#and being possessed by wild rages in battle

[dice-n-antlers]

I’m probably late to the party on this one, but… I have come to the realization that you can give your companions both Wildheart Barbarian piercings AND Draconic Sorcerer scales.

That’s it.

I’m doing a bling-team playthrough.

Everyone’s getting 1 level of Sorcerer, 3 levels of Barbarian, and 8 levels of their canon class. May the gods have mercy on my soul.

[moonselune]

aaahhh hello! i don’t know if you’ve already written something like this but what about tav being taken by orin instead of one of the companions? could you do this for the bg3 girls? i know you've written lots of angst lately but you do it so well 🥺  

my talent for angst is a blessing and a curse but I cannot lie I loved doing this request call me a masochist xxx

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The moment Karlach realized you were missing, a cold dread settled in her gut, quickly replaced by an inferno of rage. Orin. The name alone made her blood boil. She stormed through the camp, her eyes wild, her fists clenched tight enough for her palms to bleed.

"Where is she?" she roared, her voice echoing through the trees. The other companions tried to calm her, but it was like trying to contain a wildfire. Halsin and Minsc had to pin her down to keep her from charging recklessly into the city.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling against their hold. "I have to save her!"

"We will," Halsin said, his voice strained as he held onto her. "But not like this. We need a plan."

Hours later, they stormed Orin’s hideout, moving with grim determination. Karlach led the charge, her eyes blazing with fury. She tore through Orin’s minions with relentless force, her every move driven by the thought of you in danger. Finally, they reached the altar room, and there you were, bound and helpless.

"Get away from her!" Karlach bellowed, her voice cracking with emotion. She charged at Orin, who smirked and prepared to meet her.

The battle was fierce, but Karlach fought like a woman possessed. With a final, powerful strike, she brought Orin down, her rage giving her strength beyond measure. As soon as Orin fell, Karlach was at your side, cutting through your bindings with trembling hands.

"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she pulled you into her arms. "I thought I lost you."

You tried to lighten the mood, managing a weak smile. "Hey, I'm fine. You know I can't get rid of you that easily."

But Karlach couldn’t stop crying, her body shaking with sobs as she held you close. "Don't ever scare me like that again," she murmured, refusing to let you go.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

Minthara maintained a facade of calm and calculation when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her movements were methodical, every decision precise. She issued orders, gathered intel, and planned meticulously. Despite this outward calm, she didn’t eat, and she didn’t sleep. Her mind was consumed by thoughts of you, and her heart ached with a worry she refused to show.

As she led the mission to rescue you, her focus was unshakeable. When the final confrontation with Orin came, Minthara’s eyes were cold and resolute. The battle was fierce, each strike a manifestation of her pent-up fury and desperation.

"You should have known better than to touch what is mine," Minthara hissed, her voice deadly calm.

Orin sneered, but Minthara’s onslaught left her no room for arrogance. Minthara’s strikes were brutal and unrelenting, driven by a determination to end this threat once and for all. She decimated Orin, leaving her broken and defeated on the ground.

Finally, Minthara turned to you, bound to the altar. Her hands shook as she cut your restraints, and she pulled you into her arms, clutching you tightly.

"Do you have any idea how much you scared me?" she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time.

You could feel her trembling, her grip almost painful in its intensity. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice filled with relief. "I didn’t mean to."

Minthara pulled back slightly, her eyes blazing. "You could have died," she scolded, her voice harsh with emotion. "You cannot be so reckless."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. "I’ll try not to," you replied, your laughter mingling with tears. "But it's good to know you care."

Minthara’s stern expression didn’t soften. "This is not a joke," she insisted, but her voice wavered.

Before she could launch into another lecture, you silenced her with a kiss. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms wrapping around you even tighter.

"Thank you for coming for me," you whispered against her lips.

Minthara didn’t respond with words, just held you close, her relief and love evident in every touch.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae'zel's rage was a palpable thing when she learned you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her eyes blazed with fury, and her every movement was a testament to her determination. If her companions would not aid her in the rescue, she resolved to do it herself.

"We waste time!" she snapped, glaring at anyone who dared to suggest a more cautious approach. "I will not leave them in that monster's hands!"

When she finally located Orin's hideout, Lae'zel charged in with a ferocity that left the others in awe. She fought like a woman possessed, her every strike fueled by a burning need to rescue you. The enemies fell before her like wheat before a scythe, her rage making her unstoppable.

The closer she got to you, the more frantic her attacks became. When she finally reached the altar where you were bound, she barely spared a glance for Orin, her focus entirely on you. But Orin stood in her way, and Lae'zel’s eyes narrowed with deadly intent.

"You will regret this, Orin," she hissed, her voice a low growl.

The battle was intense, Orin's taunts only fueling Lae'zel's rage. She fought with an almost reckless abandon, her strikes powerful and relentless. It was a close call, but Lae'zel’s determination saw her through. She defeated Orin, leaving her bleeding and broken.

Without hesitation, she rushed to your side, cutting your bonds with swift, precise movements. She pulled you into her arms, her grip tight and possessive. "You are safe now," she murmured, her voice shaking with a mix of relief and residual anger. "I have you."

You looked up at her, your eyes filled with gratitude. "I knew you'd come for me."

Lae'zel’s grip tightened, her eyes fierce. "Of course. I would tear the world apart to get you back."

Despite the intensity of the situation, you managed a small smile. "And you nearly did."

Lae'zel’s expression softened, just a fraction. "I will always come for you," she said, her voice a promise. She refused to let you go, even as the danger passed, her fierce protectiveness a testament to her love.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart tried to pretend everything was fine when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. She maintained a stoic expression, her voice calm as she made plans with the others. But beneath the surface, her heart raced with fear and anger.

The journey to rescue you was a blur of tension and suppressed emotion. Shadowheart led the charge with a grim determination, her mind focused on getting you back safely. When they finally reached the location where you were held, Shadowheart’s calm facade began to crack.

She fought with a fierce precision, her every move driven by a desperate need to reach you. When she finally saw you, bound to the altar, something inside her snapped. She rushed to your side, cutting your restraints with shaking hands.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm.

"I'm fine," you reassured her, your voice soothing. "Thanks to you."

Shadowheart’s composure broke. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled you into her arms. "You idiot," she sobbed, her voice choked with emotion. "Why did you let them take you? Why didn’t you fight harder?"

You held her close, feeling her tears soak into your shoulder. "I’m sorry," you murmured, your heart aching at the sight of her distress. "I didn’t mean to worry you."

Shadowheart pulled back, her eyes red and puffy. "You scared me so much," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I’d lost you."

You gently wiped her tears away, your touch tender. "I'm here now," you said softly. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Shadowheart clung to you, her relief palpable. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can’t lose you."

You kissed her forehead, holding her close. "I love you too," you replied, your voice filled with emotion. "And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever."

Shadowheart buried her face in your shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. You held her tightly, offering her the comfort and reassurance she needed, grateful to be back in her arms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

I can't lie when I come to write this little note I am always cackling because I have just reviewed what I have written and thinking what I am about unleash on the world - Seluney xoxo

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood - pt ix

Synopsis: in the aftermath of the Battle by the Lakeshore, the Dance of Dragons continues to rage on. Benjicot returns home and confides in his wife about the horrors of war as he prepares for another return to the battlefield and makes a plea to Rhaenyra. 

Content warnings: MDNI 18+ — adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation, mention of major character death, depiction of childbirth & mention of miscarriages (no depiction).

masterlist | audio playlist | backwards — 8 | forwards — 10

A/N: you guys are going to hate me but the editing on this was minimal because I am so burnt out it’s wild but I am working on it as we speak x

Word count: 11.6k

“And…deep breath, my lady,” the midwife softly instructed, her hand closing around her shoulder.

Serra winced, swaying from side-to-side in an effort to alleviate the unbearable pressure that rested in her pelvis and abdomen; the pain tore through her, radiating to every inch of her body as her head leaned back into the midwife’s shoulder in an effort to steady herself as she sat on her knees. A low groan of pain echoed through the room, cut off by a sudden sob as another contraction shot up her spine, every muscle in her body going taut while trembling hands gripped the stained sheet behind her. The mattress dug into her shoulders as she pressed into it — she could have gone a thousand years of not knowing this pain, but Serra found herself sat against her bed, crouched on the cold marble floor that tempered her feverish, sweat slicked skin, the fine hairs that rounded her hairline damp as it clung to her temples, “Again, push.”

She let out a whimper, chin dropping to rest against her chest as she bore down, the pain intensifying as she let out a cry, “Good!” The elderly midwife in front of her encouraged, a hand on her knee as she glanced up at her anguished face, “I can see the head! The head is coming through!”

She let out a sharp breath, having to pause and catch her breath that came in quick pants; a damp cloth being dabbed against her cheeks from the woman behind her who stroked her shoulder, “Almost there, my lady— breathe,” she instructed in a soft, soothing voice, “again, push!”

“It’s too early,” Serra had been weakened by the hours-long labour that seemed to have no end, slumped against the bed and writhing in agony as her expression crumbled in a sob, “please, it’s too early— ahagh!”

“Bring her, let’s get her on her back—” The suggestion was quiet, but quickly challenged as it reached her ears.

“No, please no,” She cried out, feeling as hands closed around her knees and ankles as they attempted to pull her forward — the midwife froze abruptly in response to her right foot flinging out and kicking her hand away, looking up at her young Lady who shook her head and pulled from her. She could not go through this again — she was overcome by a sudden anxiety and fear as she moved, unable to bear the thought of losing another.

Serra shoved herself upright and shifted back onto her backside, pressing further into the bed as another contraction tore through her as she then released a final groan, bearing down with the very little strength she still possessed. She writhed, her knees parted and chin resting to her chest as she pushed, barely present enough to feel the comforting hand on her shoulder from behind her; drowning out the soft voices that reluctantly encouraged her and overcome by an overwhelming sense of nausea that had followed every searing contraction that radiated to each and every end of her body. Every muscle clenched so tight she felt her bones might snap and each nerve pinched in discomfort that caused her to let out a, her hands releasing the sheets finally and finding rest against the floor at her sides as she arched back into the bed and let out a moan that resembled that of an injured animal that slowly raised into a whine — she was suddenly startled by the gush between her thighs, staining the floor as relief washed over her, paired with a sudden emptiness.

She was aware now as she tuned back into her surroundings at the feeling of a babe’s shoulders sliding past her thighs and letting out a high pitched shriek; she quickly reached down underneath her chemise and found the infant who squirmed, face scrunched up in a cry that echoed through the room. The midwife, too, reached for the babe, aiding them to her chest and wrapping a thin blanket around it as she finally slumped back into the bed again; a cry of relief leaving her.

“He’s here!”

Serra took a moment to collect her thoughts, seeking rest as her head rested against the bed and panting heavily, her eyes fluttering shut — her heart continued to race and she felt cold from the shock, numbed by adrenaline but faintly able to feel hands instantly pressing to her abdomen and palpitating while another pair of hands assessed the child in her arms. It was then that she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the midwife with tired eyes, “A boy?”

Serra looked down, admiring his small, rounded face that was framed by a familiar head of dark hair; using her left hand to wipe away some blood from his forehead as he squirmed, mouth open with lively screams that announced his arrival -- he was here, at last. She let out a weak, emotional sob and looked up at the midwife.

The elderly woman smiled wide and bright, with her rosy cheeks and eyes lit with excitement as she softly spoke, “A boy, my lady,” she said, “a fine, handsome heir for Raventree.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He could hardly hear over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears — the sound of blood thundering loud over that of the rain that poured down in sheets that made his vision blur, squinting to see his hand outstretched in front of him as he blindly pushed forward. The only thing that guided his movements was the sound of anguished outcries, grunts of exertion, and the harsh clatter of weaponry; swords clashing into one another in battle that had dragged on for hours — he did not particularly like battle, but it only felt necessary these days. There seemed to be no avoiding it. Perhaps he chose to no longer avoid it.

