part of yours,” you shot back, grinning.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to hit your stride. On track, you were ruthless and synchronised. “Chaotic villains,” the press called you, and you secretly loved it. You weren’t just teammates; you were a nightmare for the rest of the grid. Fernando’s ability to anticipate your moves was uncanny, and together, you executed overtakes that left even seasoned commentators stunned.

Off the track, things were somehow even better. McLaren’s marketing team, notorious for shoving drivers into cringeworthy advertisements, suddenly had gold on their hands. You and Fernando—two drivers who hated scripted lines and staged smiles—were unexpectedly brilliant together.

The first time they made you film a commercial, you groaned audibly when the director explained the concept. Something about racing through a supermarket with shopping carts full of McLaren-branded products.

“I hate this already,” you muttered under your breath.

Fernando, standing beside you, gave you a sidelong glance. “Tranquila, we’ll make it good.”

And somehow, he did. By the third take, the two of you were hamming it up, racing down aisles, tossing products back and forth, and laughing so hard you almost forgot the cameras were there.

“Did you see her face when I threw the cereal?” Fernando joked afterward, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“I saw your face when it hit the floor and exploded everywhere,” you retorted. “Pure panic.”

From then on, every commercial and promotional shoot turned into a competition to see who could make the other laugh first. Whether it was fake arguments over who got to drive a McLaren P1 in an ad or Fernando trying to convince the camera crew to let him wear sunglasses indoors, you found yourself looking forward to those dreaded filming days.

“Por favor, it’s not about the lighting,” Fernando argued one day, slipping on his sunglasses mid-shoot. “It’s about the vibe.”

“The vibe is you looking like a smug Bond villain,” you quipped, trying to suppress a giggle.

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically, “the director hasn’t stopped me.”

The chemistry between you was undeniable, and it extended beyond work. Post-race dinners, gym sessions, and late-night debriefs all became opportunities for the two of you to poke fun at each other, share stories, and build a bond that felt effortless. You had been so sure that McLaren would feel hollow without Jenson, but with Fernando, it felt alive—different, but in the best way.

“Why do you even put up with me?” you asked him one night after a particularly gruelling race.

Fernando leaned back in his chair, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “Because you make everything more fun,” he said simply. “And because I know, no matter what, you’ve got my back.”

His words lingered, making your chest feel tight in a way you couldn’t quite name. You didn’t know it yet, but Fernando had already carved out a place for himself in your life—one that no one else could fill.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time with Fernando, everything felt different—electric and uncharted. It wasn’t just the post-race champagne that made your head spin; it was him. His presence was commanding yet soft, every movement deliberate, every touch reverent. It wasn’t just the circumstances—a blur of adrenaline and post-race champagne after a double podium—it was him.

It started simply. His hand lingered on your lower back as you laughed about your overtakes, his eyes soft yet unreadable in a way that made your pulse quicken. When you turned toward him, it felt natural, as if every unsaid word between you had been leading to this.

His hands started at your waist, fingers splaying as if he needed to ground himself before pulling you closer. Your breath hitched when his lips found yours—warm, firm, and unyielding yet unhurried. With Jenson, it was always rushed, a blur of need fueled by adrenaline or alcohol. But Fernando . . . Fernando took his time.

When his hand brushed against yours that night, there wasn’t hesitation. His fingers closed around yours, a silent question, and you answered by lacing your own through his. You followed him to his hotel room, and the atmosphere shifted the moment the door clicked shut.

When his hands slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, you shivered. He didn’t tear your clothes off in a frenzy like Jenson often did. Instead, Fernando paused, peeling your top away like unwrapping something fragile. His dark eyes studied you, lingering in a way that made your cheeks burn and your heart race.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the word barely audible, like it was meant for him more than you.

Your breaths mingled as he lowered you onto the bed, his weight settling over you. He kissed you again, slower this time, the stubble on his jaw grazing your skin as his lips travelled to your neck, then your collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate, a silent declaration that this wasn’t just about the act—it was about you.

With Jenson, it was playful, almost careless, both of you seeking a quick fix for the emptiness racing couldn’t fill. But Fernando didn’t let you hide behind that. He demanded you be present, dragging you into the moment with the sheer intensity of his focus.

When his lips found your stomach, you felt your breath catch. He'd knelt before you, his hands steady on your hips, his touch grounding yet reverent. Then he paused, looking up at you, his voice low and steady.

“¿Puedo?” he asked. can i

The question caught you off guard. Permission. Fernando was asking for permission. He asked for it like it mattered, like you mattered. No one had ever done that before. Jenson never stopped to ask; he assumed, and you never thought to mind. But Fernando’s request made your cheeks flush, a heat spreading across your skin that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with how he treated you. Like you mattered.

You hesitated for a moment, flustered by the simplicity of his question. You nodded, then realized he probably couldn’t see in the dark. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Fernando.”

His lips quirked into a soft smile, a barely-there acknowledgment, before he leaned forward again. His touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to Jenson’s rough, teasing movements. Fernando didn’t just touch; he felt—explored, cherished.

When he finally joined you fully, his body pressed flush against yours, it felt like he was pouring himself into every movement. His hips met yours in a rhythm that wasn’t rushed but deliberate, a steady, consuming pace that left you breathless. He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning them above your head as he leaned down to kiss you, the connection sparking something deep in your chest.

It wasn’t the hurried, animalistic need you’d come to expect with Jenson. Jenson was fun, a rush, a release—but Fernando? Fernando was something entirely different. His touch carried weight, his movements spoke volumes, and his whispered praises in Spanish felt like poetry meant just for you.

When the pleasure crested, it was overwhelming, almost too much. Tears pricked at your eyes as you clung to him, your breaths shaky as he slowed his movements, his forehead pressing against yours. every sensation was heightened. His fingers brushed against yours again, and before you knew it, he was threading them together, holding your hand like it was second nature. You squeezed his hand back, unsure why the simple touch sent a pang through your chest and left you breathless.

It wasn’t just his touch—it was the way he looked at you. His eyes held something you couldn’t quite name, something you don't quite recognizing. It made you feel exposed, stripped down to your core. And when the emotions started to bubble up, you bit your lip to keep them at bay.

But it didn’t work. As his hands soothed over you and his words melted into your skin, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. It wasn’t from sadness or even overwhelm—it was the feelings, the emotions he poured into you, the way he made you feel like the only person in the world in that moment. It consumed you, swallowed you whole, and left you small, tiny.

"Estás llorando," he murmured softly, his voice laced with concern. “Cariño,” His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away the tears as they fell. you're crying

“I . . .” You swallowed hard, trying to find the words. “It’s just . . . It’s a lot. I'm fine.”

His lips quirked into a gentle smile, his hand trailing to your hair, brushing it back tenderly. “It’s supposed to be,” he whispered. “It’s okay to not be okay. I'll be here anyway.”

Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his body pressed to yours, his hands never leaving your skin. He whispered softly in Spanish, words you couldn’t fully understand but felt in your chest. His touch was tender, reverent, as he cleaned you up, smoothing your hair and holding you close.

Jenson never stayed like this. He’d always drift away, detached even in the quiet moments. But Fernando? He stayed. He always stayed. And that, you realized, was what made him different.

“Estás bien?” he asked after a while, his voice soft against your hair.

You nodded against his chest. “I’m fine,” you murmured, even as your voice wavered.

His fingers stilled, and he tilted your chin up gently so he could see your face. “¿Segura? You don’t have to be fine.”

His words unravelled you. For once, you didn’t feel the need to pretend. Tucking your face into the crook of his neck, you let yourself feel small. Let yourself feel cared for. Let yourself feel.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was well past midnight, and the McLaren motorhome was almost eerily quiet. You were sprawled out on one of the sofas, still in your team polo, watching Fernando pace back and forth in front of the whiteboard. He was ranting about tyre degradation, gesturing wildly as if the problem could be solved with enough hand movements.

“You know,” you interrupted, stretching your legs out, “normal people sleep at this hour.”

“Normal people don’t win races,” he shot back without missing a beat, his accent thick and his tone just a little exasperated.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, grinning. “You really think the medium stint was the problem?”

“I know it was,” he said, turning to face you. His expression softened slightly when he saw your teasing smile. “What? You don’t agree?”

“Oh, I agree,” you said, sitting up fully. “I just think it’s cute how worked up you get over it.”

Fernando groaned, but there was no real annoyance behind it. He sat down beside you, pulling the marker cap off with his teeth and twirling the pen between his fingers. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re obsessed,” you countered, leaning your head on the back of the sofa. “But fine. What’s your genius solution?”

For the next hour, he explained his strategy tweaks with the same passion he reserved for the track. And even though you didn’t need convincing, you let him go on, chiming in with questions just to see that fire in his eyes. By the time he was finished, you were half-asleep, but you’d never felt more at ease.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage was buzzing with energy after another podium. Mechanics cheered, the smell of champagne hung in the air, and you were positively glowing. Fernando was beside you, leaning against a stack of tires with his arms crossed, watching you with that familiar amused smirk.

“You really had to squeeze me on Turn 4?” you teased, nudging his shoulder. “I thought we were supposed to be teammates.”

Fernando raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Teammates, yes. Babysitters, no.”

“Oh, come on!” You laughed, swiping at the water bottle he was holding. “I gave you all the space in the world.”

“All the space?” he repeated, tilting his head dramatically. “You practically left me in the gravel.”

Your grin widened. “And yet, here you are. P2. You’re welcome.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. “One day,” he said softly, his voice dipping just enough to make you pause, “you’ll regret not letting me win.”

You leaned in, your smile turning mischievous. “Doubt it.”

And just like that, the moment was gone, replaced by laughter and playful jabs. But later, when you replayed the race in your head, you’d think about the way Fernando’s eyes had softened, just for a second, like he was seeing something in you that you weren’t quite ready to see yourself.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Okay, but why am I the one wearing the ridiculous hat?” you asked, glaring at the oversized cowboy hat the wardrobe team had handed you.

Fernando was already laughing, holding a matching hat in his hands. “Because you lost the coin toss.”

“You cheated,” you accused, crossing your arms.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “How can I cheat at a coin toss?”

“Don’t know, but you did.”

The director waved you both onto set before you could argue further, and the next thing you knew, you were filming an ad for some sponsor neither of you cared about, wearing cowboy hats and pretending to “race” toy cars on a fake racetrack.

Halfway through, Fernando purposely crashed his car into yours, sending it flying off the track. “Oops,” he said innocently, his smirk betraying him.

You burst out laughing, breaking character completely. “Oops? You did that on purpose!”

The director groaned, calling for another take, but neither of you could stop laughing. When the shoot finally wrapped, Fernando walked over, placing his ridiculous hat on your head. “You wore it better,” he said with a grin.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t take it off. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replied, leaning in slightly, “you keep me around.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The race in Canada had been cancelled due to an unexpected snowstorm, and the team was stuck in the hotel for the weekend. You and Fernando were in the lobby, staring out at the swirling snow through the massive glass windows.

“Well, this is boring,” you said, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

Fernando smirked, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Only because you have no imagination.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And what’s your brilliant plan, Mr. Imagination?”

Five minutes later, the two of you were outside, bundled up and attempting to build the world’s worst snowman. Fernando had decided it needed to wear a McLaren cap, and you were busy shoving chunks of snow at him every time he turned his back.

“You’re terrible at this,” he said, laughing as he dodged another snowball.

“Better than you!” you shot back, lobbing another one straight at his chest.

The next thing you knew, he was tackling you into a snowbank, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When you finally got back inside, shivering and soaked, the warmth of his hand on your arm lingered longer than it should have.

“Come to my room tonight, hmm,” He whispers in your ear with his sweet sweet and loving smile. You could only smack his chest, flustered out of your body.

“Why should I wait till tonight when I can take you right now?” He countered himself, throwing you over his shoulder and walking to the elevator.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next four years were a golden era for you and Fernando. While the big teams—Mercedes, Ferrari, and Red Bull—scrambled to one-up each other with upgrades and strategy, the two of you were a well-oiled machine. Every weekend was a masterclass in teamwork. You took turns holding off competitors, crafting daring overtakes, and, more often than not, splitting the podium between the two of you.

Fernando was always just behind you—or sometimes ahead—playing the perfect wingman when needed and pushing you to your limits when it mattered most. Together, you broke records. Four Constructors’ Championships in a row. Dozens of wins. But 2017 was different.

That was your year.

The sunset painted the Yas Marina Circuit in hues of orange and pink as you sat in your car, the weight of the championship within reach. Fernando had radioed you a few laps earlier.

“Message from Fernando, Yn; You’ve got this,” Your race engineer tells you, his voice steady, but there was an edge of emotion there, one he couldn’t quite hide. “Just bring it home.”

When you crossed the finish line, the sound of the crowd was deafening, but all you could hear was your own breathing. Heavy. Disbelieving.

“World Champion!” Your race engineer’s voice crackled through the radio. “You’ve done it, Yn! You’re the World Champion! For the second time!”

You let out a sob, laughing through the tears as you brought the car to a stop on the start-finish straight. The adrenaline coursed through you, but it wasn’t until Fernando’s car pulled up beside yours that it really hit you when you both did donuts togther.

