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differenteagletragedy · 3 months ago

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Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

#call of duty simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod ghost #call of duty ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader #roommate simon riley

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)

In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.

Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior

[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

"Damn it!"

The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.

"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."

You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.

"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"

"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"

"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows.

"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.

"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.

"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette.

You swallow.

Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves.

"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago.

"No."

That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.

Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.

Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?

You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess.

Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick.

"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."

"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"

You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture.

"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"

"H-huh? What for?"

You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity.

"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."

You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.

"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.

"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"

"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly.

The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery.

The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.

Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details.

"Wakasugi has been taken."

A chaotic murmur ensues.

"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."

Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh.

If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family.

"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching.

"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds.

"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.

"What did you say?"

Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.

"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."

"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.

There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job."

He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.

"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.

"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."

The tall yakuza smirks mockingly.

"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."

Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.

"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him.

Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.

"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.

"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."

No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.

He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats.

He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects.

"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.

If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.

"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."

The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes."

Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already.

The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant.

"Where's everyone?"

"They ran away."

"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.

"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."

He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.

"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.

"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"

"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."

He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.

"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"

Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's.

"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"

"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out.

But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin.

You grimace a little at the mental image.

The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.

You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips.

"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.

"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."

He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.

"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.

So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."

"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.

Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie

#female reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #male yandere x reader #yandere yakuza #yakuza x reader #yandere fic #yandere imagines #yandere imagine #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere mafia #mafia x reader #original work #original character #yandere boyfriend

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gatorbites-imagines · 5 months ago

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could I perhaps request some Bucky x male reader where it’s set after the kinktober oneshot and Bucky does realize that he still has an oral fixation until he like instinctively puts readers fingers in his mouth? Or maybe they’re just cuddling. Whatever you want mr gator!

Bucky Barnes x male reader

Headcanons

I miss Bucky, I miss Marvel, it just hasn’t been my number one since endgame. Where my Bucky lovers at? i miss his long hair too, it was such a look.

You two don’t start dating for a long time. Neither of you talk about that evening where you pretty much stole him from Hydra and he slobbered all over your leg and hand, sucking at your fingers like a delicious treat.

When Bucky started healing, he ended up apologizing to you with an embarrassed flush. You just wave it off, telling him to not even think about it. Everyone deals differently with trauma. Tony used to drink, Clint hid away on his farm, you hunted bigots and bucky sucked fingers. He was probably coping the healthiest out of all of you.

You guys probably first start really dating post endgame, unless you stay in Wakanda with him for one reason or another. I tried to place the reader as somewhere in the middle during the civil wars, so it’s up to you which side you were on.

When it takes place after endgame doesn’t matter much. You two are dating, finally getting some time off to just relax and get to be domestic together.

I can imagine Bucky somewhere inside yearns for something domestic, at least sometimes. Theres something so comforting about getting home, you two cooking dinner together, showering together, and cuddling with a movie.

Bucky is also a beast in the grocery store. That man is sniffing out sales like a bloodhound. You just have to push the cart as he places everything you guys need inside. You have a theory it’s because he grew up under the great depression, but you’ve never said this out loud.

This does also mean that you guys sometimes have some, strange… meals… it always tastes great, but Bucky comes up with combos you haven’t ever thought about. Theres very little food waste in your guy’s house, which is another plus.

Bucky would have believed all this time that the whole episode with him sucking on your fingers when you first rescue him, was just a fluke. His half-fried brain looking for some kind of comfort in it all.

So what if he still finds himself chewing on pens, straws, candy, the works. It’s just him needing something to do, it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s only after you guys have dated for a while, and everything is comfortable and good. Bucky gets the chance to heal and start discovering things about himself, that it starts to shine through.

It would happen when you guys were cuddling. Maybe it’s been such a long day that even a super soldier like Bucky would be tired, to the point where he isn’t thinking too hard about anything he does or says. He trusts you too much to be on edge, so he just kinda goes with the vibe.

Bucky would be laying with his head on your chest, your guy’s hands intertwined. You don’t say anything when Bucky brings your hand up to his mouth, just assuming he was gonna kiss the back of it like he does sometimes.

Well, that’s what you thought, before Bucky started sucking on your fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing for a while.

And he looks too relaxed for you to say anything about it. Honestly, Bucky relaxes even more, sighing out his nose and melting further against your chest. It’s not like its painful or anything, so you just let him do his thing without saying anything.

Bucky is extremely embarrassed when he realizes what hes been doing. Maybe its when the movie ends so he has to focus again, only to notice the pool of drool on your chest and the soft calm sucking hes been doing of your fingers.

Your lover tries to apologize, stuttering and mumbling about not knowing what’s wrong with him. This is where you gotta step in and reassure him that it’s fine, you don’t mind. You like seeing him comfortable, and honestly? Knowing you are part of that comfort only makes it better.

This doesn’t mean Bucky is gonna start always sucking on your fingers, biting at you or anything. But he still feels more welcome to do so when he needs it, or when he feels really comfortable. Having an oral fixation is far from the closest thing you’ve ever met, so you are just happy to help.

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radiance1 · 1 year ago

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Tim, officially, does not have a new caretaker.

Tim, unofficially, does have a new caretaker.

A large, large man with long flaming purple hair that was capable of touching the floor if it didn't move like fire with sharp glowing green eyes and a neutral, if a bit of a resting bitch face, expression on his face.

Comparatively, he was not dressed oddly. Nothing but a white compression shirt, grey sweatpants and a pair of black sandals. The only thing odd about it was the sword constantly strapped to his waist, though Tim ignored it when he saw the man using it to chop ingredients.

Fright, he called himself, and Tim never asked if it was his actual name or not. He was just glad someone came over as constantly as he does.

He doesn't know where the man goes at night, after making sure he's tucked into bed and asleep, but he never pried. Mostly because he wasn't supposed to know that, and he doesn't want Fright to catch onto the fact that he was constantly sneaking out at night either.

So they'll both keep their secrets.

===

Fright Knight was at a loss with himself.

His master, Pariah Dark, had been once again released from the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep and he wasted no time to return to his side. Even with his previous betrayl.

The events that followed were unexpected.

His master did not continue his eons long war with life. Though it had long since turned silent with his imprisonment, it was still brewing under the current of 'peace' that the Ghost Zone fell into.

Fright Knight knew that well.

So, what exactly was he supposed to do when his master returned to his time as naught but a humble farmer and started to rebuild the bridge he had long burnt with the Master of Time?

He felt... conflicted.

Of course, reconnecting with the Ghost of Time was a good thing, and he has been subject to witness just how much passion they had for each other during days long past.

But his master picking up a life that was not one honed through blood was always an odd thing for him to experience. Two peas in a pod, as some would say they were.

War and Fear.

Where War went, Fear followed. Rivers of flowing blood with storms of fear promised was something too tempting for him to resist.

Fear was a sword, and he was War's blade.

So it was not something easy for him to adjust to when War settled down into peace and sought prosperity instead of his namesake. Of course, he, as always, adjusted regardless of the situation and followed his master in his newest endeavor.

It was much harder to preserve a life, than it was to end it. They both came to realize. On his master's part, farming was something he pondered over and donned for a brief time eons ago, the new methods of today clashing wildly with what little he knew of the activity before War sung to him again. For Fright Knight, he had not a single nail's worth of experience in the act, never having had an interest like War did and as such, never learned.

It felt rather odd to use his blade to cut gifts from the land, but if he replaced them with images of enemies long since snuffed, it wasn't exactly hard.

He could not stay there for long; however, it was just too... different, from what he was used to. The Ghost King knew this and told him he was free to be left to his own devices so long as it did not affect the rules the Master of Time had set for them.

Or rather, War. But as Fear was in his service, he was not exactly exempt from said constraints, either.

So he wandered, keeping to his 'human' persona he was told to set for himself here. He was thankful that these beings called Meta's existed as no one gave him more than a second glance.

Though if that was more something to do with his height he did not know.

He came upon a city, one of shadows and filled with curses in numbers that even made him pause in slight bafflement. Lady Gotham, the city's spirit, brushed against him as soon as he stepped foot within her haunt, and it did not take long for them to reach and accord.

Fear was allowed to stay, so long as he did not do anything she did not permit. He was fine with said rules, after all, what was another constraint compared to those set by Time itself?

He had a favorable view of this city, just the ambient fear alone made it worth stepping inside. It was better than War's attempt at peace, though it was nothing due to the being itself he was just... used to being surrounded by fear.

Then he met a human child by the name of Timothy Drake. A meeting by chance and nothing else, but he did need something to do by Lady Gotham's suggestion.

So he became the boy's 'caretaker' though if he were a good one was something he could not comment on.

He did not need sleep, his new ward did, so when night fell, he always stepped out of the city to go back to his master and reappeared the next morning.

The thing about his new master's attempt at peace, was that he was quite willing to give away the gifts he received from the land. Which was helpful, considering he had no idea how to acquire money in this new age.

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thatgayunoriginalbastard · 2 months ago

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Telemachus is just as shippable as his dad, he's just not a manwhore about it

Let me prove it:

Telemachus X Antinous

Funny

Enemies to lovers OR Enemies and lovers

The time they get together changes things dramatically

Do they even want to be together? A solid 60% of the time Teleology sure doesn't!

Toxic yaoi is peak

Daddy issues Telenovela coming out in full swing

I mean come on, at least one of y'all did a double take at "I'll teach you all the lessons your daddy never could" like I did

If it's not part of the Nice!Suitors AU Penelope (and Odysseus) will have some thoughts

If their relationship is a secret then Antinous dies to Odysseus, you get so much tragedy from Telemarketing as his long lost father just killed his (probably first) love

Telemachus X Literally any other suitor

Somehow more funny than Sharpwolf

Gets all the same perks as Sharpwolf

Can frame it as more or less creepy than it would have been with Antinous depending on which suitor you go for

Optional jealous Antinous

Way less moral debates since the other suitors just sung along in "Hold Them Down" instead of actually leading things

Telemachus X Peisistratus

And they were boatmates (of my god they were boatmates)

Friends to lovers

Gay princes expect to marry women and have heirs and stuff fall in love with each other

When I say "Dad" you say "dy issues"!

