#Strong Earthy Tea

[backyardbrew1]

A Complete Guide to Buying Pu-erh Tea: Flavor, Health Benefits, and How to Choose the Best

Pu-erh tea, known for its distinct earthy flavor and unique fermentation process, has captivated tea lovers worldwide. Originating from the Yunnan province of China, pu-erh tea undergoes a special aging process, giving it complex flavors and health benefits. In this guide, we’ll cover everything you need to know about buying pu-erh tea, its varieties, health benefits, and how to select the perfect type to enjoy this exceptional tea fully.

What is Pu-erh Tea?

Pu-erh tea is a type of fermented tea named after the town of Pu-erh in Yunnan. Unlike other teas, pu-erh undergoes a microbial fermentation process after the leaves are dried and rolled. This process can take years, and the tea continues to age, developing deeper, more nuanced flavors over time. There are two main types of pu-erh tea:

Sheng (Raw) Pu-erh: This variety is traditionally aged over time. The tea leaves are processed, dried, and stored for several years, gradually developing a smooth, rich flavor. Sheng pu-erh has an intense, earthy taste, often described as woody or even slightly smoky.

Shou (Ripe) Pu-erh: This type is made by accelerating the aging process through microbial fermentation, giving it a dark color and smoother, mellow flavor. Shou pu-erh has a less complex taste than Sheng but is still rich and earthy, with a hint of sweetness.

How is Pu-erh Tea Made?

The process of making pu-erh tea is intricate and requires expert craftsmanship. The main steps include:

Harvesting: Fresh tea leaves are handpicked from tea trees.

Withering: Leaves are left to wither, reducing moisture content and preparing them for the next stages.

Kill-Green (Sha Qing): Heat is applied to stop natural oxidation, preserving the unique flavors of pu-erh tea.

Rolling: Leaves are hand-rolled to release flavors and essential oils.

Drying: Leaves are sun-dried, locking in the flavors and preparing them for fermentation.

Fermentation: This is where Sheng and Shou pu-erh differ. Sheng pu-erh is aged naturally, while Shou pu-erh undergoes a controlled fermentation process.

Why Buy Pu-erh Tea? The Health Benefits of Pu-erh

Pu-erh tea is celebrated not only for its flavor but also for its health benefits. Here are some reasons why pu-erh tea makes a fantastic addition to any tea collection:

Weight Loss: Pu-erh tea is often associated with weight management. It contains compounds that aid digestion and may help reduce fat absorption.

Improved Digestion: Pu-erh tea’s natural fermentation process produces probiotics, which are beneficial for gut health. Drinking pu-erh tea can help reduce bloating and improve digestive health.

Enhanced Energy Levels: Pu-erh contains caffeine, but in a more balanced amount than coffee, providing a gentle energy boost without the jitters.

Antioxidant Properties: The tea is rich in antioxidants, which help fight free radicals and support healthy aging.

Cholesterol Reduction: Studies suggest that pu-erh tea may lower LDL (bad) cholesterol levels, supporting cardiovascular health.

Calming Effects: Although it contains caffeine, pu-erh tea is known for its calming properties due to its unique compounds, making it a great choice for relaxation.

Choosing the Right Pu-erh Tea

When purchasing pu-erh tea, quality and authenticity are key. Here’s what to consider:

1. Type of Pu-erh: Sheng or Shou?

Sheng Pu-erh is ideal for those who enjoy a complex, robust flavor profile that evolves with each infusion. It's typically more expensive due to the lengthy aging process.

Shou Pu-erh is smoother and less intense, with a milder, sweeter taste. It’s a good option for beginners or those who prefer a less earthy flavor.

2. Age and Vintage

Pu-erh tea is often labeled with its year of production. Aged Sheng pu-erh can be compared to fine wine—the older it is, the more valuable and flavorful it becomes. Generally, older pu-erh teas have a richer, smoother taste, but newer teas can also be enjoyable if you prefer a more intense flavor.

3. Origin and Quality

When buying pu-erh tea, it’s essential to ensure it comes from the Yunnan province. True pu-erh must be sourced from this region to carry the authentic flavors and properties associated with the tea. Quality brands will specify the region and sometimes even the specific tea garden.

4. Form: Loose Leaf or Compressed?

Pu-erh tea is often available in two forms: loose leaves or compressed cakes (also known as “tuo cha” or “bing cha”). Loose-leaf pu-erh is convenient for quick brewing, while compressed pu-erh is ideal for long-term storage and aging.

5. Price and Budget

Quality pu-erh tea can be more costly than other types of tea due to its aging process and unique qualities. Decide on a budget that aligns with your expectations for quality, but be cautious of extremely cheap pu-erh, as it may lack authenticity or flavor depth.

Brewing Pu-erh Tea

Brewing pu-erh tea is an art, and the method you use can greatly influence the flavor. Here’s a simple guide for brewing a strong, flavorful cup of pu-erh tea:

Prepare the Tea: If using a compressed pu-erh cake, gently break off a piece (about 3-5 grams per cup).

Rinse the Leaves: Pour hot water over the tea leaves to rinse them, then discard the water. This step “awakens” the tea and removes any impurities.

Steep the Tea: Pour hot water (around 200°F/93°C) over the leaves and steep for 2-4 minutes. For a more robust flavor, increase the steeping time.

Re-steep: Pu-erh tea can be steeped multiple times, with each infusion offering a unique taste experience.

Buying Pu-erh Tea Online: Why Choose Backyard Brew?

For those ready to explore the world of pu-erh tea, Backyard Brew: Premium Pu-erh Teas offers a selection of high-quality options for both new and experienced tea enthusiasts. Backyard Brew’s pu-erh teas are carefully sourced from Yunnan, ensuring you experience the authentic taste and health benefits that this tea is known for.

Popular Ways to Enjoy Pu-erh Tea

Traditional Hot Brew

This is the most common method, allowing the flavors of pu-erh to fully develop and shine. Drinking pu-erh hot is a satisfying experience, especially for tea connoisseurs.

Iced Pu-erh Tea

For a refreshing twist, try pu-erh tea iced. Cold-brewing pu-erh tea brings out its earthy flavors while providing a lighter, crisp finish.

Pu-erh Tea Latte

A pu-erh tea latte combines the richness of pu-erh with the creaminess of milk. Brew a strong cup of pu-erh, add frothed milk, and a touch of sweetener for a cozy, satisfying drink.

FAQs About Buying Pu-erh Tea

Q1: How much pu-erh tea should I buy at once? A: If you’re new to pu-erh, start with a smaller amount (about 100 grams) to test its flavor profile. For aged pu-erh, buying in bulk is ideal since it will continue to improve with age.

Q2: Can I drink pu-erh tea daily? A: Yes, many people enjoy daily pu-erh tea, thanks to its moderate caffeine content and digestive benefits. Aim for 1-3 cups per day to enjoy its health advantages.

Q3: How long does pu-erh tea last? A: Pu-erh tea improves with age, especially when stored correctly. It can last for decades, with aged varieties often becoming more valuable over time.

Q4: What’s the best way to store pu-erh tea? A: Store pu-erh tea in a cool, dry place with good airflow. Avoid storing it in an airtight container, as pu-erh needs to breathe.

Q5: Is pu-erh tea suitable for beginners? A: Shou pu-erh, with its milder and smoother flavor, is ideal for beginners. As you develop a taste for it, you can explore Sheng pu-erh for a more intense experience.

Conclusion

Pu-erh tea offers an exceptional tea experience with its bold, earthy flavors and unique health benefits. Whether you prefer the smoothness of Shou or the intense depth of Sheng, there’s a pu-erh tea for every taste. By selecting high-quality pu-erh tea from reputable sources, like Backyard Brew, you can enjoy an authentic taste that will leave a lasting impression.

Explore the rich world of pu-erh tea and discover a tea that not only enhances your palate but also brings a range of health benefits. With each sip, you’re tasting tradition, depth, and a journey from the tea gardens of Yunnan straight to your cup.

[tomatoluvr69]

Ok this description is insane usually these are like “the sharp notes of cheddar play nice with the mellow sweetness of shallots in this easy, timeless brunch offering” not like…here’s the setup for my latest AO3 fare

[literaryvein-reblogs]

100 Words for Worldbuilding

Some sensory words that can enhance your story/poem.

A-E

Acid - sour, burnt; vinegary

Acrid - strong, biting (e.g., something on fire)

Airy - natural smelling, (e.g., clean, fresh air)

Ambrosial - fragrant; having a pleasant smell

Aroma - strong, yet pleasant scent

Aura - smell surrounding something

Balm - soothing scent

Billowy - scent that surges and wanes

Biting - pungent, sharp or harsh

Bouquet - blend of floral scents

Briny - salty

Buttery - smooth; rich; greasy

Citrusy - crisp notes of any citrus fruit

Clean - very light scent, clean and natural

Cottony - soft; smooth or delicate

Creaky - squeaky; showing signs of deterioration

Crisp - fresh and natural

Crystalline - strikingly clear or sparkling

Dirty - nasty, unpleasant odor

Doggy - odor like an unbathed or wet canine

Downy - soft, soothing; silky; delicate

Earthy - recently dug or tilled soil

Essence - basic, natural scent

F-M

Faint - very light or mild; can barely be detected

Feminine - floral fragrances

Fetid - decaying or rotting smell

Fishy - smelling of fish; pungent, strong, unpleasant

Fleecy - shaggy; woolly

Floral - scents associated with flowers

Flowery - fragrance similar to flowers

Foamy - frothy; bubbly

Fragrance - pleasant smell

Fresh - natural smelling, rather than artificial

Fruity - having the flavor or aroma of ripe fruit; sweet

Gaudy - excessively showy

Gingery - pungent; sharp, robust taste or aroma

Globular - spherical

Gossamer - light, delicate, or insubstantial

Grainy - coarse; sandy; unrefined

Heady - very strong aroma

Incense - strong scent

Lemony - tart, piquant citrus notes

Lilac - rich floral scent combining rose with vanilla

Lime - refreshing and zesty citrus smell

Loamy - fragrance with an earthy note

Masculine - earthy fragrances

Medicinal - earthy; often unpleasant

Mildewed - soaked in wetness that has gone stale

Minty - menthol-like smell (e.g., mint tea or peppermint candy)

Misty - mild fragrance, not overpowering

Moist - smell of dew or rainfall

Moldy - damp, fungus-like odor

Musty - old smell; stale and probably moldy

N-R

Nauseating - odor that makes one sick to the stomach

Odorize - changing the scent

Overpowering - too strong of a smell

Peppery - hot, pungent, fiery; stinging

Perfumed - artificial fragrance, not natural-smelling

Pheromone - natural scents

Piercing - loud, shrill; biting

Pine - crisp, refreshing evergreen smell

Piquant - pleasantly pungent, sharp, or spicy taste

Plastic - artificial chemical polymer odor

Poignant - pungently pervasive; piercing

Prickly - stinging; irritating; itchy

Pristine - fresh and clean as or as if new

Pungent - strong fragrance

Putrid - stench of decay

Rancid - spoiled; food that has gone bad

Rank - offensive in odor or flavor

Redolent - having a strong, permeating odor

Repulsive - off-putting odor

Rich - strong, resounding smell that is appealing to the senses

Ripe - brought by aging to full flavor or the best state

Rose - spicy yet sweet fragrance

Rotten - spoiled, rancid, unpalatable

S-Z

Savory - spicy, salty scent that has no elements of sweetness

Sharp - pungent fragrance that permeates the air

Skunky - noxious smell that lingers; sulfuric (like rotten eggs) odor

Smoky - scent of burning wood

Soapy - smooth and slippery

Sour - rancid, sickly sweet smell

Spicy - sharp, heady, can sting or tickle the nose

Spoiled - rotten; something that has “gone bad”

Stale - old, dusty, stagnant odor

Stinking - unpleasant, foul smell

Sweaty - perspiration odor

Sweet - sugary smell

Tangy - having a powerfully stimulating odor or flavor; acidic

Tantalizing - arouses or stimulates desire or interest

Tart - sharp fragrance or taste

Tasteless - arousing no interest; dull

Tempting - having an appeal; enticing

Trace - a tiny amount of fragrance

Velvety - soft, smooth, thick, or richly hued

Vinegary - sour; disagreeable, bitter, or irascible

Whiff - a fleeting scent

Wispy - hint of fragrance in the air

Woodsy - forest-like smell

Zesty - sharp and pleasantly stimulating

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Worldbuilding ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[improbable-outset]

📂 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐭

↳ 📄 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈

Jayce Talis x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k

𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: established relationship, found family, child neglect, adoption, angst, arguing

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You bring home an abandoned baby from the Undercity, and Jayce helps you raise her, only to later uncover the tragic past she carries.

Exhaustion and tension seeped into his bones as he made his way home. The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, casting the streets of Piltover in a muted glow.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of the council meetings, political manoeuvring, and endless errands dragging onto every step.

When he reached his front door, he hesitated for a moment. Inhaling deeply. The quiet comfort of his home was on the other side of the wall, and he needed it more than anything.

Turning the keys and opening the door, Jayce stepped into the threshold, a yawn escaping his mouth as he closed the door behind him.

The house was quiet, minus the slight creak of the floorboards beneath his boots. Then, you appeared from the living space, greeting a warm smile that melted the tension in his chest.

You didn’t waste a second to cross the room and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. If it weren’t for his fatigue, Jayce might’ve indulged more— he wanted to— but even the brief contact eased something in him.

He had been away for two whole days, buried in his work that demanded his full attention. It felt like a lifetime, but now, he stood here with you. The world beyond the four walls of the house seemed a whole world away.

You pulled away from the kiss, your hands still resting on his shoulders as you looked up at him.

“Missed you.” You murmured softly.

Jayce leaned forward and rested his forehead on yours. It was a quiet ritual that grounded him. As if he could draw strength from your presence.

“Missed you too,” he whispered, his voice low and raw.

His arms circled around your waist, pulling you closer. In your embrace, he always felt lighter— like a man he used to be without the responsibility and political threat pulling him under. Here, he wasn’t the “Voice of Progress”. He was just Jayce.

For a moment, you both stayed like this, staying wrapped in each other. A wordless comfort that neither of you had to explain. Eventually, you gently pulled backs, you hands trailing down his arms and prolonging the contact before you stepped away.

“I’ll make the tea,” you said softly. “And you can tell me everything that had happened.”

You turned and headed to the kitchen, leaving Jayce to peel off his jacket. The garment felt heavier than usual— the dense fabric seemed to carry the weight of the day’s argument and debate.

He hung it in the cloak room with care, as if putting the burden of Piltover on pause. With a deep breath, he followed the sound of your footsteps into the kitchen.

You were kindling a fire beneath a stove, the faint crackle of the flames mixed with the bubbling of the water. The gentle, earthy aroma of steeping leaves filled the air around you both.