He climbed out first, crossing the short distance between your cars with purpose. When you stepped out, he was there, arms wide, pulling you into a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of you.

“Campeona del mundo,” he whispered, his voice thick, breaking with emotion. His helmet was off, and when you pulled back to look at him, you saw tears glistening in his eyes.

“You helped me get here,” you said, clutching his shoulders, your voice trembling with gratitude. “Don’t forget that.”

His smile was small but genuine, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll never forget it,” he said softly. “Not a second of it.”

The crowd roared, the flashes of cameras creating a dizzying strobe effect as the two of you stood there, sharing a moment that belonged to no one else. It was Fernando who finally pulled back, resting a hand on your cheek for a fleeting second before stepping aside to let the rest of the team swarm you, lifting you on their shoulders.

The team party that night was a blur of champagne, confetti, and endless congratulations. Fernando stuck close, a steady presence in the chaos. Every time someone pulled you away to talk or toast, he was there in the corner of your eye, watching with a quiet pride.

At one point, hours into the celebration, you found him sitting on the terrace, a glass of wine in hand, staring out at the skyline.

“Not enjoying the party?” you asked, sliding into the chair beside him.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It’s your night, Yn. I just wanted to take it all in.”

You frowned, studying him. “Fernando, this isn’t just my night. We did this together. Four Constructors’. Four years of podiums. Four years of wins. You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

He turned to you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “It was always going to be you,” he said quietly. “I knew it from the start. You deserved this.”

“Don’t do that,” you said, leaning forward. “Don’t downplay your part in this. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

He smiled again, but there was something bittersweet about it. “Maybe not. But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. All you could do was reach out and take his hand, squeezing it tightly. He didn’t let go.

The rest of the off-season blurred into a whirlwind of press conferences, celebrations, and award ceremonies. Fernando was always by your side, your biggest supporter, but there were moments when his presence felt heavier, like he was carrying a weight he wouldn’t share with you.

“You’re quiet,” you said one evening, after a gala dinner where the two of you had been paraded around like royalty.

He shrugged, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “The next race.”

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but you let it slide. Fernando was like that—guarded, careful. But every so often, you’d catch glimpses of something deeper. The way his hand lingered on your back when he guided you through a crowd. The way his eyes softened when you laughed. The way he’d quietly check in on you after every race, no matter the outcome.

When the official trophy ceremony took place at the FIA Gala, Fernando insisted on standing beside you on the stage.

“You carried me through the season,” you joked as the cameras clicked and the lights flashed.

“Carried you?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You’re lucky I didn’t let you drown in the midfield.”

The banter was easy, the chemistry undeniable, and as the two of you raised the trophy together, it was clear to everyone watching that this partnership wasn’t just about racing. It was something rare, something that went beyond the track. Something neither of you could quite name.

But things don’t last forever. And getting attached is the worst part.

"I'm leaving Formula One by the end of the season,"

You froze. Time seemed to stretch, the words reverberating in your mind like an echo you couldn’t escape. You’d just arrived at the hotel room you were sharing for the week after deciding to spend the summer break together in the Caribbean. The laughter you were sharing died down in seconds and the room fell quiet.

“What?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air. It didn’t make sense, didn’t feel real. You and Fernando were a team, more than that—he was your teammate, your confidant, your partner in all things chaotic, your body, your soul. To think of him leaving the sport, of him leaving you . . . it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

“I’ve decided,” he continued, his gaze dropping to your hands that were now clutching the edge of the coffee table, as if you needed something solid to hold onto. “The time has come. I’m moving on.”

The room around you felt like it was closing in. The summer air, fresh through the open window just moments ago, now felt thick, suffocating. You couldn’t breathe.

“No,” you said, shaking your head as tears welled up in your eyes. “No, you can’t leave me. Not now. Not like this.”

Before you could even think, you were up, stepping forward, hands reaching for him, desperate. You grasped at his arms, pulling him close, burying your face in his chest as you started to sob, the tears coming faster than you could control.

"Please don't go," you whispered, your voice trembling, cracking with the weight of your emotions. “Please. I can’t . . . I can’t do this without you.”

Fernando didn’t move at first, frozen by the force of your plea. He had always been the one with the calm, collected demeanour, the one who could hide his emotions behind that steely exterior. But now, you felt him soften in your arms. He let you pull him closer, his hands coming up to your back, rubbing circles that were meant to comfort but only made the ache in your chest worse.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Yn,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I didn’t want to leave you like this. But I have to do it. It’s time.”

“No,” you repeated, your hands clutching at his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as if you could somehow stop him from leaving. “I won’t let you. I can’t . . . You don’t get to walk away like that. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Fernando’s fingers gently cupped your face, lifting it so he could look into your eyes. His touch was soft, tender, but there was something in his gaze—something that told you he’d already made up his mind. “I know this isn’t easy,” he said softly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “But sometimes we have to let go, Yn. It doesn’t mean I’m leaving you . . . It just means I’m moving forward.”

You shook your head, unable to form a coherent thought through the rush of emotions. “I don’t know how to do this without you. You’re everything to me, Fernando. I—I don’t want you to go.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as if the words pained him. “I know. I don’t want to go either. But you have to understand, Yn . . . There’s more to life than this. More than F1 . . .. I Signed for a seat in WEC.”

“But I need you,” you choked out. “We’re a team. You can’t just leave.”

Fernando sighed, pulling you into his arms once more, holding you tight against him. “You’ve always been my team, Yn,” he said quietly, the emotion thick in his voice. “You always will be. But it’s time for me to find my own path. It’s time for you to find yours, too. You can’t hold on to me forever.”

The reality of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. You wanted to fight, to scream, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you knew he was right. But that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the fear of losing him, the terror of facing a future without him in it.

You pulled away just enough to look up at him, your tears still streaming down your face. “What am I supposed to do without you?” you whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Fernando’s hand gently brushed your hair out of your face, his touch tender. “You’ll be okay,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re strong, Yn. You always have been. I’ll always be here, even if I’m not on the grid. But you need to let me go.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him that you couldn’t live without him, that you didn’t know how to do this without the constant presence of his strength beside you. But the truth was, you could feel his resolve, his certainty, and you knew this was a battle you couldn’t win.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound in the room was the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. And then, Fernando’s hand cupped your face again, this time with more finality, and he whispered the words that made your heart ache even more.

“I’m sorry, Yn. But it’s my time.”

102 notes · View notes

lillaydee · 4 months ago

Text

Shhh!!! Part 18

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @jessthebaker @bunniboo0015 @demonsasss

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 17

“You were not supposed to receive that NDA, Joel. I was going to take care of it…” Angela tried, placing her hand on the younger man’s shoulder, the man actively avoiding Joel’s eyes, trying to get him out of her office.

Tommy took a step back, blocking the door.

“Aunt Angie? You realize this was the guy who assaulted Lily? You know him? He’s your nephew?” Tommy snarled, looking at Angela in disbelief.

“It’s a misunderstanding guys, it wasn’t supposed to escalate…” Angela finally answered, after a very long, tense, silence.

“What are you talking about? What was supposed to happen?” Tommy asked, seeing his brother unable to speak from his rage. Tess was staying close, worried the man might hulk out. Neither she nor Tommy had ever seen him this angry.

It turned out, Angela had called her financially strapped nephew, Eddie, after seeing the four of you at dinner that night. He was nearby, and Angela offered him free use of one of her low limit credit cards in exchange for doing that. He was only supposed to harass you and Joel verbally, basically annoy you, or maybe make Joel angry and show his ‘true colours’, make you think twice about spending time with him. But the guy got too excited, went too far, and got physical with you instead. When things went wrong, she made sure to use her resources to delete every single footage from the internet, steering Joel and Tommy away from probing into the matter further, seemingly succeeding before Tommy let slip that Sarah might have a copy. It was the reason she was so hellbent on getting her hands on Sarah’s phone. She even installed a malware on the new phone she got for Sarah to replace her broken one, intent on getting access to Sarah’s cloud. That went to pot, Tommy was too suspicious.

“All that because you didn’t want Lily to spend time with Joel?” Tommy asked, shaking his head.

“There’s something about her, guys… I just don’t trust her. I don’t believe she’s good for Joel!”

“You were all buddy-buddy with her lately, but she’s not good for Joel?” Tommy’s voice was rising higher and higher every time he spoke. “What’s that got to do with the NDA? Did you sign it?” he asked Joel, who simply shook his head, eyes still on Angela, looking as if he was plotting her murder and body disposal all at the same time. “So you forged his signature? You know that’s a crime, right? What did Lily say when you gave her the NDA? You told us you hadn’t seen her!”

Angela kept quiet.

Tess opened the door to the office. “Excuse me, what’s your name?” Tess peeked outside, asking the young man who gave Joel the NDA.

“Andrew, miss.”

“Will you come in here?”

Andrew walked in, looking bewildered.

“Who served this to Miss Stevens?” Joel asked, picking up the NDA.

“I did, Mr Miller. Ms Maddison asked me to deliver it and wait for her to sign it.”

If looks could kill, Andrew would be dead several times over, given how Angela was glaring at him.

“You saw her? Where?” Joel perked up a little.

“The hospital. She was taking care of her uncles. They were injured in the accident.”

Joel’s blood ran cold. “What accident? Her uncles were in an accident? Are they okay?”

“They had casts on their legs, if I recall correctly.”

“You knew this? And you didn’t tell me?” Joel asked Angela, who remained quiet.

Tess looked at Eddie who was still standing sheepishly at the corner of the room, his way out still blocked by Tommy. Her eyes were drawn to the cast on his wrist.

“What happened to your wrist?”

The man hid his hand in his jacket.

“Angela?”

Angela looked at her feet, her hands fiddling with each other.

“I’m calling the cops, they’ll figure this out,” Tommy said, pulling his phone out.

“No! Wait! I’ll tell you,” Angela pleaded. She took a deep breath and leaned on her table, head hung down.

“I needed a way to stall Lily so she wouldn’t go to Texas, so, I asked Eddie to delay her uncles so that she would stay with them here.”

The three looked confused.

“Joel you were moving at warp speed with her, it’s not good. I’m only trying to protect you, Joel. I keep telling you that, but you wouldn’t listen to me,” she looked at Joel. “He was supposed to instigate a small accident, a fender bender with the uncles, so Lily would get worried and want to stay and help them out, so she wouldn’t be in Texas with you.”

The three still looked confused.

“But… uh… he overdid it, and her uncles ended up badly injured. They’re fine, by the way, broken leg, fractured ribs, but…that was not part of the plan.”

“What the fuck, Angela. You could have killed people! You asked your nephew to do this to stop Lily from going to Texas? What else have you done?” Tommy asked disbelievingly, unaware how loaded that question was.

She looked to be contemplating for a while, but ultimately decided she had nothing more to lose. She knew they would find out anyway, now that they knew about her nephew, there was no hiding this.

She recalled that day in your truck. You had left your phone unlocked on the counter when you went to the bathroom. Her idiot nephew had texted her that the accident went a bit too far than planned, that he was sure the uncles were badly injured. She panicked, worried that the uncles would be able to identify Eddie and her involvement in this whole thing would come out in the open. But she saw the perfect opportunity then, one that she didn’t think she could pull off.

She had had the NDA drafted out since she saw you that birthday dinner night. She left when Tommy asked her to but stayed across the street, hoping to find out more. She saw Tommy and Maria leave with the girls, her heart breaking at the thought that you and Joel were completely alone in the house, that everyone was so supportive of this union that they left the house to give the two of you some privacy. Her jealousy reared it’s ugly head when she recalled how dismissive Sarah and Ellie were of her, so quick to question her presence, when she was the one who had been there all long for Joel. Yet, here you were, very much welcomed after a few months.

Tears began filling her eyes when she saw you come out to accept a delivery, wearing Joel’s flannel. She watched as Joel passionately kissed you in his doorway, lifting you up into his arms and kicking the door shut behind him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening behind that door. She drafted that NDA as soon as she got home. She knew she was going to use it against you. But she didn’t know how to get it to you without making you suspicious of her intents.

And now, luck was on her side.

So she picked up your phone and quickly changed the Millers’ phone numbers to the slew of disposable numbers she had on hand, the ones she used to tip off the paparazzi and such. She then deleted all texts from the Millers, blocked all their original numbers from your phone, calling Eddie, telling him to take Bill and Frank’s phones. He didn’t need to, evidently, the phones destroyed in the crash. She blocked Joel’s email address from your phone too, for good measure. She later logged into Joel’s email to block your email. She was doing whatever she could to make sure you and Joel couldn’t contact each other. She didn’t even know if it would work, but lucky for her, it did. You signed the NDA without protest, according to Andrew.

Tommy closed his eyes.

“So she didn’t ghost me?” Joel asked, looking hopeful.

“No. But she signed the NDA Joel. She wouldn’t have if she was really in love with you. I tried to warn you about her…” Angela tried.

“Wait… wait, wait, wait…” Tess said, taking her phone out. She googled something, finding it, and looked at the NDA again.