Only child X Youngest of many children

Bonding over having their dads go off to war and spending at least 10 years without them

If written in a world where gay marriage would be fine between them, they could get together (or just have Telecommunications marry his sister Polycaste like he does in some tellings, but it's just for political reasons so he can be with Pepsi)

Telemachus X Neoptolemus

"I can fix him" x "I can make him worse"

Both of them have such unique flavors of childhood trauma

More daddy issues but this time both parties have them!

Can even make it worse by having Neo seen Odysseus as a father figure during the war then when he visits Ithaca, Ody doesn't act that way with Neo anymore because he's being an actual father to Teleprompter

Neo trying to help Telepathy understand how his dad changed because of the war since he literally grew up fighting in the war

They can relate on trying to meet the impossible standards their dads set

Possible drama from Odysseus not approving since he saw what Neo was like in war and doesn't think Neo would be a good/safe option for Telegram (like in "too busy being yours to fall for someone new" by Cassentia)

Telemachus X Poseidon

HEAR ME OUT

Grew up on an island without a dad, likely being pretty isolated X the literal god of the ocean

Telekenesis is the son of a ship captain and great-grandson of the god of travelers on his dad's side and the grandson of an water nymph on his mom's side

Poseidon has more lovers than Zeus so it could be possible for him to scoop up some random mortal from Ithaca while recovering from being stabbed, ravishes them for a night, then realizes he fucked up immediately after when he asks the young man he slept with what their name is

Alternatively, Poseidon seduces Television knowing that he's Ody's son to get back at him and then catches feelings (or goes to gouge out his eyes, changes his mind to seducing him, and then catches feelings)

Teletubbies would probably just be vibing and along for the ride because he gets a god lover and he gets to learn more about his dad

Odysseus would be absolutely pissed, which makes it funny

Possessive. Poseidon. Is. Hot.

Odysseus X Poseidon is great, so why not?

Telemachus X Athena

Again, hear me out

Demiromantic (or greyromantic) asexual Athena

Like with Poseidon, Teleconference would just be along for the ride

Instead of being pissed, Ody would likely just be confused

Athena realizing she's catching feelings would be so incredibly funny

Lots of fun god drama around Athena finally finding love...and it's with her current student who is also the son of her former student

Would probably be the most chill out of all the other options with Telecottage going to marry a woman, being the goddess of wisdom and understanding the the prince and only child of Ody and Penelope, he needs to get married and have heirs and stuff (maybe even using what she learned from Ody to help him out some while maybe internally hating everything she's doing, making it some tragic fluff)

Mentor X Mentee relationships can be cute if you find a way to handle any power dynamic issues

Optional: Teleportation mommy issues

In conclusion: Telencephalon got the manwhore genes from his dad but the girlboss genes from his mom, making him very shippable but also very respectful.

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dollfacefantasy · 10 months ago

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SWEET ESCAPE ♡

pairing: carlos oliveira x puppy-hybrid!fem!reader x chris redfield

summary: carlos takes off for a few weeks to plan an escape from umbrella for you and him. during that time, he enlists chris redfield to watch over you. when he returns, the two men you've come to care about want to have some fun with you.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, masturbation, threesome, hybrid!reader, daddy kink/ddlg

a/n: first kinktober fic yay. i know the pictures don't match timeline wise but re5 chris is my fav so let's pretend. i'm gonna try to get my kinktober fics out early each day (someone suggested 3 am which i think is totally cute) but we'll see how that goes. thank you guys for reading, reblogging, and commenting. smoochies <3

kinktober slot: day 1 - hybrids

"I've only been gone a couple weeks, pup. Did ya already forget who your daddy is?" Carlos's voice sounds through Chris's living room.

As soon as you hear the familiar timbre, your head snaps in his direction, ears perked up and tail already wagging fast enough to create a tornado. You hop off your spot on Chris's lap and bolt over to the man you'd been missing for the past few weeks.

You launch yourself into his arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck to get a deep breath of his scent. His laughter vibrates in his chest against yours, and he spins you around like some princess at the end of a cartoon.

"I didn't forget. I could never forget," you mumble and nuzzle the beating warmth of his pulse point.

"I know, puppy," he chuckles, rubbing your back before he sets you on your feet. "You look like you were pretty comfortable with Chris though."

The words aren't said with malice or jealousy, just some more teasing. Carlos expected this when he left you in Chris's care. As soon as Jill handed him the scrap of paper with Redfield's number, he assumed you'd form a bond with the other man.

He wasn't stupid, and he knew you. His sweet puppy girl. You were his partner in the field, given to him by Umbrella. But now he was done with Umbrella's shit, so by extension, you were too. The past couple weeks he'd been gone was spent making arrangements for you two to flee to somewhere they'd never be able to drag either of you into their meaningless war ever again.

Gently scratching behind your ear, he sways a bit with you in his arms. He'd missed the feeling of your smaller frame against the muscles of his chest.

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. Ever since you'd skittered to him from the lineup of other mercenary hybrids, he felt you latch on to some deep part of him. It was why he was gonna get you out of this life where you and him were treated like weapons.

When deciding who to leave you with, his first choice had been Jill. He trusted her, and she understood what you were and what you would need. It's not that you couldn't take care of yourself; you were physically and mentally capable of that. You just suffered from a touch of separation anxiety as a result of the canine attributes inserted into your DNA. You needed someone to devote yourself to, someone to keep you from being too lonely. She wasn't up for that task though. She had enough emotional baggage on her own. She couldn't support yours.

That's why she recommended Chris. Responsible, caring, attentive. He had all the right qualities to handle someone like you. Carlos met with him, and he had to agree. He introduced you to the other man, and you had no problem getting along. If Jill trusted him and you didn't sense anything off, he felt fine about leaving you with the guy.

But still, he knows how you are. He knows you can be needy. You love physical affection. You love having a lap to sit on and a firm hand to give you head pats and ear scratches. Just add a deep voice to coo at you about how you're such a good girl, just the sweetest little thing and you're set.

You look up at Carlos with a shy smile in response to his teasing. "That's just cause Chris is nice to me," you say.

He huffs another laugh and heads over to the couch with you, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap.

"I'm sure he is," he says, bouncing you a couple times before directing his gaze to the man sitting in the nearby chair. "Has she been good for you?"

"Of course. No complaints from me," he says. The flat line of his lips tilts upwards slightly.

"That's my girl," Carlos praises with a peck to your cheek, "Chris took good care of you, huh?"

You nod proudly, drawing chuckles from both of the men in the room.

"Did he do it as good as daddy?"

That gets a less certain response from you, but it garners the same amount of amusement from them.

"Good girl. Don't wanna hurt anyone's feelings, huh?" he teases.

Chris watches on and interjects. "I think I did a pretty good job though. Didn't I, puppy?"

He speaks with a knowing cadence, subtle seductiveness. You know what he's implying but so does Carlos. Before he'd left you with Chris, he'd been honest about the full nature of your relationship. Told him you were used to getting his dick at least once a day. It was basically a part of your bedtime routine, cumming knocked your lights out better than any melatonin could.

He wasn't sure if you'd want that from Chris. Certainly not right away. But after a week or so, he could picture you getting a little needy, desperate for something to fill the void Carlos's absence had created. And Chris was the perfect candidate. Big and bulky, warm and gentle. He wasn't mad about it. He made peace with the possibility of this happening. Even if you did let Chris soothe you for a few nights, you'd still be coming with him when the fog cleared.

"You did good," you agree with Chris. One of your legs lazily swings as it dangles from Carlos's lap, brushing the leather edge of his boot each time.

"Just good? I remember you saying it was more than good," Chris taunts affectionately.

The words trigger another wave of timidity over you. You sink back into the safety of Carlos's embrace and shrug. "It was pretty good."

"What'd Chris do that was pretty good?" Carlos chimes in.

"Nothing," you say, too fast for it to be the truth.

"Oh c'mon. You can tell me," he says before teasing a little more, "You're not gonna get in trouble."

You pause, mulling over your decision. But then you decide to give in a little.

"He gave me a special treat."

Carlos grins at the answer. Now that you had admitted it in your terms, he knew he could keep poking and prodding. Even though he was ok with what had happened between you and Chris, he still felt an air of possession pluming up within him. The desire to make sure you knew who you belonged to.

"A special treat?" he echoes, one of his hands sliding over your thighs and between your legs. He doesn't actually do anything there, but you still jolt at the feeling.

You hear Chris chuckle from where he's sitting, bringing heat to your cheeks.

"Why don't you just tell him, sweetheart? You had no problem begging for it when we were alone," the older man taunts.

"Doesn't surprise me. She knows how to get what she wants," Carlos says. His fingers move back and forth on your inner thigh.

You squirm on his lap, looking up at him with your pair of natural puppy eyes. The truth floats between all three of you, left unsaid but known by everyone.

"What're you acting so shy for?" Carlos coos as his large hands slide up your waist, "You have nothing to hide."

Chris rises from his chair and sits on the couch with you and Carlos, only maintaining the illusion of separation by sitting at the other end.

Leaning into Carlos more, you let the question remain unanswered. Interest swirls in your pupils at the potential of Chris moving closer.

"Acting like I'm a stranger now?" he jokes.

You shake your head. Your eyes dart between the two of them as if they were two wolves closing in, ready to tear you apart.

"Don't be so nervous, baby. You know daddy's gonna take care of you," Carlos whispers.

And he stays true to his word. After a little more teasing, your clothes have come off while his are pushed around, leaving the necessary parts accessible. Chris stays in his spot mostly watching, only interjecting when needed.

When they get down to it, you end up face-down, ass in the air on Chris's couch. Carlos ruts into your cunt from behind, panting with each sloppy thrust. Your head bobbles against the other man's thigh. Soft whimpers pour out against the rough denim of his jeans. His hand strokes over the curve of your head in a soothing rhythm.

"Fuck, I've been missing this," Carlos grunts from behind you.

His hand splays across the small of your back and pushes down, keeping you at the perfect angle to take each thrust to the hilt. You whine as his cock rams deep into your insides. The occasional yelp bursts from your lips when his tip brushes your cervix, but Chris hushes you from above with sweet reassurances.

"You're taking it so well, puppy. Taking your daddy so well," he coos. His hand not occupied with petting you pumps over his cock lazily.

Your fingers dig into the meat of his leg. You nod weakly to affirm his statement. Carlos chuckles at your fucked out state and smacks your ass, knocking you forward.

"He's right. I can tell you've been missin' this. She's squeezing me like she wants me to never leave again," he rasps. His shaggy hair sways with the rocking of his hips.