Once the tea had brewed to the perfect richness, you poured the amber liquid into two tea cups and placed them carefully onto a tray. Jayce stepped forward and lifted the tray with his strong hands and carried it to the living room.

He set the tray down on the table before taking a seat— cup in hand with the warmth seeping in his fingertips.

As he talked through the events of the past two days he was away, it dawned on him how much it helped to unpack his rigid thoughts. The transition from the high pressure world of his job as a councillor to the warmth of your shared home felt like disarming an invisible shield.

Having someone outside of the political sphere to confide to kept him grounded. You reminded him of what he was fighting for, why he endured the endless demands.

When he finished his tea, Jayce caught the way you were watching him. There was something behind your gaze— hesitation, or maybe nerves— as if you were waiting for the right moment to say something. His brow furrowed with curiosity.

“So…” you began, carefully choosing your next words. “I have something to show you.”

Jayce straightened in his seat, his heart giving an involuntary thud from anticipation. Your tone and unreadable expression on your face made it hard to tell if he should be excited or skeptical.

He tried to gauge your intent but couldn’t pinpoint what was going on, so he decided to go along with it, tilting his head slightly.

“I’m all ears,” he said, offering a reassuring smile.

You didn’t say anything else. Instead, you rose from your seat and beckoned him to follow. His curiosity only grew, his mind racing with possibilities.

You led him to your shared bedroom. Jayce stepped faltered when he realised you were trying to block his view as you retrieved whatever it was you wanted to show him. The knot in his stomach tightened further.

You came back, cradling a bunch of mismatch blankets carefully in your arms, as though they held something precious.

His brow furrows in confusion as he takes in the sight of you clutching what looks like a pile of laundry.

“What’s all this?” he asked, stepping closer to study the bundle you carried so delicately. “Did something happen?”

You glanced down at the bunch of blankets in your arm, your expression softened with a tender look. Before you could answer, a soft, plaintive cry broke through the silence.

Jayce froze, a chill racing up his spine at the unexpected sound. His gaze snapped to the bundle, baffled.

“Is that…?” He steps closer, leaning in to get a better look.

Carefully, you pull back a corner of the blanket, revealing the baby’s delicate face. Her eyes were scrunched shut, her soft cheeks flushed pink as she let out another tiny wail.

Jayce could only stare, his mouth slightly agape, completely at loss for words.

A baby. An actual baby crying in your arms.

His mind spun, a rush of questions crashing into one another, each getting louder and more urgent. But before he could voice any of them, you spoke again, your tone laced with something deeper.

“I found her in the Undercity,” you said, tightening your grip on the baby protectively “She was left in a cardboard box with a note. Her mother didn’t want her.”

The baby stirred in your arms, one tiny hand peeking out from the fold of the blanket. Her fingers curled instinctively, the fragile motion pulled something aching in Jayce’s chest.

The weight of your words hung in the air, heavy and heartbreaking. His heart sank at the circumstances that could lead to this, but the weight was quickly replaced by a new tension.

He had an idea— and uneasy realisation— of where this conversation was going.

He looked at the baby, still letting out small cries, and then to you. Searching your face of some kind of elaboration that might make all of this make sense.

“And…you just brought her here?” he asked. “Brought her home?”

There was a flicker of defiance in your eyes as you lifted your chin.

“What else was I supposed to do, Jayce? Leave her there? She was so small, so… helpless. I couldn’t just walk away.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at the baby again. “I mean, yeah, but… this is huge. A baby isn’t just—she’s not a stray cat or something. This is… wow.” He trails off, struggling to find the right words.

“She doesn’t even have a name yet,” you murmured, your voice soft as you cradled the baby closer to your chest. The little one stirred in your arms but didn’t cry, settling as though your presence alone was enough to sooth her.

Jayce felt his throat dry as he watched you, the sight stirred something foreign in him. You looked…natural holding her like that— your touch gentle yet protective. He felt something he couldn’t quite name— an instinctive pull.

But he couldn’t let the seed of desire plant itself in his mind. Not when the reality of the situation was so dire.

He forced himself exhaled slowly, bearing his teeth as the weight of the situation started to settle over him like a heavy cloak.

“What do you want to do? Are you… are you planning to keep her?”

“She deserves a chance,” you voice was steady, despite the tremble in your hands. “And I want to raise her.”

Your conviction pierced through his confusion, making it impossible to dismiss what you were saying. Not that he could, especially with something like this.

The mere thought of you bringing home a baby— nurturing her to her fill, cradling her, making this monumental decision— all while he had no idea, hit him like crashing waves.

Doing this all alone, without him, only made it harder for him to process. His mind spiralled, trying to wrap itself around what it meant for you now moving forward. Did you even fully think this through?

He knew you were naturally empathetic, especially when it came to anything vulnerable or in need of care. But taking home a baby wasn’t just another compassionate act, it was a whole new responsibility and he wasn’t sure you even thought beyond that.

And worse, you hadn’t come to him first. You didn’t ask him, confide in him, or even hinted at what you were planning. The realisation stung.

It wasn’t just the decision that unsettled him— it was the fact that you’d made it without him. A flicker of hurt sparkles in his chest, feeding into the mounted frustration.

Suddenly, the room felt stuffy, too small to hold the gravity of this moment. The tea from earlier churned uneasily in his stomach, causing a sour lump of nausea.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Meanwhile, you took your seat on the bed, cradling the newborn against your chest with a silent determination. Shielding her from the storm that was brewing inside of him.

Jayce stops pacing and turns to you, his voice firm but not unkind. “This is a bad idea.”

He couldn’t suppress his frustration now.

You stiffen, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this, all of it,” he says, gesturing to the baby. “You just found her in Zaun, and now you’re—what? Planning to raise her? Just like that?”

You bristle, your arms tightening protectively around the baby. “She was abandoned, Jayce. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“I get that, but this is… it’s huge.” Each syllable of his words escalated in pitch, trying to hammer some sense into you. His hands moved as if trying to grab hold of the spiral emotions between you “Taking in a baby isn’t something you can just decide on a whim. Do you even know what it takes to raise a child? The time, the resources? It’s not just about wanting to help—it’s about being able to,”

“What are you saying, Jayce?” you shot back. “That I should’ve just left her there? Pretend I didn’t see her?”

“No!” he says quickly, his tone softening. “I’m not saying that. But there are people—systems—that handle this kind of thing. Places that—”

You cut him off, a flare of heat in your tone. “Places like what? Orphanages? Do you have any idea what happens to kids in Zaun, Jayce? Even the ‘good’ places are overcrowded and underfunded.”

You stopped yourself, breathing hard, realising your voice was rising. You glanced down at the baby in your arms, expression softened instantly as her small face remained in a peaceful sleep.

The sight of you stirred something in Jayce again. The pull he couldn’t grasp— something that tugged at his heart, clouding his thoughts with an unspoken ache.

You as a mother, the baby nestled safely in your arms.

But he shook his head, forcing himself to push the thought aside. He needed to stay grounded.

You spoke again, your voice quieter now but there was still that fire. “And the bad ones…they don’t even survive. I wasn’t going to let that happen to her.”

That struck him harder than he expected, the words settling heavy on his chest. Jayce ran a hand down his face, feeling caught between the logic of the situation and the unshakable yearning growing in his chest— two forces yanking him in opposite directions.

He sighed, long and slow, and pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for the right words. “I just… I think you’re rushing into this without thinking it through,” he paused, the words starting to strain. “You’re already stretched thin, living between Zaun and Piltover. And me? I’m a Councillor. My life is under a microscope. If word gets out that I’m involved in something like this—”

“Something like what?” you snap, standing up abruptly. The baby stirred, but you quickly adjusted your arms, soothing her back to sleep. There it was again— that fire. The ferocity. “Caring about someone who needs help? Doing the right thing?”

Jayce falters, guilt flickering across his face. He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but there was no denying how harsh it came out.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.

You shook your head, eyes narrowing as you turned away from him. “I don’t care what the Council thinks of me, Jayce. I’m doing this. With or without you.”

The baby turned her head as she opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, searching for sustenance. Her fist drew closer to her mouth, and she started sucking on it with soft muffled noises.

You took this as a sign to leave the conversation and headed towards the kitchen. It was the baby’s feeding time.

Jayce lingered for a moment, his feet rooted to the floor, but the nagging pull to follow you was too strong. His thoughts still whirled chaotically— your words replaying in his head and the effect it had on him was still residual— but his focus shifted as he watched you move with fluidity.

All he could do now was watch as you cradled the baby in your arm, your figure moving with purpose through the kitchen. Jayce's eyes flickered to your arm, which reached for a baby bottle and milk formula in the cabinet.

One he hadn’t seen before. When had you gone out and brought that?

He stood silently in the kitchen doorway, watching as you prepared the milk with an efficiency that surprised him. As if it was something you had done for years.

Meanwhile, the baby in your arms started to fuss a little, squirming and letting out small whimpers. Jayce noticed and felt his concern grew a little, his instinct to soothe her came unbidden.

But he didn’t move— he was transfixed by the way you handled her so gently, murmuring quiet reassurance.

Once the formula was made, you checked the temperature with your wrist and headed to take a seat in the living room. The baby was clinging onto you as though she knew she was safe in your arms.

Jayce followed again, his gaze catching on a bag sitting neatly on the counter— the content barely visible. Neatly stacked diapers, formulas and clothes so small they looked like they could fit his palm.

Not only had you brought this baby home in the two days he had been gone, but you’ve already gone out of your way to make sure she had all the supplies she needed.

You made the decision and have taken action. You were completely serious about this.

You settled on the couch, holding the baby close as you guided the bottle's nipple to her lips. It took a moment for her to latch on, but once she did, her small body eased as she began to drink.

Jayce didn’t know how long he was staring, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from what was unfolding in front of him. A mix of resignation and intrigue.

For the first time, he saw how maternal you looked— how natural you fit in the role, even if it was new and overwhelming. And the baby…she looked so fragile and helpless. It was hard to believe that someone left her abandoned in a box.

The pull he felt earlier came back— the tug in his chest at the sight of you with the baby. But this time, it morphed into something heavier, deeper the longer he watched you. Like he was plummeting from a great height.

It made his pulse quicken.

This wasn’t just about you anymore. This was about the new life you’ve brought into his home, the tiny human you have chosen to care for.

Jayce stepped closer, his voice softer this time. “You’re good at this.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the change in his tone. “I’m just figuring it out as I go.”

He kneeled beside you, his eye now fixed on the baby. He reached out hesitantly, brushing some of the baby’s hair from her forehead. She flinched at the sudden contact, but quickly relaxed and continued with her feed.

Once the bottle was empty, you carefully pulled the bottle away and sat her up on your lap. For the first time, the baby slowly opened her eyes, revealing two iridescent grey-coloured eyes— resembling a storm just before it broke.

After you tapped her back, she let out a few soft burps, the sound faint and unexpected. You seemed to keep your focus on her, as if Jayce wasn’t watching your every move— yet he still admired the way you handled her.

“How often does she need to eat?” He asked suddenly, the words leaving his mouth before he could think them through.

You shifted the baby in your arms, cradling her against your chest as her eyes slowly drooped and slipped shut.

“Every two to three hours,” you answered. “One bottle will be enough to keep her full for the next feed.”

The idea of such a routine felt overwhelming. “And what about…other things? Diapers? Sleep?”

There was a hint of exhaustion mixed with amusement in your smile. “Babies are a full time job, Jayce. She sleeps a lot at this age. And when she is awake— there’s always something to do— feeding, bathing, changing her.”

He didn’t know where the sudden curiosity came from, but he found himself asking more questions— about the baby’s cries, what she needed when she fussed, how to prepare her bottle.

And you answered every single one, patiently, as if the knowledge had come second nature in just the span of two days.

Jayce pictured the scene in his head: you alone in the house, juggling bottles and dirty diapers, the sound of her cries filling the space. Baby supplies scattered across the living room and kitchen. The fistful of broken sleeps you were running on.

He swallowed hard, a hint of guilt creeping in along with his admiration. He didn’t know how he would adjust to the new environment— this new life with a new baby in your shared home.

But hearing you answer his questions stirred something in him. Maybe it was the weight of the responsibilities starting to take root, or maybe it was the pull from earlier— now impossible to ignore.

“I’m going to put her down for the night,” you said softly, standing up from the couch. The baby’s breath was soft and even against your chest. “Come to bed when you're ready.”

Jayce nodded wordlessly, watching as you disappeared down the hallway. The soft click of the bedroom door and the house fell silent again, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

He sank down onto the couch, running a hand through his hair as his thoughts swirled. He couldn’t shake the image of the baby's soft cries or the way you looked at her with protectiveness, as though the world had narrowed down to just her. And the careful way you fed her.

This wasn’t what he envisioned for his life, not now at least. And yet, when he felt the pull growing in the corner of his heart, he didn’t fight it anymore. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something deeper. He didn’t know.

He sat in one place for what felt like hours, staring at nothing in particular, the weight of the day finally settled on him. Eventually, he rose from the sofa, letting his legs carry himself to bed.

I don’t know if I’ll be continuing this series on tumblr (engagement isn’t usually the best here). But if you are interested in this story, you can find the series here

[Part 2]

[angelinloove]

my random donatello headcanons. . !

── he's awkward in nature, but that doesn't stop donatello from calling you fascinating. the touch of your fingertips tracing the creases of his hands as he rambles on about your differences and familiarities. embarrassed, donatello stops his mumblings if he realizes what he's saying

── when donatello has feelings for someone, he might just be...softer, partially because he's confused about what he's feeling. he doesn't really want to feel it either. he might isolate himself more so it goes away. it however, doesn't.

── two words. parallel play. sitting together in the same room doing your own tasks. donatello at his desk as you do your own enjoyments beside him. some days it's a comfortable silence, other times you'll ramble, he likes to hear idle chatter. he might not know what you're talking about, but he loves the noise.

── donatello likes the way your heart beats against your chest. it’s never the same every time he lays his head on your chest, but there’s the same sense of relief he gets from it.

── donatello gets easily irritated/overstimulated by strong, bad smells. even with the ones he doesn’t actively dislike, he’s very picky with the scents he does like. however, one particular night while you were looking over his shoulder, he caught a grasp of your scent. whether you prefer the flowery kisses of roses and fresh cut daisies, or the earthy tone of left over raindrops on blades of grass. he found that it was a... pleasant surprise.

── future!donatello smells like cigarettes and metal rust—but in the smoke and sterile way. he'd try to cover it with eucalyptus. when he stresses out, he turns to cigarettes. he tends to wallow in his own sleepless pity.

── yandere!donatello who's mind had gone blank. his heart pounding within the bony confines of his chest, unable to move as your laugh replayed in his head multiple times. and what a scary feeling, terrifying to experience something so.. conflicting. his heart aches, but it feels good. he wants—no needs to know why?