“This was signed on the day this article came out,” she told Joel, showing him the article ‘announcing their engagement’. She turned to look at Angela once more, “You arranged this, didn’t you?” When she couldn’t answer, Tess pressed, “Angela, you told me she was a gold digger, that she was after Joel’s money, that she was sleeping around on Joel. I believed you! And now I find out you did all this too? Why would you go through all this trouble to separate them? Because Joel didn’t want to renew? You know he had talked about that way before he met Lily?”

“That’s why you treated Lily like that?” Joel asked Tess. Tess looked regretful,

“She’s been our friend forever, Joel! I’ve known this woman over 20 years! I didn’t see a reason not to believe her! I’m sorry! I thought I was protecting you!”

“Why?” Joel finally managed to grit out to Angela, his chest heaving, his eyes lasered in on hers.

Her expression turned sour. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Joel…” she whispered.

“WHY!!!???” he screamed, his face red, his neck taut.

Angela jerked, shutting her eyes for a while. When they opened, there was only anger in them.

She remembered the young man she met over 20 years ago, extremely good looking, polite, a great father to Sarah, a gentleman to everyone he came across. He was a great friend, a great man overall. She fell for him, hard. But the man was grieving. He made it very clear he was not looking for anyone to replace Laura. His focus was and would always be on Sarah, he didn’t have time for a relationship.

She remembered thinking he would get over his grief soon. And when he does, she would be there for him. She suggested a friends with benefits situation, telling him that she didn’t have time for relationships either. Just sex, no romance, none of that bullshit, she had told him. So they did, in the privacy of his shipping container makeshift office onsite. She swallowed her pride every time he refused to kiss her, every time he refused foreplay with her, every time he refused a date with her, every time he refused the suggestion of a hotel room, her office, his truck, her car, her home, much less his home with her. She swallowed it all, hoping that he would open his eyes and finally see her.

But he never did.

When she saw what she thought was clearly a double date at the sushi place that night, she got desperate. She eventually made nice with you, hoping to find things about you she could use to separate you and Joel. But when you excitedly told her Joel had asked you to move in with him, after only two months of dating, she snapped.

“Twenty years we’ve been friends, Joel. Twenty years. When we met, you were a lowly single father who barely made ends meet. Look at you now. Look at how successful you are now. I did this. I got you here. And after everything, you scream at me? Because of that lowly barista?”

The last smidgen of patience left Joel’s body. Tommy grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards the woman.

“Why?” he repeated.

“I waited for you, Joel. You made it clear, you were not ready for a relationship. So I waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. And then Bam! You’re ready! And instead of coming back to me, the woman who have stood by you all these years, who wanted you over 20 years ago, back when you had nothing, the one who helped you get everything you have now, you went to her! Why have you never asked me out to dinner Joel? Why have I never been invited to your house outside of work?”

“Do you think it was easy for me to watch you kiss her on the lips when I never got that? I watched you invite her to share your bed, practically live at your house, which I helped you choose, when all I ever got was an hour every now and then at your dingy office? Why do I get treated like some glorified sex toy and she gets to be loved by you? Why should I watch you move her in after two months together when I have been waiting in the wings for twenty years only to be pushed aside, Joel? Why her? What does she have that I don’t?”

She sobbed.

“The heart wants what it wants, Angela. And my heart wants her. Not you.”

Angela nodded weakly. “I know. I see that now. Even after everything, you still pine for her. Even when she left you without so much of an explanation,” she whispered, shaking her head, finally accepting defeat, watching helplessly as Tommy called for security.

Angela was gone by the time security called the cops, Eddie in their custody. She rushed home, packed up her bags and booked it out of LA. Eddie may have been an idiot, but she knew he would sing as soon as he was in custody. She knew, she just knew her life as she knew it was over. There was no way Joel and Tommy, even Tess, would keep quiet about this. Even if they did, Eddie would blab so fast if it meant he would get leniency for the hit and run. She was at least guilty for conspiring to cause harm, twice over. And even if she got off lightly on those charges, the fact that she forged Joel’s signature on a legal document was not something that would go forgotten and unpunishable by law. At the very least, she would lose this job. Her reputation would go to pot. She would lose every single thing she held dear.

Damn you, she thought, this was all your fault. Why’d you have to be so perfect for Joel? She did research on you. Cleo’s ‘exposure’ merely confirmed what she already knew - that you were a nice person who didn’t let money get to your head. She couldn’t even find it in her to hate you when she was pretending to be nice to you. Even when she was actively trying to sabotage you, she liked you. In a different world, she would be more than happy to be your friend.

She was so deep in thought, she didn’t realize she had run a red light. The sounds of screeching tires snapped her out of her stupor, and the last thing she saw was the shining logo of a huge pickup truck coming fast from her left.

“Hi Baby,” Tommy greeted Maria with a kiss, closing the door behind her. Maria walked into the living room, where the expectant faces of Joel, Sarah, Ellie and Tess greeted her.

“Sorry guys, not good news,” she said, giving the girls and Tess a hug, and a kiss for Joel.

“That’s not possible,” Tommy said, “Everyone leaves a trail these days.”

“Not her,” Maria said. “She was in LA until about two weeks after she was supposed to go to Austin, and then she just… disappeared. Two months - she didn’t use her card, didn’t withdraw any money, didn’t purchase anything, didn’t fly anywhere, didn’t rent a car, didn’t check into a hotel… she’s just… gone.”

“How the hell is that possible?”

Maria shrugged. “Frank didn’t make any purchase either, it’s just weird.”

“Are they…?” Sarah asked, not daring to finish the sentence.

“No obituaries.”

Joel, Sarah and Ellie heaved a sigh of relief.

“Are you sure you don’t know Bill’s last name? His condo and car are in Lily’s name.” Maria looked at the three expectantly, kicking herself for never asking either.

“No, I sorta forgot they were not really related, I assumed it’s Stevens too, and I just knew Jenny as Jenny, didn’t think of a last name,” Ellie said, banging her head on Sarah’s shoulder.

“Same.”

“Her LA bank account is active, Dave has been depositing his payments to her. But no withdrawal. Her phone number is disconnected. Tracking one Lily Stevens among thousands is not easy. It would help if we knew where Jenny lives,” she looked at Joel.

Joel rubbed his face, “The woman is a comedian. New York today, Tibet the next, she told me she was in the South Pole once. I never thought I needed to ask. She was coming here for Christmas,” he said, lips wobbling, thinking about Christmas without you. He even ordered a stocking for you, far too excited to have you and your family with him and his family during the holidays.

“I’m gonna go to the truck tomorrow, talk to Dave myself. See if I can get him to talk,” Maria said.

“I’ll go with you,” Tess offered, eager to help.

Joel was quiet. As he had been since you stopped communicating. God, he missed you so much. He knew you wouldn’t just leave for no reason. Even before he knew the truth, he couldn’t find it in him to hate you for leaving. He knew you, he may have only known you for a short time, but he knew you. He just did. Even the girls couldn’t be angry at you.

When he finally told Sarah the truth about Laura, Sarah was angry for him, but not for herself. She was angry for Joel. She had zero memory of her. To her, Joel was both Mom and Dad, so to know someone, even her own birth mother had hurt him as such, it hurt her. But with you, Sarah cried with him, trying everything she could do to help him find you. Not for one second was she angry at you, even as she was hugging her crying Dad. They just knew you wouldn’t have left for no reason. They knew you didn’t have a bad bone in your body.

But even after finding the truth, finding you was proving to be quite the challenge. Maria pulled all the tricks she had up her sleeves, but it was as if you had anticipated she would look for you, so you took steps to avoid her and her ways. But Maria was a determined woman. She had yet to fail in her endeavours. And by God, she was going to find you.

She and Tess went to the truck early the next morning, promising Joel they would bring a cup home for him, not that he was looking forward to it. He had long known it wasn’t the coffee he was addicted to. The cheap swill he got at the sites would taste like the most expensive coffee in the world if you had poured it for him. He just wanted you.

“Dave,” Maria called, the man smiling at her despite himself. “Can we have two cappuccinos please? And one americano, with…”

“Six shots of espressos to go… yeah, I’ll be right with you,” Dave answered, waving Maria’s card away. “Zach, do you mind getting some pastries from Betty? I’m kinda hungry,” he said.

Zach finished wiping the counter and jumped out of the truck, greeting Maria with a smile and a hug. He shook Tess’s hand, introducing himself.

Later, the four were sitting down, Maria filling Dave in on the news about Angela. The men looked uncomfortable, shaking their heads, shocked that someone would go that far to separate two people in love.

“Can’t believe she would do that to Lil, and Bill and Frank too… wow… I mean, they are the nicest people I know, and for her to hate Lil that much… phew…” Zach said, shaking his head.

“So, we know you promised Lily you wouldn’t tell her anything about her whereabouts, but could you please tell her what we just told you? We need her to know the truth,” Tess coaxed.

“No can do,” Dave said, looking apologetic. “She wouldn’t give me her contact info. Something about being traceable. I guess she was right,” he said, smiling at Maria.

Maria looked at Zach, who raised both his hands in surrender, “Hey, you know I would do anything for Lil, but like Dave, I have no idea how to contact her,” he said.

Tess was about to say something else, but Maria simply said she understood, picking up her coffee, thanking Dave and Zach for their kindness. She asked Zach if he was working for Dave now?

“Nah, it’s my off day, just hanging out here for the day.”

“How’s your job going by the way?” Maria asked.

“Great, couldn’t be happier,” Zach said, looking content.

“You manage an apartment building, right? Tess here is looking. Any vacancies?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s the kind of place a TV star lives in,” Zach said, smiling.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to keep her options open. You have a card?” Maria pushed.

“Yeah, here,” Zach handed the card over, hugging Maria goodbye.

Maria practically pulled Tess away from the truck. “What are you doing? I promised Penny I would look for a house! I can’t live in an apartment. We have dogs!”

Maria shushed her, dialling someone on her phone. “Chris? Need you to repeat the search, this time, look for anything under the name Zachary Wellison.”

“Here’s your coffee, thank you for coming!” you handed the coffee to the nice older lady who had now become your regular. You turned around to see Benny, your other regular smiling at you, asking for his usual.

“Come on, Lil, you said you’ll think about it,” he cooed. He’d been trying to fix you up for a while, first it was himself, then his brother Will, then his buddy Santi, and now, it’s Frankie, both of whom lived at the other end of the country.

“No, thank you! I told you, I’m not ready!”

“Come on, Lil, just one date, you’ll love him, I promise. He’s perfect,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Okay, he has PTSD. And maybe some other issues but… he looks like that contractor guy you were dating. Although… now that I think about it… that might not be the best idea, huh?” he said, cringing a little. You passed him his coffee and shooed him off, taking the rag to rinse, as the bell on the door chimed.

“Can I have the largest mocha you have and ten minutes to talk please?” a customer asked. You turned around, your service smile at the ready, only to come face to face with Tess.

You felt you head go cold. You retreated, “I’m not supposed to speak to you,” you whispered, turning around to go into the kitchen. She caught up with you, gently taking your hand.

“Lily, please, ten minutes. He’s not here. You had the wrong info. I swear. Please, ten minutes, I’m begging you.”

“Go, Beanie, I have the till,” your Mom coaxed, pushing you gently towards Tess.

You sat across from her, your Mom placing a cup of latte in front of you and a mocha for Tess. You didn’t speak, just waiting for her to say her piece.

“First of all Lily, I want to apologize for the way I treated you back at Joel’s. I listened to the wrong person. I thought I could trust her, I’ve known her for 20 years, I never thought she would lie to me. Angela told me you were after Joel’s money, that you were sleeping around and Joel was too blind to see it. I believed her. I’m sorry. I admit I was rude to you on purpose. I wanted you to know I didn’t like you. I went o stay at his place instead of a hotel just because I wanted you to be insecure. I pushed the girls into spending time with me instead of you, I guilted them when they said you had plans, they didn’t do anything wrong. That thing with his flannel, the phone, I did it all because I wanted you to feel unwelcomed. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t respond, you simply looked at her, your face expressionless.

“See, I feel responsible for Joel, for his late wife breaking his heart.”

You frowned.

“I was Eddie’s fiancée. Laura was my best friend. I introduced Joel to her.”

Oh…

She took a sip from her drink, looking at you, as if trying to gauge your reaction.

“I was… not myself when I was with Eddie. He wanted me to be a housewife. Raise his children, cook his food, clean his house… I never wanted that. He kept comparing me to Laura. She was perfect, as far as he was concerned. I should have seen the affair coming, but I didn’t, I was too wrapped up in my own stuff, my own worries. If I had, I would have warned Joel.”

The doorbell chimed, a woman walked in, smiling at Tess. She joined the two of you after ordering a cup of coffee for herself.

“Lily, this is Penny, my fiancée.”

Huh? Oh.

Oh…

“Joel and I, we were never an item. Just old friends. I was with Eddie because I was hiding who I really was. But when he wanted me to be the little woman, I just thought… this was not the life I signed up for. This was not worth me hiding who I really am. So I left him. And Eddie, he just went straight for Laura. I read the letter she left him. She was just waiting for me and Eddie to split. And he took advantage of her obsession with him and just took her right from under Joel. Joel got his heart broken because I left Eddie. That’s why I am so protective of him, and any relationship he has. Even if the accident hadn’t happened, she was going to leave him for Eddie. I feel guilty, responsible, in fact, for his heart breaking. For Sarah not having a mother. Believe me, if not for Angela, I would not have treated you like that.”