The sun had hardly risen, hung low over the horizon as it slowly crept high into the sky as the light of morning spread across the shores of God's Eye; no inch untouched by the already unbearable heat despite the treacherous rain, humid and thick as the men only found relief by the subtle breeze that blew across the sea and towards the battle.

Benjicot had not seen the early days of this battle -- a day late, but the carnage that already haunted the shores was undoubtedly beyond what he could have ever prepared himself for when he arrived that morning. With every step he took, there was a new body, slashed and bloodied — his boots sunk into the mud that had turned red with blood each step forward; soaked up to his knees and heaving for air as he found himself stumbling forward and twisting awkwardly into his right knee.

Faintly, he could see the knight in front of him — the familiar regal red and gold of his house colours, clumsy and equally blind as he stupidly swung his sword out at the sound of a grunt from Benjicot as he pushed up from the ground. His eyes narrowed, blinking harshly and trying to use his hand to wipe the water from them as they stung, struggling to keep his eyes open. He caught his balance, his foot coming free from the mud with a disgusting slosh and fumbling to readjust his sword in his hand — they were only inches apart, but the weather made it near impossible for him to move with any grace, his arm swinging out and catching the tip of his blade in an awkward clatter that felt far from deliberate — he heard a startled noise from the young knight who stumbled back, free hand flinging behind him in an effort to catch himself.

Benjicot lunged forward, moving based on hope alone and potentially false optimism that he wouldn’t miss — that he wouldn’t just crash into the ground, face first and put himself in a worse position. His neck and shoulder collided with the waist of the boy in front of him, losing his footing in the slippery terrain and lurching the pair of them forward as a hand slammed against his back in an effort to find hold on something, anything — instead, the collision was followed by the clamour of armour as they tumbled backwards. His brow slammed into his chin as the two men hit the ground, eliciting a pained help from the Lannister knight — Benjicot could have sworn his vision had given out entirely for a moment, pain shooting in behind his left eye and radiating until through his temple as a hand slammed into his face; shoving and fighting to get him off — his head jerked sideways, straining backwards awkwardly. He fumbled to shove his hand away, crawling up him like a struggling inch worm and punching his wrist as he reached for his sword that had been lost in the muck — the hand reached again, wriggling underneath him, and Benjicot growled in frustration.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the sharp sting of pain shoot through his body as the Lannister knight beneath him thrashed, desperately trying to dislodge him, but Benjicot's determination outweighed his exhaustion. His fingers scraped through the mud, finally closing around the hilt of his sword just as the knight's knee slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs.

With a feral growl, he pushed back, using the knight's moment of distraction to twist the blade up between them. The knight’s hand shot out again, grasping for Benjicot’s arm just a moment too late — the blade met its mark, driving into the gap between the golden lion’s breastplate and shoulder guard. Benjicot could feel the shock in the knight’s body as his muscles went rigid beneath him, his eyes widening as he stared up, mouth agape and frozen; a silence befalling them as his mouth opened and choked out a series of sounds, wet and coughing, his lips being stained by blood.

For a moment, the battle seemed to stop — the distant clash of swords and the roar of men faded into the background. Benjicot met the knight’s eyes through the haze of rain and pain, seeing the disbelief in the young man’s gaze, and something worse: fear. The kind of fear that a child experienced when they heard thunder and sought their parents for comfort, something boyish. Benjicot had never liked the killing — not like some men did — but war had taken that choice from him long ago.

The knight’s grip on Benjicot’s arm weakened, his body growing limp. He hesitated before he wrenched the blade free, the Lannister collapsing back into the muck with a groan that barely registered against the storm. Benjicot rolled off him, chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he lay in the blood-soaked mud, his back becoming wet as water seeped through the plates of armour; leaving the layers beneath clinging to his skin as his eyes closed. He did not know how long he lied there — it felt like an eternity, listening to the sound of death that surrounded him, his sword by his side and wracked by exhaustion.

“—halt!”

Footsteps stomped towards him, unwilling to move as he waited — waited for the inevitable and unwilling to fight more, he slowed his breathing and opened his eyes to look up at the grey skies that hung overhead, forcefully blinking through the relentless downpour, “Benjicot!” The voice shouted, coming towards him, “Ben!”

He registered the voice suddenly as Emrys, soon finding him at his side and dragging him up by the collar. A look of relief crossed his cousin’s features as Benjicot sat up, grabbing his shoulder and supporting his weight, “You had me worried there, my lord,” Emrys breathed out, a hint of forced humour in his voice.

He couldn’t even muster a laugh, finding the thought alone draining as he closed his eyes and slumped in relief, his own hand clinging to his cousin’s elbow, “I am still here,” He muttered, “you are not free of me yet.”

His cousin laughed, “There is plenty more to celebrate today then.”

Emrys stood, offering a hand to him -- his eyes darted to it, a dull ache settling into his bones at the thought of moving, “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can,” Emrys replied, a young knight being summoned forward from behind him, both men quickly taking either side of him. Benjicot let out a choked yelp, groaning as they dragged him up to his feet, stumbling a step and wincing as he struggled to remain on his feet; the adrenaline of battle had begun to wear off already, “Easy now…take it slow.”

His face screwed up in pain, letting out a sharp exhale from his nose and gritting his teeth as Emrys wrapped an arm around his middle and watched his expression with a clear look of concern that only reached his eyes, “Are you ready?”

Benjicot gave a short nod -- although his legs still felt weak, he did not want to appear vulnerable, his movements slow and shaky as he stood upright. He could feel as Emrys kept a hand close, hear the sound of his leather gloves as his fingers wriggled, ready to catch him, “What updates do you bring from the frontlines?” He quietly asked, his voice still possessing a weak tremor. His cousin hesitated, watching him a moment longer before he glanced towards the knight who looked equally as prepared to catch and break his fall.

“Lord Charlton and Lord Forrest Frey have too been slain,” Emrys announced, his eyes scanning his appearance as the young lord turned, limping on unsteady feet to achieve the task. Benjicot exhaled sharply, “As well as two thirds of the winter wolves, but there is more…”

The losses seemed to accumulate and with each man down, Benjicot felt a sense of dread grow heavier by each passing minute, resting in his chest and slowly sinking into the pit of his stomach and churning there. His brows twitched, worry lines etched deep into his young features as he sighed deeply and nodded as if to encourage him to speak; however, he was met by an optimistic glint in his cousin’s gaze as he shifted, “Both sides suffer heavy losses…”

“Why are you so smug about that?” He breathlessly asked.

“They retreat,” He suddenly interrupted, too excited for his own good. His voice lowered, watching as Benjicot struggled to process his words, “In exchange, your uncle has intervened in their efforts to summon for more men and we have slain Humffrey Lefford himself, leaving them crippled-- today, those who remain have begun to retreat. If they do not meet death by sword, they drown. Today, we celebrate a success for the Blacks.”

His gaze settled on him, his words sinking in finally. He glanced past him towards the sight of some remaining men, mounted on horseback that circled the grounds, rounding up some remaining men -- the distant clash of battle was lighter, the sound of an anguished shriek filling the field, a horse whinnying…it did not feel like a win, but his words sparked some hope, “This will be a success for our men,” Emrys repeated, “Raventree and its heir stand still, the rest of the craven Lannister men retreat, like a dog with its tail between its legs.”

“Lord Swyft? The men of Crakehall?” He asked, his blade being shoved into the ground and leaning into it for support. His eyes shifted again towards his cousin.

“Few remain,” Emrys replied.

“Have we accounted for Lord Reyne?” He asked, dismissing his celebration as he withdrew his sword from the mud and slowly pushed past him to ascend the field once again. He could still hear and faintly make out the bodies, the sound of battle reverberating from up the hill with the harsh clash of weapons; trudging through the mud. Pain tore through his ribs, sore as he moved and listened, his cousin in tow.

“Throat slit, he was found among a pile of wolves,” He replied quickly, glancing down at his own feet as he stepped over the body of the young Lannister knight -- Benjicot, however, avoided to dare look down; disregarding the sickening crunch beneath his right foot as he nearly tripped over the arm of another boy who lay only a few feet away, “I assume the poor fuck did not stand much a chance against them. Looked as though they surrounded him and took their turns apparently.”

The thought made his stomach turn, grimacing in disgust as a shudder ran through him, glancing over his shoulder to witness his cousin’s nonchalance on the matter. He understood that war was gruesome and violent, bloody and messy -- it had a way of bringing out the worst of men. But he could not help the inkling of sympathy he felt for Lord Reyne in that moment, repulsed by the image and fighting the urge to vomit as he hesitated, swallowing thickly as he pushed forward -- some sun had managed to peer through the clouds, his eyes narrowed as he let out a gruff hum in response.

He knew Lord Reyne had a wife and children back home -- two young boys that Benjicot had grown up alongside, having met them briefly in his childhood. He’d never considered them friends, and especially nothing anywhere close to the brotherhood he shared with the Tully boys, but he wondered how they would react to the news of their fathers passing. He had struggled with the news of his own father’s death and had been numb in the weeks afterwards, but he had been a man grown with his own responsibilities that forced him to keep moving forward — he couldn’t imagine still being a boy of what, ten-and-four? He couldn’t quite remember their ages, nor picture what time had done to change their faces, but he imagined they looked more like their father as the years passed — an idea that felt more daunting the more he pondered the thought, knowing that his wife would have to come face-to-face with that reminder every day of what they had done to him.

He sniffled, feeling the sudden sting of tears that welled in his eyes, pressing forward — blinking, he attempted to force them back down. Benjicot was horrified by the thought of things being reversed, imagining Serra being the wife to receive news that her husband had died instead. He was worn and exhausted, and he just wanted to be home and in her arms — he did not want to even entertain the image of her grief-stricken and left to raise their child alone. He let out a quiet sob, a choked sound that he attempted to conceal with a cough, clearing his throat as he was suddenly grateful for the rain.

Finally, he paused and scanned the shore. Benjicot's hand trembled as he clutched the hilt of his sword, the rain dripping off its blade like blood washed away by the gods themselves. He stared down at the bodies that littered the shore, the slain men no different than he had been mere hours ago — sons, fathers, husbands.

The stillness of death suffocated him, each face a reflection of what could have been, what still might be. The Lord Reyne he had struck down had not been so different from him — a man with a family, with duties, with hopes for a future that would never come. His chest tightened as the image of Serra’s face drifted into his mind again. He imagined her receiving a letter, trembling hands ripping it open to reveal the worst news a wife could hear. He pictured her alone in their chambers, clutching their child, eyes red from crying.

He shut his eyes tight, letting the raindrops mingle with his tears. Would she move on? Could she? Benjicot cursed himself for thinking it. He had been raised on the stories of glory and valour, where men died heroes and songs were sung of their deeds. But this, this was not glory. This was hell. The bitter taste of it was on his tongue as he swallowed hard, pushing down the emotions that clawed at his chest.

“My lord?”

He turned his head slightly, finding the young knight who had helped him to his feet — he recognized him from years of training alongside one another, a man only a year younger, looking at him with a subtle frown, “We must find Robb,” he thickly replied, avoiding his eyes as he sniffled again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Serra watched the babe in her arms with a look of awe, his face scrunched up as he awkwardly fumbled around, mouth open and growing increasingly frustrated as the moments passed. Her fingertip brushed his small nose, rounded and perfect as the room was filled by a soft shushing, attempting to soothe him when he released an angry whine, a tiny, clenched fist rising against her chest and bumping against her sternum; he squirmed against her body, “Patience, my little love…” she sweetly said, her voice quiet, “find your way.”