── yandere!donatello likes to experiment on you. mentally, physically. you're so fascinating. your biology is different. desires are different. needs are different. there are many ways to make someone delirious, and he intends to explore each and every one.

── donatello listens to weird al yankovic because i said so.

── donatello likes someone who will understand his boundaries. he likes someone who listens. he likes it when someone seems interested in him or what he's talking about. donatello likes someone who will be quiet with him.

── i can definitely see donatello as a gray ace. (i mean he's purple he's literally asexual core/hj) i do project a bit of myself onto him in having anxieties about other people and myself that's stopping me from getting in relationships. "i'm busy. i have other things to do. i don't need to worry about it." and while true, that doesn't mean it's not nice. it's him using his hobbies and work as an excuse to not be with people even though, deep down, i think he wants it.

── donatello says he prefers his coffee black, but he enjoys it with creamer. french vanilla baby! something to keep in mind for the early mornings, the quiet yet comfortable silence of the fresh day as you press the palm of your hand on his shoulder or between his shoulder blades for a second as you set down a coffee you made for him. it's a small gesture, but it's domestic. it's sweet, he appreciates it.

── donatello really loves the little things because it feels mundane and human to him.

── donatello prefers black teas. april introduced him to a strong one with cane sugar and mint once. but he also likes pure green tea, lemon with ginger, and a special rose-strawberry tea on the occasion. but it has to be a subtle taste, not to sweet, spicy or heavy.

── donatello likes all sorts of dumplings and is not a fan of overly sweet food + most desserts.

── donatello would be willing to watch greys anatomy with you because he's a bitch and likes to point out inaccuracies which is hilarious coming from some bitch who doesn't have a medical license. however he does have respects for dr. gregory house, so he's decent enough when watching house.

── donatello's favorite body part of yours? "whichever parts are the farthest away from me, thank you." your hands. your palms which press against his plastron, your fingertips that send shudders down his spine when you trace over his shell. every crevice, every knuckle, every detail. need i say more?

[fbfh]

Curiosity is a Wonderful thing ch. 12

wc: 2.6k

genre: slow burn, little angst, childhood best friends to lovers

pairing: slow burn bff!ben x fem daughter of alice!reader, mal x ben (allegedly), reader flirting with Jay for strategic reasons

warnings: sort of kind of dubcon ish only bc reader uses a truth serum on someone but it's contextually ethical and nothing shady happens, made up wonderland plants by yours truly, reader shakes them feminine wiles to get info in a very sfw way

summary: you brew a special blend of tea with the sole purpose of spilling tea with a friend of Mal's.

song recs: what baking can do - waitress OBC, power and control - marina, something bad - wicked obc

a/n: your outfit (it's the same one as ch11), also HI I MISSED YALL. things have been CONSTANTLY happening and good news is I'm finally on the right dose of adderall so I was able to knock out the last part of this chapter in like 20 minutes or smth lol. ily all and if I missed you in the tag list just hoot n holler at me in the tags!!

also candorcorn root is a made up plant that makes people tell the truth, and neutrestnuts are a made up wonderland chestnut that neutralize things

tags @yesv01@magcon7280 @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sunshineangel-reads @dustyinkpages @inejsknifes @tulipmagnoliaisme @ev3ningrain @yokolesbianism @ma1dita @casey1-2007 @roseidol @eaterof-concrete @enhacatalog @inejghafawifesblog @jjmaybankisawesome @leovergurl @formulas-bitch @starsdotalk @tulipmagnoliaisme @inejsknifes @ficslutt @bwormie @urmomlikeslinotoo @jazhandzzz

Your mind is reeling as you go over the elements of the strategy before you again and again. You have the candorcorn root - from the right side of the plant, of course - in a small pouch. You carry it into the school kitchens, gather the rest of your ingredients, and lay them out in a meticulous sort of mise en place. You let out a long puff of air out of your pursed lips, staying in a deep focus as you begin to do something you’ve done a thousand times before.

Brew a pot of tea.

You brew the candorcorn root into a strong concentrate, so strong it makes your eyes water. You set it aside to boil down as you settle on what the body of this beverage will be composed of. Candorcorn root is known for having a strong, bitter taste - sometimes with a sweet aftertaste depending on the truth that’s revealed, but you’re not counting on a particularly sweet truth under the current circumstances. 

To hide some of the earthy bite, you begin making your own blend of different dried herbs, spices, and tea leaves. You start with a base of English dinner - it’s much too late in the evening for English breakfast, even in tea form - then carefully whisk in a little bit of matcha. Once that’s steeping and nicely blended together, you muddle in a few fresh cranberries. You add in a healthy dose of your favorite Port Royal vanilla to lighten the flavor profile and minimize suspicion. 

Feeling mischievous, you add in a few mint leaves to the mix. After it brews together, you waft the steam into your nose. It smells… irresistible. Your mouth waters, and you scribble down the recipe on a napkin to make again later - sans the candorcorn root concentrate, of course. You check your pocket watch, and the time for action is growing nearer and nearer. You bite the crook of your finger in consideration. 

Your mother always used to tell you, the way to a man’s stomach is through his heart, and the way to his heart is through his chest cavity. You suppose it would be a rather good, sensible decision to have a backup plan of sorts. As bizarre as it is to think, you are aware that not everyone drinks tea - especially not as often as you do. You hum and rock on your heels anxiously, eyes darting around the kitchen as the self imposed deadline you’ve set marches coldly closer. 

“Wait,” you murmur, freezing as you get an idea. 

You begin digging through the kitchens as quickly as you can, looking for a few things. If you can get them together, you won’t need to worry about ensuring the specialty tea is consumed in full. You rifle through cupboards and pantry shelves, gathering chocolate spread, a large box of fluffy, cake-like cookies, hot chocolate powder, and a small jar of currents. You look around some more, huffing in irritated frustration at the lack of proper tea biscuits in the kitchen. 

Your disappointment is short lived, however, when you remember the large supply of tea biscuits you always carry around with you for just this sort of emergency. You reach into your teapot bag and pull out your sewing kit, then proceed to swiftly open it up and dump out all the biscuits it contains. Your sewing supplies is kept in a biscuit tin, of course, otherwise you’d get them all mixed up and find yourself hemming your trousers with snickerdoodles. A preposterous idea, of course, everyone knows that biscotti are best for mending trousers. 

The last crumbs fall and you’re brought back to the task at hand. Or rather, at foot, since that’s where the rest of the crumbs land when you stuff the empty tin back into your bag. You let out a shaky but determined breath, and begin to get to work as swiftly as you can manage. You falter once more, realizing that gloves are most likely in order here. You can only find your backup gloves, white and silky with a little pearl in the center of each wrist, but you suppose they’ll have to do.

It’s with a surgical sort of precision that you begin, soaking the biscuits in the candorcorn root concentrate just long enough to get soft around the edges. You lay out each biscuit meticulously, then slather them in a layer of chocolate spread and thick whipped cream. You repeat the process again and again until you’ve a little stack before you. 

Once satisfied with the deceptive desert before you, you top it off with more chocolate spread and a heavy dusting of powdered cocoa mix, sure that the sugary chocolate will balance out the earthy, bitter taste of the candorcorn root. You garnish the top with a few strategically placed dried currants, spelling out eat me along the top. 

You remove your gloves, careful not to get any candorcorn root on your bare hands, then make up another little pastry. The second one, however, is free of any Wonderland serums or juices, and instead is garnished with a few comfits from the container you keep with you - a habit you’d picked up from your mother. 

You next prepare a perfect cup of your brew, then a second containing your secret ingredient. Gloves, of course, are worn during that second step. Your cup is garnished with a piece of fig, the other with a cherry stuck along the rim of the tea cup, bleeding down onto the side. You place everything onto a silver tray, as tenderly as if you were in the middle of diffusing a bomb, and exit the kitchen with it in your only slightly trembling hands. 

You let out a steadying breath as you ascend the stairs in the great hall, making the turn towards the boys dorms. Stopping at an open window, you let out a whistle, signaling to a waiting bluebird that you’re ready, and to send word to your companions for the evening. You walk down the hall as silently as a ghost, only stopping when you hear rowdy yelling coming from behind a particular door. Your heart pounds in your chest, and after a few thrumming pulses, a large cat pads up to you, accompanied by a doormouse. 

“Alright,” you breathe solemnly, “it’s now or ever.” 

The doormouse skitters up to the knob, slipping into the lock and popping it open with a click. It slides down and scurries to safety, and you do the same, moving a few feet away and hiding in an alcove. The cat, brave and noble, slowly enters the room via the now ajar door. It only takes a few moments for the chaos to ensue. 

The silent, still hallway is filled with a riot of barking and yowling as the cat speeds out of the room like a bolt out of blue. She’s followed, of course, by Duke; and Duke is naturally followed by Carlos. They all shout and skitter down the hall, around the stairs, and deeper into the school until they’re out of earshot. You steady yourself, wait a moment, then poke your head into the room, now only occupied by one person. 

Jay.

“Couldn’t sleep?” You ask coyly from the doorway, blinking up at him. Jay seems surprised to see you, and answers around button mashing his way through the level he’s playing. 

“Uh,” He replies, distracted as he continues to look at the screen. “Yeah.”

He lets out a long string of curses as he takes a nasty hit, hemorrhaging hp when he’s nearly done with the level. There’s still a chance, and he continues to fixate on the screen. 

Perfect, you think.  

Using your foot, you gently nudge the door closed with a click. You reach behind you, flicking the lock closed, and walk forward. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting your winning streak,” you say with a cute smile, deliberately stroking his ego. “I just couldn’t wait until morning to tell you what an amazing job you’ve been doing at tourney.”

That gets his attention. Some of it, at least. 

“Oh, word?” He asks, smirking as he glaces away from the screen a little more. You nod, humming sweetly in response. You keep your eyes trained on him while you reach into your bag and slip on your gloves. You pick up his tiramisu and slink over to his bed, breaking off a moist, chocolaty bite with a fork. 

“Your athletic performance was… nothing short of inspiring.” You say slowly, bringing up the fork to his lips. “I bake when inspired.”

He chuckles, getting that cocky, flirtatious look on his face. He opens his mouth to reply with something you could only assume would be cockier than a spaniel, and in that moment, he presents the perfect opportunity for you to ensure he eats the first bite of your special pastry. He startles a little, then hums in approval at the enticing taste. You hand him the plate and offer him the cherry garnished tea, then remove your gloves, careful not to cross contaminate your dishes from his. 

“This is really good,” Jay says, and you smile more slyly than a Cheshire cat. “So,” you begin, dragging your fingertips across his wrist when he accepts the beverage from you, “tell me.”

You lean in like you’re utterly fascinated by him, like you can’t wait a moment more to learn all there is to know about him. 

“How is it that someone as…” you trail off with a breathy sigh. “Rugged… as you is still flying solo, as it were?”

You take a sip from your cup, gaze locked onto his, scrutinizing each quirk of his brow and twitch of his smirk, searching for anything he might reveal beyond his words.

“Well,” he starts, puffing his chest and acting all cool and nonchalant. “You know, playing the field is a full time job.”

“Both of them.” You hum. He looks at you blankly. You shake your head. 

“Nevermind.” You murmur. You can feel yourself growing antsy. You’re not sure how long your dear cat friend will keep Dude and Carlos distracted, and Jay’s had enough candorcorn root syrup to testify in front of a parliament of owls. It’s time to cut through the detritus and root around until you find what you’re really here for. You set down your teacup, leaning forward.

“Dating must be so hard coming from somewhere like the Isle.” 

He starts to answer, but you don’t pay much mind, continuing your train of thought. 

“It’s just… if someone as enticing as you hasn’t been locked down yet, how is it that Mal managed to get a prince like Ben wrapped around her finger so quickly?”

Jay puffs out his chest, laughing at your flattery and taking another bite of the tiramisu. 

“Well, I’m not really at liberty to say,” he starts, leaning casually and flexing his arms as he stretches. “But let’s just say Mal really worked her magic on him, you know?”

He laughs, and your stomach sinks. You have to remind yourself to manually laugh along with him. 

“Really,” you tease, leaning closer. “And what sort of magic would that be?”

“Oh, you know Mal and her freaky mind control thing.” He chuckles, wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes to mimic when hers glow. 

“But when you’re out on the tourney field…”

He continues boasting about his sportic success, but your mind is entirely elsewhere. Mind control. Of course. You wonder how you didn’t realize it sooner. Mind control, the same trance Mal’s mother used to lure Aurora up to the spinning wheel. Your heart starts thudding painfully in your chest as your mind races, grappling with the ramifications of what this could mean, the danger Ben and all of Auradon could be in. 

You stand up quickly, reaching into your tea pot bag and pulling out a few neutrestnuts you’d snagged from your last trip to Wonderland. You smack one loudly against Jay’s bedpost, cracking it open in one swift movement. Before he can ask what you’re doing - or even realize you’ve stopped listening to his ramblings about tourney - you’ve pushed the nut inside his mouth. 

“There we go,” you say, watching him to ensure he eats it. “There’s your after dinner nut. They’re all the rage in Wonderland.”

It’s a lie, but not one he needs to worry about. You gather up the remaining tiramisu and tea cups, leaving his dorm quickly. The neutrestnut should take effect and neutralize the honesty that comes from consuming candorcorn root, so Jay will be back to rights quite soon and be none the wiser. 

You wrack your mind as you try to figure out where you can learn more about dark fairy magic. Not much is known about it, and what is known is heavily debated by both magic experts and members of the fairy community. You pause, remembering something, something that sits just on the tip of your tongue. The Museum of Cultural History has Maleficent’s staff on display. Maybe there’s some information there, something too specific for the usual library catalogs. 

You check the time on your pocket watch and see the little hand is pointed to the words Hurry On Now Hurry Girl, The Doors Of Wisdom Are Nearly Closed!

Realizing the time pressure cooker of a pickle in which you find yourself, you take off like a bolt of midnight blue, rushing across campus to get to the museum on time. You’re sure you can persuade the guard to let you stay late, being from the Wonderland Embassy and all. When Alice Liddle of Wonderland is your mother, people tend to go along with any strange or unusual requests you make. 

You reach the museum just in the nicknack of time, catching the guard’s eye just as he’s about to lock up. After a rush and babble of explanations, he concedes, letting you in with a concerned nod. You’re not quite sure he’s following what you’re saying, but you’re in, which is really all you’re troubled with at that moment. 

“Oh- uh, I suppose so, Miss Liddel.” The guard agrees. “Just make sure to check in with me before you leave.”

“Thank you so much-” you glance down at his name tag. “Neil. Truly, thank you.”

He nods, accepting your gratitude. Before you can leave, he chuckles lightly.

“Doing some studying for parents day?” He asks with a smile. 