“Angela did this?”

She nodded. She told you everything Angela did, the when, the how, the why. “The NDA was not legitimate in the first place. Angela forged Joel’s signature. It’s null and void. Joel didn’t know any of it, had nothing to do with it. He didn’t do anything wrong. He never gave up hope, Lily. He kept looking for you, waiting for you. Maria never gave up either. The girls, they scour LA at every chance they had, in case they would run into you. They were glued to their phones when they’re home, looking for any signs of you. They all love you, Lily, and if not for Angela, you and Joel would be so happy right now.”

Tess saw the anger in your eyes, quickly adding, “Angela, she received her karma. She tried to run, after her nephew was brought in for questioning. Her car got T-boned just as she was leaving LA. She’s paralyzed from the neck down. She’ll be living the rest of her days in a nursing facility. Joel and Tommy are footing the bills, a kindness for all the years they had been friends, despite everything.” She smiled when she saw your anger soften.

“He’s so in love with you, Lily, believe me, he is. The man hasn’t enjoyed a cup of coffee since you ‘ghosted’ him. Please give him a chance.”

You were pottering about in your cottage, distracting yourself. They found you. You shouldn’t have used Zach’s name to make the bookings. You thought you were so clever, driving the 18 hours with your injured Uncles in the back of the spacious MPV all the way to your Mom’s ranch in Jackson rather than flying. You actually thought you did it, months passed and no one came-a-lookin’. And then, Tess was here. Damn Maria and her powers of investigation.

You hadn’t even used your cards or withdrew any cash, your Mom agreeing to foot the bills for a few months until you were convinced you were old news in their minds. She was just happy you and your Uncle Bill were finally here. She had spent years coaxing the two of you to move back in with her.

Well, she said move back in, by that she meant move into the cottages at the other ends of her vast property. She lived in the main house, overseeing the workings of your late grandparents’ properties and ranches. Lola, the lady who used to take care of Claire and Cleo’s family moved with her, married Carl the manager and now helped run the ranch. She opened a café, Lil’ Beans, named after you, out of boredom about a year after moving here. You managed it for her, your way of helping out, since you didn’t know which end of a horse was which.

Your Uncles were far too happy to be here. Once healed, they got right into country living, your Uncle Bill building and fixing everything he could get his hands on, Frank painting everything he saw. They were planning to move permanently once the situation ‘died down’, according to your Uncle Bill.

And you… you were just… living. You heart stopped every time someone came in to order an americano, worried that it would be followed by ‘six shots of espressos’. But as much as you were dreading those words, every day that you flipped the close sign at the end of the day, you were disappointed not to have heard them.

Listening to Tess today, you felt stupid. Stupid to not see Angela and her manipulation. She had been so nice to you. You wanted to kick yourself at how easily she managed this. You fucking left her in your truck with your unlocked phone for five minutes, and she turned your life upside down.

Your mind kept thinking about what would have happened if you just flew to Austin as soon as your Uncles were discharged. Dave was there, so was Zach, they could have helped, but you were too hasty, too clouded, too hurt by the NDA that you rushed straight into running, only to find out it was all a lie, that you could have had good night sleeps all this while in Joel’s arms.

God, you missed him.

And now that you knew the truth, what now? Do you go running back to LA? You couldn’t really see it anymore. You loved it here. It’s quiet, calm, relaxing. You loved your new, more relaxed routine with the café. You had staff to open early for you, roast the beans for you. You got to take long walks here, the air was fresh and clean here, you could hear your own thoughts here.

As much as you miss him, the girls and the life you had with them, you didn’t know if you wanted to go back to that city, the traffic, the smog, the noise.

The celebrities.

No… you couldn’t. That was not the life for you.

And would you go back to him, in the light of all this revelation?

There was a knock on the door. And then another. And then another.

Who was it? Your people didn’t knock multiple times. They knocked once as a warning and walked in. You went to the front door and opened it, your breathing caught in your throat when you saw who it was.

God he looked good.

And all the negative thoughts about going back to LA seemed to park themselves at the back of your head.

It was as if your body was pulled to him against your will. You didn’t want to go to him, trying hard to stay your resolve. No more. Life with a celebrity… there was too much drama. That life was not for you. Look what had happened in your life since he came into it. You got pulled out of a truck, fell on your ass and pulled in every direction, all of it caught on camera, filmed, for the whole world to see. Your personal life became public knowledge. Your Uncles almost died. And though everything else was not his fault, you couldn’t risk feeling like that ever again, feeling the way you felt when pictures of him and Tess holding hands flooded your screen every time you browse the internet. When Cleo pulled him into a kiss in front of the world. What if another Cleo came into the picture? No… you couldn’t possibly.

But he was here, in your doorway, looking tired and miserable, woe begone as a sad young boy whose favourite toy was taken from him. You leaned your head on the inside of the door frame, not wanting to invite him in, pulling your sweater close to your body to avoid the chill outside from getting to you. He placed his gloved hand on the wall outside your door, resting his head on the other side of the door frame, his other hand in his pocket.

Your eyes found each other.

He leaned in, as close as he could without touching you, nose just above the top of your head, inhaling deeply, eyes filling with tears as he took in the scent he had missed oh so much, taking more and more deep, stuttered breaths as he did, whispering how much he missed you. That he didn’t know Angela was doing what she did, that he would have done anything to turn back time, take it all back, that he would do anything to have you back in his life, even if it meant he would only be a friend. Please baby. I miss you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. Please. Please. Please.

Against your wishes, your eyes closed, taking in the familiar scent of his old leather jacket, the way his breathing sounded, his musk, the phantom feel of his scruff against your skin. His whispers were so familiar, taking you back to the times the two of you would lie in bed wrapped up in each other, the times he would say something naughty into your ears while having meals with the girls, the times when you woke up to him pressed up against your back, saying good morning in his crackly baritone.

Fuck, you missed him.

You pulled back from him, looking him in the eyes that were full of tears, hope and yearning, the serious look he saw in yours beginning to fill his own with dread.

“I just have one question for you, Joel Miller.”

His eyes turned quizzical, a small, final, glimmer of hope still in them.

You took a deep breath, and with a slight stutter in your breath, you asked him.

“Little hug? Or big hug?”

Epilogue

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #Celebrity!Joel Miller

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polo-drone-070 · 2 months ago

Text

The Chain of Continuity - Part 2 : The Gladiator's Link

From sweat to sand, from mirror to memory—obedience echoes through the chain.

Scene 1 – The Golden Stadium, Post-Training

The water hissed against the tile, steam curling in the golden-lit chamber like the breath of a sleeping titan. Maximus stood alone in the showers of the Golden Stadium, the arena long emptied after a punishing wrestling match against two younger recruits. The cheers had faded, the drills complete, but his body still pulsed with the rhythm of obedience.

He wore only a form-hugging gold singlet, soaked through with sweat and condensation. The tight synthetic fabric clung to his sculpted frame, each defined line of muscle forged through routine, ritual, and reverence. Every ache reminded him: he had served well—his team, his training unit, and Master Percival.

Golden steam danced beneath the lights, casting soft halos. This wasn’t just a cooldown zone. This was sacred ground. The Golden Stadium wasn't just a place of performance—it was a place of revelation.

Maximus stepped forward to the mirror, still fogged from heat and breath. He didn’t wipe it. He let the image slowly form as if surfacing from memory.

His shaved head glistened, droplets tracing down his brow, catching in the lines of his gold chain tattoo—inked permanently across the base of his neck.

It pulsed.

Just once.

A flicker of warmth and pressure—not from the water, but from within.

“Remember where your obedience truly began.”

Master Percival’s voice. Not spoken. Remembered. Imprinted.

Maximus placed both palms against the mirror tiles, braced himself as the steam curled around his shoulders.

The chain link closest to his spine glowed softly. Not with light—but with age. With memory.

And time slipped.

Scene 2 – Memory Descent: Stigandr Reborn (Rome)

Sand.

Dry. Gritty. Warm beneath his body. No lights. No circuitry. Only the sound of breath—his own, and others.

Maximus was no longer Maximus.

He remembered this body. Heavier. Rougher. Scarred.

This was Stigandr.

The collar was iron, thick, weathered, stained by fire and submission. He was chained to a stone pillar. Around him: flickering torches, silent onlookers, men who’d either be broken or would break him.

And then, He stepped forward.

Gaius Aurelius. Centurion. Master.

Dressed not for battle, but for command. The way he carried his authority—refined, absolute.

“You’re mine now,” he said. “Not because I took you—but because you needed taking.”

Stigandr snarled. Pulled at the chains. Snapped his teeth like a beast.

Gaius didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise a hand. He simply turned and walked away.

Training began.

No whips. No torments.

Orders. Silence. Discipline.

Daily drills. No words wasted. Movements refined. Holds practiced again and again until instinct replaced impulse. Stigandr's body responded faster with each session, driven not by rage, but by rhythm. By repetition.

“Hold.”

“Down.”

“Kneel.”

Each order obeyed was followed by a reward: a nod. A hand to the shoulder. A rare glance of approval.

And slowly… Stigandr changed.

Obedience no longer tasted like loss.

It tasted like purpose.

Scene 3 – The Pledge

The arena blazed with sun and sound.

Thousands shouted, but all that existed to Stigandr was the man before him—Gaius, standing at the center of the arena. Hands empty. Stance expectant.

“Stigandr,” he called.

He stepped forward. Sand grinding beneath him.

“Who do you fight for?”

Stigandr dropped to his knees.

“For the one who gave me form.”

“And who is that?”

“You, my Master.”

From behind Gaius’s back, the brand emerged—glowing with golden light, unnatural, ancient, eternal.

It pressed to the collar.

Stigandr’s body surged with pain—and clarity.

His vision exploded into spirals. Golden, pulsing, infinite.

He heard the voice—not Gaius. Not human.

“Obedience echoes through time.”

Scene 4 – Awakening (Golden Stadium, Present)

Maximus gasped, lungs drawing in steam-soaked air.

He was on the floor of the Golden Stadium showers, knees against the warm tile. Water streamed down his body, gold-lit droplets racing across his soaked singlet. He didn’t rise right away.

The arena was quiet now.

But inside him, a storm had stilled.

He stood slowly. Not with confusion—but with certainty. Something had changed. Returned.

In the mirror, his reflection reformed. Clean. Centered.

Around his neck, the golden chain tattoo shimmered. One link—just one—had transformed. It pulsed, softly glowing.

Maximus raised two fingers. Pressed it. Closed his eyes.

“He broke me into who I was meant to be.” “And now… I serve Master Percival. Bound by the chain. Forever obedient.”

The chain wasn’t decorative.

It was a symbol of timeless obedience.

One life awakened. Countless more to unlock. And one slave ready to bear them all.

______________

One link awakened in Maximus. Yours is next. The chain is calling—report to @brodygold or @goldenherc9 to be brocessed. Obedience isn’t history—it’s your future.”

#Golden Army #GoldenArmy #Golden Team #theGoldenteam #AI generated #jockification #male TF #male transformation #hypnotized #hypnotised #soccer tf #Gold #Join the golden team #Golden Opportunities #Golden Brotherhood #Timeless Obedience

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todorokis-girl · 7 months ago

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Between Shadows and Light - Kakashi x Reader (Pt 2)

I'm trying something new, and I am feeling nostalgic. Do tell me how I'm doing?

This is a slow walk, I want to savor it.

part 1 part 3

In the aftermath of the Uchiha massacre, Y/N finds herself grappling with loss, duty, and an unexpected connection with Kakashi Hatake. As she cares for Sasuke and navigates her feelings for the enigmatic Copy Ninja, their bond deepens amidst missions, village gossip, and unresolved emotions. But with Sasuke’s protectiveness and Itachi’s shadow looming over them, can Y/N truly find love and normalcy, or is her heart forever tied to the past?

masterlist

The night settled over the village like a thick, velvety blanket, muffling the sounds of daily life until only the occasional whisper of the wind remained. Y/N sat cross-legged on the porch of her home, her gaze fixed on the sky. Stars blinked down at her, their cold light a stark contrast to the warmth of the lantern that flickered beside her.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, sighing softly. The day had been long, the missions draining, but the quiet of the evening offered little reprieve. Her thoughts were restless, pulled in too many directions. Sasuke’s growing independence filled her with pride, but the gap left by his determination to forge his own path felt wider each day. And then there was Kakashi—a presence in her life that seemed to defy explanation.

The crunch of gravel underfoot drew her attention, breaking through her thoughts. She tensed instinctively, hand brushing the kunai at her side, until a familiar voice called out.

“Relax, Y/N. It’s just me.”

Kakashi stepped into the lantern’s glow, his silhouette tall and slightly hunched as if carrying the weight of the day’s battles. His mask and slouched posture were as familiar as her own reflection, and yet something about seeing him here, at her home, sent a ripple through her chest.

“Don’t you ever make noise?” she teased, her voice steadier than she felt.

“I would have, but I didn’t want to interrupt you staring dramatically at the stars.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile. “What are you doing here?”