"Never- ah- never want you to leave again," you repeat, your lips smooshing against Chris.

"Daddy's not leaving, baby. Never again," he growls while plowing into you.

A chorus of moans and whines come from you. The drag of his cock on your velvet inner walls has your eyes rolling back and your legs kicking lightly against the cushions.

Chris watches from above, the pace at which he jerks himself off steadily increasing. He can see a small patch of drool on his pants where your head lies. Reaching for you, he cups your jaw and lifts your head to make you look at him.

He sticks his hand out in front of your mouth and simply says "Lick."

You're not in any place to question the order right now, so you do as he tells you. You stick your tongue out and lick a broad stripe from the base of his palm to the tip of his middle finger.

He watches on with satisfaction as you wet his hand. When you're done, he lets go and allows your head to thud against his leg again. He brings the now saliva-slick palm back to his length and gives it a few tugs, the sensation much smoother with your added lubrication.

Carlos grins at the sight. He grabs you by the back of your neck and tugs you upward, forcing your spine to arch and his cock to slide even deeper.

A loud cry echoes from you at the new angle, but he holds you there and keeps bouncing his hips against the plush flesh of your ass.

"Look at you, so polite for Chris," he teases.

You can't really respond. The way your head bobbles around is enough to keep any coherent words from forming inside your mind.

"Chris," he says, calling the attention of the older man, "Isn't she a good girl?"

He takes the bait and nods. "Of course she is. Such a good girl," he agrees.

Your tail wags, brushing against Carlos's stomach in the process. He laughs and uses his freehand to pat your ass again.

"You hear that, babydoll? Everyone knows how well-behaved you are. The perfect little puppy."

Now you do manage to respond. A loud whine bursts from your lips and you nod wildly.

"Uh-huh," you choke out, "'m daddy's perfect puppy."

"That's right," he huffs out with a laugh, "Think you deserve a treat."

Your tail starts whacking back and forth harder between him and you.

"You think you can cum? Think you can cum for daddy?" he asks.

Another quick nod shakes your head up and down.

"Mhm! I can, I can, I can," you babble.

"That's my girl," he praises, "Do it for me then. I want you to cum all over my cock."

To help you out a little, he snakes his free hand around your waist and pushes his fingers between your thighs. His digits swirl around your swollen little bud, sending shocks of pure ecstasy through you. You feel the building fizzle in your belly that makes your toes curl. Your fingers curl and uncurl, trying to find anything to hold onto.

Chris offers you the hand he's not using to pleasure himself. You snatch it and lock on, holding it for dear life while Carlos fucks into you hard. His own cock is flushed and aching, ready for release as well. He strokes it a bit faster, beating his fist up and down, up and down.

Carlos can feel you tighten up. Your body trembles with its proximity to release. He circles his fingers with more speed and applies a bit more pressure.

"That's it, baby," he coaxes from behind you, "That's it. Come on. Cum for daddy. Be a good girl for me. Show Chris how pretty you look when you let go."

The words send you crashing over the edge. You throw your head back and buck violently in his grasp. His strong arms keep you in place. They hold you nice and secure so he can fuck you through it.

Chris finishes next, unable to take the sight of you unraveling. He groans and melts against the plush cushion behind him. Pearly white ropes of cum jump from the tip and spurt onto the skin of his stomach. He pumps every last drop out of himself, still holding your wavering hand as Carlos starts to shoot his own load into you.

He moans loud too and strengthens his grip around you. The last few thrusts are particularly brutal. They nearly topple you over flat onto your face.

Carlos doesn't unhand you until he's done and feels his cum has been fucked nice and deep into you, hard enough to make up for the period of separation that preceded this.

When he pulls out of you, he scoops your body up and twists you around to cradle you in his lap.

"My baby," he whispers between a few kisses, "Always so good for me."

You nuzzle into the affection, and he strokes your jaw, directing you to look up at him. His fingers then turn your head, guiding you to look at the other man in the room.

"Chris did such a good job taking care of you. I think you should tell him thank you," he says.

You look at Chris with shyness in your eyes, as if he hadn't just watched you get your brains fucked out. "Thank you, Chris," you say.

He smirks at you, still a bit hazy from his own release. "No problem, pretty girl."

You can feel Carlos grinning against the side of your head. "How about you show Chris how thankful you are. Give him something to remember before we hit the road," he teases.

Now, Chris smiles and pats his lap. "He's right. I'm gonna miss you once you're gone, puppy. Maybe you can help me feel a little better about it."

A smile of your own spreads across your face. Leaning forward, you crawl in Chris's direction. At this rate, you'd be tiring yourself out, ready to sleep through the long car ride tonight and wake up at the location of your sweet escape.

#carlos oliveira x reader #carlos oliveira smut #carlos oliveira x you #chris redfield x reader #chris redfield smut #chris redfield x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil x you #ch: chris redfield 💌#ch: carlos oliveira 💌

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ghostgirl101 · 9 months ago

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Being Loved By Paul Atreides

A/N: Quick lil blurb headcanon thingy while I work on my next set of hcs between a Feyd and Paul love triangle 🙃

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're never alone, not inside your mind or out of it. The Water of Life gave him the pooling knowledge to break into others' and he almost always knows how you're feeling, without even having to say a word. Even if you're quiet about how you feel and are usually good at pushing things down and hiding them away, Paul always manages to bring the to light, and you'll know you're caught out when you look up from where you are to immediately catch his blue-in-blue gaze locked onto yours with a knowing look. Sometimes the knowing look turns a bit cocky when what you're thinking about happens to be him.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're an anchor to his humanity and burden as the Messiah, having a profound and unbreakable bond tied with you that transcends any ordinary relationship. The love he feels for you is a force in itself, scarily powerful and true and darkly pure, that no other force in the Known Universe could sever it.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're the only one to see him at his smallest and most vulnerable, in between council meetings and fights in his name during the Holy War breaking out over the worlds, the guilt that racks him to his core and makes him want to hide away from it all. The nights that are spent clinging to you so tightly that your skin goes pale by his hard grip, and there's nothing more to feel but the overwhelming heat of his body pressed up as close as it can against your own, his dark hair tickling your neck and face while he burrows into your neck to smell nothing but the soft signature scent of you, and of home.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that every touch, gesture, and moment of closeness feels like something more, like every action to pull you in closer isn't just physical, but a mental strain too, to merge your thoughts and sense of self with his own, so much so that it's almost suffocating.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're never protected more than you are when you're under his fierce, observant watch and devotion. He insists that he doesn't need his guards or watchmen as he can look after himself, with heightened senses and strength enough to know what's coming his way in the present moments and the hidden intentions of those around him, and so they're sent to watch over you instead with keen eyes and strict instruction. If Paul himself is not standing watch over you by your side, you can feel his eyes on you, as if it's omnipresent, and god forbid anyone to let their gaze linger on you with a look he doesn't like, because that's a sure way to be sent down as a sacrifice to the sandworms.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that the only advice or insight he's given that he would truly and wholly think over and consider would have to come from you and be believed by you without the influence of others, because his trust lies in you, and its enough to make him pause for a moment in thought as he pulls apart your words and all their meaning to see if they can fit in and around his plans.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that he would never give a moment of a second's thought to any other man or woman but you, because he holds strong to the conviction that you're his soulmate and the leading light of his destiny. If you die, he dies inside with the last of his strength, and he'll embrace the desert with open arms to offer him up to the great Shai Hulud Himself.

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Next Week's Fanfic: Headcanons for a love triangle between you, Feyd-Rautha and Paul Atreides 😎😎 ⊹˚₊‧───────────────────────────────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to this for my future Dune fanfics): @milaeth @ennycutie @nckcn @void21 @leighta @williamtt33 @deathsimp @tatumrileyslover @beebumbo @the-dark-dreamer25 @lilepad @skboo @keicdcat @1950schick @reggiesmoon @velosrantipole @yoonessa @anonymjuni @saturnhas82moons @xlxnq @frickyea-guacamole19 @meowmeeps @chalklate

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DUNE MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ MAIN MASTERLIST

#paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x you #paul atreides imagine #paul atreides oneshot #paul atreides fanfic #dune x reader #dune x you #dune x y/n #dune 2 x reader #dune fanfiction #dune fic #dune imagine #dune headcanons

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

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Second Act // Chapter Three

Metal Band Task Force 141 x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): swearing, alcohol, brief blood, tending to a wound, flirting, bratty behavior, flashback scene with Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Years ago, you venture into London while traveling across Europe. At a punk show, you cross paths with a balaclava-wearing stranger named Ghost.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // second act masterlist

THEN

Condensation from the plastic cup you hold drips onto the back of your hand. Bringing it to your mouth, you lick the water up, questioning why it vaguely tastes of juniper. It might be the gin in your cup, or the lack of integrity to the plastic.

The gin and tonic you purchased from the bar for a single pound note is likely all water anyway. Or the liquor is bottom-shelf shit with a resale value of mere pennies. The later is more likely. You’ve consumed three, and you’re downing your fourth. And why not? It’s not like you have anywhere to be, or that you have anyone waiting for you.

Those hostel girls were not your fucking friends.

Clearly. Fucking clearly.

Where are they? Not here. They left you to drown in the mud.

Bringing the straw to your lips, you lightly bite down on it, sucking down more of the cheap beverage. Before you is a crowd and a stage. Punk music blares from old speakers that are barely holding together. You are on the fringes, watching from a distance, steering clear of the pit. Bodies thrash about, and those that do emerge are bruised and bloodied.

You were brought here by the three young women you met at the hostel you’re staying at.

The Foundry.

And fucking surprise, the place used to be exactly that. According to one of your wayward companions, this place use to be the epicenter of British firepower during the World Wars. Now, like the bullets it used to manufacture, the place is a gutted shell. There are no more massive smelters or superheated molten metal—just empty infrastructure used as a music venue.

Another sip, and the buzzing beneath your skin intensifies. There’s that hum you’ve been chasing. Why feel anything right now except the music and your alcohol-fueled boldness? It’s all you have left other than the cash in your purse.

This European trip was fun while it fucking lasted. Blowing the rest of your cash and sanity in this deadened metal factory is the reality check you need. Just jump on a plane tomorrow and be done with it.