Serra quickly lifted her gaze to the wet-nurse who was silent throughout the whole duration of her attempt, her eyebrows tugging into a worried frown, “I feel as though he does not want me,” she sighed, “is it something I am doing?” She asked, looking down again at her son.

The wet-nurse watched from her place near the wall, eagerly ready to step forward and intervene at the first sign of distress as she held her breath — her hands anxiously twitched at her skirt, “It takes them time to find the breast sometimes, m’lady,” She finally spoke, her accent thick and voice soft and nurturing, “I have always found boys to be a little slower to take to nursing, they require a little more guidance. Might I?”

She let out a defeated sigh, giving a feeble nod as she allowed the wet-nurse to approach. The woman knelt in front of her, gently tucking the blanket down more from his face that had become red with frustration, letting out a cry that made Serra want to shrivel up and die, disheartened as she softly shushed him again and gently bounced him; his nose bumped her nipple when he turned his head, mouth opened and blindly seeking her, but only meeting flesh, “Bring him closer,” the nurse instructed.

She adjusted him in her arms, bringing him closer with assistance from the nurse, his arm outstretched against her ribs and wailing, “I know, my dear boy, I know…I’m sorry,” she softly spoke, anxiety beginning to creep up within her chest.

“Align his nose…” she instructed, “with the nipple, and bring him…” she murmured, her voice trailing off as she supported his head in her palm for a moment to fix his positioning.

The nurse withdrew her hands to her lap as Serra wordlessly obeyed, bringing her son into her chest and guiding him to her breast as she’d been directed — a wave of relief washed over her as his mouth finally found her, latching around her and reluctantly suckling, “There you go,” she whispered encouragingly. She looked up, giving the nurse a tired smile and letting out a soft laugh as she bowed her head with a warm smile of her own and stood to her feet.

The room was once again silent, filled only by the uncomfortable sigh from Serra after a moment as she was overcome by her let-down and her son’s breathing. The sensation was not one she had yet to become accustomed to, but one she welcomed as a means to bonding with the sweet boy who appeared content for the first time that afternoon. She withdrew a hand from underneath his back, still supporting him with her left arm in order to tenderly stroke his cheek as he fed, absentmindedly rocking him from side-to-side, “Is it normal…to experience pain?” She asked in a quiet voice that was barely above a whisper after some time had passed, finding that he had begun to nod off to sleep.

“At first,” The nurse replied.

“It’s been nearly two months, though.”

Her nurse hesitated, glancing towards the babe, “I can summon the maester if you would like, my lady.”

“I do not wish to bother him,” she said, shaking her head, “I can bear some discomfort, I just worry.”

The nurse smiled, “You needn’t worry, my lady. You are a natural, it is a gift from the gods.”

Serra wanted to laugh out loud, feeling like anything but after struggling with the simple task these past weeks, angry that her body seemed to fail where it should have thrived — something so natural did not come with ease, the way she had expected. She had not been prepared and that had become abundantly obvious when he had first been born, terrified of doing anything wrong and upsetting him; every cry made the hair on the back of her neck stand and she felt as though she had been on edge since his birth. There was no tea or herbal remedy that could have prepared her for the amount of anxiety that had flooded her body the minute he was born, and what came after, once he was no longer safe and protected by her womb. Her wet-nurse meant well, but she was bitter and tired, lowering her head to look down at her son again and watching as he suckled, even in his sleep; his eyes closed and fluttering, fine, dark hair curling into his forehead.

The quiet hum of the nursery lulled Serra into a brief sense of peace as she continued to rock her son, her eyes trained on the soft rise and fall of his chest. His dark lashes rested delicately against his cheeks, still flushed from the earlier ordeal, but now serene and undisturbed. Serra allowed herself a tender smile, brushing her fingers gently through the fine curls that framed his forehead. Yet beneath that fragile peace, the weight of worry gnawed at her. She felt it in her bones, an ache that ran deeper than the discomfort in her chest. It wasn’t just the challenges of motherhood that plagued her now—there was a tension she could not shake, a fear that had taken root since Benjicot had ridden off to battle. It was the not knowing, the endless waiting that frayed at her already delicate nerves. The thought of her infant son becoming the Lord of Raventree made her sick with nausea, debilitated by fear of the idea.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the fading light of day was giving way to dusk. The lake was out there, somewhere beyond the mist and trees, where her husband fought to protect their home and people. She wanted to be hopeful, to believe in his strength and the bravery that had always defined him. But every distant sound, every muffled voice beyond the nursery door set her on edge, her mind conjuring the dark possibilities.

The soft rustle of the wet nurse’s skirts drew her attention back to the room. The woman had moved to the corner, silently keeping watch, her expression one of gentle concern. Serra gave her a quick glance, but words stuck in her throat. Another sigh escaped her lips as she shifted her son slightly, cradling him closer against her body.

A soft knock filled the room, a pause following — her eyes found the nurse who immediately stepped forward and used her body as a shield, Serra’s hand reaching for the blanket that surrounded her son to lift it to cover herself as much as it would allow, “Come in,” Serra announced as the door then slowly edged open.

Grace crept inside, quickly closing the door behind her and keeping her head lowered as she entered the room, “I apologise for my disturbance, my lady.”

Serra tilted her head to look around the nurse, finding Grace’s eyes, “It is quite alright, Grace,” she assured, “what is it?” She asked, her eyes lowering to where her son shifted in his slumber.

Grace visibly hesitated, her hands clasping and unclasping in front of her, “It is your lord husband, my lady,” she quietly said.

Serra felt herself tense up, her eyes lifting and clenching her teeth as she found her nurse looking at her — she had yet to hear the next words, but she was frozen in place as dread settled heavy in her bones, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as she absentmindedly brushed her son’s cheek, “What of him?” She finally choked out after a moment, her voice low in an effort to sound steady.

She could hear the slow, hesitant shuffle of Grace’s footsteps that crossed the room until she was inches away; stopping so she could kneel in front of her, her gaze fixed on her face, “Many have been wounded in battle, my lady,” She said, her voice soft and warm, but holding a firm edge to it. Serra wanted to let out a cry, nodding stiffly after a pause, “But he has returned. The maesters are with him and his men as we speak…” She continued to explain.

Despite her words, Serra felt shame in admitting she did not care about the others -- she did not care that the other men had made it home, or that they were wounded -- she did not care for any of them at that very moment. The only thing she could focus on was the mention of her husband, hanging onto her words as she was overcome by a confusing slew of emotions, storming within her like a downpour of rain and thunder that enraged the seas, like the gods themselves had crafted it and taken vengeance out on the common and noble folk alike. Her relief was muddled by her sadness, her grief, fear of what almost was, still on edge and anxious like she was expecting to be told there was some mistake and that Benjicot had not made it home; that this news was some sort of miscommunication and that his body had been so mangled, they had mistook him for another man. Her stomach churned, clutching her son closer to her body and fixing his blanket with a restless, shaky hand as her eyes focused on his sleeping face.

“...Ser Henry was wounded but he is expected to make a full recovery...”

She wondered if it made her a terrible person to care so little for others in favour of Ben, as long as it meant he was unscathed and safe. There had been no doubt that the war would take, take, and take from all those of the realm as far South and North as one could fathom, and that nobody would be left untouched by the carnage and grief that would entail, but there had been no preparing for just how bare the battles would leave the realm in the aftermath -- with each battle, she felt as though Raventree became emptier and quieter than it had been all those months prior; once lively and full, she now noticed the gaps as time progressed.

She, too, still noticed her father’s absence.

It hadn’t yet been a year since his passing and the loneliness that had followed was not something she could have prepared herself for, either. She hadn’t seen her brothers in months and had been forced into mourning his loss alone whilst they were off to their own devices; she had sent ravens but only received three each in the time since they had left four months earlier. Kermit had since returned to Riverrun to take over as Lord Paramount, and Oscar was sent to the frontlines of battle and distracted by the new found responsibilities of Knightship. She found herself envying them for having something to distract themselves in those early days, while she had been ordered to bedrest almost immediately after she had found out she was expecting; news that, while good for Raventree and its future, she struggled to find comfort when she first felt the barely there little flutters and stirring in her belly. She had barely had time to mourn the first babe she had lost months earlier, only for her father to pass forty-five days into his ascension to head of House Tully; forty-five days after her grandsire. The past year had been a blur of grief and tears and anger that still lingered.

“…I can summon him, if you would like,” Grace suddenly said.

She was drawn from the thought, her eyes lifting to find hers; a greyish blue that Serra found rather pretty in the light — she was a pretty girl, she had come to conclude over the past year, but for once, she couldn’t concentrate on the thought. Instead, she silently stared at her, processing the suggestion and listening to the rhythmic, quick sound of her son’s breathing for a moment; deep and steady as he let out a tired whine, rolling against her as a small hand came up to rub his face. She looked down, catching his fist with her fingers and pulling it away from his cheek as tiny nails attempted to scratch at the delicate skin, leaving behind a faint red line from where he had made contact, “No…no,” she quickly replied, “I will not summon him like a dog to heel, I can go to him.”

“My lady?” The nurse asked.

Serra slowly stood, withdrawing her son from her chest and beginning to pull the front of her dress up and back over her chest; unsteady on her feet as she steadied herself against the chair briefly. The nurse quickly took the babe from her arms, a look of uncertainty being passed between the two women as Serra sucked in a shaky breath, attempting to straighten out her dress, “Help me, please— I cannot go to him looking a mess,” She instructed.

Grace snapped into action after a short-lived hesitation, coming forward and working quickly to straighten the low shoulders of her dress; she stepped around her to straighten the backing against her shoulders with swift, nimble fingers. Her hands rose to smooth out her hair, pulling it back from the loose hanging style after having eagerly torn out the pins from earlier; cascading down her back and curling around her face from the sticky humidity that trickled in through the window and left the air thick and hard to choke down, “Shall I braid…”

“No,” Serra sighed out, “no…it is fine. Just leave it.”

She felt a hand grab the back of her dress as she attempted to step forward, forcing her back again as Grace let out a soft breath, “Let me at least pin it from your eyes, my lady,” She quietly said, reaching up and beginning to pull the few stray strands that hung in her eyes back.

She wanted to protest further, but found herself unable to, settling into silence and allowing her to pin the hair back; secured by a pin at the back of her head with one final brush with her fingers, attempting to tame the curls. Her hands smoothed down the front of her dress as she leaned forward to press a final kiss to her son’s forehead, giving him one last look before she heaved out a sigh and hurried towards the door.

Grace stepped back as Serra adjusted the front of her dress one last time, her fingers trembling slightly. She cast a final glance at her son, now dozing peacefully in the nurse’s arms, the red mark already fading from his cheek. For a moment, her resolve wavered — the pull to stay, to hold her child just a bit longer, was strong. But she knew she had to see him. She had to see Benjicot.

With a deep breath, Serra straightened her spine and nodded to Grace. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned toward the door.

The cool air of the hall greeted her as soon as she stepped outside the room, the thick humidity fading slightly. Her heart raced in her chest, the familiar excitement bubbling up again. She couldn’t help it — the eagerness was overwhelming, nearly impossible to restrain as she heard an uproar of cheers from beyond the walls. Without thinking, Serra gathered her skirts in her hands and began to move, her steps quickening with each passing moment.