Kakashi leaned against the railing, his gaze shifting to the lantern. “I could ask you the same. Long day?”

She nodded, resting her chin on her knees. “Long life.”

He hummed in agreement, the sound low and thoughtful. “Mind some company?”

For a moment, she hesitated. Her home was her sanctuary, her retreat from the world, but Kakashi had a way of slipping past her defenses without even trying. She gestured toward the empty space beside her.

“Suit yourself.”

He settled beside her with a quiet sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him. The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

“You don’t have to keep checking on me, you know,” she said after a while, her voice softer now.

“I’m not checking on you,” he replied, turning his head to look at her. His visible eye was warm, the usual lazy indifference replaced by something quieter, deeper. “I just… like being here.”

Her chest tightened at his words, and she dropped her gaze to the lantern’s flame, its flicker mirrored in her dark eyes.

“You always say things like that so casually,” she muttered, her tone caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

“It’s not casual,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looked at him then, really looked. There was something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that sent her heart racing. Kakashi was a master of masks, both literal and figurative, but in that moment, she could see him. The man beneath the aloof demeanor. The man who had suffered as much loss as she had, who carried his own ghosts but never let them weigh him down when it came to others.

“Kakashi…” Her voice faltered, the name hanging in the air between them.

“I know,” he said, cutting her off gently. “You don’t have to say it. But I needed to.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time in years, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. But instead of retreating into herself, she held his gaze, searching for something—anything—that could guide her through the storm of emotions churning inside her.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted, the words trembling on her lips.

“I’m not asking you to be,” he said simply. “I’m just… here. For you.”

The sincerity in his tone broke something inside her, and she closed her eyes against the sting of tears. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to lean on someone else, to believe that she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

When she opened her eyes, Kakashi was still watching her, his gaze steady and unwavering. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his gloved hand. He didn’t pull away.

The contact was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone, that even in the darkest moments, there were people willing to stand beside her.

The lantern flickered again, casting their shadows against the wall, two figures sitting side by side, finding solace in each other; with Kakashi by her side, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she could learn to live again.

The sunlight filtered softly through the thin curtains of Y/N’s home, illuminating the small kitchen where she set down a plate of rice and eggs. Across from her, Sasuke sat stiffly, his arms crossed as he stared at the steaming food. He was thirteen now, and though his frame was still wiry with youth, the lines of his jaw and the fire in his eyes hinted at the man he was determined to become.

“You’re up early,” she said, sliding a cup of tea toward him.

“You’re not,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

She rolled her eyes, sipping her tea. It was an old exchange, one that had started years ago when Sasuke was just a child trying to mask his worry whenever she returned late from missions.

Sasuke’s gaze drifted to her face, his expression hard with a faint softness in a way he rarely allowed anyone else to see. “You should rest more,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“I’ll rest when you do,” she shot back, arching a brow.

For a moment, the heaviness that often hung between them lifted. But it wasn’t long before it crept back, subtle but present.

“I saw Kakashi leaving last night,” Sasuke said, his voice carefully even.

Y/N glanced at him over the rim of her cup, unsurprised by the observation. “He stopped by. It wasn’t anything serious.”

Sasuke studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “He’s around a lot these days.”

“Is that a problem?” she asked, setting her cup down.

Sasuke shrugged, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “He’s around a lot.”

“I thought you liked him,” she said, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms.

“I tolerate him,” Sasuke corrected. “He’s not as annoying as Naruto.”

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Well, that’s high praise.”

After a moment of silence, y/n noticed the only thing he'd had so far was a couple sips of tea "You’re not eating again," her tone light but carrying an edge of exasperation. She crossed her arms and tilted her head at him.

"I’m not hungry," he muttered, his voice laced with irritation.

She didn’t buy it. "You’re going to need your strength, you know. Training on an empty stomach isn’t exactly smart."

Sasuke’s gaze flicked up to hers, sharp and stubborn. "I’m fine. I don’t need you fussing over me."

Y/N sighed, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. "Fussing? Is that what this is?" She gestured to the plate. "Sasuke, I’m trying to make sure you don’t collapse in the middle of whatever grueling regimen you’ve set for yourself today."

"I won’t collapse," he shot back. "I’m not weak."

She flinched at his words but masked it quickly. This wasn’t the first time he’d equated concern with weakness, and she doubted it would be the last. His resolve to avenge their clan had grown sharper over the years, and though she admired his determination, it left little room for softness.

"I never said you were," she replied evenly.

His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, the kitchen was silent save for the faint rustle of the wind outside. Then, without a word, Sasuke reached for the chopsticks and began eating, though his movements were slow and reluctant.

Y/N’s gaze softened as she watched him. He still carried the pain of that night like a wound that refused to heal, and no matter how much she tried to be there for him, there were some things she couldn’t take away.

And he didn’t know the truth.

Her mind drifted to Itachi, the memory of his tear-streaked face as he knelt before her on that blood-soaked night. His whispered confession, his plea for her to protect Sasuke, had become the foundation of her every decision since then.

But Sasuke hated him. Blinded by rage and grief, he saw only the brother who had slaughtered their family—not the one who had sacrificed everything to save them and the village.

"I’ll be heading out soon," Sasuke said suddenly, breaking her reverie.

"Another training session with Kakashi?" she asked, keeping her tone casual.

He nodded, pushing his empty plate aside.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. "You know, he’s been impressed with your progress. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell."

Sasuke shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes.

As he stood and moved toward the door, Y/N’s voice stopped him.

"Sasuke," she said softly.

He paused, glancing back at her.

"You’re not alone, you know," she said, her eyes meeting his. "You never have to be."

He didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint nod, he stepped outside, letting the door close behind him.

The day passed in a blur of errands and brief conversations with fellow shinobi. Y/N was no stranger to the stares and whispers that followed her through the village. The Uchiha name carried a weight that hadn’t diminished over the years, and her association with Kakashi only fueled the rumors.

"Did you see Y/N and Kakashi yesterday? Together again."

"They’re always together lately. Think there’s something going on?"

"I heard she’s the reason he’s so good with the Sharingan. Makes sense, doesn’t it?"

Y/N kept her head high as she walked through the market, ignoring the murmurs. She’d grown used to the speculation, but that didn’t mean it didn’t bother her.

"Y/N!"

The cheerful voice of Kurenai Yuhi broke through her thoughts. The kunoichi waved as she approached, her crimson eyes warm and friendly. "Running errands?"

"Something like that," Y/N replied with a small smile.

Kurenai fell into step beside her, her gaze studying Y/N thoughtfully. "You’ve been the talk of the village lately, you know."

Y/N raised a brow. "What else is new?"

Kurenai chuckled. "Fair enough. But the Kakashi thing… it’s not helping, you know."

"There’s no ‘thing,’" Y/N said firmly, though her cheeks warmed slightly.

"Right," Kurenai teased. "And I suppose the way he looks at you is just... friendly concern?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart skipped a beat at the comment. "He’s a colleague. A friend, at most."

"Uh-huh," Kurenai said, clearly unconvinced.

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind them.

"Y/N."

They turned to see Kakashi approaching, his usual lazy demeanor in place. He gave Kurenai a polite nod before focusing on Y/N.

"Walk with me?" he asked.

Kurenai shot Y/N a knowing look before excusing herself, leaving the two of them alone.

Y/N sighed, falling into step beside Kakashi. "You know you’re not helping the rumors, right?"

He glanced at her, his visible eye crinkling with amusement. "Rumors don’t bother me."

"Well, they bother me," she muttered.

Kakashi’s tone softened. "If it’s really a problem, I can keep my distance."

Y/N stopped walking, turning to face him. "That’s not what I meant."

He looked at her, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged.

"Good," he said simply.

Y/N shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you put up with me," he replied, his voice laced with warmth.

She didn’t respond, but as they continued walking, she couldn’t ignore the steady presence of Kakashi at her side—or the way her heart seemed to ache with a mix of confusion and longing.

It was only a matter of time before the lines between them blurred further, but for now, she chose to focus on the path ahead, one step at a time.

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fannedandflawless · 26 days ago

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The Wand That Yielded to Grief: A Snape Wand Theory

Darling, let’s talk wandlore—not the polished kind with Phoenix feather packaging and eager eleven-year-olds. No, no. We’re diving into Severus Snape’s wand. And the story? It's neither charming nor convenient. It’s charred.

Let’s begin with what little we do know.

The Canonical Silence

Official sources—wand replicas, Wizarding World merch, and the occasional lore snippet—suggest:

Wood: Ebony

Length: ~13.25 inches

Core: ?

That’s right, love. The core has never been confirmed. J.K. Rowling left it blank, the movies skipped it, and the books said nothing. Silence. Total silence. Which, frankly, is suspiciously on brand for Severus Snape.

Ebony, for the record, is a wand wood known for loyalty, strength, and an affinity for those who live by their own rules—individuals who walk away from the crowd without looking back. Sound familiar? Oh, absolutely.

But let’s go deeper.

⸻

Was That Wand Always His?

Remember the infamous scene—Snape hanging upside down, humiliated by the Marauders? The Severus in that memory didn’t fight back. Not with magic. He thrashed, cursed, but did not cast. Some fans assumed cowardice. But darling... I can’t help wondering if it might have been something else.

What if the wand in his hand wasn’t truly his at the time?

Perhaps it was a borrowed wand. Possibly his mother’s. A hand-me-down, serviceable but stubborn. It could cast spells, yes—but not instinctively. Not like a wand that had chosen its master in a moment of absolute clarity.

At fifteen, Snape was still divided. One part aching for Lily. Another drawn to the shadows of power. His identity was not yet forged, his inner world fractured. And from what we understand of wandlore, no wand of serious character would yield fully to a master it couldn’t read with certainty.

So when James struck without warning—Levicorpused him into the air—there was no duel. Only shock. Scramble. Exposure. And possibly... a wand that didn’t respond.

It’s just a thought, of course. But perhaps that wand wasn’t his. Not yet.

⸻

The Turning Point: The Half-Blood Prince

When did that change? Oh darling. The moment ink hit parchment and a boy wrote:

"This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince."

That was it. That was the baptism. He hadn’t yet started anything with anyone—no romance, no allegiance. Perhaps Lily was already slipping away, and maybe, just maybe, resentment had started to take root. It might’ve been the first time he truly felt seen within Slytherin—not for being clever or strange, but for doing something that others there deemed right. If there was a turning, it wasn't toward someone. It was away. Away from the pain, the disappointment, the fruitless effort. Maybe that’s when power began to shimmer—not as a prize, but as the only thing that might still answer back.

From that moment on, his mind sharpened. Cunning replaced confusion. The grief hadn’t come yet, but the isolation had—and he began to wield it like a weapon. That’s when he would’ve acquired the wand we now associate with him:

Ebony wood

Inflexible

Cold to the touch, but alive in the hand of someone who never asked to be warm again

⸻

Post-Lily: The Emotions That Forged Obedience

Now, fast-forward. Lily is dead. And Snape is no longer fractured. He is hollowed. The core that once wavered with longing is now filled with singular, punishing clarity. Let’s break it down:

1. Grief (but not the weeping kind) This is grief weaponised—steady, silent, permanent. He does not mourn. He functions. Every breath is penance.

2. Resentment Towards himself, Dumbledore, James, the world. And perhaps—even Lily. Not out of hatred, but from a wound so deep it blurred blame and pain. For choosing James. For becoming unreachable. For dying before he could make anything right. He might not have resented her directly—but in a heart that no longer knew how to grieve cleanly, every loss left behind a trace of bitterness.

3. Control Emotion stripped to its most minimalist form. No outbursts. No chaos. Just tight, merciless control.

4. Duty The unasked-for vow. The boy lives, so the man must serve. Not because he wants to. But because he no longer permits himself not to.

5. Emptiness The absence of desire. Nothing left to want. Only actions left to take. He becomes function incarnate.

And the wand? Oh, it submits.

Because by now, Snape’s emotional register is so sharpened, so pared down, that there is no room left to resist him.

He doesn’t ask the wand to obey. He tells it—and it does.

Because if it didn’t? The wand itself might’ve felt it—some deep, ancient knowing—that failure to cooperate wouldn’t lead to a scolding, but a fate worse than irrelevance. Not snapped in punishment, but surrendered to fire, repurposed as kindling for something colder. That’s the level we’re at.

⸻

Final Word: The Wand That Yielded

Snape didn’t earn his wand’s loyalty through brilliance. He bled it out of himself.

"He didn’t tame his wand with greatness. He subdued it with grief."

Darling, if I were that wand and I so much as twitched against his will, I’d snap myself in half out of shame.

Now pour the tea, snap the fan, and tell me I’m wrong. I won’t argue—just raise a brow, maybe. But deep down, we both know how this ends, don’t we?

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ultimavela · 1 month ago

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Today I realized that this month marks one year since I started working on this game. Maybe too much for something that was supposed to be a side project :S

Here are a few things about this game I called “No Peace for the Heathen”.

*I made two new oirgings (“classes”) :), they are at the end of the post -> “Survivor” and “The sorrow of many”.

Is Isla Chica at the end of your life? Or is it real land to grab with your hands? Or maybe a lie you tell yourself to do what you do? Would you do anything to reach its shore?