Sucking down the rest of your drink, you dump it in the nearest bin, finding the bar and ordering another like you’re not starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. You keep to the outskirts of the crowd where groups of people and couples gather. There are a few individuals standing by themselves enjoying the music and not paying anyone else any attention. Your gaze sweeps over each person, and then freezes on a familiar face.

Two nights ago, you were in this exact venue watching a metal show unfold. Different vibes and different energy, but just as enjoyable. Five bands came on stage for forty-five minute sets each. Of them all, Spawn caught your attention. Every member of the band covered their faces with either a mask or a painted balaclava. None of them spoke, simply moving from song to song during the entirety of their performance.

After they finished, Spawn up and disappeared. Poof. Fucking vanished.

But one of them is here. Gin-addled brain aside, you have zero doubt.

It’s the drummer. Though you only saw him on stage in brief glimpses, you got a good look at him when the set was over and he exited the stage. It’s the height and broad shoulders that give him away. All four members of Spawn were tall and built, but there is a thickness to him that’s more than simple exercise at the gym. His day job might be construction, or something requiring hard labor.

He’s off by himself, surrounded by a flock of five women. Their mouths move but his gaze goes right over their heads. The man is focused on the stage, clearly uninterested in what they have to say.

Why not add one more to the mix? Stir the pot. Fuck shit up and piss someone off.

With a fifth gin and tonic fueling your steps, you shift direction, gunning for the drummer of Spawn as if he’s expecting you. The gaggle of women keep chattering on, and as you near, a few turn in your direction, clear annoyance forming on their faces as they realize you’re heading for him and not passing by.

Good. Fuck them. Their makeup is so overly done you’d mistake them for Republican women if they were State-side.

As you draw closer, the women quiet, shoulders straightening as they form a wall. You push right through, popping a hip and staring up at the drummer of Spawn like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him.

Slowly—so achingly slowly—does his gaze move from the band on stage to you. Behind the balaclava, he cocks a singular eyebrow. Could mean anything. But to you, it’s a goddamn dare.

“Saw you perform the other night,” you say loudly.

“Excuse me. But we were having a conversation,” interrupts one of the women.

You blatantly ignore her.

“Lots of people did,” he replies.

“Yeah, well, it sucked,” you retort.

One raised eyebrow becomes two. His head tilts slightly to the side.

Before he has a chance to reply, you bring the straw to your lips, sucking on it until all the liquid is gone, and still continuing to do so long after. The moment you stop, his head tilts toward you, as does his upper body. But there is nothing intimidating or repulsive in the move. There’s too much gentleness to the way he shifts, like he’s suddenly interested.

“You—” he begins, but you immediately start sucking on your straw again, filling the air with the bubbled gurgling of an empty glass.

You give it a few good seconds before stopping.

“You fucking done, dove?”

No. He’s not mad. Not in the slightest. Here you are, a complete stranger, telling him his band sucked, and he finds it amusing.

“Did you get better at the drums?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

He chuckles, a short, clipped sound like he’s astounded at your audacity.

The woman behind you scoffs. “Bitch,” she mutters.

His gaze quickly darts over your shoulder to glance at the woman standing behind you. The middle of his brow pinches, but when he returns his attention to you, the crease softens.

“Didn’t catch your name.”

You shrug. “Didn’t give it.”

There’s a smile. It’s hidden behind the balaclava but you know it’s there. It’s in the way the skin around his eyes crinkle.

With a shift of his shoulders, he leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “Ghost.”

“Boo?” you shrug.

He chuckles the same way he did seconds before. “That’s my name.”

You nod. Keep nodding. “Cute.”

“Thank you,” whispers Ghost, ending it with a wink.

Jesus Christ.

Goddamn.

“Where’s the rest of your band?” you ask. “Are they here?”

“Looking to tell them how rubbish they are?”

“Absolutely,” you reply with a smile. “Point them out to me.”

This time, Ghost’s chuckle isn’t clipped. It’s deep. Amused. And the quality of it is like amber whiskey. “You’re cheeky. Soap will love that. Enjoys a good banter.”

Taking a cautious step, you move to the left and forward, saddling up beside him. Ghost hasn’t looked anywhere else this entire conversation. All his focus—all of his regard—is for you.

It’s a hand on your shoulder that shatters the peace. “It’s rude to chip in.”

You turn slowly, staring daggers into the women grasping your shoulder. “What conversation?” you retort. “The one where you all were jabbering on and he blatantly ignored you.”

You watch as their faces go red.

With a huff, she releases your shoulder. “Come on girls,” she mutters, walking off.

Ghost waits until they’re gone before speaking up. “She’s right.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. But were you really having a conversation with them?”

“No.”

You lightly punch his shoulder with the empty cup. “Exactly my point.”

Those dark eyes of his are assessing. Though they are focused on you, they scan your face and body constantly, lingering only when you’re speaking.

“Is Ghost really your name?”

“No,” he replies bluntly, and you laugh out loud. “But it’s the one you’re getting.”

“Fair,” you giggle, bringing your drink to lips and then groaning when you remember that it’s fucking empty. “Damnit.”

Ghost plucks the empty plastic cup right out of your hands and tosses it into a nearby bin. “Still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s because I’m making one up in my head,” you mutter.

He shakes his head. “No, love. Out with it.”

“You gave me a false one.”

“Not false,” he corrects. “Just not my real name.”

“Think I’d be worried for your mother’s sanity if she named you Ghost.”

“My mum’s dead,” he deadpans.

“Fucking Christ,” you gasp, almost choking on a bit of air. He chuckles again, and you smack his chest. “That’s foul.”

“She is dead.”

“Why are you Brits so grim?”

“Between the constant rain and Thatcher’s—”

“Forget I asked,” you say quickly, holding up your hand.

But the two of you are laughing. Not robust or loud but familiar, like two friends reuniting after a long absence. The realization boils up quickly, slamming around in your skull, melting away all the alcohol-fueled boldness.

You don’t know Ghost. He doesn’t know you. What are you doing?

It hurts, but you step away. Ghost clocks the movement immediately, some of that lightheartedness slipping away.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, clearly confused about why you’re apologizing.

“I pushed in where I wasn’t invited.”

Ghost considers you for a moment, his reply coming after a few moments of silence. “Glad you did.”

You take another step away from him. Then another. “I should go.”

Ghost matches the steps. “Should you?”

Now you’re the one who’s flustered. Heat flares up along your spine and seizes your neck. A wanton coil curls in the pit of your stomach—low in your belly and scarily close to your pussy.

“Yes,” you breathe, backing away.

As you turn to go, his hand shoots out, encircling your wrist. With a quick jerk, you’re pressed up against him, balaclava-covered face close, the coarse fabric scratching against your skin.

“What are you really like? Without the alcohol to amp those nerves?” His voice is a murmur, and there is a primal quality to it that cuts you open, threatening to expose old wounds.

The little bit of tenacity still within you wiggles up from the depths, giving teeth to your words. “You’d love me if I opened for you.”

Ghost sighs, and it almost sounds like a groan. The muscles in his shoulders relax, and that release of tension gives just enough room for you to snatch your wrist free of his grip.

You don’t even say goodbye. Not verbally.

It’s all in your gaze. In the way you hover, walking backwards for a few seconds before giving him your shoulder—only to allow the man one final glance.

Then it’s a burst of sound of noise of thunderous banging. Every voice in the room, every sound that bounces off of The Foundry’s walls, every music note, and every staticky screech from the speakers comes roaring forward like a charging animal. It smashes against you until your head throbs, and the room spins slightly.

“Fuck,” you mutter, heading to the bar for water. “Didn’t need that last drink.”

As you head in that direction, the crowd only thickens. Did more people arrive? You didn’t notice. Then again, you were to be busy flirting with Ghost. Well, flirt is a strong word. More like harass.

You turn sideways, wiggling between two people, only to be spit out directly into a packed crowd. The more you try to navigate, the thicker the bodies become. It doesn’t make any sense. Did you get turned around on your way to the bar? It seems impossible, especially since you’ve visited it five times now for a beverage.

You’re heading in the right direction. You are.

“Excuse me,” you yell over the music, attempting to pass in front of someone.

They take a step back, but the person in front of them also moves, knocking right into you. You’re pushed forward and into a body.

“Sorry,” you gasp, catching yourself and straightening.

But no one responds. More people have pushed in—shoving forward as the guitar shreds to an impossibly loud crescendo. You try to twist—to try and find a way out—but you’re kept immobile, shepherded toward the unknown.

Your heartrate quickens, the thumping in your chest radiating all the way to your ears until it pounds in your head. You cannot get enough air, enough space, enough—

The crowd roars, and then you’re vaulted forward into flailing bodies. Arms and hands lash out. Legs kicks. Fists thrown.

A young man in front of you swings outward, his hand connecting with a face. You hear the crack of his palm over the music. See a few bright droplets of blood shoot upward.

You purposefully avoided the pit for this very reason.

Even as you scramble backward, the wave crashes, barring your escape. Frenzied, the crowd screams and roils, and you have nowhere to run to.

Hands are on you. Shoving. Shoving.

You topple forward. A body barrels into you, knocking the wind from your lungs. Thrust to the left, you crash into more people, only to be pushed off—away.

Another shove. Hands. Pulling. A jab to the stomach.

The music is distant. Suddenly muted.

As if moving through muck, you turn your head as if you have a collar around your neck, and the person with the lead has given it a tug. You see it then, a fist. Silver rings on the fingers. It’ll hurt when it strikes your face. You know it.

But there’s a catch.

A body blocks your path. All you see at first is the leather jacket and the incoming fist disappearing.

There’s a— “fucking wanker”—followed by a crunch. Followed by a yelp of pain.

Your savior turns, and you come face-to-face with a familiar balaclava-wearing drummer.

“Ghost?” you breathe.

He doesn’t reply, only moves in, creating a protective barrier. Taking the brunt of the blows, Ghost manages to push the two of you through the crowd and out into open air. Your lungs rejoice, sucking down air like they’ve been starved.

“Are you all right?” asks Ghost, voice full of concern.

He checks you over, gaze darting over your face before moving lower. His hands caress your cheeks, tilt your head one way and then the other.

“I’m fine.” Then, “I’m fine,” you repeat louder, reaching for him.

You heard that crunch and that yelp of pain. But he doesn’t appear to be injured. Even as he grasps your upper arms, keeping you upright, you place both hands against his covered cheeks. Under your right hand, you feel wetness.