The archive is in your sight, but you stop in your tracks. 

Parents day. 

In the tizzy you’d been swept into you had totally forgotten parents day. Will you have enough time to prepare? You must. There’s really no way around it. Maybe if you can work quickly enough, you’ll be able to get back to your dorm soon enough to get everything ready by morning. You turn to Neil with a smile you hope comes off as sincere and not panicked. 

“Precisely.”

You enter the archive quickly, rushing through titles in hopes of spotting one that reads To Miss Liddel, Within Contains the Answer to All Your Troubles. Just like you’d expected, and unlike you had hoped, that particular book appears to be nowhere in sight. You don’t lose hope, though. You find a treasure trove of old, dusty, complicated books that each contain a little breadcrumb of what you’re looking for. 

You just hope you can gather enough to form a loaf before daybreak.

[bakuliwrites]

It's the little things that Astarion comes to savor with his freedom.

Over the course of his journey with you and the others, he wakes every morning to the gilded light of the sun. He greets it as if greeting an old friend, basking in the warmth of reunion. He's not sure how much longer he'll have to enjoy it, so he relishes every moment he spends in its incandescent light.

Astarion savors the smell of freshly brewed tea. Bergamot, lemon, mint. Herbaceous, floral, earthy, bright. He breathes it all in, everything he can. Long gone are the fetid smells of rot and pungent bile that filled Cazador's palace. Every once in a while, a carcass on the road might hit him with that powerful, unpleasant scent memory. So he's taken to carrying a handkerchief he's spritzed with his signature scent in order to cover his mouth and nose when the memories come flooding back. Something to ground him in the present moment. Over time, when the scent of the handkerchief begins to fade and his bond with his companions grows closer, he starts to douse it in their various perfumes. To remind him of family. To remind him of his real home.

Everything feels bright and new. Sometimes overwhelmingly so. But always transcendently beautiful. The green of the leaves high above him, the way the ground is dappled with sunlight. The almost lurid colors of wildflowers, harsh on his eyes at first, but he'd rather that then the sapped grays of his previous confines. He marvels at the sun sinking beyond the horizon in vibrant pinks and oranges. He hems and haws over various dyes sold by merchants along the road, wondering what color might suit him best. There are so many to choose from, so many striking possibilities.

Astarion cherishes moonlit walks down quiet roads, fingers intertwined with yours, the stars twinkling high above. Gazing upwards, there's a vastness that stretches infinitely above. No longer is he trapped, enclosed in the depths. When he looks up, there's no ceiling to greet him. No ominous, crushing darkness. Only the boundless heavens above, and a wide world unfurling around him.

Astarion holds close every moment he shares with his fellow adventurers. The back and forth teasing, all in good fun, all out of affection. Although sometimes the arguments turn nasty. But even these don't bother him for long. At the end of the day, everyone settles and anger is forgotten around the crackling warmth of the campfire. Sharing meals together, resting under the shade of a great tree. Swapping stories, weaving tales together. Karlach's resounding laughter echoing through the night. Shadowheart's quiet smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Lae'zel begrudgingly smirking at one of Astarion’s snarky quips. Halsin's strong, but quiet presence. Astarion even finds himself smiling at some of Gale's various displays of his magic and Wyll's heroic tales. He'd never admit any of that out loud to them, but when his eyelids start to droop at night, he smiles to himself, grateful to be amongst friendly company.

Astarion cherishes waking up next to you every morning, and settling in beside you every night. You kissing him awake, lips featherlight on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. The crook of your neck is a safe space for Astarion, one you've helped him build over these last several months. When he's there, he feels protected. You hold him close, enveloping him warmly in your embrace, surrounding him in the gentle scent of you and the metal of your blood. You and the people in this little camp have come to mean safety, nourishment, and home to him. And it's these little things that mean more than anything to Astarion in the whole world.

[sky-snz]

The cafe smells as lovely as ever, but even sitting inside, they’re unaware.

That one, over there, slumped in the brown leather booth by the window. Practically swaddled in a reasonable number of winter layers, their arms rest atop the table. A hot cup of tea sits in front of them, inches below a visibly streaming red nose. 

They can’t detect the signature earthy scent of strong coffee that hangs in the air - but there’s some placebo effect that the tea makes, as the steam twirls upward in wisps. Its deep amber colour is enough to hint some idea of its strength. Familiar, safe, and healing mundane. It’s too hot to drink, and they’re too feverish at this point to consider moving, so they just sit still.

Spell-like swirls of vapour rise beneath rosy red nostrils, gently warming the sensitive membranes. Watery mucus trails down their upper lip. They taste salt and sniffle thickly a few times. Their shoulder muscles complain as they lean back, raising a slightly damp, folded handkerchief to dab gently under their chapped nostrils. Eyes in a thoughtful trance, softly fixed on a point outside the cafe window. Cars go by and spray the curbs with salt and pepper slush.

Why they're there instead of home, no one is sure. Perhaps they’re waiting for someone. Perhaps they'd ran out of tea.

Slowly, they lean back forward, putting their face over the steaming mug. More warm vapour kisses their chapped, red nose. It begins to run again, causing a new sensation. In two seconds development, an awfully ticklish sensation. Blinking, they turn their face away from the mug. 

A combination of sweat and condensation cools the surface of their face. Groggy and consumed by the urge to sneeze, their eyelids flutter. It’s there for a second - white hot, a bit like frozen flesh coming in from the bitter cold. Their chin tucks downward as their brown begins to pinch, then, god no-

... Well, come on then.

Then, they exhale. A sigh pours shakily from their lips, and they draw in some sharp sniffles.

“…*hsnrff!* …. *snNRFh!*”

The girl behind the counter pouring coffee peeks up at them, while the customer who just ordered isn't brave enough to. The poor soul at the booth peers down into their hot cup of tea, eyes wet and weary. It keeps steaming, still smelling strongly of the leaves. Not that they’re able to detect it. 

[strawbqq]

hii i love your posts especially the chuuya hcs!!!!! pls would u write scent Hcs for Chuuya, dazai, + hunting dogs if u can??? tysm the rest of the details r up to u 🥺🥺

a/n: OMG??? GOT MY FIRST REQUEST YALL.ᐟ.ᐟ of course, this is such a cute request.ᐟ.ᐟ ｡ﾟ(TヮT) I added ranpo, aku + fyodor cuz why not lol

―⟡𝘽𝙎𝘿 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙘𝙨.ᐟ

[Warnings: none.ᐟ✰] [Word count: 212 || 𝓮𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂.ᐟ]🍓

𝙳𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚒 ✧

actually smells nice

doesn't wear strong perfume/cologne tho

smells like leather and parchment

a clean, faint sort of smell♡

𝙲𝚑𝚞𝚞𝚢𝚊 ✧

vanilla!!!!!

uses sTrOng perfumes, those expensive ass ones too

probably also smells a bit like wine, cigarettes, and ash

u sneeze when ur near him

𝙹𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚘 ✧

pays so much attention to what he smells like lmao

faintly flavored soap + clean laundry 🫧

^Nothing strong; his heightened senses hates that

always smells clean no matter what

𝚃𝚎𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚞 ✧

umm...i can't see him caring much lol

probably his weird food combinations??

otherwise just a rlly faint, warmish smell from recently working out

*maybe some green tea as well🍵

𝚁𝚊𝚗𝚙𝚘 ✧

this man lmao

marshmallows, candy, and crayons all mixed together

probably haven't taken a bath in weeks

smells like whatever snack he's been eating that day

𝙵𝚢𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛 ✧

something bitter, like dark chocolate

a slightly ink/woody smell??

very subtle

smells like how a typical russian rat would smell

𝙰𝚔𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚠𝚊 ✧

the people he killed😭

ok but jokes aside, he probably does smell like iron

earthy kind of

isn't really into perfumes or anything lmao

a/n: this was so fun to write!!! ty for this request, i hope u have a great day!! i really needa start writing more for ADA & DOA too lol

yall whyd this actually flop real bad :,) tysm for those who liked & reblogged ♡

𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾.ᐟ ʚ🍓ɞ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs + ʟɪᴋᴇs ʜɪɢʜʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ

o(≧▽≦)o

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 3

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, mentions of death and war, Targaryens trying to flirt

Words: 6.8k

Days pass and every day Rhaelle brings herself to her knees before the throne, pleading for her sister’s restoration as Lady of Runestone, as their mother’s heir, for her freedom and for her life.

Aemond denies her. Again and again he denies her, and each day she appears before him, she thinks she sees his expression darkening. It is obvious that he is a proud man, a second son who was never meant to be King, repeatedly defied by the second daughter of a traitor. Lord Corlys tells her to give him time to persuade the King and the council. He also warns how quickly Aemond’s patience can turn into anger with deadly consequences. What else can she do but try, even if it means tempting his rage?

They have been here a fortnight and not much has improved. She and Daena often take tea with the other ladies and attend dinners in the throne room but Aemond’s court is an echo of what she remembers from the reign of his father. The dinners are polite, the music is sombre, the dances are slow. There is no joy in the castle, just talk of the fast approaching winter.

Back home, the running of the castle— her castle thanks to Aemond’s generosity— would keep her busy. Between her duties she would be able to steal a few hours for herself, read her favourite texts in the library or mount her horse and roam the surrounding lands as she pleased, bringing back pheasants because Alyssa was the sister to inherit their mother’s talent for hunting larger quarry.

One night she dreams she is riding her horse, a beautiful grey stallion she has back at Runestone named Semyon for the legendary knight with sapphires for eyes. It feels so real with the wind whispering in her ears, the scent of the fields and the forest, the slightly earthy taste on her tongue. She rides along the paths she has followed since she was a girl, the same her mother would have followed, and passes the valley where her body was found, tightening her grip on the reins and the saddle, as she always does. The sky seems to darken. A figure blocks out the sun and lets out a whistling, rippling screech, the cry of a beast she has only heard a handful of times, and never will again.

She is woken by a sound that still rings in her ears as her eyes open, sweat clinging uncomfortably to her skin. It sounds again, a faint clash of metal. It is a wonder it was even enough to rouse her. 

The stone floor stings against the bare skin of her soles, the cold creeping into her flesh and sinking itself into her very bones. Yet she walks, first to the chaise by the wardrobe to wrap a thick robe around herself, and then to the window. The days are darker now. The sun takes longer to rise and beyond her window the sky is a glum shade of grey.

Down in the courtyard, before the steps of the holdfast, a flash of silver catches her eye.

Aemond is a fearsome fighter, tall, lean and lithe, moving quickly and fluidly. He bests his opponent, Ser Willis, with a few brutal blows, holding the edge of his blade to the man’s throat. Before long he is eager to go again.

She can imagine him on a battlefield, his face silently furious, carving through the men and boys who dared to place themselves in his way. She can imagine him in the courtyard of a ruined castle, blood on his face and hands. They say he slaughtered each member of House Strong himself, and then he bedded one of their bastards and made her a Lady. Daena thinks he would not have given a servant such an honour unless she had borne him a bastard, but Princes have sired bastards before and had mistresses from far more noble backgrounds. What was so remarkable about Alys Rivers?

With a particularly harsh swing of his sword, Aemond brings his blade down upon Ser Willis’, but the Lord Commander recovers quickly and begins an attack. Aemond is clearly taken by surprise and quickly forced to his knees with a frustrated grunt, one which she hears easily through the quiet of the early morning. He is facing the window though she doubts he will notice her. He glares up at Ser Willis, lips parted as he pants for breath. He looks enraged, vengeful even, and she almost expects him to leap up and attack with renewed force. Instead he bows his head and accepts Ser Wills’ hand to help him to his feet.

As a slight draft brushes over the exposed parts of her skin, she imagines the sound of his breathing and finds herself struck by a strange feeling of emptiness.

Later that morning she dons a blood red gown and makes a journey through the castle which is all too familiar to her now, to the waiting chamber by the throne room. Lord Corlys is there, speaking to a man who she has only seen across a room, more often than not, glaring at her along with the Hightower brothers. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his face appears surprisingly younger than the flecks of grey in his hair and his beard would suggest. He has sharp eyes that stay fixed on her as she approaches.

Concern briefly flashes over Lord Corlys’ face as he steps forward to greet her, but the other man already has his hand extended to her. “Unwin Peake,” he says. “We have not been formally introduced, Lady Rhaelle.”

She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or how he says her name, but smiles and takes his hand.

Unwin Peake fancies himself a war hero. Rhaelle is not so easily misled. She knows he led a thousand men under the banner of King Aegon, only for half of them to desert him when he proved a less than capable leader. She knows he tried and failed to seize control of the Hightower host after Tumbleton, that he quarrelled with his rivals to the point of bloodshed, and yet somehow earned himself a place on the Small Council before Aegon’s death. 

Lord Corlys catches her eye and seems to be uneasy. She gives him a small nod as Lord Unwin takes her by the arm and leads them into the throne room. It is a show of courtesy, one she must accept with grace.

Aemond is already upon the throne, legs crossed, leaning into one side, without fear of cutting himself on the blades. Noblemen and smallfolk alike come before him and he responds to every concern with such eloquence and certainty, as though the entire ordeal has been rehearsed. 

And he always looks ahead. Rhaelle stands on his seeing side, below the throne, but he shows no indication that he has seen her or that he intends to acknowledge her.

She knows what she will say and she knows what his reply will be, and in that certainty there is fear. She can hardly keep her hands still, pressing her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from trembling. The pain isn’t much of a distraction. All she feels is cold, even through the thick material of her gown. She pictures her sister in a cell, in the darkness, perhaps even in chains. 

Another chill slips down her spine as she hears a footstep sound softly behind her.

“Do you know what Lord Tyland has taken to calling you?” Unwin Peake’s voice hisses close to her ear.

Rhaelle clenches her jaw. She expects he will tell her whether she wants him to or not.

“He calls you the reluctant Lady of Runestone.”

She presses her nails deeper into her skin.

She finally spurns herself forwards. Aemond’s eye finds her as she enters his line of vision, fixed on her as she moves across the room and kneels before the throne.

She bows her head and stares down at the flagstones, at the crevices between the stones, the flecks of dirt and dust settled within. Any nervous or curious chatter has ceased. The hall is quiet enough that she is sure the onlookers will be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest. If she holds her breath she can see it pulsing through the neckline of her dress.

Meeting his eye is a strange sort of thrill. He watches her sternly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers tapping against the arm of the throne.

She opens her mouth to speak but his voice pierces the air, clear and demanding. “Dearest cousin,” he says, then exhales sharply through his nose. “You come before me yet again.”

“Your Grace–”

“No, I already know what you’re going to ask of me, and my answer will be the same. Alyssa Targaryen may be my blood but she defied her true King.”

“I know my sister. She is wise and just, but dragged into a war she should never have been a part of.”

“She is a traitor.”