She did not mean to run but she could hardly contain her eagerness to see him, skirts gripped in her hands as she rushed down the halls of Raventree, eyes wide and turning her head to try and look outside through the windows; attempting to catch a glimpse out the window of the returning men and her husband through the yard, though unsuccessful. She could hear the voices, however, excited and clamouring to approach and congratulate the men on their success at Lakeshore outside the great hall, already picturing the council gushing over her husband, his face smug and probably just eating it all up. She could barely move fast enough for her liking, a handmaiden on her heels as she just about leapt down the stairs.

“My lady!” Grace gasped, reaching for her as Serra launched down the stairs, hand reaching out to grip the railing with her eyes cast down to wake sure she didn’t trip over her own feet; bare feet padding across the cold, stone floors.

She could now see the clamour of men, armour amidst the crowd but her husband was still hidden from view, wildly searching for him among the men. Suddenly, she noticed the councilmen huddled around a figure, clasping the man’s shoulder and nodding, pridefully beaming as they spoke in hushed tones, “You did good, my lord. A great success for Raventree and the Riverlands.” The old, balding man praised with a hand on the shoulder of her lord husband, whose back was turned to her.

She stopped at the base of the stairs, watching as he nodded, voice quiet in replying his thanks to the men, head turning slightly to glance at the men who were still buzzing with excitement over their win; bloodied and rowdy, though her husband was quiet, sighing as she watched his eyes scan the crowd. He turned slowly as though he was searching for someone, his mouth pressed into a fine line and eyes narrowing, the bags under his eyes signifying his exhaustion — he’d aged significantly these past weeks, exhausted by the war, evident even from afar. He looked the opposite of what she had imagined, something bordering melancholic appearing on his face as his gaze found her, expression softening and shoulders relaxing at the sight of his wife; his clenched fists wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword on his waist belt. He released his hold on the weapon for the first time in days as he started to approach her; shoulders bumping bodies, caring very little that he shoved men in the process as he moved towards her. He was just eager to be near her — another first in the past month, as he reached for her once he was close enough, his hand finding her waist and gripping the fabric of her dress to pull her towards him.

She clung to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as his arms slid round her back and reaching a hand up to press to the back of her head whilst burying his face into her hair. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of her. They stood in silence like that, content with each other's embrace for the moment before he reluctantly leaned away, her hands cupping his cheeks to hold his face in her hands, still chest-to-chest as they stared back at one another.

Benjicot couldn’t find it in himself to do much speaking, silent as he withdrew at the sudden realisation that something had changed. His features pinched into a frown, confused as his eyes dropped to her belly, any signs of being swollen with babe fading as her body slowly worked to go back to what it had previously been and heal; one hand reaching out to brush his fingers down her belly, stopping just below her naval — a comforting gesture that Benjicot had gotten used to doing throughout the past several months, palm resting flat against the bump of where their child grew each day. Though this time, there was emptiness when his hand stroked over her abdomen, nearly flat and almost as though their babe had never even been there — though both her hips and chest were fuller, changed in order to support the life that grew within her.

Her hands moved to both cover his, taking his hand between both of hers and bringing the bloodied knuckles to her mouth in a sweet kiss, drawing his eyes back to hers. A feeling of dread settled deep into the pit of his stomach, bile crawling up the back of his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, fearful of the worst as his fingers laced through hers, his mouth opening. Though he was left wordless and stammering stupidly as a small whine came from behind her as a wet nurse came down the stairs behind his wife, her arms filled by a wiggling bundle that reached up with small, chubby hands — both his wife and him turned towards the woman who approached them, her gaze down at the small face that peered back at her; small features screwed up with a cry.

“Here, I can take him.” Serra said, releasing her husband's hands to retrieve the infant from the wetnurse, slow and ever so cautious as she took the bundle into her arms; making sure to adjust her arms correctly as she then turned in the direction of Benjicot, who stepped forward, “Come meet your boy, Benjicot,” She softly said, voice barely above a whisper as she smiled, shy as she looked up at him.

He scanned her face, blinking before looking down at his son, hesitantly closing the gap until he stood over the both of them, his right hand lifting to gently stroke his son’s head amidst the blankets. Pride swelled in his chest at the sight of their infant son, letting out a chuckle that was more air, in awe as he then brought his hand to the cheek of his son, his finger stroking the soft, youthful skin, “A boy.”

“Aelor Blackwood.” She quietly said, his gaze shooting up to her face quickly in response to her words.

His other hand lifted to cup her cheek, a smile spreading across his own face as he let out a content sigh, “My beautiful wife,” he said, his voice laced with adoration as he leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. His gaze returned to the boy in her arms as he squirmed, face screwing up with a soft whine after being woken from his slumber — Aelor blindly turned towards his hand with an open mouth and attempted to bring the digit to his mouth for comfort, “and you my dear boy, you will make a fine knight one day,” He quietly said.

“Might I hold him?” He asked after a moment, looking up to find her eyes.

She seemed taken aback, a smile slowly spreading across her face as she leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Of course. He’s as much your boy as he is mine.”

He felt foolish asking, he realised, as she was right -- from the curve of his nose to the dark hair that curled into his temples, his eyes aimlessly wandering to watch no particular thing as he cooed. He watched as his fists balled, gaze scanning his surroundings and briefly pausing to look up at him -- Benjicot swore his heart stuttered, softening immediately as he looked upon Aelor, who was so blissfully unaware of all that he had done or who he had been before that moment. He was innocent in all of this.

Benjicot slowly stepped around her, his head lowered and disregarding any further need for engaging with the council and their mindless chatter, praising him -- he didn’t need to listen to know what more they had to say to him. He felt as she clung to his side, her hand finding his elbow and following his slow pace up the stairs, afraid to disturb his son with any sudden jostles; his steps slow and cautious as they ascended the stairs, ever so grateful as the men remained silent behind him. There would be celebrations for days -- he knew that. But they could begin without him, only once he was nestled away in the safety of his chambers.

It would only be then that he could mend from the day’s events, and breathe for the first time in days. Feel safe for the first time in months.

Serra’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, her fingers carding through his hair and brushing her thumb along his nape; her wide, brown eyes watching him with a look like he was a living god among them, a shy smile threatening the corners of her mouth. Her hand dropped between his shoulders as they walked, finding his eyes when he slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room was still filled by the soft coo of Aelor, while Benjicot sat on the edge of the bed and held him in his lap, cradling him to his chest as the babe sucked on his fingers. The bunched up blankets were loose, allowing him to freely wriggle as he dozed off, his eyes half closed already as the fire continued — Serra had been grateful for the extra hands, belonging none other than to her son’s father, rather than that of another wet nurse. She admired the women who committed their lives to raising noble children almost as though they were their own, and she could not have survived those early days without them — but she did not enjoy the practice of becoming so uninvolved with one’s children, that women would never hold their own child for years at a time; she could hardly fathom the thought of not having Aelor in her arms for more than a couple of hours, used to the weight of him against her chest and cradled into her like he was a piece of her that existed outside of her body.

Her mother had been so hands-on and involved with her and her brothers, having established a strong bond with her own children from birth — Serra wanted nothing less for her own children.

Watching Benjicot, she relished in the thought that Aelor would have exactly that — just as she did, content and knowing the safety of his parents arms as Ben caressed his cheek with a thumb; lulling him to sleep with quiet stories of his own youth, revelling in the fact that he was a Blackwood through and through. He was a spitting image of his father, and that of his before him — she could only imagine the relief that he had a piece of his father again, one to love and cherish and carry with him even in his passing. His adoration for the boy was already clear, his eyes softening and voice soft, quiet and loving as he spoke, unwilling to let him go; gently using his fingers to bring his hand down and away from his mouth as Aelor attempted to suck again on his fingers, his face scrunching up in a frustrated whine, head twisting to the side -- he let out a soft ‘sh’ in an effort to soothe him.

Serra watched from the fireplace, brushing out her hair as she sat on the bench in front of it, her eyes never leaving the pair. It warmed her to watch the interaction, a small smile on her face as she briefly slowed her pace in fixing her hair, pausing a moment as Aelor released a final whine; his eyes closed as sleep overcame him. It was a miracle, she thought, how he could find sleep even in his father’s lap so quickly -- there had been no buffer period in which he needed to warm to Benjicot, and seemed to instinctively already know he was safe and that this man was no stranger -- like he knew this was the man who had spoken to him for several months from outside the womb, whispering stories to him before he had entered the world.

She set down the brush, standing slowly and twisting her ring as she approached her husband, careful not to make any noise, too scared to breathe in fear of waking the raven-haired infant whose breathing slowed with slumber; his eyes fluttering with dreams of whatever peaceful things babes dreamt of. She planted a hand on Benjicot’s shoulder, resting her chin upon it and looking down to where he was still hyper focused on their son, afraid to look away for even a moment; he quietly fixed the blanket, tucking it around him with cautious, gentle movements, “The ladies should be taking him to the nursery soon,” She softly said, her eyes on him.

For the first time in an hour, his gaze lifted to look up at her, “One moment longer,” he pleaded, his knuckles brushing underneath his chin and eliciting a slight twitch of his face as he looked down at him again, “I feel as though I have missed a lifetime already.”

There was a melancholic tone in his voice as he gazed at him, tugging at her heart and replacing her joy with an aching sadness. She couldn’t bring herself to summon the nurses and maidens who would soon take him away; knowing she’d had a month and a half with him, while Benjicot had only a few hours. Though she tried not to dwell on it, she was painfully aware that it was only a matter of time before he would be called back to battle, with no guarantee of returning unharmed and being as lucky a second time around. Serra let out a shaky exhale of air, lowering her head to press a kiss to the crook of his neck.

His head turned quickly at the sound of her sigh, searching for her face as she kept her head down and unable to meet his gaze. Benjicot’s eyebrows furrowed, voice softening as he attempted to beckon her attention back to him, “Serra,” He said, “Look at me.”

She slowly lifted her head, her bottom lip folded between her teeth as she forced a brave, nonchalant front, her eyebrows raising with a simple hum of acknowledgement. But he knew her well enough that he could see the tension that had become of her, her mouth a tight line as her fingers pressed further into his shoulder, holding his clothing tight within her fist as blinking unnaturally. Benjicot swallowed, looking down to her lap, “Let them bring him to the nursery now, it’s growing late.”

She nodded, unwilling to argue as she carefully scooped Aelor from his lap; his hands nervously following hers as he was lifted, cradled to her chest as he leaned forward to press a final kiss to his temple. Serra slowly walked towards the door, her exchange with the wetnurse who hovered outside the door brief and quiet to the point that Benjicot could not make out a word -- his eyes followed her movements as she leaned down to kiss his forehead, sliding him into the older woman’s arms and stroking his head as she turned and began to retreat down the hall with their son. Even then, she remained in the open doorway, leaned against the frame while she anxiously picked at her nails, twirling her fingers.

She closed the door after a moment, clicking it shut and turning to cross the room towards the fireplace where she abruptly stopped. Benjicot settled back on to the edge of the bed, beginning to shed his clothing in preparation for sleep, his eyes still focused on her and unable to tear away; he could make out the wringing of her hands, her shoulders tense and rigid as the silence dragged on, sensing that her thoughts were anywhere but there.

She moved finally, her head turning right slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“What of my brothers?” She asked, referring to Kermit and Oscar. Her dear brother Oscar, who was barely a man-grown, his face still young and boyish when she had last seen him, eyes still possessing some trace of innocence having not seen war before. Her chest ached at the thought of him in battle, bloody and bruised — but he had their father’s blood in his veins, he was fearless and could fight hard, surely.

“Strong as ever.” Benjicot replied in a low voice, feeling as he approached from behind, having listened to the sound of fabric and clinking that dropped over the seat, until he was stripped down to his under layers. His chest pressed to her shoulder blades as he brought her towards him, an arm wrapped around her waist and secured her in place with a firm hold while the other trailed hand trailed up the length of her arm until his fingers wrapped around her shoulder. His forehead rested against the crown of her head, relishing in the warmth she radiated after being away from it for the past month and three weeks, his eyes closing as she let out a sigh, “Your brother has been rather busy with the responsibilities of his new lordship— but he is fierce, brave.” He mumbled into her hair.