Drawing back, you find red.

“Ghost. You’re bleeding.”

You show him your palm, and he shrugs. “Should see the other bloke.”

“What happened to the other guy?” you ask, voice wavering slightly in panic.

“I’m aces, love.” His hand is still on your cheek, thumb resting just shy of your mouth. “A bit of blood won’t hurt none.”

“No. You’re hurt. Should have it looked at,” you insist. Ghost sniffs and then winces, the sound of it congested. “Did they hit your nose?”

“Maybe,” he coughs, trying to brush it aside like it doesn’t matter.

“Ghost,” you chide, returning your hand to his cheek.

This time, you lightly press against the balaclava, searching for where the injury might be. It’s not like you can fucking see it, and trying to convince him to remove the balaclava here may only result in resistance on his end.

He sighs, the sound warm and with a hint of growl. “Like how you say it.”

“Not the time to be flirting,” you mutter.

“I’ve just rescued you. Think it’s the perfect time,” he counters.

You drop your hand from his face and scowl. “You really need your face looked at.”

Ghost’s hand against your cheek slides down to rest at the base of your throat. “No hospital. But you can take a look.”

“Fine,” you concede.

“Fine.”

The two of you stand there, simply staring at each other. There is a softness in his stare, one that sends a little happy tingle through your limbs. You feel…seen, and it’s entirely debilitating.

“I’m staying at a hostel. Not sure that’s the best place.”

“We can go to my flat.”

You laugh. “It’s a ruse, isn’t it? To get me to come home with you.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Is it working?”

“Yes,” you begrudgingly admit. “Lead the way.”

Ghost’s hand at your throat shifts, sliding to the back of your neck and then over your shoulder. He drapes his arm over them, keeping you close against him as the two of you exit The Foundry and head out into the night.

There’s a short walk, and then a ride on the Underground. Few people glance your way, but it’s late in London, and anyone out this late is either heading home or looking for trouble. You and Ghost chat about nothing and everything, the conversation slipping between topics fluidly.

And he never stops touching you. Out on the street, it’s an arm draped over your shoulders. On the Underground, it’s a hand on your upper thigh, resting there like a sign of ownership, as if you belong to him.

It’s the walk up to Ghost’s building that’s silent. The street is empty. The building a little rundown and derelict. There are a few bins of trash that are overflowing, and a dog barks somewhere in the distance.

Ghost remains glued to your side, his head on a swivel all the way up to and upon entering the building. Once inside, he seems to relax, his mood improving as the two of you ascend.

“Bit messy in the flat,” he mutters, digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“How many people live with you?” you ask.

“Including me. Four.”

“All bachelors?”

“Yes,” he laughs.

“Would explain the mess,” you muse as Ghost inserts the key and opens the door.

He steps aside, allowing you to enter first. Shutting the door behind him, Ghost removes his jacket and offers to take yours.

“Thank you,” you whisper, giving it to him along with your purse.

He hangs up both.

The flat itself is fairly sparse and the only mess you notice is what you’d expect from four single men. The coffee table in the living room has a few empty bowls and cups, but that’s it. The sofa appears clean if fairly worn, and the television is large. Nothing about it stands out to you.

“Want something to drink?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.

“Water. Please.”

He returns with water for you and a whiskey for him.

Taking a sip, you place it down on the table. “Should really look at the injury.”

Ghost inclines his head and then drops onto the sofa. “This good?”

“Great,” you reply, glancing around. “Have a first aid kit anywhere.”

“Cabinet in the washroom.” Ghost indicates the door with a nod of his head. “Just there.”

Entering, you dig around, finding sterilizing alcohol, clean washcloths, and bandages. Instead of selecting a few things, you grab the entire storage basket, heading back out into the living room.

“I’ll need—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

Ghost leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. In one hand he holds the whiskey glass while a lit cigarette dangles from between his lips. The balaclava is gone. It’s on the table. Discarded. Ghost turns his head in your direction. There’s blood all under his nose, over his mouth, and smeared across his chin.

While the gore surprises you, it’s that the balaclava is gone. You’re seeing him.

“What?” he prompts. “Like what you see?”

Yes.

“Just—” You wave your hand in front of your face. “The blood.”

Ghost snorts, and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “That bad?”

“You’re covered,” you affirm, approaching him slowly.

He exhales the smoke. It curls around him, hovering—then melting away. He ashes the cigarette and returns it to his mouth.

Sinking down onto the sofa next to him, you lay out the supplies. Grabbing your water glass, you dip part of the washcloth into the water.

“Look at me,” you command, but there’s no authority in it.

Ghost turns his head, and you bring the wet washcloth to his face. With gentle dabs and light passes, you remove more and more of the blood. The washcloth turns pink but you pretend not to notice.

Once his chin is clean you move to his lips. Ghost removes the cigarette and places it in the ashtray. You keep dabbing away, clearing blood. And the whole time, his gaze lingers on you. You pointedly keep your gaze averted from his, but it’s difficult. His stare drills into you, and with every passing second, the urge to make that connection grows.

Lips clean, you start in to wipe away the blood underneath and around his nose.

The washcloth makes contact with his skin, and Ghost winces.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Folding the washcloth in half, you place it over your knee, and then reach for a clean absorbent pad.

“Just want to check something. Stay still.” Ghost does and you press around his nose. “How does that feel?”

He shrugs. “Uncomfortable. Tender.”

You test the area, but he doesn’t flinch again. “Don’t see any swelling. Doesn’t feel swollen either. Might have some bruising though.”

“I’ve looked worse.”

“Somehow, I believe that.” You set the absorbent pad down and then run your finger lightly over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I didn’t think so,” replies Ghost.

You drop your hand. “You know what a broken nose feels like?”

He smirks, and brings the whiskey glass to his lips. “It’s bloody worse than the pain I feel now.”

“Suppose that’s a good thing,” you reply, digging through the basket of supplies.

You’re not looking at him. When Ghost curls a finger under your chin and turns your head toward him, you’re momentarily stunned. At his touch, you surrender, sitting up straight and giving him your full attention.

Ghost’s gaze lingers before dropping to your mouth. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. There’s an appreciate look there.

“You’re sweet,” he whispers.

“Surprised?” you counter, and Ghost smiles.

With one more pass over your bottom lip, Ghost drops his hand. He sets the whiskey glass aside, and then gently takes the washcloth off your knee. It folds it four times, creating a square, and then he places it on the table.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“My real name,” he says. “It’s Simon.”

“Oh. Well.” You swallow. “Hello, Simon.”

“Hello,” he croons.

The two of you stare into each other eyes. He’s searching for something, and whatever it is, you long to give it. Shifting closer, he cups your cheek just like he did at The Foundry. Simon leans in, and there is an ask in that movement.

Say yes, it says.

His eyelids grow heavy, those pale eyelashes reflecting the light from the tableside lamp like tiny halos. You lean in, and then you’re kissing him, accepting the silent question.

One becomes two becomes three becomes infinite.

They are small and innocent at first, developing into deeper strokes. Wanton. Honey-laced. The hand on your cheek shifts to the back of your neck, and that one touch changes everything. His fingers drag against your skin, and you gasp against his mouth.

But it is Simon who draws back, who creates the faintest hint of distance. His lips tease another kiss and then he’s reclining, legs spreading wide as he drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. Simon grabs his thigh, squeezing, then patting the spot in invitation.

Your core clenches. A new desire crawls forward, nails digging in, dragging you toward a singular mindset. He is offering, providing an opening. And why not take it? Why not find out what it would feel like to have him deep inside, stretching you deliciously.

Simon must know your inner turmoil because he smirks as if knowing what you’re about to say.

“Come here,” he purrs.

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synchodai · 1 year ago

Text

When I say Tyland Lannister is my favorite character...

I am being 100% dead serious. Here is why I prefer this seemingly average nobleman over the many many many fan favorites in Fire and Blood.

Tyland Lannister is a second son in a story about second sons. Whether his feelings on this are as strong as Aemond's or Daemon's, we never know for sure in the books, but it's obvious that he's subservient to a mirror image of himself who only has more authority because of a few seconds separation between twins. It's a great display of both the arbitrariness and rigidity of succession.

His initial role in the Dance is as the master of coin for the greens. He's depicted as a typical Lannister: charming, comely, and cunning. He did what any savvy accountant would do and divided the crown's treasury amongst different allied regions for safe-keeping, ensuring that if King's Landing were sacked, their enemies wouldn't loot their coffers dry and they'd still have plenty of gold for their war efforts.

And of course, King's Landing gets sacked. Tyland is put in the black cells and ordered to be tortured by Rhaenyra to extract the gold's whereabouts. Winter is coming, people are starving and rioting, her army is dwindling, so she desperately needs that gold. Tyland is gelded, maimed, disfigured, and blinded but the torturers get nothing out of him.

Mind you, this man has been a rich, pampered bureaucrat all his life and he endured all that without breaking. When Aegon II releases Tyland from those cells, he has no fingernails, his eyes have been gouged out and/or sewn shut, this man who was once known for his good looks doesn't look human anymore — but he still manages to maintain his wits so much so that he plays an important role after the Dance.

Even with Rhaenyra dead, there are still armies raising their banners for her eldest surviving son, Aegon Trois. Tyland tells Adult Aegon to kill Child Aegon because obviously, the latter threatens the former's claim and Tyland's understandably angry over what his mom did. Aegon Dos is like, nah, I'll keep the boy hostage instead — that'll keep the armies at bay more than outright killing him.

So Tyland volunteers to go to Myr to hire sellswords for Aegon 2 since their armies are pretty much kaput after six years of this civil war. Tyland is blind at this point I remind you — there is a huge chance this man will never get to go home again. But he does it anyway, because even after years of fighting, he keeps his unwavering loyalty to the monarch he declared for.

Aegon II dies while Tyland is in Myr, and Tyland goes back to Westeros just in time to see Cregan Stark use his powers as the new Hand to marry Aegon III and Princess Jaehaera to unite the green and black sides. Cregan dusts off his hands, says my work here is done, warns the boy king not to trust anyone, then leaves for the North for everyone else to sort this mess out.