“And yet she has not been put on trial. You seem content to hold her. Why? Allow her a chance to prove her innocence before she is condemned, or else let her return to her home.”

“You have come before me every day since your arrival, to plead on behalf of a traitor. I do wonder what that might make you, Lady Rhaelle?”

“It makes me loyal to my family. I love my sister, and her suffering is my suffering.”

“As admirable as that declaration may be, I have made my decision. I will not hear any more from you on this matter.”

“If you had a chance to save your own sibling from a terrible fate would you not take it? Could you ever forgive yourself if you stopped trying?”

Something about his face changes. There is an absence of amusement, something quiet but cold in the way his eyes and his lips soften.

When his eye falls away from her she thinks she might have made a grave mistake.

He holds the arms of the throne as he stands, grips the iron with his fingertips when it is barely in his reach. Without another word he leaves the hall through the side chamber, keeping his head and his crown held high, while his fists are clenched at his sides.

She shares a look with Lord Corlys, himself stunned at the irregularity. Aemond never leaves the throne room until he has heard each grievance, and never shies from his duties.

The King is an elusive figure at the best of times. He does not seem to enjoy the more frivolous aspects of rulership. If he is seen at dinners in the throne room, he confines himself to the high table along with Lord Corlys. Other than his early morning spars with Ser Willis in the courtyard or his occasional rides out into the Kingswood, he appears to spend most of his time in his chambers. She imagines him pouring over ledgers and papers by candlelight, his face hardened in concentration.

That night, when his seat at the high table remains empty, Rhaelle cannot help but fear she has been the cause of this absence. Did her words truly anger him so deeply? Is her persistence so vexing to him? 

She finds herself unable to settle when she retires to her chambers that night. She is starving and yet she has no appetite. Her body feels heavy and her head aches behind her eyes, yet her mind is spinning and will not allow her to find sleep.

He said he would not hear from her on the matter. She pushed too far, allowed her desperation to cloud her judgement and attempted to argue on sympathy rather than reason. Now she feels it all slipping away, any sense of control she had when she arrived in King’s Landing, any hope she had of reuniting their family after so many years. Why would she ever think that Aemond should show mercy to a prisoner on a plea of sisterly love?

He must have loved his sister, gentle Helaena, who wore a gown of pale blue and gold to the wedding of Alyssa and Jacaerys. She smiled rarely, never in the presence of her husband, she could barely even stand to take his arm as they entered the Sept and the throne room. Her eyes often found Aemond though, glassy with tears when he winced at the pain of his wound, as if she shared in it. Did he ever imagine, when he left for Harrenhal, that he would never see her again?

The next morning she wakes with the sunrise, somehow the shortened sleep has left her more awake than she usually is. She is already halfway dressed in her riding leathers, fashioned from a set of her mother’s, when Morra enters her bedchamber, and Rhaelle immediately sends her to the stables to ensure a horse is readied for her.

Finally, once she has pulled on her boots and tied her hair into a single braid, she heads down herself, but not before stopping by the window. The sun has yet to appear over the walls of the castle and the courtyard is empty.

She huffs to herself, at the restless feeling that’s been gnawing at her insides for weeks. 

The entrance yard at the front of the Red Keep is bustling with servants carrying baskets and barrels, men unloading carts and carrying their contents towards the kitchens. Morra is waiting for her by the steps, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

Rhaelle pulls out her gloves and slips them onto her hands. “Did you find me a horse?” she says.

“Yes, my Lady, but there is another matter–”

She can already see what the other matter is. Aemond is standing by the gates, dressed in black riding attire, arguing with one of the stable hands. He has a beautiful grey horse on a lead, with a coat that shimmers like silk in the early sunlight. The stable hand stands with a slightly smaller horse, brown with a white spot on its nose. These are both muscular creatures meant for speed.

Rhaelle approaches them with Morra close behind. “Your Grace,” she says firmly but calmly. The two men immediately cease and face her, the stable hand with his head bowed, Aemond with a slight frown on his face and the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aemond says, entirely unconvincingly.

There is noise all around them, voices, footsteps, men and women at work, and yet the silence between Aemond and Rhaelle is palpable. 

“I was intending to ride through the Kingswood this morning,” Rhaelle says, holding her hands firmly in front of her, unmoving, unafraid. “Perhaps you were intending to do the same?”

“I was.”

“What a happy coincidence,” she says, willfully ignoring the shortness of his tone. “We could ride together, then? I do not know the woods you see, I think I would benefit from having a companion.”

Aemond purses his lips, and glances between her and the horse being held by the stable hand. “It would be my pleasure, dear cousin.” 

She smiles graciously. 

Aemond hums to himself, then takes hold of the grey horse’s saddle and hoists himself into it with ease. As it happens, the brown horse is a similar size to Symeon. She finds her footing in the stirrup and hauls herself up, settling comfortably in the saddle. 

“You ride well, I assume?” Aemond asks her.

She tries not to display any contempt at this subtle insult. “I believe myself to be a more than competent rider, Your Grace.”

He offers her a tight smile, though it fades quickly. His seeing eye remains alert. 

Two men of the Kingsguard ride with them through the city. Aemond does not wear his crown but the people know their King, atop his horse, Blackfyre hanging from his hip, his silver hair tied away from his face but flowing proudly down his back, his eyepatch an unmissable feature. They stand aside as they move through the streets, met with awe, either glad or fearful, and distant calls of “long live the King!” 

Aemond does not wave, smile or bow his head to anyone, though he occasionally looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze. Does he expect her to disappear? Does he expect her to ram a knife into his back? 

How quickly he seems to phase through different states of being. One moment he is amused, the next proud, the next infuriated, concerned, remorseful. And how terrible he is at hiding this in his face, no matter how subtle he is, but a mystery remains because she still cannot read his thoughts, no matter how she pleads to the old gods and the new that she could.

Before long, they reach the southern gates of the city. She can see the forest ahead of them as soon as they are out of the walls of King’s Landing. The trees are dark, lush evergreens, reaching far from the west and east towards the seafront, to the cliffs that overlook the bay, raised on hills and going further south than she can see.

The guards stay with them a little longer, until they pass over a bridge across the Blackwater Rush and the road becomes quieter. Most of the people here are travelling along the Rose Road towards Highgarden, but Aemond leads her towards the treeline, along a path often used for hunting, so he says. It seems to head towards the coast.

Mostly staying at the edge of the forest, the trees are sparse. It’s not like the wide open fields and hills that she is used to. To one side she sees tree trunks, spots of darkness where the forest is thicker and closer. To the other she sees glimpses of the sky and the sea below it. 

Aemond slows his horse slightly so they can ride side by side at a comfortable trot. Now she cannot look out over the bay without looking at him, or appearing to at least. 

She realises they have not spoken a single word to each other since they left the castle.

“Do you ride often?” she asks.

“When I wish to, and when I can find time to,” he says without looking at her.

She nods to herself, letting her eyes linger on the way he rocks with the motions of the saddle, the way he grips the reins with gloved hands.

“I like to hunt back at Runestone,” she says, facing forward once more, “do you hunt?”

This captures his attention. He turns his head to her, glances up and down. “You did not bring a bow.”

“Or a blade, no. I was not intending to kill anything this morning.”

Aemond hesitates, then smirks. “I never made a habit out of hunting. It is a tedious sport, more suited to times of peace.”

It is a harrowing reminder of the kind of man who rides beside her, a man who kills and holds his own family prisoner.

“You like to spar too. I see you in the courtyard most mornings,” she says.

“I do not like to make a spectacle of myself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, but it is rather difficult to avoid when it happens below my window.”

He turns his head towards Rhaelle, and she finds herself entirely distracted. Away from the gloom of the Keep, without his crown and the way he commands the fear of his courtiers, his beauty is unobstructed. His lips and his seeing eye settle in a way that seems gentle. “If it disturbs you then I shall remedy it.” 

“No need,” she says, “for what it is worth, you perform extremely well.”

He smiles again, dipping his head slightly as he adjusts his hold of the reins. “Come then, you say you are a competent rider, I’d like to see a performance from you,” he says, catching her eye.

Her breath stops in her throat. 

He kicks his horse’s side and in an instant he’s bolting down the path.

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, kicking her horse into a canter, then quickly into a full gallop. It follows her commands easily enough but she remains cautious, keeping a tight grip on the reins and with her thighs, chasing the gleam of silver ahead of her. She does not know if Aemond is leading her or racing her, and for now she doesn’t care. Excitement surges through her. She feels the impact of the horses hooves as they meet the dirt. Her stomach drops as they head deeper into the forest, darting between branches, leaping over streams and fallen trees.

She seems to be gaining on Aemond and spots a ridge she thinks might allow her to overtake him. It’s a risk she takes without thinking it through, urging her mount up and along the narrow trail. They seem to stumble at one point but she doesn’t stop. She passes Aemond, just as she thought she would. He looks up at her with a wide eye, the traces of a laugh echoing behind her as she leaps down, back onto the main path. 

There’s a clearing not far ahead where the path splits into two, she would wager Aemond had this in mind as an end point. She slows her horse gradually, checking behind her to see him doing the same. She turns the horse to face him, trying not to beam or appear too pleased with herself, but she cannot help it. Her cheeks burn at the exertion and the effort it’s taking to withhold her smile.

The sun is rising higher above them. The light catches on his hair, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the curve of his lip as he tries to catch his breath. “I’d say you are more than competent,” he calls, tugging on the reins to bring his own horse to a stop.

“I spent most of my childhood on horseback,” she says. “Ser Gerold always said I took after my mother.”

His amusement fades into something passive, observant.

“She used to take Alyssa and I out with her one at a time in the saddle with her. As soon as I was old enough to ride by myself I could hardly be kept from the stables. Alyssa and I used to race each other around the hills for hours, or until we were called back to the castle for our lessons.”

Aemond watches her as she speaks, breathing deeply, his brow hardened like he’s trying to concentrate.

“Still,” she says, patting her horse’s neck as it starts to get restless, “I cannot imagine it could ever compare to riding a dragon.”

“It is a poor substitute, to be sure,” Aemond says quietly, like he did on the balcony, but she can see the change in him again. With a quick huff, the gentle look in his face disappears and he dismounts his horse. “There’s a stream close by, we should water the horses.”

He approaches her, reaching his hands up to help her dismount. Her more prideful side wishes to tell him she does not need the help, but she accepts it, swinging her leg round so he can hold his waist as he lowers her down. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, even once her boots have met the ground. The pressure of his fingertips through the thick layers of fabric are almost intangible, but it makes her breathless all the same.

They take the horses to the stream at the edge of the clearing, tying the leads to a tree and patting them down reassuringly as they drink. Rhaelle sits herself in the grass, out in the sunlight. Aemond joins her, but he reminds her of a cautious animal, following her a little unsurely, sitting beside her, always watching the space around them.

The air is cold but she feels the sun’s warmth beaming down on her face.

She hears Aemond take a breath before he speaks. “You never claimed a dragon?”

“No,” she says.

“You never had an egg in your cradle?”

“No. My mother insisted her children would be born and raised in her home.”

“And in the traditions of House Royce?”

“For the most part.”

“But your father never…” he stops himself with a deep breath. With his chin tilted down he lifts his gaze to look at her. The sunlight shines in his right eye, cold and clear like a stream, like a cloudless violet sky at dusk. Like this, sat amongst overgrown grass and the last of the autumn wildflowers, he doesn’t look like a tyrant. He doesn’t look like a man who burned half of the Riverlands to ash and fought in a battle that left the waters of the God’s Eye red with blood. 

Ser Gerold would have been glad to see Daemon’s end. He called it “justice” when news came to Runestone of his death, justice for the wife he murdered and the daughters he neglected. 

Looking at Aemond now she wonders if he regrets it. Does he look at her and see the eyes of the man he killed staring back at him? Does it haunt him to be near her, is that why he watches her so intently?

“I asked him once if I could fly with him,” she says. “I was so desperate to know what it was like. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t laugh or scoff, he just looked down at me. My suggestion was so unremarkable that he didn’t waste so much as a breath on me. Of course I went crying to my mother about it. She took me into her arms and told me that the only difference between riding a dragon and riding a horse was the distance between you and the ground. So much further to fall, she said.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot disagree with her.”

And oh how her father must have fallen, through fire and empty space, into blood and water.

“What was it like to have a dragon?” she asks.

Something in him comes alive. He looks at her with a quiet excitement, shuffling ever so slightly closer to her. “I used to believe a dragon was a birthright. My siblings all claimed their mounts when they were young, and my nephews shared their cradles with eggs and watched them hatch. For many years I was an outlier, a dragonless Targaryen, I was nothing. But it is an earned right, one that must be claimed.” As he speaks he draws his knee up to rest his arm upon it, his hand restless as he speaks. “Dragons are creatures with their own wills. We cannot control them fully, but we guide them.”

“And you claimed the fiercest of them,” she says.

She remembers Driftmark like it was a dream. She remembers standing by the sea as the coffin of Laena Velaryon was delivered to the waves, looking at the faces of a family she scarcely knew in the aftermath, clinging to the only people she had left in the world, Daena and Alyssa.

She remembers someone storming into her chambers as she slept, the shadowy face of her father appearing in the moonlight that beamed through the window. “We are needed in the Hall of Nine,” he said.

“We?”

He found Alyssa in the next room and left Daena to sleep, marching down the dark corridors of Hightide. They walked in on a scene that terrified her. While their father leaned against the doorway, almost amused, Alyssa and Rhaelle walked further inside, hand in hand. They could not see clearly past the crowd that had gathered to watch this battle between the Princess and the Queen, but there was shouting, pleading, blood on the faces of Rhaenyra’s sons and blood on the face of the King’s son, Aemond.

She peered through the bodies, the fabric of nightgowns and the haze of the braziers to see him sitting there, stitches in his face, smaller cuts on his brow and his lip. He didn’t look at the eye discarded in a tray by his side, he didn’t look to his siblings for reassurance or comfort. First he glared at his father with a hatred that somehow seemed contained, stunned but unsurprised. Then he looked at his mother, with far more understanding than a child should ever have to need.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” the boy said, “I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

“A dragon is terror and freedom,” Aemond says as her eyes drift over the edges of his scar and the details of the leather patch that conceals the rest. “When I claimed Vhagar, centuries of power and strength became mine. I felt her in solitude, I learned from her.”

It shows, she thinks, that he grew bonded to a beast of conquest, a witness to her fire and majesty, and took that into himself.

Her eyes trail lower, over his jaw, the pale skin of his neck just visible beneath his collar, which ends with a silver buckle. She can pinpoint the rise and fall of his breath, the detailings of golden dragons against the black leather, his hair draped over his shoulders and down his body.

She feels her legs getting numb and shifts her weight onto her palm, placed on the grass beside her so that she leans in closer to him.