Her own arms dropped to place over his own, her hand finding his at her waist while her eyes remained on the flames of the fireplace, emitting heat to the rest of her chamber. She was comforted by word of her oldest brother, a small, pensive smile coming to her face; Benjicot’s hand moving from her hold to press to her abdomen while a hand of hers remained overtop his, “Oscar is as equal a fierce leader,” He said, face moving from her hair to drop to her shoulder, his mouth pressing a kiss to the bare skin there.

It brought her some relief to hear that they were both safe and well, presumably having returned to their house by this point — relieved by the news that they were alive and otherwise safe. The war had already taken enough. Benjicot sighed, a defeated sound as his head twisted to press his cheek to the plane of her shoulder, both arms lacing around her waist. Her fingers absentmindedly traced along his forearm, “I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t apologise, Ben,” she easily replied.

She had counted every minute, every hour, waiting for the day she received word of his return — it felt pathetic at first, eager to receive news that he had come back. But time drew on, and as her anxieties grew, she cared little for how desperate she appeared — she was alone and terrified for six weeks, “I do and I’m sorry I left you to do it alone…” He said, voice small like a child, “I worried about you every day.”

Serra leaned further into Benjicot, relenting and allowing herself to melt into the warmth of his embrace, her eyes still fixed on the flickering flames. “You didn’t leave me alone,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion beneath it. “You were always here, Ben. In my thoughts, in every moment, you never left me.”

Benjicot pressed another kiss to her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. “I should have been here. I should’ve seen him, held him...”

She turned in his arms, placing a hand gently on his cheek, guiding his gaze to hers. “You will. He’s here, and so are you. We’ve all had to make personal sacrifices in these times,” she quietly continued, her other hand bringing his face to hers and releasing a sigh through her nose, “I only worry about you.”

“Please don’t,” he replied, attempting to lean in and press a kiss to her mouth. She withdrew, leaning back and furrowing her brow at him — he hung there, halfway between them and lips still slightly puckered as he sensed her scepticism, letting out a sigh as his gaze scanned her face, “You do not have to worry about me.”

Her expression softened, once again dodging his lips as he leaned forward again, “I’m your wife. It’s my duty to worry about you.”

She offered a small, tight smile before leaning in and finally pressing a kiss to his mouth.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His fingers trailed up and down along her spine, her chest to his as she sprawled over him on her front, her cheek pressed to his collarbone as she nestled her face into his neck. Benjicot had found her to have dozed off to sleep some time ago, but had found it difficult to follow — instead, he’d found himself focused on the fields beyond the walls of Raventree, watching as sunrise slowly filled their room. The chill of the morning had crept in through a window that had been left ajar, a light breeze blowing in through the room and leaving goose flesh in its wake; only warmed by her skin, soft and possessing a comforting scent of lavender and roses.

He had tried to sleep, but it was useless he’d realised after two hours of trying. He wanted so badly to distract himself momentarily with sleep, but every time his eyes closed, he found himself back on the shores of the Gods eye — covered in dirt and overtop the Lannister boy whose name he’d never known. He wondered if they’d ever met before — if at some point in his twenty-one years, if they had met in passing, and if so, how old were they? Where had it been? Had he remembered him or were they complete strangers?

Serra had stirred against him, her head turning to face away from him, letting out a deep breath as she settled. He leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, his nose nuzzling into her hair and inhaling the familiar scent that he’d come to associate with home and comfort.

He had startled awake after several attempts, his eyes burning with exhaustion but too panicked to find rest, finding that the night had since passed and morning was already upon him. With his heart racing, he accepted that sleep would not come to him — he wondered how long this would last. The night terrors and haunting images of his face, of his men, dead in the sands and leaving behind children and wives. How long would it be, before he found sleep again?

The thought was disturbed by a soft knock, his entire body going tense as Serra twitched, letting out a tired moan of complaint. He waited for a moment, his eyes on the door before a second knock followed after a minute, cursing internally as he peeled himself away from the bed; careful to ease her into the pillows and off of his chest. After he tucked the blanket over her, he sought his shirt amidst the floor and hurried to pull it over his head, hardly in the sleeves as he rushed to the door to open it with a scowl on his face.

Emrys stepped back quickly, giving him room to step out, his eyes widening for a moment and readily offering a quiet apology, “Good morrow, I…apologise for waking you so early, cousin.”

“Whatever it is, could it not wait until this afternoon?” Benjicot snapped, his voice a harsh whisper as he pulled the door against his back, leaving it slightly ajar as his hand tightly gripped the handle of it behind him. The wood pressed into his spine as he briefly twisted his head to glance back inside the room, his gaze falling upon the sleeping frame of his wife, who lay beneath the blankets, clutching to the pillow beneath her and unaware yet of his absence. His departure had yet to be noted, “We’ve only just returned, could you not have at least allowed me one day of rest before bombarding me with matters of council? Serra does not need this so soon.”

“You know I wouldn’t disturb you if it was not urgent, Ben,” Emrys quietly replied.

He turned his gaze back to where Emrys hesitated to say more, his mouth wordlessly opening before he brandished a letter from beneath his belt; still sealed and neatly rolled with the familiar symbol of House Chambers. Benjicot’s eyes flitted between his face and the scroll, his expression hardened as his mouth pursed with a frown, sighing and finally releasing his hold against the door to retrieve it from his grasp — he hands made swift work in cracking the seal and unrolling it, the sound of paper rusting in the silence of the corridor. It wasn’t lost on him that he wouldn’t receive news so soon after his return if it wasn’t something serious, but he’d been optimistic despite his fears that there would at least be a buffer period in which he could find rest, heal his body and soul before even considering the idea of returning to battle — as annoyed as he was, he was sad equally terrified, turning the paper to scan the words that had been messily scrawled across it. His head angled, craning to read it and silently reading with narrowed eyes as Emrys waited for some sort of reply, some sort of acknowledgment to its contents.

His frown mirrored that of his cousin’s, his head shooting up and lowering the letter, “They believe it is Vhagar.”

“And have they confirmed this?” He asked.

“No,” Emrys replied, “based on the reports, they are quite certain however.”

Benjicot let out a bitter laugh, his eyes rolling as he quickly crumpled up the scroll and pressed it back into his hand, “I’d like to confirm the identities of the dragon and its rider before unnecessarily terrifying my wife and son,” he said, shifting his stance.

Emrys gave a curt nod, his gaze lowering — the two men were quiet, Benjicot’s shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh, “Have them write a letter to House Chambers to write to us as soon as they have confirmation, and what they would like for us to do— House Tully should be made aware as well,” He instructed, “have them draft a letter to Rhaenyra, requesting for a dragon for protection in the meantime. We cannot face Vhagar alone if it is true.”

Emrys muttered a soft, “Of course.”

He turned on his heel, attempting to walk away before he was grabbed by the neck of his cloak, pulling him back as Benjicot raised his eyebrows, “Bring the letter to me before it is sent, I would like to personally oversee the task.”

He nodded, “Of course.”

Benjicot released him, giving a singular nod before he allowed him to depart; his eyes following him down the hallway until he was out of sight. With a clenched jaw, he turned and quietly crept back into the room, suddenly overwhelmed and nauseous as he closed the door again behind him, his eyes finding Serra in bed as he did his best to prevent the soft click from drawing any attention to himself. Once he was in the clear, he tiptoed back towards the bed and hesitated at the edge of his side; his eyes downcast on his wife who had yet to wake, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks — he sighed, a hand reaching out to brush over her hair.

He chewed the inside of his lips as he slowly sank back into the bed beside her, her expression twitching as he nudged her back into him and against his chest — she blindly sought him, moving with a huff, “Sorry, my love,” he whispered.

“Who was it?” She asked.

Benjicot shook his head, not wanting to further worry her as her cheek pressed against his sternum, “Just…one of the guards,” he lied, “just some updates from last night’s patrol.”

She tiredly moaned, not seeming to process his reply as he settled back against the pillows. A silence passed, his eyes darting up to the ceiling of their bed before she spoke again.

“Whatever it is that plagues your mind, husband, do not feel as though you must carry its burden alone,” She quietly muttered, her face still against his chest and eyes closed as she spoke. His hand cradled the back of her skull, letting out a deep sigh that moved her, “it is ours to share.”

“This is not…” He began to protest, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Your scars are mine, it is as much mine to shoulder as it is yours,” She interrupted. Her head lifted finally, tired eyes watching him as he looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching, “What is it?”

He didn’t mean to sulk. He would argue that he wasn’t. Her index finger tapped his lips however, pursed as he let out a sharp breath, blinking rapidly and rolling his eyes as his head lolled to the side, while he looked out the window once again. Serra’s finger traced his jaw, brushing back and forth in a soothing gesture despite the internal turmoil he felt -- he soon sighed, any tension melting away from his shoulders as his chest rose and fell with a slow exhale from his nose, “I killed a boy out there and he is all I see when I close my eyes,” he quietly explained, “they haunt me. I see the faces of those I fought against, and the ones I fought beside. I see my mistakes… the ones I made when I was overwhelmed, and the ones I made when I was too calm, too sure of myself. But that boy…”

A silence befell them aside from the quiet sound of their breathing as she rested her chin against his collarbone, watching him as she then moved to sit up on her elbow, “He can’t have been older than five-and-ten,” Benjicot stated, a distant tone in his voice like he was not fully present.

Serra couldn’t have imagined what it would have been like to be his mother — what had he left behind? What life was waiting for him back home? Friends? A betrothed? She could hardly envision being that age amidst a war, a time when her only concern had been worrying over mastering a simple stitch as she embroidered a pillow. She had grown up strikingly different to these men, especially the women who were brave enough to fight alongside them — Serra had never held a sword for longer than a half second as a girl, much less a weapon, as she had been too clumsy to be trusted in their presence and just had never had that urge to fight or learn the craft. Her head turned, dropping her chin and pressing a kiss to his bare chest, she then allowed her lips to linger against his skin.

She could hold him at no fault though — war was a pesky thing that forced even the kindest of men to turn their cloak and embrace the worst, innately dark impulses within themselves. Her heart ached for the thought of the boy whose name she would never know, and the possibility of what he was leaving behind; despite that this was just the routine of war — young boys forced to kill on behalf of ageing men and lose their lives in the process, traumatised and in need of their fathers…she sighed against his skin, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t have done it if you’d had a choice,” She said.

“I did have a choice though, did I not?”

Her hand lifted from his jaw to brush across his forehead and brushing back his hair, scanning his features and taking the opportunity to refamiliarize herself with them; at the core, he was the same man who had left her two months prior, but as she looked at him, she could see the effects of war. A frown line had since etched itself between his brows, embedding itself into his skin that had become dull and dry in appearance, and his once soft lips now chapped. His eyes appeared sunken from the weeks of sleepless nights that she assumed had been plagued by nightmares of his battles — upon moving the hair out of his face, her index finger found a freckle on his forehead, brushing over it with a delicate brush of fingers, “And what choice might that have been, my love?” She asked.

His mouth twitched as though the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he’d yet to figure out how to give them life and say them aloud. His eyes darted around for a moment, “His death and its impact is not mine to understand, but you did what was necessary in that moment,” she softly spoke, “our son and I both needed you and you fought for that. Just let me help mend that wound, do not bear its weight alone and let it crush you, Benjicot— you are only a man.”