Now comes the part where Tyland shines as a character. He becomes the Hand of Aegon III and when you see his policies detailed in the book, it's clear that his goal is focused on repairs and renumerations. After what happened to him, he has every right to be spiteful and bitter against the blacks, but instead he "claimed a curious failure of memory, insisting that he could not recall who had been black and who had been green." He abolished the heavy taxes imposed on the smallfolk, sent out gold to lords whose holdings had been devastated during war, and set out to rebuild the Realm's granaries and fleet. Cleaning up is a tedious, unglamorous job — and because of his monstrous appearance and former allegiances, Tyland was looked upon with distrust.

And yet, while other regents grasped for power and tried taking advantage of the 13-year-old King Aegon III, Tyland seemed to be different. If he wanted power he could have married his twin brother's widow and convinced the boy-king to route more resources towards Casterly Rock and the Westerlands. But he didn't.

Instead, he genuinely seemed to be a father figure to Aegon III.

Tyland Lannister, blind and crippled, had always treated the king with deference, speaking to him gently, seeking to guide rather than command.

And for that, many lords saw him as a weak Hand. But Aegon, who cared for very little and never laughed and was always sullen, seemed to care for Tyland.

When the plague ravaged King's Landing, Tyland dutifully prioritized it over quashing the Ironborn raids at Lannisport. He was the last person to become afflicted with the Winter Fever, and the king sat by his Hand's side during his final hours. When the council starts discussing who should be the new Hand, Aegon (the boy who rarely ever speaks) says:

I would have Lord Rowan as my Hand. Ser Tyland thought well enough of him to offer him my sister’s hand in marriage, so I know he can be trusted.

This boy trusted Tyland, the man who only years ago wanted him dead.

So it's easy to imagine that this man saw Aegon III as the boy he was responsible for, as the son he could never have because of what the war had done to him. Tyland Lannister was a broken man who despite losing everything, his king and his brother and himself, kept a broken Realm and broken boy together when everyone else swarmed like vultures just trying to pick at carcasses.

What motivated this man's loyalty for a boy whose mother mutilated him? Did he regret pushing for the death of an innocent child and this was his penance? Did this man who gave everything for his cause think that this boy was something that could still give all that sacrifice and tragedy meaning? Was the mercy and kindness he afforded an apology for the horrifying trauma that scarred this boy — did he feel responsible for his mother's downfall and the failure to save his uncle? Did his disfigurement and blindness allow him to let go of the man he once was and become someone capable of seeing the folly of pride and power?

Here is his obituary in Fire and Blood:

Ser Tyland Lannister had never been beloved. After the death of Queen Rhaenyra, he had urged Aegon II to put her son Aegon to death as well, and certain blacks hated him for that. Yet after the death of Aegon II, he had remained to serve Aegon III, and certain greens hated him for that. Coming second from his mother’s womb, a few heartbeats after his twin brother, Jason, had denied him the glory of lordship and the gold of Casterly Rock, leaving him to make his own place in the world. Ser Tyland never married nor fathered children, so there were few to mourn him when he was carried off. The veil he wore to conceal his disfigured face gave rise to the tale that the visage underneath was monstrous and evil. Some called him craven for keeping Westeros out of the Daughters’ War and doing so little to curb the Greyjoys in the west. By moving three-quarters of the Crown’s gold from King’s Landing whilst Aegon II’s master of coin, Tyland Lannister had sown the seeds of Queen Rhaenyra’s downfall, a stroke of cunning that would in the end cost him his eyes, ears, and health, and cost the queen her throne and her very life. Yet it must be said that he served Rhaenyra’s son well and faithfully as Hand.

Tyland wasn't extraordinarily badass, noble, or even skilled. He was an excellent politician but no way the best. But I think that's what makes him compelling to me — that he's this down-to-earth depiction of a POW, a war veteran by all accounts, trying to pick up the pieces and slowly glue what remains of the Realm and himself back into something vaguely human.

We tell so many stories about the glory, the tragedy, and the losses of war. But I think it's important and beautiful to tell stories of those bravely and optimistically choosing to keep living in the aftermath as well.

#house of the dragon #hotd #a song of ice and fire #long post #hotd spoilers #hotd meta #I'm a sucker for redemption/second chance stories #your life has been reduced to ashes and you are the shell of the man you once were #but goddamn you will try to do something good with all that remains of you #you can still make good #tyland lannister #there's an argument to be made that rhaenyra could have won the war if it weren't for tyland #I wish Tyland was a popular character but that won't happen unless he becomes part of a popular ship #Cregan is also interesting handsome and nuanced but he gets more love because he has multiple ship options #Tyland could possibly have romantic chemistry with Aegon II or Rhaenyra that would be cool

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 3 months ago

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I’m curious. What do you think goes into/needed to make an actually good romance novel? Like what are some of the reasons you personally like/love certain romance novels you’ve read

hi anon,

a thing that's interesting about this question is that it seems to take for granted that the default state of a romance novel is "bad," or at least "not good," with "actually good" being a sort of exception to the rule. and the thing is that this isn't an incorrect assumption, but focusing on romance novels specifically belies that the majority of novels in any genre are remarkably average, if not good. we may just as fruitfully ask ourselves what is needed to make any novel actually good, to which the answer is, of course, it depends.

sometimes a novel is good because the author is possessed of extraordinary talent and originality, but since I'm loathe to believe that anything is innately, objectively good I tend to think that's the rarest case. most often I think a novel is good because it finds you at exactly the right moment to be remarkable and be received with such warmth that it permanently imprints itself positively upon you.

recently I read Ali Hazelwood's The Love Hypothesis, a novel I've often seen panned as nothing but a Star Wars AU set in a biology lab and which I will admit I was somewhat dreading, reading it only out of a profound sense of duty to my supporters on patreon. and yet in less than 24 hours I had read it cover to cover and felt spectacularly cheered by nearly all of it; it struck me as not merely tolerable but a genuine delight. is this due to Hazelwood possessing any uniquely remarkable talent? I don't think so. and it certainly wasn't for originality; The Love Hypothesis plays out with twists and turns best likened to a roller coaster for very small children, the kind where the need to be a roller coaster is very much superseded by the need to not cause a very tiny case of whiplash. I think a not insignificant share of the pleasure I took in this novel came from the fact that I checked it out after a week that was difficult emotionally, during which I spent a lot of time crying and cancelling plans and feeling like a rather substandard human being, and in my fragile state I was rather taken by the fantasy of being cared for by a man who is unreasonably tall and very loyal and just a little bit older than me and so well-paid that he always insists on paying for me, a very broke graduate student, to eat well when we're together. oh, to develop real feelings for a man you're pretending to date, only to discover that he has yearned for you for years!

is it a good book? I have no idea; I suppose it depends on how you define good. was I, as Roger Ebert was by The Mummy, cheered by nearly every minute of it? god, was I ever. to me, that makes it good.

#bookblr

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cheralith · 14 days ago

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alice, your mulan au is so enticing! the world-building and aiku’s role as general is absolutely delectable — curious to know if there were other characters whose roles you could see fitting into your world?

my loveliest cheshire, thank u for the ask (✿◡‿◡)!!!! im always such a happy little clam whenever i see you in my inbox <3

i think .. i am interpreting your question a little oddly so i apologize if this isn't what u are asking (feel free to send me another ask in regards to the correct question alldskvjld) but if not, i finally have an excuse to talk about some of the drafted fairy tale/disney aus i had for the bllk boys ive had cooking since feb WOO!

fair warning: this is a little long . i got carried away (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

beauty and the beast — kaiser i had this particular au in mind with almost a reverse werewolf trope, where instead of kaiser turning into a beast during the full moon, he turns back into a human. same trope per usual, except he refuses to face reader even when he's a human since he's had it ingrained into his head that he's ugly both ways until they stumble upon him naked in the west wing.

princess and the frog — reo specifically the disney version, which is prob my most rewatched movie i shan't lie lolol. i thought this one was pretty suitable for him too since reo hails from a rich background and the fact that his transformation could be a chameleon hehe 🤭

sleeping beauty — nagi reverse trope with nagi as sleeping beauty and reader as the prince who saves him, but instead of a prince, they're a maid that has grown well-acquainted with him compared to the other castle staff since they basically grew up together and is the one responsible for breaking the spell he put himself under since it's only broken by a true love's kiss.

rapunzel — chigiri another one insp by the disney version; i had a short drabble or two actually from this awhile back, with reo as pascal and ego as mother gothel lmfaoaaoao, but this was another reverse trope in which chigiri was rapunzel and reader was flynn rider (who i made an orphan who was trying to steal the crown to sell on the black market for their brothers/sisters.)

cinderella — isagi yet another one with a reversed trope asdfkahs with isagi as cinderella in this one, with kaiser and ness being his evil step-brothers ahehe, in which reader is the prince/princess who has to marry someone of their choosing. the ball comes, they meet and set their hearts on isagi, but he runs away before midnight strikes, only leaving his shoe.

the entire time this is happening, there is also a cold war going on, and kaiser & ness (mainly kaiser lol) are so infuriated with this mysterious bachelor that they tip gov officials off, creating this false image of the unknown aristocrat secretly being a terrorist that was going to assissinate reader (as he had no name or title known to the public). now, instead of looking for isagi as a potential lover, they're now hunting him down as a wanted man, using his shoe as a way of identifying him.

little red riding hood — shidou this was actually a scrapped idea that i'm still interested in writing in since i love a good predator/prey dynamic! the entire premise of it was that reader is the child of a supposed witch, which makes them a town outcast that the town forces to travel into the woods and drop off sacrificial goods to an entity called "the grandmother" to avoid it attacking their town.

shidou is also an outcast that gains an interest in reader when he sees them frequent the woods and wants to help them get away from their life, but does it in a very ..... interesting sense (by that i mean kidnapping/basement wife-ing them HAAHA)

snow white — karasu karasu as the huntsman and reader as snow white who he is doomed to kill when they grow of age!!!! i incorporated a childhood friends trope into this as well to make it a little more angsty (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧! when he fails to kill them and tells them to run, he goes on a search to bring them back to him as a way of proving his love wahoo !

the little mermaid — yukimiya u cannot tell me that yukki isn't prince eric material ... wuaugh hehe.. this one had more of a twist into it where yukki is the son of mermaid hunters despite him being hesitant to follow in his father's foosteps and reader has to do their best to hide their true identity

swan lake — sae based on both tchaikovsky's swan lake and the 1994 children's movie, the swan princess, where sae and reader are fated to marry in the future when they both come of age but for the life of them, cannot stand each other. the night before their marriage, they have a huge fight, which ends with reader running away and encountering a sorcerer (ego again lol), who curses them to become a swan that can only be transformed back into a human when the moonlight hits the lake of a secluded garden.