“But to take flight on Vhagar,” Aemond says softly, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eye gleaming and trained on her, “to feel the force of her wings, the wind and the weightlessness…”

She feels herself clinging to every word he says, each subtle breath he takes, the minuscule movements in his face as he inches closer to her. Only for her heart to sink when he pauses. 

He reaches up, taking the end of her braid between his gloved fingers. “I wish you could have known what it was like.”

“It is like you said,” she says, “it is not a birthright, it is something earned.”

“By those of our blood,” Aemond says, his eye darting back up to meet hers. “You should have had the chance to earn it.”

Our blood, the blood of dragons and conquerors, of Queens and Princes, of weak Kings and cruel fathers.

He releases his hold of her hair, positioning it over her shoulder and tracing his fingertips over the coat of her leathers. His eye follows, then slowly returns to her face. “Might I show you something?” 

“Yes, of course,” she says, carefully withholding eagerness in her voice. “Shall we fetch the horses?”

“No,” Aemond says, rising and offering his hand for her to take. “We’ll go on foot.”

He keeps her hand in his, leather against leather, as he leads her down the path, freshly disturbed by hoof prints, away from the clearing and back into the forest. He stops where the path diverged into two and with a small inclination of his head, they walk along the trail that leads uphill. This way is not as the other, overgrown with grass and even the thick, twisted roots of trees. Aemond is keen to guide her, walking just ahead, tightening his grip on her at the slightest of obstacles. 

The hill becomes steep, and in fact she is grateful for his caution when she loses her footing on a loose rock and he is there to steady her, determined that she shall stay upright. The higher they climb the sparser the trees, the louder the wind howls, the closer the sound of the water becomes. The path leads on, but Aemond stops and steps out into the open.

She stands behind his shoulder to shield herself from the wind, clutching his hand and squinting through the blinding sunlight on the eastern horizon, over the waves of the Blackwater, roaring and crashing against one another, against the base off the cliff they stand on. The city is nothing but distant shapes, further along the curve of the shore. The Red Keep, where standing at its gates seems to reach high into the heavens, seems so unremarkable from here. The cold seeps through her leathers. Sea salt stings in her eyes and on her tongue.

“My mother’s sworn shield taught me to ride on horseback, Ser Criston Cole. He’d lead me through these woods, until I knew all the trails by heart,” Aemond says, leaning into her so she can hear him. His breath is warm against her ear, his grip on her hand still unrelenting. “I came across this place when I was a boy. I used to sit here for hours, especially when the others would ride their dragons.”

Gulls sail effortlessly through the sea air. She imagines dragons in their place.

“A childish indulgence,” Aemond mutters.

“Show me,” she says, tilting her head up to meet his eye.

He smiles to himself. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the very edge of the cliff face, at a slab of grey stone reaching out below the rocks and spray of the sea.

“On the ledge?” she says, her legs unsure beneath her.

He releases her hand to gently guide her by her waist. “Right here,”

Her stomach lurches when her boots leave the earth. If it is the truth or a trick of the mind the stone seems to move beneath her. “Aemond, I’m going to fall!”

But he holds her waist tight, pulling her into him until she feels the heat of his body through their riding leathers, the hilt of Blackfyre pressing against her back.  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”

She cannot seem to breathe, gasping for air as she wills her heart to calm. She grasps at his hands, clinging to him as if he would not merely fall with her. His proximity to her is not quite comforting, it only seems to make her more afraid, but it is a pleasant sort of fear.

“Can you imagine it,” he says, leaning his cheek against her temple, “out of reach of the rest of the world, the heat of a dragon beneath you, the wind against your skin, the weightlessness?”

The force of the wind seems to push her closer into his grasp. She can feel the terror. One misstep and she will fall, her body dashed out over the rocks below, her blood feeding into the water.

“I could feel her fire brewing beneath her hide. I could feel it burning in my blood and my throat before she unleashed it,” Aemond whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

She shudders, letting herself turn into him, letting her hands close around his wrists.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against hers. She feels his heat. She feels something like fire burning in her blood and wonders if it burns in his too. A gloved hand delicately takes her chin. 

It would be easy to give into him, she thinks. She would have been glad to do it the first time she laid eyes upon him.

But she knows she must not allow herself to be ruled by impulse and desire. She cannot escape him completely but she turns her head back towards the open water. Aemond is still holding her, still breathing against her neck.

She waits for him to guide her back, to the safety of solid ground, away from the ledge. Now he cannot meet her eye.

They walk back to the clearing and Aemond holds her hand again, though this time she does not stumble. Aemond unties her horse, helps her into her saddle and she waits for him before they set off back down the path.

The ride back to King’s Landing is a silent one. Each step their horses take through the woods feels heavy in her ears, the closing of a door, the beat of a funeral drum. She looks ahead to Aemond, hoping he will turn back and catch her eye but he does not. 

She wants to tear her hair out from the roots and strike herself across the face. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake and yet she has done exactly that. What if the King feels slighted? What if he holds this against her? 

The guards are waiting for them by the bridge and escort them back through the city. The streets are busier and grey now that the sun has risen and hidden itself behind a sky of clouds.

But the entrance yard at the Red Keep is no longer filled with servants. Instead the clashes of steel ring out against the walls of the castle, as men of the Kingsguard, nobles and knights spar, to the awe of a few spectators.

Aemond pays little mind to the people in the yard. Even when they greet him he simply nods his head. As his horse is taken by a stable hand, swings a leg over the head and slips effortlessly from the saddle.

Then he approaches her horse, wordlessly holding out his hands, offering his assistance. She allows this, and purposefully turns to face him once her boots have met the ground, keeping her hands on his shoulders, not too firmly, for she cannot appear to be too forceful.

“Your Grace,” she says, determined that their eyes should meet again. “I am sorry if I have offended you, truly,” she says quietly, though she will hardly avoid attention when she stands with the King, his hands lingering on her waist, more timidly than he had been in the woods.

Aemond looks at her, and once again his expression is a gentle one. “I am anything but,” he says, one of his thumbs tracing circles over her leathers. He lowers his voice. “The truth is I am deeply moved by your loyalty to your sister. You were right, I have regrets of my own.”

There have been all kinds of rumours regarding Queen Helaena’s death. Some say she was pushed from the window, perhaps even by Rhaenyra herself, and others say she threw herself from it. She was driven mad by grief, supposedly, since the murder of her eldest son, and perhaps she could bear the pain no longer. Perhaps the cause was the false news of Aemond’s death at the God’s Eye. At first the only news had come from smallfolk in the nearby lands, that both Princes had fallen. A fortnight later Aemond arrived at King’s Landing, dragonless, but decidedly alive.

“I often ask myself why I did not do more for them. Why did I put them in danger? Why did I leave them? Why did I not return to them…”

Something else catches his attention. His gaze has moved from her face, to the leather breastplate she wears under her coat, embroidered with ancient runes, naturally.

“What does that say?” he asks in a voice like ice, tracing his fingertips over the golden thread, over the same markings written into the sleeves of the first gown she wore in King’s Landing.

“Have you seen it before? It is an old saying in the Vale,” she says, startled by another shift in him, “the words read: learn to die.”

His throat hums, lowly and softly. His eye returns to hers, his lips curling into a self assured smile, the kind that infuriates her because it means he knows something she does not.

He releases her waist, then reaches for her hand. He pinches the end of her right glove and pulls it from her slowly, the lack of warmth stinging her bare skin.

He whispers, “I cannot give you what you ask of me, not now at least. But I will try.” He raises her hand and presses his lips against it. “I promise you, I will try.”

Blood blooms beneath her cheeks. For once Aemond’s words fill her with hope. He seems sincere, she wants that to be the truth.

She smiles politely. “Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Your Grace!” Calls a voice from the steps to the Keep. Aemond’s hand falls away from hers and he faces away from her as Martyn Hightower approaches them. “All the preparations have been made for you to receive Lady Floris and Lady Cassandra. They are expected to arrive before the day’s end.” 

She watches Aemond bring one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other he brings behind his back, clenched in a fist. “Good,” he says, and turns towards Rhaelle again, his body following his head. “Thank you for accompanying me this morning, my Lady.”

She takes a breath, meaning to thank him but then he’s stalking across the yard and disappearing into the castle.

Rhaelle decides she can hardly bear the sight of him walking away.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr @aegonx @xxxkat3xxx @dahlias-and-marigolds @mandiiblanche @thaisthedreamer @heavenly1927 @herfantasyworldd @heimtathurs @minttea07

[the-font-bandit]

The last of the Dragon Age Veilguard cocktails!

LACE HARDING

A comforting, earthy cocktail with a warm sweetness.

2-½ (75ml) oz rye whiskey

2-½ oz (75ml) black tea, brewed strong

¾ (22ml) oz lemon

1-½ oz (45ml) brown sugar syrup*

½ tsp black peppercorns

3 dashes angostura bitters

*To make brown sugar syrup - heat equal parts brown sugar and water until sugar dissolves, then let cool

Lightly crack the peppercorns at the bottom of a metal shaker tin with a muddler (can also use the back end of a wooden spoon)

Add rest of ingredients to tin

Add ice

Shake well

Strain through a fine mesh strainer into a rocks glass over a large ice cube.

[sarahscribbles]

OK but for 97. "I was good when you were gone! I didn't even touch myself." is SOOOOOO denial! Reader. Loki tells her she's going to come on a certain day (finally) then he gets unexpectedly called away on a mission for a few days and when he gets back-- JFJDIWHBEJEJ

Ask and ye shall receive!

𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐩, 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬.

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟏𝐤

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐎𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥, 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You sense his presence only seconds before two strong arms are looping easily around your waist, pulling you tightly against his solid chest so he can nuzzle his face into your hair. The familiar scent of him settles around you like a favourite blanket - a heady mixture of soft earthy scents mingled with something subtly sweet that you’ve never been able to properly put your finger on. 

All you know is that it’s Loki. The best thing that’s ever happened to you.

A quiet smile tugs at your lips and you wriggle back a little further into his embrace. “I knew you were there,” you say casually, continuing to stir your tea.

He gives your waist a squeeze. “Course you did,” he murmurs, gently moving your hair away from your neck. 

You barely have time to enjoy the brief brush of his fingertips before they’re replaced with his lips. They move languidly against your skin, as though nothing matters more to him at this moment than savouring the taste of you. His lips are soft and warm, giving the illusion of a blissful afternoon spent in his arms, but when you feel the wet press of his tongue against your throat, you know he has nothing but filth on his mind.

A whimper falls freely from you just as your hips begin to rock slowly in search of…something…anything to take the edge off. 

“Feeling needy, dove?” Loki taunts quietly, nibbling your earlobe while his hand slips beneath your shirt. 

His cool hand running over your skin makes you shiver in delight and anticipation. Easily, he finds your breast, pulling it free from the confines of your bra to toy with an already erect nipple. He pinches and rolls it between finger and thumb to send a satisfying jolt of pleasure racing through you, making you crave more of him. 

His touch has every nerve in your body flickering joyously to life, and when he squeezes that little bit harder, the groan that escapes you can only be described as debauched.

“What do you think?” you shoot back, allowing your head to fall back against his shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut while he continues to play with your nipple, and arousal pools like liquid sin between your thighs when his other hand quickly finds its twin. 

Needy doesn’t describe what you’re feeling - it doesn’t even come close.

For the past week Loki has denied you release - for no reason other than he wanted to - and he’s been diligent in teasing and edging you each of those seven days, ensuring that you’re kept perpetually stimulated 

Truthfully, you aren’t sure how you’re still capable of forming coherent thoughts. Night and day, all you can think about is getting fucked senseless on Loki’s cock. 

He laughs softly right by your ear and the feel of his warm breath hitting your skin is enough to voraciously fan the flames of your own lust. “I think you’d let me mount you on this countertop if I wished to,” he says with a particularly rough twist of your nipples. 

The bite of pain is intoxicating and makes your cunt throb. All you need - all you ever need - is Loki. His sinful tongue, his skilled fingers, his beautiful cock - you’ll gladly take whatever he’ll give you until you can no longer remember his name.

“Please, Loki,” you plead softly, already feeling a wave of pleasure begin to build in your core from how he’s torturing your breasts. 

His touch is electric and you know without a doubt that you would let him mount you right here in the kitchen if it meant you got to feel that release.

“Mmm, you sound so beautiful when you beg,” he purrs softly in your ear. The tip of his regal nose slowly traces your jaw and he stops to place a surprisingly chaste kiss to your cheek. “I’m going to let you come tonight, my little dove,” he whispers against your flushed skin. 

The worlds roll over you one by one, each one stoking the embers of desire in your core to life until a raging flame is burning like hellfire in your core. The man is sin incarnate, he’s been sent by the Devil to ensure your eternal damnation, and with how soaked you are for him - because of him - your eternal punishment is firmly guaranteed. 

“Is that a promise?” you ask, already feeling close to dizzy at the mere thought of an orgasm.

Loki’s teasing fingers pull and twist at your nipples just hard enough that a broken cry escapes your lungs - a cry that tells him just how much you’re enjoying the torment. Though, he no doubt knows that there’s little he can do to you that you won’t enjoy. 

His teeth sink into your earlobe and pull until you shiver in his arms. “It is my solemn promise,” he says softly. You feel one hand drift along your stomach to slide beneath the waist of your skirt, and then he’s slowly, torturously, using a single finger to trace over your cunt through your underwear. “I’m going to make you unravel again and again and again.”

The ache between your thighs becomes almost unbearable, the searing heat of your desire threatening to fully engulf you if not sated. Loki’s finger traces agonisingly over your cunt, touching every part of you except where you burn for him most. It’s erotic torture and it doesn’t take long until you’re wriggling and twisting in his arms in a fruitless attempt to coax him closer.

His answering laughter is like spun silk in your ear - delicate, but teasing as he pulls his hand away before you can find even a modicum of relief in his touch. “You need to be patient, dove. It’s not even midday,” he taunts, fixing your bra and righting your shirt. The teasing, for now, is over. 

Your fingers curl against the smooth surface of the countertop at the exact moment a strangled groan rises in your throat. You sound close to possessed, but you can feel the throbbing of your desire right down to your toes, and the thought of having to wait even another few hours for release is almost unbearable.

“You’re such an ass, Loki!” you whine, feeling hot tears begin to prick at your eyes with how badly you want him to fuck you. 

You feel him gently smack your ass - nothing more than a love tap, really, - and his hands come to rest possessively on your hips. “I can make you wait another week if you’d like.” His voice is suddenly heavy with warning, and you know he has no qualms about adding another seven days to your torment. 

Begrudgingly, you swallow back the retort that’s dancing on the tip of your tongue. “No,” you answer instead, irritation evident in the single syllable. 

Loki presses his lips to your temple while his hands glide up to cup your breasts again, giving a final twist to your nipples through your shirt. “Then be a good girl and wait.”