He hesitated. Benjicot did not like to lie and had been taught the honour of truth and honesty — but in that moment, he could not bear the idea of worrying her more with the thought of a dragon overhead. He wanted to blurt out the truth, but he knew better, “Okay,” he said, lifting a hand to catch hers and bring it away from his face to bring it to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, “okay.”

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[archer3-13]

oh wow a fire emblem post after a lot of not posting about fire emblem. its been slow and i dont care too much about heroes, sue me.

i've come to the conclusion that people get too hung up on the idea of whether felix was right or wrong about dimitri when it comes to discussions on their character dynamics [it all tends to be very felix focused anyways]. I would say that at the end of the day, the story needs felix to be wrong in order to work as it does and theres no getting around that.

as a result however, dimitris side of that dynamic often gets overlooked i think and its a shame, cause i would say its the most important factor in how that dynamic works. cause well felix hurls all manner of verbal abuse at him, dimitri never disabuses felix of those notions even when he's trying his hardest to pretend everything is fine. he just takes the abuse, and i would argue thats far more important to the dynamic and speaks a lot more to dimitris core characteristics.

what dimitri is, is sad, traumatized, and possessed of an intense self loathing that blends together into a self destructive cocktail. its not just that the dead are haunting him, its that the dead are haunting him by calling him a pussy ass bitch in the most violent way possible, all the while everything falls apart around him. and his response to this is to try and repress that sorrow and trauma as deep as he possibly can, because he has too much to do, not enough time, and everyones counting on him.

what dimitri isn't, is possessed of a hidden darkness that can only be expressed in violent rage and general monsterousness/assholery. certainly he can express those things, but they're always symptoms of whats happening around him and in the story. the inevitable reaction of all that misery hes so deeply repressed exploding in violent reaction to the cruelty of the world around him. And it is importantly cruelty and injustice that he's reacting to, remire village, the holy tomb, the entire god damn war phase etc. its why dimitris story is always importantly intertwined with the idea of having others to support you and your burdens.

anyways, guess what end of the stick felix latches onto during the academy phase!!

its grimly funny in a way, but what felix is essentially playing with dimitri is purity politics. people often overlook that canonically he was a very sweet and gentle child before the tragedy, and that his aloof prickly i studied the blade demenour is just a crude imitation of glenns personality [but yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that hes dealing with glenns death better then rodrigue]. and he practically grew up alongside dimitri, who he only ever knew as a kind and gentle boy as well. then the tragedy happens and uproots everything in his life, so he tries to find that stability again by going with dimitri in their first battle.

and that's where he sees that violent reaction dimitri sorrow can elect. and like a true gamer, felix rejects the idea that his [pure, sweet, gentle] dimitri could ever do or be like that. it must be a monster in a humans skin, a boar prince.

and like the tsundere idiot he is, felix takes it as his own duty [consciously or not] to act as the jailkeeper for that wild animal that's taken his friends place. possibly its executioner even. because felix is too caught up in his own grief to see beyond that rage, a rage he rejects the "true" dimitri of being capable of.

and, wadda ya know. dimitri being caught in a violent spiral of self hatred and anger at the injustices of the world, does nothing to disabuse felix of these notions. because he feels like he deserves to be abused by felix, and also because its easier to brush things off that way and pretend everything is normal.

and i find that a lot more interesting to view the relation between the two in and how it develops over the games story.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Could you please explain Armand's hunting habits? TVL and Qotd say he lured out people who wanted to die and was gentle with it (at least physically), the same is also shown in 2×05. But I've seen posts about TVA that imply he's tearing his victims apart. So which is it? Was he messy in the past but changed later? Is it somehow a mix of both?

The writers took up something for season2 that Anne wrote for .... *drumroll* the Playboy. As a "lesson for Louis". Not kidding: "Interlude With The Undead." The writers said they looked into it, and the quote "half in love with easeful death" is from there.

It being a lesson... and part of the tale (which was edited by Armand as we know)... it cannot be the whole truth though.

In TVA, he expresses himself in violent ways - that said, there are scenes where he does have violent outbursts, but the violence itself is not the goal, let's put it that way.

Like, for example here:

Making sure he was dead, I wrapped its length around my left hand and purposed to pull the whole mass from his scalp. David gasped. "Must you do this?" he asked me. "No," I said. Even then a few thousand strands had ripped loose from the scalp, each with only its tiny blooded root winking in the air like a tiny firefly. I held the mop for a moment and then let it slip out of my fingers and fall down behind his turned head.

Armand rips off the scalp of his victim... just to see it in his hand. It's interesting in that moment. Later he stomps on it, to try to get a reaction from David:

Yet I turned, and ripped the black scalp of hair from my victim and stomped on it with a Rumpelstiltskin foot.

After his turning, Armand was pretty violent and impulsive, by his own words:

I was at the onset a dreadfully violent and impulsive killer. Having been set down by Marius in a nest of assassins, I went to work with a clumsy fury, drawing out my prey from the tavern or the flophouse, cornering him on the quay and then tearing open his throat as if I were a wild dog. I drank greedily often rupturing the victim's heart.

It is part of Marius' tutelage that Armand changes his "killing style":

As for those I killed, they were to be dispatched mercifully, and I was to become the absolute master of mercy, never causing pain and confusion, indeed snaring my victims as much as I could by spells induced by my soft voice or the depths of my eyes offered for soulful looks, or by some other power I seemed to possess and seemed able to develop, a power to thrust my mind into that of the poor helpless mortal and to assist him in the manufacture of his own comforting images so that the death became the flicker of a flame in a rapture, and then silence most sweet.

... I think for the most part Armand hunts his food like that.

But there are moments where he hunts other vampires for example, sometimes (later) even with Lestat, and those hunts are not the same.

Armand is very much able to be very... messy. And violent. Most of the time he chooses a different approach though, in alignment with the gifts he has - and which he has great powers in, aka spell and mind gift.

Most of the time that hunting style suits his ... nature, I guess. But Armand can also rage, and has done so as a mortal already, too, in one instance infamously going at Marius' door with a battle ax, for example.

I was further enraged. I went down to the lower floor. I took a great battle-ax from the wall. It was one of many weapons on display in the house which I'd scarcely ever noticed. Well, it was time for it, I thought. I've had enough of this coldness. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. I went upstairs and heaved the battle-ax at the door. Of course it went through the brittle wood, shattering the painted panel, cracking through the old lacquer and the pretty yellow and red roses. I pulled it back and smashed it into the door again.

He's definitely capable of both, and it depends on circumstance and age, his experience, which one he employs.

[k-dokja]

TW: Death, death, death. | Content: Lilia Vanrouge, the reader is female, a fae noble.

Author's Note: I know vaguely of the next chapter but only enough to throw some information in, not anything spoiler. Needless to say, this is not canon-compliant because I know nothing about the Diasomnia chapter. The idea came to me in a fever dream and it's a "random bullshit go" creation.

You can see death.

Not the spirits, everyone can see the spirits of death. Ghosts and wraiths roam your world, sometimes long after their time for departure and they are seen as a little more than a nuisance. Nothing is special about being able to see the dead, but you can do more than that.

You can see the time of death.

The exact moment before it sinks into a person, the final scene of their life before there is nothing left. It is a foresight if you can call it that, and it is something you have possessed since you were young.

You often thought of it as nothing but strange imagery back then. Children are easy to get spooked and their imagination runs wild when left unchecked. At least, that was what you believed until you saw your grandmother get run over by a carriage. Your mother, who had been the only one you confided in, turned to you and looked at you with pure terror.

Since then, she asked you to tell no one else about these visions. Even if people know about this power, what you see in them needs to be held inside until you, too, lie in your grave. Your mother’s wisdom has never failed you before.

Until now, it hasn’t failed you either.

The blessing of clairvoyance among the faeries is a whimsical one. Oftentimes, it overwhelms people by surprise and disorients them momentarily. You don’t have that luxury, however. You see the death of the person the moment you meet their eyes. The images replay in your head until you see nothing but their blood and bones. The warmth of their innards spills over your hands, everything feels soft and wet and—

You grow to be conscious of eye contact. It is better for you to face it to never be taken by surprise, but sometimes, you don’t see someone withering away on their bed, surrounded by loved ones. You see battles and the people who will fight in it. There is no peace, even when left to your own company. Because when you look in the mirror, you see the very same for you that you saw for everyone else.

The bitter end. The final minute. The last breath.

Yours is marred by raspberry red and the carnage breaking out in the distance. You're enveloped by warmth and there is something hot and wet on your cheeks. Salty when tasted and you knew it was tears. You don't remember much else about it, avoidance was the better alternative to going mad with worries.

All you know is that it'd happen in a fight and fights rage on everywhere now under the turmoil of war.

That’s why you stay away from the frontline, never mind your magic reserve. It is in everyone’s best interest that you don’t waste your life out there. Even though, sometimes, you believe it might have been a good outcome for the life you lived. Better to die for a purpose than to spend your time confined behind the castle walls.

At least, you believed that until you met him.

“I’ve always wondered what the Marchioness’s reclusive daughter looked like.”

You remember the day you met him. Even while strapped in his armour, his face hidden behind a menacing mask, he failed to pose an intimidating figure. Had he possessed a few inches taller maybe it would've been more effective. Not that it mattered when whatever danger he had to offer was not for you.

"And now you've seen her," you smiled genially, "I do hope I live up to whatever expectation you have in mind."

He angled away from you with the grace of a snake waiting to strike. "No, not really," he said, "you are more... beautiful than I expected, I was half-waiting for a hermit and half-hoping for nothing at all."

"Why nothing at all?" You asked.

There was a smile in his voice when he leaned forward. Even five steps away from you, he felt impossibly close. "Because that'd mean the Marchioness's lying, that'd have been interesting."

You snorted, "My apologies for disappointing, then."

"I think I prefer this," he laughed, "far better to see a beautiful woman than any alternative."

His comment put a coy smile on your face. "See, you've been doing nothing but praising my appearance since you showed up but hide yours behind a mask. I don't see how it is fair when I can't even see your face to return your compliment."

His laughter rang again. You decided it was not an unpleasant sound to hear. If anything, you like it better when it is not muffled. "My sincerest apologies for this misstep," he said as he lifted up the mask, "I'm afraid too long of a time on the battlefield had impaired my social grace. I pray you keep this error of mine to your heart and speak not of it to Her Majesty, lest she scold me again for my unintended slight."

He unequipped the mask. You saw his eyes. Everything clicked into place. Raspberry red had never been more foreboding than when it was on him. You should have known from the hair, the magenta which grew blurred in your vision. But you didn't, because you never wanted to remember, never wanted to know.

You saw it, too. The moment of his own death. Everyone was the same, he'd not be an anomaly. "Lilia Vanrouge, at your service," he smiled charmingly but all you could see was red. The red of his death, the red of your blood, the red of the battlefield.

Your throat went dry and your fist clenched on your gown.

You will love him. You will be the death of him.

That will not do.

[theplaid-wearingmoose]

Crazy ~Namor x Reader smut for anon~

An NSFW where the reader is willing to kill Namor to protect their children from him. (Note: His crazy ass likes it a little too much.)

Warning: overbearing/ borderline violent Namor. (Nobody gets seriously hurt)

You had no idea what had come over your king. You were reading with your children in their bedroom when you heard crashing and shouts of his rage. Your two children jumped in your arms and you held them to you tightly. "Ma'alo'ob (it's alright), don't worry. Your father is just having a bad day." You reassured them. You rose to your feet and gently stroked their heads. "Stay here. I will take care of this." You said, calmly.

Before you could find your husband, he came storming into the childrens' bedroom. His eyes were large and wild. He was breathing heavy and looked fresh from battle. "In yakunaj (my love), what has happened? What's wrong?" "The surface dwellers! They would threaten Talokan with war over our vibranium! I have waited too long to strike...I must destroy them all NOW!" His voice thundered through the large room, scaring your children.