sae sets out for them—but only because he views attempting to marry another person a hassle. when he runs into them in their human form and they tell him that only a true love's kiss can break the spell. sae kisses them, only for the spell to still hold because sae doesn't truly love them. it's only when sae starts to seek them out during the night that he starts to, but even then, he's slow at loving. his doubts about his love for them keeps the spell from breaking. it doesn’t help that he only has a few days time before the spell sets in permanently and he loses them for good.

mulan — rin surprisingly, rin was my first choice when it came to the role of shang before oliver and sae since i thought his edge could bring in a lot more tension. very much a disciplinarian; he wouldn't be as lenient as oliver either and would definitely try to execute reader if it weren't for other circumstances (i based it off the og life-for-life sequence from the movie or the fact that reader was too good of a fighter to lose).

alice in wonderland — barou i couldn't finish off this list without my fav, now can i 🤭 while a lot of characters suit the other a lot, i think that barou's character is best fitted for the queen of hearts in this au! very much enemies-to-lovers that's really questionable on the lovers part lol

reader unknowingly destroyed the ultimate monarchy that barou's parents had built for him in their youth, and now, barou is set out for revenge because his current kingdom is too small for him and wants to punish the person responsible for the downfall of what was to be his empire now that reader is back (completely by accident, they didn't even know they were returning to wonderland until everyone recognized them)

other characters i had in mind for this au were bachira as the cheshire cat, isagi as the white rabbit, karasu as the caterpillar (FDSFDJK i have a good reason 😭bc he can be condescending but wise), reo as the mad hatter, chigiri as the march hare, nagi as the dormouse, niko & kiyora as the twins.

some other characters i had in mind!

anastasia — otoya (more of the plotline anastasia had, where he tries to convince her to act as a lost monarch for some cash, not knowing it's actually them.)

hercules — kunigami (he is built like a greek god and should be treated as such)

aladdin — aiku (he honestly fits SO MANY of the aforementioned, but i thought that he'd do well in aladdin's role in terms of personality)

#cheshire this was exuberantly long and for that I SEVERELY APOLOGIZE AKDVSD #i tried shortening it as best i could but i just get so excited talking about twisted fairy tales WAUHHG do forgive me 🙏🙏!!!#✉ ; letters to wonderland #🍰 ; merry unbirthday to cheshire!#blue lock

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podcastenthusiast · 3 months ago

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Little KCD1 fic set right before the Talmberg Night Raid (which as we all know goes to shit and then Henry runs around asking everyone how they're doing and no one bothers to ask him the same but he is Not Well.)

Just friends era hansry but full of tension.

The sun is setting over Talmberg. Soon it will be time to attempt their hostsge liberation.

"So," Hans says. "Ready to storm the castle? Rescue the dear Lady Stephanie? It's mad, but you're good at that."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"What have I done now?"

Henry turns, and there's a fire in his eyes Hans hasn't seen since before Vranik, maybe since he had nothing to his name but his grief and a sword he used to take down those Cuman bastards in the woods during their fateful hunt gone awry.

"About Sir R--fuck, about my father!"

"You think I knew? Really?"

"Oh, stop it. Hanush knew, Sir Divish knew, Istvan fucking Toth knew! Why not you as well?!"

"Good question! Maybe they thought I'd get drunk and run my mouth to half of Rattay. Or did you miss the part about my uncle not trusting me with my own damn affairs, let alone Radzig's? Use your head before you bite off mine. Christ."

Henry looks away, and without the burst of anger he seems suddenly so lost, defeated.

"You didn't know either, then," he says slowly, blinking as if waking from a dream.

"No. You told me your late father was a blacksmith--a respectable trade. I had no reason to suspect otherwise."

"He was. A good man."

"I don't doubt it."

"How could Ma do that to him?"

Hans doesn't know what to say.

"Perhaps he knew?"

"Sure." Henry laughs, bitter and low.

"Henry--"

"It doesn't matter now," he continues. "Knowing the mercy of that monster. I'll be an orphan again soon."

"Don't say that."

"Why? It's true. I'm failing him, just like I failed Ma and Pa. No wonder he didn't tell me himself. He'll die ashamed to have ever called me his son! They're all gonna die and it's my fault! I--"

He only stops speaking because he's run out of air and can't seem to figure out how to take a breath.

"Henry! For God's sake, breathe!"

Hands on his shoulders. Keep him steady, keep him breathing, keep him here. He doesn't think Henry would run or lash out at him, but he's going somewhere in his mind Hans can't follow. It's terrifying.

"I can't watch another village burn. I can't," Henry whispers after a while, like it's shameful, like Hans is a priest hearing his confession.

"Look at me, Hal."

Henry hasn't slept more than a handful of hours since he escaped Vranik. The exhaustion, the injuries, the battle, the fear--just one of those things would be enough to break most men. He isn't broken, but he isn't well either. The young lord thinks maybe he hasn't been since he first stumbled into Rattay, clashing swords and barbed words against Hans like he was unafraid to die. It's an absolute injustice that even more will be demanded of him before this is all done.

"None of this is your fault," Hans says firmly. "People owe their lives to you. Like that Skalitz girl. The one with visions of Our Lady."

"Johanka? They sent her to a convent."

"And we both know heresy is a serious charge. She could have fared much worse without you there to defend her."

"I don't know... If I hadn't let it go on so long maybe she'd still be here, with Matthias."

"Fine. What about me, then? Not only am I breathing after you saved me twice over, but my life is overall richer for your presence in it, you dolt."

"Hans..."

"Hear me when I say that if anyone can do this, it's you. I'd take that wager any day."

Probably ought to step back now. Hans is suddenly very aware of how close they are, of his hands still upon Henry's shoulders.

"Okay," Henry says.

"Yes?"

"Toth will pay. I swear it."

Hans pats his shoulder, then withdraws.

"There he is! That's my blacksmith's boy. Or, well, you know." Fierce as a hound chasing the scent of blood, his own personal guardian angel; if only Henry could be anything he wanted. But that isn't the way of war. "We will see Toth hang for what he did."

"We?"

"Of course! You didn't think I would let you go alone, did you? Better here than waiting for the bastards to take Rattay. Besides, I'm something of an expert at sneaking in and out of castles undetected."

"Thank you, my lord. Can't imagine Sir Hanush is pleased."

"Livid!" Hans beams.

Henry smiles a little, although nothing is really any more okay than it was before. Hans cherishes the victory. He doesn't know it yet, but it will be the only one they have tonight.

#kingdom come deliverance #kcd1 #hansry #hans capon #henry of skalitz #i just think it was sweet of him to come take back talmberg with me

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heroesrest64 · 4 months ago

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Not My Place

(A Hyrule Warriors Link x Reader that I just HAD to write today after listening to ‘Against The Kitchen Floor’ by Will Wood. I don’t know guys, the song just fit him really well. He isn’t even my favorite help-)

You and Link met on the field. It wasn’t a kismet moment, no bolt of lightning when your eyes met or a feeling that you just had to get to know the man. He was just another face in a sea of injured soldiers. The two of you didn’t even talk that first day, too busy leading injured soldiers into the medical tents to even acknowledge the other.

While you may not have truly gotten to know eachother that day, it was still notable. You still remembered his face, sculpted as if the goddess herself had molded it, eyes like sapphires and lips chapped from the dry weather. You remembered him, and it seems he remembered you, too.

“You’re part of the medical team?” The man whose name you have yet to learn asks as you slip into the main medical tent, tired eyes flicking to where the blonde man sits. He has a split lip and a bandage wrapping his wrist up to his elbow. You almost walk away upon assessing he’s been treated, but something stops you.

“Do I look like a soldier to you?” You ask, deadpan, one eyebrow quirking up in genuine curiosity. The man’s cheeks flush, and he rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Heh, kinda? You were lifting soldiers like they were sacks of flour last time we met.” He grins, shifting in his cot, creating just enough space for you to sit comfortably. You hesitate. There are so many things for you to attend to, but…

You haven’t taken a break since you woke up this morning. Surely a couple minutes shouldn’t set you back by too much.

“If I’m being honest, I thought you were part of the medical team. You were surprisingly good with the patients.” You feel your mouth tick upwards just a little bit, delicately sitting beside the man and letting your shoulders drop their tension as the man goes to explain the emergency training all soldiers are supposed to receive before stepping onto the field.

That was the first time you talked to Link. You don’t know if you caught his name during that conversation, but it was hard to not learn his name through the grapevine over the next couple weeks. It’s not even like you were particularly trying to catch information about him. He had become a celebrity seemingly overnight- Impa announcing him as the Hero Apparent in Princess Zelda’s absence. The whole thing was a ploy, or so you thought. A way to rally morale. Set a pretty face in front of the people, have him say a few pretty words, and he’ll have them eating out of the palm of his hand until the princess returns.

It wasn’t your place to say anything, though, so you kept your mouth shut and continued your work. Link would visit you every now and then, and as time passed, you found yourself softening, the hard edges caused by the war smoothing. That only made the stress and tension in Link’s shoulders stand out all the more to you.

“If I really am the hero… Does that mean this war is my fault?” Link asks you after a raid one day. He was hit on the head pretty hard, according to Impa, and had refused to be treated by anyone other than you. He was making such a fuss that Shiek had demanded he be given a private setup, away from the rest of the soldiers. Seeing him now, though, you’re pretty sure he was acting that way on purpose, in an attempt to talk to you and get a straight answer rather than the harsh verdict Impa would lay out for him or the fluffy words Lana would try to puff him up with.

“War is rarely ever a single person’s fault. The blame falls on the instigators shoulders, and you simply do not have the power to make that call. While I do not feel it is my place to assign blame, the fault for this war would never fall on your shoulders in my mind.” You hum, pressing a cotton swab to the scratch on his head. He flinches as the alcohol stings at the cut, but knows better than to pull away.

“But the others,” Link starts, only to stall when you place your free hand over his clenched fists. He whips his head to look up at you, absolute surprise coloring his face.

“Do the opinions of people you’ve never met matter so much to you? If that’s the case, maybe you should talk to them instead of me.” You smile, running your thumb over his knuckles before withdrawing, taking the cotton swab with you and placing it in a disposal bin just as there’s a knock at the door. Lana steps inside just a moment later, immediately moving to fuss over Link while you move to clean up the space. Link's eyes follow you as you go, but it probably wasn’t your place to point it out.