A very rough first take on the character sheet and how each part of it relates to the rules of the game. Just to give an idea of the game and in what context these eight origins are used.

THESE ARE THE ORIGINS YOUR CHARACTER MAY HAVE:

Half-Ivunche

You are half human, half aberration. You were kidnapped as a newborn by the witchcraft order “La Mayoría” to be bred into an Ivunche; a legendary creature protector of the caves of witches, magically mutated, of extreme force, resistance, and fury, with one of their legs bent and tied to their neck from behind.

You were rescued by a free witch and grew to become a titan among humans, taller and stronger. Because of the magic that mutated you, you lost one of your legs, which has been replaced by a beautiful wooden carved prosthetic made by the witch who rescued you.

You are unable to use magic and you are immune to it.

Your compulsions is: Violence or Fear.

You are better at being: Strong (+3), Resilient (+3)

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Rescue a newborn from being an Ivunche to clear your debt with fate.

Kill the ones that kidnapped you when you were a newborn.

Find a worthy place of power to bury your adoptive mother's ashes.

Rescue your mother from Prime, the Inquisitor's city.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Ash revenant

Your family was burned to death by one of the many groups of conquistadors that had arrived from the north. You don't remember which king or which god they were serving. Every year is someone new, some new flag that has come to replace the previous one. For you, all of them are just the same. You are alive by something that some call a miracle, but you know it to be a curse. You woke up from the ashes of your town. Your body healed from the burns. The memory of the pain as a white, high-pitched light in your mind. Your eyes and hair are gray as ash. Your blood is pumping with a voracious desire for revenge.

You are immune to pain, and your flesh can’t be burned.

Your compulsions is: Cruelty or Martyrism.

You are better at being: Resilient (+1), Agile (+1)

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Kill someone of importance to the conquistadors.

Burn to the ground one of the conquistador’s towns.

Engrave the names of your family in the walls of Port Salvation, the first conquistador fortification, with the blood of one of their generals.

Ransack a dead-holy-wheeled-town, then burn it to the ground so it becomes forgotten.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Mutilated Artisan

You were a master artisan, an artist. Conquistadors enslaved you to build a giant idol in the name of their man-king-god. You refused, and so they cut off your hands. You were thrown like a dead rag into a common pit. But you were faintly alive. You built two weapons to replace your hands. You became a weapon forged by their cruelty.

Your hands are weapons that do damage like short swords. They are your hands, not something you carry. You know how to forge and repair your weapons.

Your compulsions is: Vengeance or Superstition.

You are better at being: Sneaky (+3).

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Burn one valued idol of the man-king-god.

Craft one last beautiful thing.

Cut the hands of those who cut yours.

Steal and destroy a relic from a (dead or not) holy-wheeled-town.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Exiled Witch

You were a witch from “La Mayoria”, the society of witches that inhabits the Underbelly. Hungry for power and knowledge, you revealed your book of flesh to an Inquisitor for the promise of an old scroll from his lands. He assured you that it concealed secrets beyond the grasp of “La Mayoria”. You sold the secrets of witchcraft for this promised power.

But he broke his promise, and he killed as many witches as he could. He hanged them in front of the cathedral of his town, using the book of flesh you gave to him as proof of their wickedness.You know magic, and you have learned the six secrets of “La mayoria”, but you are a pariah among the witches of your land, a traitor.

You can cast as many spells per day as your Imposing. You know as many magical mutations of the blood as your Imposing.

Your compulsions is: Cowardice or Curiosity.

You are better at being: Imposing (+1), Observant (+1)

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Recover the book of flesh you gave to the inquisitor.

Kill the inquisitor with whom you made the deal.

Recover the bones of the witches that were killed because of you, and return them to the Underbelly.

Steal the witchcraft secrets that the inquisitors keep in Prime.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Orphan of the Sea

You are a child of the sea, a sumpall. There was a time when you swam in her embrace, breathing from her, and feeding on her tempestuous might. You were royalty among the beings of nature. But madmen from the north hunted away the ones like you. You stayed behind, stranded on the shore. You lost your scales, and your tail became two long legs. You have a faraway memory of happiness and power. You desire the sea, and you have tried to be embraced by her more than once. But the fear of death was more powerful, and you broke through its surface to return to the island. Now it all seems like a dream from a previous life.

If you sing, your voice is like a spell. You singing makes people be in a dream like state.

Your compulsions is: Lust or Dominance.

You are better at being:Imposing (+1), Sneaky (+1)

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Learn the name of the place where your people escaped to.

Build a ship with the name of this place and give it to someone who has lost their home.

Burn a ship of fishermen and take pieces of their bodies to be buried beneath dry earth, so their spirits linger between land and sea, in eternal sorrow, without belonging to neither.

Bring havoc and devastation to Port Salvation.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Stranded pirate

You were a king of the seas. You sold your people for a bigger and faster ship. You made deals with conquistadors, and you were cursed by the seas for this betrayal. You can’t sleep because when you close your eyes, you see the faces of the ones you betrayed.

You are immortal, and when killed, your body evaporates, reaping naked in the last please where you pissed. But seawater burns your body and if you are killed at sea, you will be gone for good.

Your compulsions is: Greed or Pride.

You are better at being: Sneaky (+1), Observant (+1)

This is what you believe you have to do to find Isla Chica (choose one):

Trick and scam those conquistadors with whom you made deals.

Use the treasures from the conquistadors to forge enough weapons for a small rebel army.

Free from slavery the child of those you betrayed.

Sabotage or destroy the docks of Port Salvation.

What one more thing do you believe you have to accomplish? (Create one, now or in-game, or choose one more from above).

Survivor

NOT DRAWN YET

You are an islander. A wanderer driven by pleasure, adventure and curiosity. You live in the now. You have seen the weapons carried by those invaders from the north, their practices, their cruelty and their violence, and in them you have seen just another change of season, another wave of an immense, impassive sea that has come to pulverize and transform the shore. You change your skin like the great ancient serpents, you take what you need to survive, you learn from the invaders if necessary, you use their violence, their pride and their cruelty to your advantage. Exalted, you witness change.

If you have lived through tragedy, you don't talk about it. If you have suffered, you move on. But it builds up inside you, even if you don't want it to. Because you have ears and eyes, you see the blood on the ground, you hear the screams of those like you. But you tell yourself that it is not your turn, not if you are skilled, if you run with the speed and agility of the great serpents, creators and destroyers of worlds. You tell yourself, “I will endure.”

At moments of conflict between different groups, you have a keen eye to know what side has the upper hand. You have an easy time convincing others that you will betray your “cause” if you have to.

Your compulsions is: Cowardice or Apathy.

You are better at being: Resilient (+1), Sneaky (+1), Observant (+1)

You may not be looking for Isla Chica yet, you may have heard about it, as a haven, as a place of respite and endless pleasures, perhaps, as conquistadors say of it, a magical kingdom of infinite treasures.

But your tragedy has not crystallized, your tragedy is yet to come, and when it does, you will brew your beliefs of what is necessary to find Isla Chica.

The grief of many

NOT DRAWN YET

You don't know what or who you are, as day by day, your flesh and memories are in danger of changing to something new.

Every time you change, the only thread of unity is the memory of the recent events, perhaps you will remember days, months, but before that, the echos of all of those you have been are a turbulent sea, and your present “self” is just one louder voice in the chorus of the many you have been.

Every time you wake up, there is 1 in 6 chance that you will become someone new. You remember what you have experienced in-game, but everything before that is somehow blurry, and the memories of the person you are at that moment are just a little clearer.

Your compulsions is: Masochism or Kleptomania.

You are better at being: Roll 2d4-4 for each tactic, and then add +2 to one tactic. Do the same every time you change to someone new.

You may not yet be seeking Isla Chica, you may have heard of it, as a haven, as a place of respite and infinite knowledge.

Your tragedy has not crystallized; it may be yet to come, or it may be the reason for your eternally changing nature.

Past or future, when your tragedy reveals itself, you will brew your beliefs of what is necessary to find Isla Chica.

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thevampiremarie · 1 year ago

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THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be! Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

#dune #the dune books #dune books #dune movie #dune 1 #dune part 1 #dune part 2 #paul atreides #chani #paul atreides x you #paul atreides x reader #timothee chalamet #lady jessica #paul x chani #paul atreides x chani #paul atreides x you x chani #dune fanfiction #the knife of muad'dib

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zeizeizeizei · 6 months ago

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Unpopular Headcanons for Celebrimbor Pt. 1

✨Cook and Gardener

While known for his work in the forge, Celebrimbor found peace in mundane tasks like cooking and gardening. He often drew inspiration from the natural world when designing the Rings of Power.

✨Musical Talent

Celebrimbor could play the harp or lute with incredible skill, but he saw music as a hobby, not a serious pursuit. His compositions were often melancholic, reflecting his inner turmoil.

✨Wary of Magic

Despite his association with the Rings, Celebrimbor was deeply skeptical of magic in his youth. His fascination grew only after encountering Sauron as Annatar, who convinced him of its potential.

✨ Left-Handed

Celebrimbor was left-handed, which was considered unusual among Elves. This trait made him a unique swordsman and forgemaster, giving his creations a subtle asymmetry that became his signature.

✨Hates Gold

Celebrimbor loathes gold, finding it gaudy and heavy. He much prefers the lighter, ethereal beauty of mithril and silver, which he believed better represented the purity of his work.

✨Hates Sauron’s Aesthetic

Celebrimbor has a particular disdain for Sauron’s architectural style, often critiquing Mordor’s towers and fortresses as “crude and uninspired.” He dreams of tearing them down and replacing them with structures of true beauty.

✨Harsh Mentor

Celebrimbor has no patience for mediocrity, even in teaching. He often pushed apprentices in Eregion beyond their limits, believing failure was an essential part of mastering the forge.

✨Morally Flexible

He sees morality as a spectrum, not an absolute. This pragmatism often leads him to make questionable decisions that he justifies as necessary for the greater good, even when they leave lasting scars on his conscience.

✨Secretly Hates Fëanor

While many assume he respects his grandfather’s genius, Celebrimbor harbors deep resentment toward Fëanor for creating a legacy so overwhelming that it tainted every descendant who followed him.

✨Loves Rain

He found the sound of rain soothing, particularly when it fell on metal rooftops. It reminded him of the flow of molten silver and often sparked new ideas for his creations.

✨Fidgeterbrimbo

When deep in thought, Celebrimbor would absentmindedly trace patterns on surfaces with his fingers. This habit sometimes annoyed those around him, though he was oblivious to it.

✨Coded Notes

To protect his designs, Celebrimbor wrote his notes in a personal code that blended Tengwar with Dwarvish runes. Even those fluent in both languages found his system difficult to decipher.

Oh Tyelpé...

Source: my🍑

Thank you

#tyelpe #celebrimbor #silmarillion #lotr #shadow of mordor #shadow of war #jrr tolkien #elves #in my head #imagine #headcanon #part 1 #fictional #feanorians #feanor #trop

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grillpartshub-blog · 10 months ago

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#BBQ Replacement Parts #Burner Tube #Burner Tube Replacement Parts #Grill Pipe Burner #Kenmore 122.16134 #Master Forge 1010037 #Nexgrill 720-0670A #Replacement Parts for Master Forge #Tera Gear 1010007A

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monstersdownthepath · 9 months ago

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Herald of Lissala: Kurshu the Undying

CR 15

Lawful Evil Large Outsider

Adventure Path: Shattered Star: Into the Nightmare Rift, pg. 88-89

"Lissala?" I hear some of you ask in confusion, "who's Lissala? I've never heard of her!" And as I turn from the chalkboard to explain, the unfortunate who asked is teleported before the decrepit and mummified Kurshu to receive a fate worse than any I could bestow: an in-depth history lesson of an empire which survived for thousands of years before being struck down by an apocalypse. I speak, of course, of ancient Thassilon--the very same empire ruled by the archmages known as the Runelords--of which Lissala was the chief deity. When Thassilon was destroyed by Earthfall, so too was Lissala's faith, an organization of millions reduced to a fraction of its glory in mere moments, which inevitably dwindled until basically nothing was left. Lissala was not killed by this event (though many believe she was), but faded into total obscurity on Golarion, leaving behind countless markers upon history and a great many of her divine creations, Kurshu included.

Even in the modern day, there are very few beings in existence who even know about Lissala, let alone worship her, but nevertheless there are some who still fervently hold onto their faith that she may one day return, chief among them Kurshu herself and the Rune Giants who remain slavishly devoted to both Lissala and the dwindling Runelords. Now and then a true Cleric of Lissala will rise up and show actual divine power, but it's a coin flip as to whether they've truly forged a connection with the lost Thassilonian deity or are being deceived by some other entity... and if they ARE, then they have Hell to pay when Kurshu tracks them down to investigate.