Wait.

He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, as though you couldn’t power a small city with how intensely the arousal is burning within you. 

But he still expects you to wait.

Asshole. 

A violet haze of unbridled lust settles quickly over you, and you spend the rest of the day attempting to ignore the burning ache swelling like a storm between your thighs. No matter what you do, though, all you can think about is Loki’s cock. Your every thought is about how he’ll feel finally sliding inside you after a week of teasing and how each vein will feel as he drags his cock along your walls. 

You imagine how his hips will feel pressed flush against yours while he fills you to the brim, until you’re no longer sure where he ends and you begin.

You try not to think about it, you really do, but it’s impossible with Loki being intent on driving you completely insane in the final hours of your denial. 

Five hours after sneaking up on you in the kitchen, he had you pinned against the conference room wall, kissing you breathless while ensuring to rub his thigh tormentingly along your throbbing cunt. The edge crept up on you with a vengeance, each rock of your hips against Loki’s thigh bringing you closer and closer. It was so close, so beautifully, wondrously close…

“No,” he’d purred, smirking and pulling his thigh away. “That is not allowed.”

“Loki, please! I can’t do it!” you had pleaded, desperately rolling your hips in search of his. 

His strong hands were quick to pin them firmly against the wall, preventing you from chasing the pleasure you craved. “You will do it, dove,” he replied with quiet firmness, raising a hand to curl it beneath your chin. “Only a few more hours and I promise you won’t remember your own name.”

The rich timbre of his promise had arousal twisting like a knot in your stomach. Gods above how you wanted him. “I don’t think I can wai-,” you began, only to be cut off by Loki’s lips crashing down on yours in a kiss so passionate it almost made you dizzy.

You knew it was a promise of what was to come, a promise that he intended to ruin you as soon as night rolled around, but you wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes from his perfect body. 

“Ten o’clock,” he’d murmured against your lips. “Be waiting in our room at ten o’clock.” He’d given you another lingering kiss and left with a wink to disappear behind the conference room doors.

The bedroom is where you’re waiting for him - where you’ve been waiting for him for the past fifteen minutes. You know he’s doing it on purpose - intentionally dragging out the final few minutes just because he can. 

It’s infuriating, but you wouldn’t expect anything else from him.

When fifteen minutes melt into twenty you’ve had enough of his games, but you’re barely two steps towards the door when your phone starts to chime with an incoming call. 

Loki.

“Where are you?” you whine down the phone, not even bothering to hide your impatience. 

You’re expecting to hear his laughter on the other end and his smooth voice teasing you that you couldn’t wait even an extra twenty minutes, but when he speaks, he sounds genuinely contrite. “Darling, I’m sorry, I -”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, because, in the background of the call, you swear you recognise the familiar hum of…

“Are you on the Quinjet?” you interrupt him, disbelief mingling quickly with your impatience. God, you want to murder him.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “Darling, I am truly so sorry. This wasn’t part of the plan, but Stark insisted that I accompany Thor and The Widow on this mission. It won’t last any longer than three days.”

The burning flame of need coils inside you like a serpent prepared to strike. “Three days? Three days, Loki? I’ve already waited an entire week!’ you whine pitifully down the phone.

There’s a beat of silence and you know he’s moving to a quieter section of the jet where he won’t be overheard. “I know, darling, and I’m so proud of you,” he says, his voice an octave lower than before. “But you only need to be good for three more days. Can you do that for me?”

You huff a quiet sigh, knowing it will get you nowhere. “Yes, Loki,” you answer quietly, because, really, there isn’t any other option. He hasn’t given you permission to come, so you won’t.

You can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “Good girl. Three more days and I am yours.” 

They’re the longest three days of your life. 

Each second of Loki’s absence feels like an eternity, and by the third day, you’re ready to climb the Tower walls with how desperately you need him. Every inch of you thrums for him, every pore burns for him and, night and day, he’s all you can think about.

You fall asleep to dream about his warm lips painting you purple and red. 

You eat breakfast while daydreaming about his strong hands encasing your wrists above your head. 

You shower to the thought of him easing inside you inch by beautiful inch, until he’s filling you to the brim. 

If he doesn’t return soon from whatever godforsaken part of the planet he’s on, you’re going to put yourself in an early grave. 

It’s when you’re preparing for bed that you finally hear the familiar heavy tread of his boots along the hallway, and you’re immediately wide awake, any and all need to sleep is quickly replaced by a primal hunger for the god approaching your room. When his footsteps stop at the other side of the door, you feel as though your heart is attempting to break free from your chest with how wildly its thundering, as though it's screaming out for its mate in the chest of your god. 

The bedroom door opens slowly, tantalisingly revealing your leather-clad love inch by inch. You don’t miss how his eyes - soft as dew at first - instantly darken with untamed arousal when he sees that you’re awake. 

And that you’re wearing that flimsy little gold nightgown he’s threatened to rip off you on more than one occasion.

You don’t break eye contact as he closes the door softly in his wake, but you feel the coil in your stomach twist at the quiet sound of the lock clicking in place and the faint green shimmer that passes over the door. You know without even asking that he’s cast a silencing charm. 

Loki’s eyes travel slowly over you, drinking in the sight of your bare legs and pausing only briefly on your cleavage. You catch the quick quirk of his lips when those green eyes finally return to yours, a storm of desire swirling openly in blown wide pupils. 

“My, my, dove, what could possibly have you awake so late?” he purrs smoothly, closing the distance between you in slow, measured footsteps that make your heart jolt with each thump on the floor. 

You attempt to fix him with a hard stare. “If you even think about playing games with me tonight…” You try to sound firm, unmovable, but you both know that you’ll be his toy if he wants you to. 

This man owns you body, mind and soul. There’s close to nothing you won’t do for him if he asks.

His hands find their home on your waist, and open adoration now mixes with the desire swirling in his eyes. “No games, dove, that I promise you. You’ve waited long enough,” he murmurs, letting his hands move to rest on your shoulders, gentle fingers pushing the thin straps of your nightgown down your arms until it pools in a golden puddle at your feet. “My good girl.”

You feel his hands ghost along your sides until they’re encasing your ribcage, fingers splaying across your back in tandem with the silken pads of his thumbs tracing your nipples as he leans in to kiss you. It’s slow and deep and his mouth moves almost lazily against yours, as though all that matters is tasting you. His touch is the diesel to your desire and sends flaming tendrils of longing flicking through you unforgivably. You want this man, you need him, and the feel of his skin on yours isn’t nearly enough.

Loki bites your bottom lip, pulling a strangled whimper from you while you lock your arms around his neck to pull him closer, deeper. Eager hands twist into his hair, savouring the feel of each silky strand that wraps around your fingers and tugging in just the way you know he likes. 

You’re rewarded with a gutteral groan against your lips and a rough squeeze of your ass. 

Strong arms stay locked around you as he walks you backwards to the bed, only stopping once your knees hit the mattress and you topple backward into the pillows with a quiet “mmph.” Even then, your own arms stay locked around him to bring him with you as you fall, because you don’t want to lose the feel of him for even a second. 

And a second is all it takes for him to settle between your spread legs like a missing jigsaw piece, never once letting his lips leave yours.

You’re drowning in the feel of him beneath your fingertips, the taste of him on your tongue, the smell of him as he battles to be closer, and you don’t care if you never surface again. He’s as familiar to you as the beat of your own heart and the sound of your own breathing, he’s the anchor that stops you from drifting out to sea on your worst days and, gods above, you love him so much that sometimes it hurts. 

“Love you,” you say when he finally breaks your kiss. “I love you.” 

Even in the half light of the room, you swear you see the faintest trace of pink stain his cheeks. He hums appreciatively, a soft smile pulling on his lips. “I love you, my good girl,” he replies, and that smile twists into a smirk. “You have been good for me, haven’t you?”

“Yes!” Your voice is shrill, almost a yell, but you’re so wildly desperate that you no longer care. “Loki, I’ve been so good! I didn’t even touch while you were away!”

He quirks a perfect eyebrow at you, mischief sparkling in his emerald eyes. “Is that so?”

His fingers trace along your inner thigh until they reach your cunt and it clenches in anticipation, but Loki grants you only the lightest touch, intentionally avoiding your clit until you’re bucking your hips beneath him in search of more. 

“You’re soaking, dove,” Loki says, feigning surprise. 

The smart reply that’s dancing on your tongue dies instantly when he pulls his hand away to slip two fingers between his lips, licking your arousal off them with a satisfied hum like it’s the finest ambrosia.

The sight is so lewd, so wonderfully, deliciously wicked that you’re certain you could climax by sheer will alone, such is the effect that this man has on you. 

You roll your hips firmly against his - it’s an invitation and a plea in one small movement, and it’s enough for you to feel his hard cock straining through the thick leather he still hasn’t removed. 

Again, you roll your hips, feeling suddenly emboldened by the firm evidence of his own arousal. Loki groans softly at the fleeting contact, and it sends a rush of power to your head when his own hips try to follow yours, almost as if acting of their own accord. 

His green eyes are almost blown completely black, and your own desire - your own insatiable hunger for the man above you - is reflected back at you clear as crystal. 

He needs this just as much as you. 

“Imagine how I feel,” you murmur, tugging gently on his curls again for good measure. As expected, you hear the quiet catch of his breath. 

Loki leans in until his lips are brushing teasingly against yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. “My little temptress, as if I could possibly resist you,” he whispers softly, before claiming your lips in a kiss so fierce that your heart skips a beat.

It’s a kiss that sets your blood on fire and one that you feel all the way down to your toes. You need him closer even though you’re skin on skin, and when your hands begin to roam downwards, you discover that he’s finally magicked his leather away in an unseen shimmer of green. It doesn’t matter that you’ve held him like this countless times in the past, your fingers still explore every inch of him like it’s the first time. He’s firm and solid and safe. He’s the most beautiful thing that your hands have ever touched. 

He’s yours.

Reluctantly, you pull away, because as wonderful as kissing him is, it’s not enough. You need to feel him inside you, need him to ruin you again and again. You need the reminder that you belong to him. 

Maybe more than once just to really drive the message home. 

“Loki…Lo..fuck…Loki, please,” you begin to beg just as his lips latch onto your jaw. They’re neither rough nor gentle, but you know you’ll be painted in his marks tomorrow - a patchwork of red and purple that you’ll display with pride.

“Please,” you continue in little more than a whisper, feeling your eyes flutter shut to bask in the warm glow of the attention he’s lavishing on you. 

By now, your eager hands have reached his ass and you squeeze it hungrily in a vain attempt to force him forward. His cock is brushing almost maddeningly against your inner thigh and you don’t know how much longer you’ll last without it buried inside you. 

Loki nips at your neck with his teeth in reply - something he knows will have you moan, and you do - and you respond in kind by curling your nails into the smooth skin of his ass. 

“Shhh, dove. I am yours,” he murmurs quietly into your cheek, placing a final chaste kiss to your flushed skin before grasping your chin gently in one hand, ensuring your eyes stayed locked with his. “I want you to keep those lovely eyes on me.”

You obey easily, leaning into the touch of his large palm cradling your cheek and barely even blinking as he eases himself inside you. It’s slow - so slow that you feel every last beautiful inch of him until he’s filled you to the brim, and he releases a deep, guttural groan from deep in his chest once his hips are flush against yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but bask in your welcoming warmth while resting his forehead against yours. Your name is a strangled whisper into the night alongside the single, shallow thrust of his hips into you. It’s barely anything, but you still arch into him and dig your nails into the soft skin of his back - a silent plea for more. 

“You are Valhalla,” he murmurs, voice raspy as he claims your waiting lips in another lingering kiss. 

You hum contentedly against his lips and clench around him just enough that he hisses at the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Told you I’d feel good.” You can’t help but tease him, dragging your nails along his spine until he shivers beneath your touch.

His answering smirk is endearingly lopsided. “Little minx,” he responds, lifting one hand to flick your nipple.

It sends a thrill pulsing between your thighs and a moan tumbling unrestrained from your lips. Your hands grip him that little bit tighter, but he’s solid as a rock beneath your fingers, refusing to budge even an inch in spite of his earlier promise.

“Loki, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me…” You let the threat tail off because you can feel every twitch of his cock as it’s buried inside you.

His own resolve is hanging on by a frayed thread. 

“I thought you’d never ask, dove,” he teases, and before you can give any witty reply,  his hips are finally thrusting into you. 

All you’re capable of is groaning and covering his broad back in little half moons as his cock drags exquisitely against you. It’s been so long that every ever forceful thrust engulfs you in flames and when his skilled thumb finds your swollen clit, his name is pulled from you in an unbroken stream. 

He builds you up expertly, easily, and he’s all too quickly panting and moaning like a whore right in your ear.

“Look….look at what you do to me, dove!” His voice is ragged, and he’s fucking you so hard now that the headboard is beginning to bounce off the wall. “I am yours,” he repeats, sucking another bruise into your neck until you’re writhing beneath him. 

“Fuck…Loki…’m…I’m gonna come!” you manage to force the sentence out, though it sounds like a garbled mess to your ears. You’re right at the edge, teetering deliciously on the precipice of bliss. 

He finds your lips for an eager, sloppy kiss. “Good girl. Come for me,” he says hoarsely, and you instantly soar off the edge. 

Thirteen days of denied release comes crashing down around you in a devastating wave and sends tiny white stars exploding behind your eyes. Loki’s name is all you're able to say and he’s made you come so hard that you feel boneless beneath him. 

You grip him like a vice while you ride out your climax, listening to him groaning and panting endlessly in your ear. It’s what you do to him and it’s a thought so intoxicating that it makes you dizzy. It’s you - only you - that can reduce this god to a desperate mess. 

You’ve barely come down from your high when Loki pulls out, flips you easily onto your hands and knees, and plunges back inside you.

“I hope you got enough rest while I was gone, dove,” he rasps out, gripping your hips so hard that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “Because I do believe I owe you three more orgasms.”

Tags: @infinitystoner @muddyorbsblr @coldnique @mochie85 @fictive-sl0th @the-lady-amphitrite @joyful-enchantress @lokisgoodgirl @simplyholl @give-me-a-moose @springdandelixn @maple-seed @loopsisloops @kinky-faerie @mischief2sarawr @wintermischief @icytrickster17 @mischief-dream @littlespaceyelf @ashtheslut @lunarnights95 @ladyofthestayingpower @currish-rosewolfe @fandxmslxt69 @liminalpebble

[biscuit-babbles]

HSR Men Omegaverse (A/B/O) Scents

To pair with the dynamics headcanons list, I'm going to do a short and sweet one about their scents! Also, this headcanon will be taking some inspiration from @daylightdabbles's Teyvat Omegaverse AU, but is not required to read beforehand!