After that day, your meetings became more frequent, each charged with a certain level of intimacy that was hard to describe. Link always acted as though something was chasing him, even in the quiet evenings the two of you had off. You learned that compliments of a romantic nature were met with stony expressions and uncomprehending eyes. For some reason, he didn’t mind any sort of intimate touch. Almost as though the contact was easier for him to process than any sort of word that might leave your mouth.

It was like a careful dance, one that you had to learn the steps to with a silent wall as a partner. Link’s role in the war haunted him in a way that was impossible to soothe, and the obsessive nature of it seemed to have created a block in the man that you couldn't see yourself getting around.

Regardless, you stayed. Link was worth it. Because despite everything, he kept trying. He couldn’t voice it, but you could tell through his actions.

After the war, you retired from the army and set up a clinic in Castle Town. Link had looked like a wounded dog the entire time, like you had betrayed him to an absurd degree, like you were doing it on purpose to spite him.

You probably could have stayed. You wouldn’t have minded, a couple more years in the army wouldn’t have been so bad. But something was telling you that it was time to move on.

You finally discovered what that something was when Link stepped into your clinic one day and asked if he could spend the night.

While you were in the army, there was never a place to really settle down. No truly safe place that you could call your own, that you could dress up and protect.

Now, though, you have a clinic to call your own. A safe place for you to fill with all of the worldly comforts you can fit in it. A place that you would do anything to protect, and a place where you can decide who’s allowed to enter and who isn’t.

For a week the clinic is closed, and for a week, the Hero of Hyrule does not report for duty.

For a week, you and Link stay in a pillow fort up in your loft, taking turns grabbing food from your stocked up kitchen, playing pranks on eachother, preforming weightlifting competitions and sleeping in until the sun is high in the sky.

For a week, the two of you are lovers.

It was while you were reading a book aloud to him while he worked on (very sloppily) painting a portrait of you that he said it.

It wasn't some big proclamation. In fact, he’d asked the same thing every day for the past week. But when you glanced away from the words on the page in front of you and found him clumsily adding another streak to his painting, you couldn’t help but smile.

It certainly wasn’t your place to tell the Hero of Hyrule that you loved him, but maybe this was your place to tell Link that you wouldn’t mind spending one more day in with him, either.

#linked universe x reader #fanfic #Hyrule warriors link x reader #hw link #hw link x reader

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littledeadling · 11 months ago

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You probably know by now that I’m quite taken with my DND character, Horatio. In this post I’m going to explain him (with pictures!!) so you can enjoy him too, and follow along with his story if you want!

~~~~

Let’s start with the man himself:

~Horatio Ignatius Heronwillow III~

Horatio is a human paladin knight following the Oath of Glory. Also, he’s a pompous bitch with an ego the size of a small country.

Horatio’s character arc is all about getting humbled over and over again. Maybe he’s not the best. He’s not even second best. Maybe he’s even…pathetic. Despite all his training? His many successful battles? His prestige? What does any of that matter if his Queen doesn’t trust him to be her champion? If the Queen doesn’t even like him?

Horatio is from the nation of Thrane. He introduces himself as “the gilded knight of Fort Light, first at her majesty’s royal table.” He’s an ardent follower of the Queen, even though she’s merely a figurehead—the Church of the Silver Flame holds all the power. He is considered weird for this. His family are all noble elitists, and their support for him is conditional. Even though he’s become such a high-ranking knight, he’s never good enough.

But we can’t truly discuss Horatio until we meet his nemesis/rival/best friend/worst enemy (who he’s totally obsessed with, and who happens to be a centaur). His name is Elethar Sigrún.

Elethar came to the castle when they were both young (for ~unknown reasons~), and they trained to be knights alongside each other. Despite being the only centaur in the kingdom and not of royal birth, Elethar immediately usurped Horatio as the Queen’s most promising young knight, thus beginning a lifelong rivalry.

Does Horatio have feelings for Elethar? Not that he’s aware of. This is because he is stupid. Does Elethar feel anything for Horatio (besides pity and disdain)? Unclear!

~The Dragonshard Derby~

Now that we’ve met our hero, lets turn to the story!

The players are all entrants in The Dragonshard Derby: a mounted cross-continent race hosted by a rich and famous duke. To the winner goes the spoils: a great dragon’s hoard, and glory for their chosen nation. Obviously, Horatio is racing for Thrane. One hundred contestants are participating, riding everything from regular horses to owlbears to dinosaurs (dinosaurs are normal in Eberron 😳).

Horatio’s mount is a golden Akhal-Teke horse named Marvellous Moondance. She’s the light of his life. Despite his competitive nature, he would never push her past her limits. He puts her safety above all else.

Much to his chagrin, Elethar is also running in the race. Apparently the Queen had a special, secret mission for him, which she didn’t tell Horatio about. He persuades Elethar to confide: there’s an artefact rumoured to be among the dragon’s hoard that the Queen desires. Neither of them are sure what it is. Horatio promises that if he encounters it, he will give it to Elethar.

~The World of Eberron~

The campaign is set in a world called Eberron. The road is dangerous! We’ll be journeying though many different terrains, including the Mournland, a desolate wasteland which was once a great nation. Less than five years ago, during the war, a white fog filled the nation of Cyre from border to border and killed everyone inside. The cause of this was unknown, but it led to a tenuous end to the fighting. Horatio and Elethar were both on the front lines when it happened. They witnessed people across the border dying in agony. Horatio still has nightmares.

The Dragonshard Derby is the first time since then that the other nations have come together to put the past behind them in friendly sport. Evaluators will be watching from airships to make sure there's no foul play, though their vision is limited whenever racers are passing through the woods. Any teleportation is strictly prohibited.

~The Race So Far~

Each leg of the race begins with a sprint. In the first sprint, Horatio finished first in his section, but 11th overall. Elethar placed actually first, and gave Horatio polite congratulations once the scores had been posted. Horatio was pissed. This was supposed to be his chance to prove himself to the Queen! Why did Elethar have to be here and show him up? He ruins everything! And he’s so effortless about it, too. He never loses his composure, ever. Horatio wishes he could be like that.

During the first leg (a multi-day ride through the forest and plains), two riders were murdered under mysterious circumstances. Both had placed within the top ten. Their belongings had been trashed, searched through. As frustrated as Horatio was with Elethar’s presence, he’s now more just worried for his well-being. After all, Elethar is racing alone.

Then, when Horatio’s party was still a day’s ride away from the second sprint, something strange happened.

While fighting off a band of raiders, the world suddenly froze for Horatio. A strange light appeared in the sky, drawing him towards it. The moment he touched it, he felt something write itself into the skin of his arm. A mysterious lantern appeared in his bag, glowing with ethereal purple light. It would later become clear that the lantern will always appear back in Horatio’s bag, no matter where he leaves it. And, he discovered, he now has access to new magics that he was previously incapable of. This was all VERY ALARMING.

Anyway, back to Horatio’s arm. Something important in Eberron is the concept of dragonmarks. There are twelve great Dragonmarked Houses (basically powerful mob families) which each share a unique dragonmark- a sigil that appears somewhere on the body at puberty and grants powerful magic. There are also aberrant dragonmarks, which is when a combination of two other sigils appears on someone not from a Dragonmarked House (usually when there have been mixed relations between Houses). There’s a lot of political baggage attached. And Horatio suddenly has one, at the ripe age of 35. To make matters worse, it’s not a normal dragonmark OR a known aberrant, but something entirely new.

He chose not to tell his party anything about this.

Then, it was time for the sprint to the next checkpoint. Horatio started strong, but again, Elethar swept in and beat him right at the finish line. He congratulated Horatio on the race. Embarrassing him further, Elethar presented Horatio with this letter he had just received from the queen:

Sir Elethar Sigrún, First Knight to Queen Diani ir’Wynarn My earnest congratulations on placing first on the primary leg of this great race. I would expect nothing less of my finest knight. Of course, you are missed at the castle, but I am honoured by the diligence with which you have chosen to pursue the purpose I have set out for you. I am sure that you will earn the respect of the kingdom, should you succeed, and I am pleased to hear of your success so far. It will be essential that you continue to maintain this position, else my favour lies elsewhere. Loyal Elethar, I wish you great fortune, and may the blessing of the Silver Flame be upon you. Her Majesty, Queen Diani ir’Wynarn PS. Please tell Sir Heronwillow I am being informed of his standing in the race as well.

…Crushing.

He’d been considering telling Elethar of his troubles, but after that he was too upset to broach the subject.

Now that they’ve made it to the checkpoint, there are official tents with beds for everyone (with sleeping arrangements decided by race standing), a small market, and a mess hall with dinner provided.

During the meal, a friendly fellow racer named Ash attempted to flirt with one of Horatio’s party members, offering him a strange glowing flower he’d found nearby. Horatio immediately recognized it as being similar to his lantern. When his teammate turned down the flower, Horatio asked if he could have it. Ash took this the wrong way. He let Horatio know he was really, super not his type, and would not be giving him the flower. Double ouch.

That night (in the dead of it), a pack of wild raptors invaded the tents where the racers were sleeping. The party managed to kill them before they hurt anyone, but Horatio detected that the animals were all under an enchantment. Their real purpose had been to attempt to steal the flower and take it... somewhere. To someone. Was this what the killers from the first leg had been seeking? None of it bodes very well for Horatio!

The next evening, Horatio dragged Elethar to the edge of the camp where they could not be overheard, and nervously confided in him. The dragonmark, the lantern—everything. He was a bundle of nerves, but… It went well! Elethar was very alarmed, and told Horatio not to let ANYONE else find out. Not even the Queen. Especially not the Queen. Horatio was equal parts thrilled by Elethar’s willingness to share a secret with him, and terrified to keep anything hidden from the woman who basically controls his life. I drew a comic about this conversation. It was too good of a scene not to draw. 🫣)

Well, that’s where we left off last session! Thanks so much for reading, and meeting my guy! I love him and I hope you like him too! 💖

Stay tuned for a little intro post about the rest of the party! :•) I’ll link that here as well!

To be continued! (Probably in a month or so)

⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️

#talk to me about him ALWAYS #Dragonshard derby #Horatio #my characters #dnd #dungeons & dragons #eberron

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