Your son and daughter whimpered at their father's voice and clung to your skirt. His wild eyes were drawn to them and you could see his anger take over him. "Why do you cry?! Crying is weakness! We must be strong against our enemy!" He shouted, pacing quickly. "Stop that, you are frightening them." You scolded. He whirled around to look at you. "THEY SHOULD BE! Our enemy will try to destroy every last one of us to get what they want! We cannot be weak!"

He lunged forward and grabbed your son's arm, yanking him away from you. "My children will learn to be strong! They will be powerful like their father. They will rule over the surface dwellers like the K'uk'ulkan!" He shouted. Your son began to cry harder in his grip. You hardly recognized your husband. He was like a man possessed. You quickly moved your daughter behind you and unsheathed your dagger from it's hidden place in the folds of your dress. You pointed right at your husband's neck, glaring at him.

"Tu ch'a'ajo'oltaj.....Bejla'e'! (Release him....now!)" You hissed. Surprise flashed across his face for a brief moment before being replaced with a smirk. "Would you kill me, in yakunaj?" Your glare and dagger remained steadily fixed on him. "Let go of our son this instant and I will consider sparing you." You growled. He remained still for a second, the sound of your children sniffling was the only sound to be heard in the room. Finally, your husband released your son slowly, raising his hands in surrender. Your son ran back over to you. You bent to kiss the top of his head, dagger still prepared to defend him. "Take your sister and leave us. I will find you later. Go now, my darlings." You gently demanded. Your son wasted no time in grabbing his sister's hand and running quickly from the room.

"Well that was something, in reina (my queen). I did not think you would ever turn your weapon on me." "I did not think I would ever have to. But when you threaten our children, I will not hesitate, Namor." He flinched like you had burned him. "Am I your enemy now, in yakunaj?" He growled, baring his teeth like a wild animal. "You tell me, K'uk'ulkan?" You replied, venom present in your tone.

With lightning speed, he flew at you. He knocked your dagger from your hand and pushed you against the wall. His mutant strength kept you pinned there, despite your struggling. His smirk grew wider on his face. "You look so beautiful when you are fiery like this, in reina. The surface people would tremble in fear if they could see you like this." You huffed and struggled harder against him. "I don't think so, my love. You threatened the king. That is a crime and you will be punished."

His knee shoved between your legs, forcing them apart. You moaned as his lips attacked your neck "So...me threatening your life turns you on?" You spat, trying not to give him the satisfaction of knowing his touch was working on you. "It is your passion and fierceness that make me like this, my princess. You should know by now I love to see you like that." You rolled your eyes both in annoyance and pleasure as his thigh pressed against your clit. "I can feel you getting wet for me, in reina. Just give in to me, let me take you like this." He murmured against your skin. His hands released yours and slid down to your hips.

You let out a harsh growl as your grabbed his face and pulled it yours. His hands quickly flew back up and tangled in your hair. Shivers ran down your spine as he scratched his fingers on your scalp. You lifted your skirts up, giving you access to your wetness. Wasting no time, his fingers were inside you as he sucked on your neck. He groaned as your nails dragged down his back. You jumped and wrapped your legs around his waist, his hips keeping you pressed up against the wall. "Inside me, in ajawo". (my king) You demanded, pushing down his green shorts. "As you wish, in reina."

The two of you cried out loudly as he pushed fully inside you. You held onto him tight as he set brutal pace. Your breasts bounced in his face and he couldn't stop himself from burying his face in them. You moaned his name as he filled you, hitting the right spot with every stroke. "Ohhh yes, my K'uk'ulkan! Take me!" You cried, pleasure coursing through every part of your body. His smirk was back on his face when you looked at him. "You sound so beautiful giving me orders, in reina. Do I make you feel good?" He moaned. You nodded fast and pulled at his hair, crying out a "Yes!"

Your orgasm was fast approaching and you barely had time to alert him before it was crashing over you in waves of ecstasy. He put you down as you were coming down from your high. You felt him pressing on your shoulders, pushing you to your knees. You huffed at him, wanting him to finish inside you. "You are still getting punished, in reina. I will finish inside you, but not there." He grinned, baring his teeth. Getting the hint, you sat up on your knees and let your mouth fall open. He placed the tip of his cock on your tongue and held your hair as you went to work on him. You took him as far in as you could, tasting yourself on him. His head fell back as you ran your tongue up and down his length. "I'm so close, princesa. Don't stop..." He rasped. You stroked and sucked him harder until he let out a loud moan and bucked into your mouth. You felt his warm cum spilling down your throat and swallowed all of it down.

When you thoroughly cleaned him up, he joined you on the floor and pulled you to him. "I apologize for my behavior, in yakunaj. The threat of the surface dwellers has terrified me. I do not wish to lose you, or our children, or our people." You sighed and laid your head on his chest. "I think you had better apologize to our children for scaring them. They should not have to live in fear of you when you get stressed." You stood and fixed your clothes. You began walking out of the room before turning back and flashing your husband a similar grin to the one he had given you earlier. "And you would be wise to remember, my king, that if you do that again I will not hesitate to stab you."

You ducked from the room leaving a shocked but aroused Namor sitting on the floor, reminded of exactly why he had married you.

[edwinspaynes]

Happy first birthday to Chain of Thorns.

Happy first birthday to Matthew's sobriety, to Herondaisy and Thomastair and Arianna endgames, to Oscar Wilde: Hero Dog.

To "they would remain married, and in love, until the stars went out." To "kheli asheghetam: I love you, let me love you."

To Anna realizing that Ari brings out the best in her, to Kit and Grace inventing fire-messages, to Grace learning what it means to believe in herself.

To Christopher's seeing Grace for the first time before tragedy struck, to the honor of her opinion, to bright lilac eyes behind thick spectacles.

Happy first anniversary to Alastair letting himself become a bit silly, to Thomas figuring out how to kill the watchers, to James bravely letting Belial possess him so he could enact his plans.

Happy first anniversary to Matthew dressed as Puck, to Cordelia's globe necklace, to Christopher's experiments.

Happy anniversary to the entire group circling Cordelia as they walked into battle, to her becoming the merciful hero that she always dreamed of being. To 48 Curzon Street and 102 Cornwall Gardens and Anna's flat instead of a house in Pimlico with decorative sconces.

To Thomas telling Matthew he loves Alastair and Matthew's ready acceptance as long as his friend is happy. To James coming back to himself while possessed because of Cordelia's love that hell's power could not extinguish. To Thomas and Alastair kissing while war rages around him because they don't care who sees.

Happy first anniversary to a bunch of neurodivergent queer kids banding together at the end of the world in order to save it.

Happy anniversary to my favourite book, Chain of Thorns.

[wayfayrr]

Some thoughts on self aware chain.

I like the idea wise that the links who had more games tied to their belt would remember reader much more and be even more on the edge since the hole thing about having reader to be their with you, comfort and wisdom and then they suddenly you don't hear their voice and now things are quiet and now when you have another battle hylia wants you to do suddenly reader is back and their confused "but thankfully reader is back right, they won't leave right? And now their gone. The links that don't know their is a screen between them and reader or the fact their in a video game would think reader's disappearing and reappearing has something to do with hylia and further their resentment towards hylia or the ones who haven't gotten to hate hylia would hope that reader didn't choose to suddenly leave them and they are safe. Some of the links who are a 'little' obsessive would probably not stop till they learn why reader is gone even when someone gets hurt, (I'm looking at you sage) the crash they would feel when no one knows reader, this would definitely make them question their sanity making them wondering if reader was even Real, that they just made them up, after all a lot of their adventures they were alone and the ones who seen things that would give soldiers nightmares, the possibility they made up reader because they were alone and they needed a companion this is strong with the ones who shown to lose someone in their life or never had someone there for their back like twilight, legend,wild,hyrule and sage. Some of them would let go, others would still believe reader is real and that they didn't make them up. The ones who had more games would remember reader more clearly and when they see reader again with the chain? It's a shock where multiple emotions hit them varying from griefs sorrow rage happiness and just hits them all at once causing an outsider to think their frozen for a minute. Some would ask questions to reader from why did you leave and if the links know that each other know they know reader it would make them believe that reader isn't fake because how does heroes from many eras have the same memories of a person and so the question on how is reader able to age at all. And because of everything above the links would probably be even more worse, I mean quicker to get possessive and more clingy and much more controlling and more willing to kill people who get in between them and reader then before too the point even when someone outside the chain just simply smile at reader do they get possessive and just cage reader in their arms or just glare at the person foe the links who are shorter than reader.

I love how you've brought up the fact that some link's do know that there's a screen between them and reader - for me there are a couple that would realise that they were in a game during the game, Sky being the main one due to a couple of things to do with his game (the glitches and how characters speak to him) Something I also noticed when playing skyward sword HD is that his eyes loosely track the camera! so in my opinion he's the most likely to realise he's in a game quickly!

For Sage I reckon he start exactly as you said!!! he'd get so so so desperate to know why reader keeps slipping out for sections that he starts to question his sanity and question why only he knows reader. Why he's the only one who can hear them, even questioning some of the things they say- then small things that he could've ignored start to add up and he realises he's not the one in control of his body... Until there's a moment it clicks that he's in a game, that his darling reader doesn't see him as a person. but they treat him so much better than anyone else ever has so all he needs to do is find a way to make himself real to them. How hard could that be? If there's a way that he could realise he was within a game there has to be a way to get out right? He just needs to find it.

Sage and sky both have switch games... maybe they'd work together if they both knew the other was aware? coming to an agreement to share reader when they find their way out. Wild would be included in this as well if he managed to figure it out - although I feel he'd be one of the links who are less likely to figure it all out.

as for the other links you've listed? Twilight is on the verge of knowing, and the other links with the older games are even less likely to ever connect the dots just due to the nature of their games (there are situations where they could? but they're just less likely to happen than in the newer games) So they'd act exactly as you said! they'd assume either Hylia is behind reader's disappearances, or some other force preventing them from staying. so if they met reader with the chain? like with two they'd be instantly on reader and so much more clingy and possessive compared to usual, seeing as they've never been able to keep them with them before. legend wouldn't ever let go of them again. he couldn't risk not being able to see them again. sidenote I love the idea of just how possessive they eventually get of the reader - glaring at anyone and constantly holding them tight to their side.

[auryborealis]

Day 5 of OC Week '24! | Weapons / Powers

Yuna and her blood summons: > "Ruby Shark" Armor: a full-body armor that is activated by breaking the skin of her palms, causing her blood to seep out from her tattoos and encase her entire form. Enhances her offensive and defensive capabilities. > Sword: Named "Samebito." A legendary sword said to have been wielded by the ancient war deity and therefore can only be held by one who's consumed the Pulse Pulse Fruit. Yuna was able to find the sword during the timeskip, which instantly accepted her as its new master. Its form can be altered into a spear or a whip and be split into two for dual wielding. Inspired by the Miasma sword and the Blood Sword from the Fear and Hunger games and the Heroes' Relics from Fire Emblem: Three Houses. > Blood Hound: Named "Argo." Is Yuna's companion, guard, and therapy dog. His size is dependent on how much blood Yuna uses when summoning him. Unlike the other summons, he has a personality and can maintain his form longer due to being possessed by the spirit of Yuna's old dog that passed away years ago. He has an excellent nose to assist with tracking. > Murder of Crows: Can be used as spies by looking through their eyes (though Yuna herself has to be in a meditative state). They can also be used as messenger birds or distractions by pecking enemies. > Blood Ghouls: A particularly dangerous summon due to its aggression, causing them to be difficult to control and likely to attack indiscriminately. Inspired by Shin Godzilla's 5th form, Clickers from The Last of Us, and Crimson Heads and Regeneradores from the Resident Evil series. > Red Coral: Sprouts from blood puddles to be used as shields or traps. Its surface is sharp enough to cut anyone who touches it. > Isonade: Not a summon but a colossal, shark-like monster that Yuna can turn into; her first transformation was triggered when Yuna was feeling extreme despair and rage, causing her to wreck havoc in a wild frenzy. It is also able to reanimate corpses with its blood, turning them into blood ghouls. This form can cause extreme fatigue, enough to put Yuna into a comatose state afterwards. She eventually learns to control this form, although it will still cause her to sleep for days straight. > Flowers: Any blood that Yuna spills turn into amaryllis flowers when she is done battling or when the summons have served their purpose. They can also turn into Bleeding Hearts if she is feeling sorrowful.