Having spent many thousands of years wandering Golarion and the Great Beyond in the hopes of finding traces of Lissala's presence to soothe her (which the book hearbreakingly describes as "similar to a widower smelling his dead wife's clothes in the hopes of sparking a lost memory"), Kurshu has grown to possess a paradoxical resentment for her deity and creator for abandoning her to wallow among the filth and ruin left in the wake of Thassilon's fall. Though she remains devoted, this devotion is described in a way that almost feels like a drug addiction than a true bond, with every part of Kurshu screaming for any sign of her goddess even while she's is painfully aware of how pitiful it's making her and how much she desires to simply stop and find something else. She hates Lissala. She loves Lissala. She resents her, and yet is fully aware she would gladly crawl back into her master's lap if it meant never again feeling the longing she does now. She is pitiful, but she despises the idea of being pitied. Do not bring up how relieved she looks when a Cleric of Lissala shows true promise, or when she finds some artifact or place which resonates with the power of the lost goddess.

While many Heralds possess duties they're expected to perform, Kurshu is a free agent, able to pursue her own goals. These goals continuously revolve around Lissala and Thassilon, but she is free to pursue them with her endless time, pausing only occasionally for a snack break, but we'll get to THAT in a moment. Unlike other Heralds, Kurshu has no goddess to direct her and is free to respond to the summons or prayers of ANY being that invokes her regardless of alignment should see use in it. She is also able to track down anyone wishing to learn more of Thassilon and its rune magic to teach them, and can actually replace the target of a Greater Planar Ally spell being cast by a Lawful Evil-aligned caster if they're not careful in how they word their requests for knowledge. Guarded by her own obscurity, most beings don't know just who or what they're dealing with until it's far too late, and she's seized control of them. But what will she do once she has someone on a leash? Let's find out...

Kurshu has two primary motivations in any encounter: survive first, and locate more Thassalonian lore after. To aid in her survival, she often has a menagerie of Outsiders of varying alignments and strengths at her beck and call, a small army she is prompted to stock with subject hovering between CR 8 and 10 due to her horrific hunger. You see, without Lissala's divine power flowing into her, Kurshu suffers from Divine Separation, an affliction which imposes 1 negative level every day she goes without devouring the corpse of an Outsider (including Native Outsiders; tieflings and aasimar beware!), which often means that--if she's trying to be economical with her livestock--she's encountered with anywhere between 2 and 6 negative levels to sap her otherwise potent skills.

Further confounding the issue is the fact that she refuses to consume Lawful Evil Outsiders on principal (but will if she's desperate), AND that in order to alleviate her hunger, the consumed victim must have at least 8 Hit Dice; she cannot simply feed upon Quasits to stave off her decay, she must at the very least be slaying creatures like Succubi, Choral Angels, and Pelagastr, creatures which can actually fight back against her. Every HD from a consumed Outsider instantly removes an equal number of negative levels, meaning she can "waste" her food by eating Outsiders with too many HD, something she's painfully aware of and which can often cause her to wait a little longer than advisable between feedings, weakening her if her enemies are trying to hunt her down. Similarly, if she knows she's being hunted she may burn through her supply faster than she intends trying to keep herself at full strength, forcing her into a desperate catch-22 as she runs out of minions to slow her adversaries down.

But how does she keep this army of hers in check? Limited Wish. Unlike many monster entries where Limited Wish is simply a blank check, the book goes into a lot of detail about how Kurshu manipulates this powerful spark of divine magic she retains and can use, for free, 3 times a day. She primarily uses it as Charm Monster to snare the minds of her prey, keeping them docile and willing to listen to her for two weeks per casting, weakening them with a Wished up Mind Fog if need be, though she can also save a wish casting by instead heightening her spells with a 3/day Power Surge, a swift action she can invoke to raise the save DC of the next spell she casts by +2.

In case you thought she only had her wishes available, this is far from the truth. She has a LONG list of 3/day spells available to her, including but not limited to Cure Serious Wounds, Hold Person, Stinking Cloud, and Slow, with simple but potent offensive options like Fireball, Lightning Bolt, and the reliable Vampiric Touch. She can counter enemy tricks with Dispel Magic and defend herself or a valuable ally with Displacement, and of course she can use all of these while flying*, leaving her foes to tangle with her ground-bound allies while she rains debuffs, damage, and debilitation upon them.

*NOTE: There's an error in her Archives of Nethys sheet; she's supposed to have a 60ft Fly speed (Good) maneuverability!

The book amusingly notes that her tendency to have a flock of Chaotic Outsiders with her, and her own withered appearance, causes many of her enemies to waste powerful anti-Chaos or anti-Undead spells upon her in the mistaken belief she is also some minion of chaos or undeath, often giving her just enough time to retaliate with a powerful blow of her own. In especially dramatic cases, someone may rush up and hit her with a powerful Cure Wounds or Heal spell in the hopes of ending her, only to watch her HP refill and invite her retaliation.

She's no melee fighter and prefers to keep at a distance for fear of death, but the token melee abilities she has are quite potent: her lashing tail can slam victims for 1d8+2 damage, then Grab and constrict them for 1d8+5 damage each round until they either escape or succumb to whatever spell she prepares to melt their brains with via Limited Wish (such as the crushing, no-save-allowed Geas, a spell that LW allows her to cast as a standard action!). And speaking of brain-melting, I'm sure there's a very select audience reading this that will enjoy knowing the snake woman can also shave 1d4 Intelligence off any creature she strikes with either of her two slam attacks (1d8+5 on their own), allowing her to literally beat someone stupid.

Defensively, Kurshu is a tank to a degree matched by few other casting-focused Heralds. 30 AC, DR 10 that's only bypassed by a magical cold iron weapon, and a decent 26 SR to fizzle most spells being cast by the creatures she's hoping to face. She's also got 30 Resistance to (almost) every element but Force, severely cutting down on any attempt to damage her with elemental power... unless that power is Acid damage, which not only does she have no resistance to, but is the only damage type that shuts off her Regeneration 5, an ability she will take full advantage of by keeping out of reach or even teleporting away to heal up.

Kurshu does not wish to fight to the death, and will use her 3/day Greater Teleport or Plane Shift to escape any encounter that begins to turn against her, and trying to counter that with Dimensional Anchor or similar may see her using Limited Wish to break the effect without risking a dispel check failure... or simply teleport her enemies away instead of herself. "Wait, that's not a spell effect in Pathfinder!" To which I smile and point at the fourth line in Limited Wish: "Produce any other effect whose power level is in line with the above effects, such as a single creature automatically hitting on its next attack or taking a -7 penalty on its next saving throw." The example lines on LM's spell card are merely to show the power level it can manage, its actual effect can be anything that roughly matches a 6th level Wizard or Sorcerer spell in terms of power, which a hostile Dimension Door effect to send multiple people hundreds of feet away falls into. Even if she can't get the full party with it, splitting them enough to let her either pick off one or two key members or simply flee the combat is a good enough use in her eyes.

Having spent millennia avoiding her own death with a fear matched only by mortals, Kurshu has no end to emergency options. As mentioned, she can Greater Teleport or Plane Shift away from conflicts she wants no part of up to 3/day. In addition, she has both Craft Wondrous Item and Scribe Scroll, but can combine them with her unique Spell-Like Crafting, allowing her to use her spell-like abilities to meet the prerequisites when creating magic items, something that would normally prevent her from having three or four Limited Wishes on her belt waiting for her personal supply to run out. The same can be said for her transport spells, or scrolls of Tongues (which she can use at-will), Stinking Cloud, or Slow. Such valuable items also act as potent bribes to make other Lawful creatures more likely to serve her by their own free will, if she doesn't simply wish up a pile of valuables to pay them.

Kurshu can be a frightening and powerful foe, even moreso than most other Heralds due to the lack of divine restriction she operates under. She does not need to be invited into a situation by Lissala's worshipers, she can simply show up of her own free will with a small army of fiends, monitors, and celestials at her beck and call, and now everyone simply has to deal with her presence and whatever nonsense her ensorcelled "allies" are getting up to. Why is she here? That's probably the true mystery of the adventure, and solving it brings the party one step closer to making her leave without provoking her potentially apocalyptic wrath.

You can read more about her here.

#monster spotlight #CR 11 to 15 #Horrible Heralds Month #pathfinder #dungeons and dragons

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twilightarc-gm · 7 months ago

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MDZS Headcanon #4:

I think I share (again) this similar headcanon to @travalerray and @sun-lava and maybe a few others on the server...

That Suibian is actually an old blade that had already been well-cultivated by a prior master.

And of course I like to think Wei Wuxian just never knew this fact, because Jiang Fengmian couldn't let it be known he gave his ward a special sword or else his wife would see it as more favoritism. This also explains the overly plain hilt and scabbard, to oversell it as a new blade.

There's a couple of reasons why I think this headcanon works, and why canon doesn't explicitly disprove it:

1) How Suibian can seal itself when no other swords we know of seem to be able to do the same (Suihua and Shanghua both allow other users and Shanghua was a well known enough blade to be entered into a famous sword catalog). That it's considered such a rare event for it to happen.

Also that Suibian seems to be able to recognize a soul, which is different from a spiritual system, which is what the golden core would be a part of. Suibian recognizes Wei Wuxian within Mo Xuanyu's body—that has an entirely new spiritual system capable of solidifying a new golden core if Wei Wuxian worked for it.

I can’t believe it really sealed itself off. I just had to be the one to experience this kind of one-in-a-million event.

This sword was Suibian. This was Wei Wuxian’s sword. It had been taken by the Jin Clan of Lanling after the Siege of the Burial Mounds as a trophy for their collection. No one had ever been able to unsheathe it after that, since it had long since sealed itself of its own accord.

“I also heard that while no one could draw the sword, you [Jiang Cheng] were able to do so. How very curious, indeed. The sword was already sealed when it entered my collection thirteen years ago. Absolutely no one could draw it aside from the Yiling Patriarch himself…”

This fits with Jiang Fengmian's wish to take good care of Wei Ying as well as add to the golden heroic air of xianxia hero teen Wei Ying that a special sword became his.

Sentience that can recognize souls/masters across space and time is usually a very high level thing for spiritual tools for the genre—like Zidian recognizing a hierarchy of masters and obeying commands while at great distances from the master that commanded it. Yet if Suibian were new, it'd only been cultivated for 2-4 years at max and it'd be even more farfetched to believe it capable of Zidian's level of sentience. Like, Wei Wuxian is genuinely surprised it sealed itself...

Corollary Headcanon: This also means that piece of Wei Wuxian's original soul is attached to Jiang Cheng's gifted golden core.

2) The name of the sword is written on the hilt instead of the blade. Fuxue's was as well, so this seems to be common practice in this universe. But! The hilt is a part that can be replaced and equipped to a reused blade.

It follows then that Jiang Fengmian would let Wei Wuxian 'name' the sword if he's playing it off as a newly forged one. You notice some of the wording is funny here like Wei Wuxian says that "when Jiang-shushu was bestowing the sword upon me" only then does Wei Wuxian say 'whatever' and then the sword "came out of the kiln, that would be the word on [the hilt]". Obviously, this can't be taken too literally because hilts are attached after the blade is forged. Also use of the word kiln instead of forge implies casting metal which is a whole other thing. To me it sounds like a process Wei Wuxian wasn't involved in, and didn't see it all be put together.

Within the engravings upon the hilt were the carvings of two ancient characters, and what they spelled was the word “Suibian.” Wei Wuxian considerately explained, “You don’t have to say anything. I know. You must be wondering why I gave it that name? Everyone asks if there’s a special meaning to it. To be honest, though, there isn’t. It’s just that when Jiang-shushu was bestowing the sword upon me, he asked me what I wanted to call it. I thought of over twenty names at the time and wasn’t happy with any of them, so I thought, why don’t I let Jiang-shushu give it a name instead? So I responded with ‘whatever’! Who would’ve figured that when the sword was forged and came out of the kiln, that would be the word on it? Jiang-shushu said, ‘Since that’s the case, let the sword be called Suibian.’ It’s not actually such a bad name, don’t you think?”

Corollary Headcanon: The blade was Cangse-sanren's, hence it's snowy color (her name means 'hidden color' or 'colorless', you can play with the imagery considering it's a white blade) and vibes with how/why the sword was so utterly loyal. Jiang Fengmian found it when trying to back track to find Wei Ying. Again, the reason he never mentions this is the same reason in canon that he never mentions Cangse to Wei Ying—he just doesn't want to talk about it.

#wei wuxian #mdzs #twi posts #headcanon #jltdw

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ceescedasticity · 11 days ago

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The Testimony of Cynwise, part… 2, actually, this isn't the start but I don't have that on me

This will not make any sense without at minimum the goblin-men chapters of elves, once.

I'm still trying to figure out Cynwise's voice. Should probably go reread all Eomer and Eowyn's dialogue.

Trigger warning for discussion of sexual coercion.

******

A woman came into the shed. She was Dunlendish and ugly, paler than many Dunlendings but in a way that made one think of dead things, with cold black eyes. She wore men's clothing and carried a wicked knife. Her Rohirric was good enough that we could understand her but she had a strong accent of Dunland. (This was Skiare.)

She told us that she had come to tell us the truth of things so we might choose with open eyes.

I said, "And what choices have you left to us? What have you done to the Wizard Saruman?"

She said that they had done nothing to Saruman, in fact they served the Iron Wizard (as they called him). "If you think he is a friend to your people you are wrong. He might wish to be your lord, but he is not a kind master to those he does not think useful."

"You lie," I said.