Rating: SFW Warnings: None Characters: Caelus, Dan Heng, Welt, Gepard, Sampo, Luka, Jing Yuan, Luocha, Blade, Argenti, Dr Ratio, Aventurine + Gallagher Summary: What scents help to identify each of the HSR men?

Scent has always been a bit of an odd topic for CAELUS, considering the stellaron pulsing in his chest. While it doesn't seem to be hurting him, it does affect his scent, though fortunately to not such a degree that it's concerning. All it does, fortunately, is add a burnt note to it, making Caelus smell distinctly of a smore that had been left over the fire a bit too long. His scent isn't really sweet nor earthy, but a compromise between the two, with hints of metal heated by licking flames.

As opposed to being just odd, DAN HENG's relationship with his scent is a bit of a sore subject. Even though the scent is entirely his and not swayed by his environment, there's still notes to it that are reminiscent of the Xianzhou by association. Because of this, he tries to nullify it as much as possible, without completely canceling it out. His scent consists of weathered paper, sea spray, and peach trees.

One of the most comforting scents you can come across belongs to Joachim Nokianvirtanen, also known as WELT. By now, it's a staple of the Astral Express, soothing those that board the express and allowing them a comfortable passage. He smells of sandalwood, warm bread, and hot cocoa. It's not overpowering, but it lingers longer than most.

As a beta, GEPARD's scent carries traces of his beloved home, Belebog, as well as his own identifying scent. The cold sting of wintery air and the lingering of rusted metal is paired with rosemary and chamomile tea. Contrasting Welt, Gepard's scent is very strong, filling one's entire chest, but the bitter cold and winds tend to sweep it away almost the moment he leaves a room.

It's hard to say that SAMPO even has a real scent anymore. He has caked on so many perfumes, colognes, and even scent blockers that it's a weird hodgepodge of different scents, just as chaotic as the Aeon he follows. Depending on the day or placement, you can smell an assortment of spiced and floral scents, with the only constant being the lingering of raspberries and blackberries.

Everyone in The Moles knows that if you're in danger, to follow the scent of grilled steak, as it will inevitably lead to LUKA. Though, grilled steak isn't the only thing he smells like, with it being accompanied by the scents of black pepper and citrus. It's a thick, comforting scent, but has the tendency to make others hungry if they spend too much time around him.

It's fortunate for those working under JING YUAN that he smells not only remarkably pleasant, but that the scent itself isn't overbearing. One can only truly describe his scent as 'clean', often being likened to a windy meadow. Jing Yuan usually smells of a mild breeze, wildflowers, and oranges. Though, whenever he's angry or in the heat of battle, it tends to be darkened by the scent of oncoming rain and storm clouds, as if disturbing the previously still meadow.

Traveling place to place as an omega has meant that LUOCHA's scent has.. wavered, for lack of a better term. Omegas typically smell like home, the things they surround themselves with. That's hard to do when your surroundings change daily. It's caused plenty of alphas and betas alike to be confused and unnerved by him, but other omegas find him quite charming. If you take a deep breath, however, you can make out the airy scent of lilies, polish for his rapier, and the fruity scent of his shampoo.

A long, long time ago, there was a craftsman who was said to have smelled of passion and the forge itself. But that man is long gone, leaving BLADE behind in his wake. While Yingxing's original scent disappeared along with him, Blade finds that he is now identified by the scents of smoldering embers, dew-laden spider lilies, and cinnamon. Whenever he finds himself mara stricken or enraged, the embers flare up, leaving the distinct smell of smoke and hot metal. Though, when he's content, it's said to be a comforting scent.

One of the things ARGENTI prides himself on as a Knight of Beauty is his scent. It stood out from the scents of smoldering rubble and fear that clung to his hometown, but has since been embraced as proof he was meant to follow the Beauty. Not very many alphas have such tender, floral scents as him. He smells of freshly cut roses, an early morning fog, and the heart of a lush forest.

Frankly, DR RATIO doesn't concern himself much with his own scent. It's simply a biological fact to him, it doesn't need any further attention nor dressing up. Though he can't help the flattered feeling that swells in his chest whenever he catches someone swooning over his scent, which tends to linger heavily wherever he goes. Dr Veritas Ratio smells of pomegranate, sandalwood, and buttered toast.

Another person that hides their scent often is AVENTURINE, who never allows his true scent to show. Scents are like facial expressions, they can betray your true intentions, and Aventurine refuses to have anything but a perfect poker face. Hidden under layers of strong colognes and scent blockers, locked away from the public eye and only kept the secrecy of Aventurine's own room, is the scent of vanilla, shea butter, and blueberries.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, GALLAGHER is constantly surrounded by scents, and finds a sense of comfort in their expression. It's said that he even smells like a perfectly blended drink himself, with a sweet but savory blend that seems to take the edge off of most he comes into contact with. Gallagher smells of fresh grapes, strawberry schnapps, and rose.

[quartz-crow]

BG3 Scents (Headcanons)

Okay so bear with me, I’m slowly getting back into writing on here.. in the meantime, I’ve really gotten into perfumery, and so, here are a few thoughts/headcanons of mine...

Gale: Candle wax, olive oil, sea salt, black tea, parchment paper and a very faint citrusy scent - perhaps lemon or grapefruit.

The wizard’s scent is reminiscent of an old stone house, the very kind which provides you with cool shelter on a hot day… and somewhere in that house, someone has found an old recipe and is now searching through the cupboards for ingredients…

Astarion - Red wine, leather,  french lavender, oud, bergamot, smoke.

This scent seems so awfully overpowering at first. It’s the kind of smell that makes you curl your nose up - however, the longer it lingers in the air allows you to notice the subtleties of the scent.. the sharpness of the wine, the sweetness and smokiness of the oud. It’s the kind of scent that is intoxicating - and certainly not for everyone…

Shadowheart - Sugared rose, cherry, lilac, french lavender, frankincense, vanilla, myrrh.

Floral, sugary and almost religious in nature… The half-elf’s scent is reminiscent of an ancient stone church, dark, cool and ancient in nature… There is, however, a floral element too - as if a bouquet has been left to lay wilting by an altar.

Halsin - Pine, oak, woodsmoke, birch sap, fig leaf, wet fur, nag champa.

The druid’s scent is subtle; it’s almost exactly how the forest smells after a heavy storm.. strong, wild and raw and yet, there is still a heady warmth to the scent. Waves of nag champa and fig leaf lay layered on his skin - and of course, due to the nature of such smells, last for days on his clothes too.

Lae’zel -Juniper berries, fresh mint, cypress, sweet grass, dew, white cedar.

This scent is clean, fresh and delicate… It awakens your senses just as a bright crisp sunrise would after a refreshing night camping in a meadow.  At first, it may seem like a fairly gender-neutral fragrance, however, the softer notes of the sweet grass and juniper berries can be noticed whenever the wind changes direction.

Wyll - Cardamom, honey, tobacco, bourbon vanilla, grey amber, almond, musk.

This scent is rich, perhaps even a tad on the spicier side of the scent spectrum. To some, it may seem like a spiced dessert paired with a strong drink - to others, it’s reminiscent of being nestled up by a fire, reading a book whilst a thunderstorm cracks overhead. It is sweet as it is masculine, royal as it is earthy. 

Karlach - Blackberry, ginger, pepper, dragon’s blood, sandalwood, orange.

Just like the tielfing herself, this scent is unapologetic - firey and playful. The scent toys your senses, the pepper and ginger bubbles like sparkling wine - whilst the sweeter notes of fresh tart fruits provide a girlish, youthful touch… the scent reminds you of pricking your fingers on thorns whilst you collected berries as a child. However, the deeper notes of dragon’s blood and sandalwood round the scent out - those warmer scents are welcoming… homely even. 

[alpaca-clouds]

Try to learn about the old foods

I have most recently started to meal prep, with making a lot of foods and putting them in the freezer. This ended up allowing me to buy the foods in bulk from the local market. And, well... This allowed me to eat some of the foods that the supermarket does not have.

We do have a bit of a problem. And that problem mostly is that we got our food kinda messed up. Because people have lost the connection to the food they eat. But also because of colonialism.

The big thing that happened is, that we lost contact with most local foods. No matter where I go in the "first world nations"... The foods offered to me in the supermarkets are the same - and they also look the same.

This means that a lot of people have no real idea, what foods came from where in the world - but also do not know half of the foods that originated with where they are from, because they are not easily available.

Tomatoes are an example. Not only did historical tomatoes look and taste very differently from the tomatoes we eat today, but obviously... they came from the Americas. So they are not a food that originated with Europe and was not widely available in Europe until the 1600s. While, yes, the first tomates came here more than a hundred years earlier... it took a while for them to catch on.

This is parsnip. Another root vegetable that was commonly eaten in Europe for most of history. It has a more intensive taste than the usual carrot - but is also not that different from it, when it comes to consistency and how it is going to cook.

This is fennel. You might know fennel seeds as a spice or something you might drink as a tea. But the rest of the plant is edible, too, and a surprisingly strong flavored vegetable. It also is very crunchy and makes a really great addition to salads. But it is often not really sold in many places.

This is the Jerusalem Artichoke, another vegetable that originates within the Americas. To be exact, this is the root of a kind of sunflower. It got its name for being very similar in taste and tecture to the Artichoke. I honestly do not know, though, why it is called "Jerusalem Artichoke", because it does not have anything to do with Jerusalem.

The Potimarron is a kind of squash that - like basically all other forms of squash - originates in the Americas as well. It has a very nutty flavor. In Europe it was very popular in France for a long while, hence the french name. It has tons of meat and really makes for great stews!

This is a rutabaga, which originates from somewhere in northern Europe. We do not really know from where. All we know is, that it was a Swedish botanist who cultivates the form we still eat to this day in the 1620s. Which is why it is also called the "Swedish turnip". It does taste like a more bitter carrot, but makes really good addition to stews or can be served stamped.

This is the Chinese Artichoke and another root vegetable, that as the name suggest originates from China. It was cultivates in China in the late medieval period and has later made its way to Europe, especially France. It has a really sweet and nutty taste and can be eaten raw or in salads. Though there are dishes mashing the vegetable, too.

These are tigernuts, a vegetable that has been around forever. It originates in southern Europe, southern Asia and northern Africa. It is a dried fruit, with a sweet and earthy taste and it is known a lot in Spanish cuisine, but also in the cuisine of southern Asia.

Yacon is a root vegetable that originates with Peru, where it is still eaten, while the rest of the world mostly forgot about it. Well, except Japan, where it is currently getting more and more popular. It is a vegetable, but it has a very fruity taste.

I could now go on and name more vegetables from all around the world that were once grown and fed people, but got forgotten more and more in favor of the very limited diet made up of potatoes, corn, potatoes, peppers, cucumber, onion and tomatoes, that is basically what you will get to eat in most places.

And... Well, the thing about it is that... It is not really a good thing that we grow the same stuff everywhere. It is not good for us and it is not good for the environment. It is not good for those foods, either.

I really wish people would try and eat more of the stuff that originates with their region. And that they would eat the not-so-perfect looking foods as well. Because it is gonna be more sustainable in the end.

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley: How You Started Dating (and some little things about Ghost)

Warnings: mentions of cigarettes and smoking, references to PTSD, scars

A/N: Once again, a disclaimer: I base this on Ghost’s backstory according to the comic books as well as the video games but this is just my take so if you imagined him differently, that is totally valid!

NEW MASTERLIST

* * *

I think Simon would be attracted to someone outside his work; someone in a different profession, because he would see his team members more as family than partners

Besides, he keeps his private life separated from his work, so I don't think it's likely he would fall in love with a co-worker simply because of this 'mental barrier' of how he sees them

His girlfriend could be anything from nurse, veterinarian, café owner, teacher, academic to chef or artist. I don't think Ghost would find a romantic connection with someone working a similar job as him or something in law enforcement

You met in a café where he forgot his wallet on the counter and you were the customer waiting next-in-line who ran after him. Simon most definitely insisted to buy you coffee as a thanks (but in reality he was just taken aback by your looks because he found you very pretty) (full fic: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley: How You Met)

You found it unusual why the bottom half of his face was hidden behind a mask but Simon was a stranger to you at that time so you didn't presume to ask

Because he is so shy and reserved at first, after asking you out for a few coffees, you presumed he was just very grateful and did not know when to stop showing it, or he just wanted to be friends. Your 'dates' were very pleasant but you found yourself doing most of the talking and learning very little of Simon

But when he walked you home that night, an angry car rushed by and Simon pushed you behind him, even though you were both standing on the pavement, as if a tank was coming at you not a car whooshing down the street

"Are you okay?" he asked and took your face into his calloused hands. The caring you saw in his eyes was not one of gratitude nor mere friendship-in-the-making. His heart was racing and his lips were parted and you could hardly imagine a man of his stature and career to be afraid of anything. But apparently, Simon was afraid of you getting hurt

Afterwards, Ghost walked you home and insisted you stay on the inner side of the pavement whilst he held your hand (this is something he did not insist on although his secure grip suggested otherwise)

You suddenly realized as you saw him so deep in thought that Simon was a man of few words but many actions

You smiled to yourself and squeezed his hand as you caressed your thumb across his. Simon woke from his thought, his eyes widened and just a glimpse of blush crept to his unshaven cheeks from behind the mask

Also some little things you would find out about Ghost; he does not like animals much (because of his father) but he does find cats and dogs very therapeutic and if he had the chance, he would adopt both (but he can't because he is away a lot because of work)

You also learned that Simon likes his coffee black with one sugar but he prefers tea

He is also an occasional smoker; it used to help with his anxiety but when he learns you're not a big fan of kissing smokers, Simon keeps his habit to a minimum

He likes Marlboro Reds because they're pretty strong but he also smoked Davidoff Classics for a while

Simon's favourite colours are earthy red (like terra cotta), sage green and pale dark blue

He is a very light sleeper; the smallest unnatural noise wakes him

Simon is also an early birth rather than a night owl; he likes to go to bed pretty early and also wakes up almost with the dawn - he likes quiet mornings with a cigarette and a cup of British tea; the only thing better, in Simon's opinion, is when you're there with him

Bonus: How I personally imagine what Ghost looks like

Simon has a mixture of brown and ginger hair although his beard is entirely the latter. I think his standard hairstyle is a military cut but when he is off duty, he lets it grow a bit longer

His cheeks are unshaven the majority of the time so that the scars are not as visible

Ghost's eyes are pale blue, grey sometimes, although they were nearly aquamarine when he was a baby

Also, I think Ghost has a bit of natural undereye circles which make him look perpetually tired

His left forearm is entirely covered in tattoos reaching even past his elbow. The images are mainly motives of warfare and military but deep down they're a representation of Simon's life

Obviously, Ghost is very tall (about 6'2 or 6'3) and muscular; also a bit of a big boy <3