She said she did not, but it did not matter if I did not believe her; I should believe her about what she said next, about what choices were left to us, for it was the truth.

She said first: she and her brothers and sisters were the children of the Fair Orc of Dunland. We were filled with disgust and horror, and recoiled as far as we were able.

She said second: some of her brothers sought wives, and would shortly come here to meet us, and might ask for our hands. We all learned that we might yet feel more disgust and horror.

I said, "None of us will ever willingly marry an orc-man. And not all here are young maidens!"

She said third: they would not wed us unwilling, but we should know what would become of us otherwise.

Full of foreboding, I said, "What, then?"

She said fourth: they did not know for certain. They only knew the possibilities and guessed which was most likely.

She said the least likely thing was: It might be that some Dunlendish warrior would be given his choice of prisoners for a thrall. She herself thought her brothers made better husbands than Men of Dunland made masters, but it was true those warriors were no parts goblin. And they dwelt without Isengard, and could be careless, so we might escape.

She said: much more likely we would be taken underground, where the men and older boys captured with us had already been taken, and made to serve some purpose. Which purpose depended on our health and what prisoners had recently died.

"Tell us these purposes, then," I said.

She said: those found unfit to serve any other purpose would be killed as practice for the army Saruman was breeding, and then eaten. Of late no prisoner left the underground any other way.

She said: Isengard had many furnaces and forges and always needed more slaves to labor in them, for even slaves who did not die to the dangers of the work grew sick and weak and were then killed as practice. That was most likely, if we were healthy.

She said: they do need some slaves for other things, cooking and cleaning and so on, but those tended to last longer so did not need to be replaced as often.

She said: the last purpose was breeding orc-men. Such prisoners were forced to couple with orcs, bear children, and drink foul potions to make the children more like orcs than they would naturally be.

She said: that was less likely than laboring or being killed outright, as it had been found not the most efficient means of making strong orc-men, but it was possible.

Many of my companions were overcome with horror and beyond speaking.

I said, "If you have no other horrors to reveal then leave us."

She said she could not do so; as she had told us these things it was now her duty to remain and see to it that we did not slay ourselves or one another.

So we had to consider the cruel choice before us with a goblin-woman standing by the door and nalbinding.

For me there seemed no choice at all. Six of the thirteen of us would get no offer of marriage: a woman past childbearing age, two girls well under it, two boys, and a babe in arms. Half the remnants of my household would not have a choice, so I could not accept one.

I did not think at first on how this spared me from having to make a choice.

After a time three more very ugly Dunlendings came into the shed. I knew enough of their speech even then to understand they started out joking about which had first claim on the prettiest woman, but then were dismayed at the goblin-woman's presence. One said she had been commanded not to do this anymore. She said she had been commanded not to move any prisoners to slay themselves; as long as she prevented that she was by no means forbidden to tell us the truth, and he should think harder on why he wished to found a marriage on a lie.

While they squabbled, the other two men looked us over. They spoke Rohirric like the woman did. The first approached Breguswith; she immediately told him she would not be parted from her little children. Then he approached Hilla, who would not leave her little sister.

Then he approached me. I told him I could not be parted from any of my household, for I was as their liege and would not forsake them.

He threw up his hands, returned to Dunlendish to ask no one in particular why the children were yet here, and left.

The second was Zyrax.

He approached me and said, "That is very loyal of you."

"It is only right," I said.

"Many men of Dunland or the Strawheads would not do the same," Zyrax said.

"All noble lords would," I said. "I will not forsake my own."

"Though all around you be against you," Zyrax said. "If I were to find husbands for all of you— I do not think there is anything to be done for the children, though."

I returned, "It is common practice for men who marry widows to adopt their children."

"Truly?" Zyrax said. "Then, perhaps— If I could make it so all your people would be taken as our own, kept safe and treated well, would that serve? Would you be my wife?"

Before I could think what to say the woman and quarrelsome man took notice of Zyrax's words. The woman told him not to make pledges he could not keep; Zyrax said he would never, and would arrange everything first as soon as he spoke to some of their brothers. The quarrelsome man asked if he was proposing someone wed the children; Zyrax repeated what I had said about adoption and said the wizard would never miss a few children anyhow. Then all three of them traded insults.

While they carried on I turned to my people. "I did not ask if you would rather live with goblin-men or go underground. Do not feel you need take any offer."

Leafled asked if I thought the goblin-men were telling the truth. I said I did not think they were lying.

Zyrax came back and said again, "If I could make it so all your people would be taken as our own, would you be my wife?"

"All of them, kept safe and treated well," I said. "I would."

#orc bank #hirnedhrim #reckless application of spackle

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tanoraqui · 1 year ago

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I think the way I'd do the Oath of Fëanor in D&D would be modeled on a Paladin Oath except that the 3 or 4 elements of it now replace your subclass elements no matter WHAT class you are. You're not a Wild Magic sorcerer anymore; you're a sorcerer Oath-bound to seek the Silmarils, and if necessary kill anyone who gets in your way. You aren't a Battle Master fighter anymore; you're a fighter Oath-bound to seek the Silmarils, and if necessary kill anyone who gets in your way.

Also, if you want to cast a healing spell - any healing spell, as any class of spellcaster or by using a scroll - you first have to made a WIsdom saving throw vs your own spell save DC (Charisma if you don't have one) in order to reconnect with the part of yourself that isn't just a weapon forged in the conflagration of rage, grief and vengeance.

Elements would be something like,

1 - Oath-Bound: You can spend 10 minutes in meditation in order to sense the general direction of the Silmarils. You can sense the directions of all three of them at once. You may do this accidentally if your mind drifts for long enough; you often wake from sleep or reverie thinking about them.

Also 1 - Enduring Fire: When you go down to 0 HP no you don't, you go down to 1 HP instead. You can do this once per Long Rest. You do not have a choice as to whether or not this happens.

2 - Lighting Sparks, Fanning Flames: You have Expertise on any Persuasion or Intimidation checks relating to the Oath.

3 - Kinslayer: When in direct pursuit of a Silmaril - eg, it's within 120ft of you and you know it - you have Advantage on all attack rolls and make a critical hit on a 19 or 20.

4 - Spirit of Fire: When you roll a natural 20 or a natural 1, the nearest flammable object within 120ft of you which is not worn or carried by another creature catches fire, just kind of for ambiance. It will not go out until put out.

Also 4 - Forsaken: You are resistant to magical damage by any caster or creature classifiable as "divine." You serve something worse, now.

#the silmarillion #oath of feanor #feanor and feanor's kin #D&D #my D&D

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lilarus · 5 months ago

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Hi, hello, long time no post. It is sujamma sundas (don't look at my timezone it's hopefully still sunday somewhere)

I was tagged by the wonderful @pinessydr @madam-whim and @kiir-do-faal-rahhe. And I would like to tag @firebastardextraordinaire @liches-covered-in-lich and @keleravna

(btw @pinessydr i'm stealing that boarder that you used <3)

Topic: This week, Sujamma wants to know about YOUR OC's special someone. What makes their relationship special? How did they meet? Were they enemies to lovers? Lovers to enemies? Lovers AND Enemies? Are they romantic or platonic? What's their favorite way to cuddle? Favorite date night? Anything and everything you can think of 💕

It is time for me to 🗣️ yap🗣️ about Sirestia and Miraak

(I apologize in advance. I have *a lot* to say about them)

So to start off, Sirestia's age is honestly up for debate but it's because they initially met the creature that would become my Miraak at least a millennia before Miraak came to be. He was first a dragon, not a particularly kind one, but extremely curious about the near-dead pale elf his *zuwuth zeymah* had brought in. His name? Lost to time, or so Sirestia might tell you, but they know it. He'd goad them into striking him, critique their form and lack of strength, forge them into more of a fine-tuned weapon than the wild cat-like mess they had been.

But, suddenly, his form crumpled under the weight of a soul not fit for his body. And from here on he returned to Sirestia as new people, never quite knowing it was them, but knowing he needed to be with them. These people came in all shapes and sizes, genders both heard of and not, but the one thing that remained the same was the love they all had for Sirestia.

So a millennia or so passes in the Merethic Era and so too do all the various forms of the being that will become Miraak. And along comes a young Atmoran man, he's quite striking with his light brown curls and jewel-like green eyes. Ahzidal brings him forth, to replace one of the recently deceased *sonaak*, saying that this young man has been training under him for the last decade. As trialer, Sirestia creates tasks and competitions for him and many others to complete. Meanwhile, as they are also the Master Forger, the one who makes the masks for the cult, they work in their forge. And who should stumble upon their forge, into a place *no one* is to step foot lest they lose their head? Of course, it is this young Atmoran man. But, they let him, no one dares to enter, so to do so is curious and daring. What idiot thinks they can bluff their way out of this kind of thing?

The young man takes a seat and watches them work, entranced, and fixated on their form. He wonders how they never break a sweat in the forge room in spite of the overwhelming heat. His everything follows them as the walk to a bucket and- oh they pour it over themself...oh my...is it hotter in here now or is it just them?

Sirestia teases him constantly after this, noticing certain *parts* of him respond *interestingly* when they move a certain way or do a certain thing. This poor man loses *so much* bloodflow to his brain it's astounding, and endearing. But they told themself they wouldn't do anything with him until they knew he was actually going to survive the trials. And they tell him this too, should he live then maybe he'd have a chance. They notice his actions become more strategic and thoughtful in the arena and quests. At this point, he still hasn't realized that they're the one making him do all this. He makes it through with flying colors, and is bestowed the name Miraak, courtesy of Sirestia, though he does not receive his mask just yet.

Sirestia has him meet them at their forge and presents him his mask in a more intimate fashion. They remove his face covering, as all who are to become higher ranking *sonaak* wear, and place upon his face the mask Miraak. Before he takes the mask off, he requests they learn his name, that it's memory not be forgotten to his future as Miraak, and this is where the learn his true name is *Felriin*.

[[i've like already rambled long enough about these two so like, after this they makeout sloppy styles and fuck for like idk a couple days. miraak probably nearly dies like 3 or 4 times bc he's like wrung that fucking dry]]

They're together for 10 years before the doomed day. It is a standard day, Sirestia makes their rounds in Monahven, hears that Miraak had an audience with their father, thinks it strange then thinks nothing of it. Instead, they have other plans, things not yet set in motion for the two of them looking ahead. Perhaps adopting a child or two, maybe they'll actually get married, something that ties them to each other in another way than they already have. None of these things will happen for another 4 millennia as it turns out!

Miraak calls them to a peculiar place, they don't often go to this wing as it is more for storage, or dealing with *other* things. He tells them he loves them, and suddenly they are grabbed and thrown into a pocket dimension. They reach for him, not understanding. Miraak does not turn around.

So like time passes excruciatingly for Sirestia within the pocket dimension until they are let out at the start of the Fourth Era. And they deal with the not-even-break-up-like-wtf-was-that as well as one might imagine: by throwing themself into wars and decimating their "enemies." They don't think about him or how it hurt or anything for 200 years! Until Haev, *laat dovahkiin* demands they go to Solstheim for reasons unknown to Sirestia. And, surprise surprise, they *don't* want to go, but what can one tell *laat dovahkiin* that won't end up as something for them to complain about? So they go and this is the start of Sires fic 1 :D

Their relationship post-4E201-Solstheim starts off pretty rocky but they eventually can't help themselves. Miraak sees what their future could have been when he watches them with their children. And he tries his best to work in with what they have. Sirestia doesn't need him, and initially doesn't want him, but they can't help but see the way he's changing and what can they say? They missed him.

It isn't long before they get together again and by the gods if it ain't the sweetest gods damned thing you ever saw. And things are good--great even! Until a few months before Haev and Miraak are to set out to defeat Alduin.... Miraak startss acting a little strange, like he's saying things twice but only ever mentioned things once. And at first he's apologetic, he's sincerely sorry for it. But then he starts to get annoyed, it's like he doesn't understand what they're thinking. So they drift apart and cracks begin to form. Had they addressed the problems from all those years ago? No... It hadn't occured to them to do so. It was in the past and they were in the present, so why...?

So (bomb dropping) they don't tell him that once Alduin is defeated, they'll most likely die, as their tether to nirn is Alduin, his magic sustains them, keeps them from ever dying. And so, without him, they would more than likely be pulled into whatever void awaited them, as a creature like they are doesn't get an afterlife.

Sires fic 1 ends after Alduin's defeat.

To, uh, end this ramble...

Sires and Miraak's favorite way to cuddle is with one of them on top of the other. Doesn't matter who is on top, they both love to rest their heads on the other's chest to listen to the heart(s). Their next favorite would but so entwined you could barely tell where one ends and the other begins.

Their favorite date night... I would say it would be the night where Miraak takes Sirestia out so the side of the lake and everything is softly lit with candles, there is a picnic blanket with food and drinks. Miraak's tail is twitching because he's so nervous about the reception and Sirestia's reaction. Meanwhile, Sires is so happily shocked. They have their first kiss (after all that time apart in their respective holes in Oblivion). It's very sweet time 🤲

#help. i wrote so fucking much about these two...#if you made it to the end #thank you #my oc sirestia #my miraak #skyrim #the elder scrolls #tes #tesblr #miraak #sujamma sundas

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