@ocweek

[tyriq-edits]

In the Plain of Nysa

Millions Knives

Nai, the God of War

God of War and Vash’s twin brother

Younger brother of Tesla (Goddess of Victory)

Raised by Rem (Goddess of Wisdom)

Based on Ares and partly Demeter

Respected and rather well liked among the other Olympians (except Meryl)

After the death of his sister at the hands of mortal Soldiers during the Trojan war and Vash losing his left arm to the same soldiers, he became fiercely protective/possessive of his twin brother

Some time after the end of the Trojan War he built a giant "cage” under Mt. Olympus and locked Vash inside it for nearly a Millennium.

When any of the other Olympians asked him regarding Vash’s whereabouts he’d tell them his brother was travelling through the mortal realm, which seemed to shut the majority of the other gods up regarding this issue and the Golden Cage beneath their feet remained a secret only he and Vash knew about.

After Vash managed to escape the the golden Cage with the help of Meryl and Roberto, rather than an eternal Winter like Demeter in the Myth of Persephone & Hades, Nai, overcome with rage, created a giant war that would slowly spread across all of ancient Greece.

For more Information/lore about this AU just look at the in the plain of Nysa tag on my page or just send me an ask in my inbox.

As always thanks to my friend Stephan for helping me with this drawing of Nai and this AU in general. Please check out his art on instagram!

Please do not Tag this AU as Plantcest

[More ramblings about Nai’s design under the cut.]

Nai’s Design as you may have gathered is very much based on your typical Greek Hoplite Soldier

He was supposed to also wear a helmet but i was so proud of how the hair had turned out that I did not want to cover it up haha.

Around the time that this story takes place in, classical greece, bronze armours like these had actually fallen out of fashion in favour of iron ones so I just like to think that Nai, being over 1000 years old, is just very traditional or never fully mentally moved on from the Trojan War so he kept his old Bronze Plate Armour all those years while still adopting the newer Hoplite Warfare system (which used spears and Phalanx formations in comparison to the open battle fields and sword fights of the Mycenean Age/the Trojan War)

As for Nai‘s spear, an actual Dory could be up to 4 meters high, especially in the case of Macedonian ones. But making him run around with one of those would be impractical for many reasons as you may assume. The half-moon shaped spikes right underneath the actual Spear‘s spike is the part I stole from ancient greek hunting spears. The point of them was to keep wild animals like boars at a safe distance from you. Because boars, even if you pierce their skull with the actual spear‘s tip would just keep on running towards you even if it meant impaling their own brain on the entire spear Dracula Style. If you look closely you can kind of see it on the Meleager Sarcophagus.

[ca-8]

𐋐𖼜𖼜 𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚉𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚊: 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚂𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜 (𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝙰𝚛𝚎) 𖼜𖼜𐋐

Disclaimer! 

This is based on information within Breath of the Wild/Age of Calamity (mostly Age of Calamity). While this will be based on events in Age of Calamity/BOTW, these events will only be scenario-based and loosely related to the actual plots in the games.

◈━◈ 𝘓𝘪𝘯𝘬'𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘳 ◈━◈

The hotheaded caption of the Hylian army, who’s always ready for battle! ...but never for casual conversation. Though romance doesn’t exactly fit within their skillset, their passion is as powerful as the final blow to a raging Lynel. It’s guaranteed that no harm will ever come to whoever they have their sights set on, and rest assured every day will be nothing short of an adventure; heart-pounding tests for the soul. Every day shall be lived like it’s the last! 

☀𖼜 𝚉𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚊'𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𖼜☀

The patient, empathetic, and hard-working personal servant of Hyrule’s beloved Princess. Their sole purpose is to serve Zelda’s every domestic need down to the letter, and they’re certainly more than happy to do so. Their admiration for her true self goes even beyond the average citizen’s, so nothing will ever keep them away from being by her side. It’s the least they can do after what happened all those years ago...

✿◉●•𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫◦•●◉✿

No one special, just a shy, humble salesperson...who wants nothing more than to help with the fight against Calamity Ganon. Ever since disaster struck their village, they’ve held a raging urge to push back against those forces of evil and avenge those once close to them. Although, they have almost no skill and the courage of a frail twig... and no one’s a better trainer than one of Princess Zelda’s beautiful bodyguards. 

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.𝕊𝕚𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕤 ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕟𝕖𝕣.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.

A traveling Zoran healer who follows in their princess’ footsteps. Though they were not born with any healing abilities like dear Mipha, the grace she blessed upon them while they were kids was enough to inspire their fate. And after her tragic outcome within Vah Ruta, they wish to carry out a similar grace and kindness she had possessed across Hyrule. And who would have thought a certain upbeat prince would catch a heavy sight of such a simple deed...

★⋆✰𝓡𝑒𝓋𝒶𝓁𝒾'𝓈 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓇 ✰⋆★

Out of every tribe within Hyrule, there is always a special group of those who have the courage to go out and explore every inch of its wonders. This, of course, includes the Rito, having one traveler who is always happy to take in Hyrule’s beauty from amongst the clouds. Staying in one place and mingling with the other townsfolk was never their specialty, so, bow in wing, they set out on an adventure that changed their life...for better, or for worse. 

꧁༺ Mipha's Partner ༻꧂

Level-headed, hushed, and still - their entire existence has already been defined before they were put into this world. Purpose, however, has not been granted so generously, for it is earned, and if something so invisible is to be given purpose, they must put their life on the line for the sake of their tribe - especially if it’s for Princess Mipha. When her sake is in question, the honor of protecting her life is done unquestionably. King Dorephan has much faith in her skills, but a father’s worry for his child’s safety is a stubborn force. This spy is distant; their life unknown to most, especially to their dear Princess...but then again, everyone knows she is smart as she is kind. 

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Hmmm... I've had an idea for this au for awhile, and I'm not sure which direction I should run with it... but I have a 🧪Drone!AU for the platonic yanderes... it isn't exactly... what would be expected... for the type of au it is. Let me explain a little...

The 🧪Drone!AU is still done with the regular platonic yandere Marvel characters I do (mainly the X-Men and their villains), same as with all my other platonic yandere aus and imagines... but when I say "drone", I don't mean mindlessness, identity-death, or something uncomfortable or heaven forbid... sexual... egh...

No... see, what I have in mind is a bit more... soft. Caring. Less about harsh suppression and domination, and more about gentle restraint and tender assimilation. I have another name for this au... the 🧪Hivemind AU...

For this au, the characters are dealing with an illegal experiment... and the reader is one of the earliest ones to go through it... the goal of the ones running it and holding them captive is to find a way to control mutants, something that can shear away their free will and their resolve, and leave them open to their commands... yet the reader ends up with another result... they can hear things... feel things... that aren't coming from themself. Even though they remain locked up and chained down, they can feel other thoughts, other minds and wills, at the back of their thoughts... their thoughts fade in and out with each experiment and each session, leaving them barely aware... but they can feel how the other minds reach out to them, flickering between worry and rage and tingling possessiveness...

Then one day... they are able to break free. The reader, left to their own thoughts and running back into the wild world, flees from that dreaded place, feeling their control and fear flood back into them. It's overwhelming, having their mind and free will back... And they plan to keep it that way. So they wander what is left of the world, trying to figure out what happened and what year it is... how long were they a prisoner? How long since their mind was truly their's, and they weren't a blank puppet? These thoughts haunt them, keeping them awake at night and exhausted in the dawn. They don't know what happened, who all fell, and who is left... But they have to keep moving. They can't stop now.

And back among the others, among the drones...

They sense one of their young is missing...

And that angers them...

One of their own, one of their dearest and most adored, is no longer among them. None of them can feel their mind, nor see them in the halls or near the ones who controlled them... Fear and panic eat at them, making the haze and emptiness of their minds fill with anger and pain...

That was their young one, their little one, one of their dronelings... And they belong with them, within the drone collective...

Thus leads to them gaining their free will and main sentience back, and a bloody battle as they all assimilate or destroy those who dared do this to them, dared to turn them into their puppets, their toys, and then lost one of their own young... For them, that is unforgivable, and they don't let those kind of things go...

They hunt down their bby... and what a sight for sore eyes they are... of course... their bby isn't happy to see them, nor pleased at the idea of being brought back into the Hive... but, it isn't a choice. Their bby is coming back, with them, one way or another...

They have plenty of medicine and drugs to keep them sedated as the reassimilation process begins... and it will make them feel so much better... completely fuzzy and soft inside, no pain or fear... just complete warmth and fluff... even though their bby may fight it, trying to resist their gentleness and adoration... it won't be long before they feel relaxed and content, secure within their hands and safely tucked away with the other young ones... all they have to do is relax and take nice, deep breaths... just keep breathing that sweetness into their body, as they absorb the medicine they gave them... it won't hurt at all... just keep trusting them, yeah? They won't let anything happen to them, just take a nice, deep breath... and sleep... don't worry about a thing... they'll take good care of their bby as they rest and readjust... trust them, okay?

[sith-obikin]

FINAL ROUND-UP ❤️‍🔥

Here are the last submissions to the first edition of the Sith Obikin Fest! In total we received over 40 works🔥

Stay tuned for our next announcements / thank-yous and a very exciting project coming SOON!

• Birth Astride A Grave (a play in two acts) by nngi_e

After his defeat on the fiery shores of Mustafar, a captive Obi-Wan Kenobi receives four visitors in the darkness of his cell:

a beloved Master long gone,

a beautiful Queen shrouded in blue,

a cruel Shadow covered in scars,

and the Sun at the center of it all.

• Vader Closes In by ArtisticlyBeautiful

Vader finds Obi-Wan in his cave on Tatooine. He will do whatever it takes for Obi-Wan to feel the heartache he has to live with now.

Set during the Kenobi series.

DW: Non-con, bottom obi-wan, ruthless vader

DNW: Piss, sweetness

• Three Measures of Blood by your cheap thrills (eurosthewanderer)

Sith! Obi-Wan stumbles upon a boy in his travels and instantly feels his great potential in the Force.

He snatches Anakin before anyone else can and proceeds to teach him the ways of the Dark Side.

DW: Go wild. Anything like the Jedi Quest or Rogue Planet, but they are both Sith. Perfect excuse to dive into the Sith lore and create their practices. You can make it as long as you want with Anakin of any age. But the world-building of the Sith is essential.

DNW: Only brief mentions of the teachings. Seriously, you can make it as wild as you can, but details are essential.

• wild animals i have known by travellingcircus

Reverse age AU - Set whenever

Sith Obi-Wan (wild and borderline feral), Jedi Master Anakin (always toeing the line of being a darksider but never falling)

Really I just want sith Obi-Wan to call jedi Anakin daddy (no age play). A plot would be nice, but I am far too happy with nothing but smut.

DW: Daddy kink, possessiveness, obsession, top Anakin, bottom Obi-Wan, they're disgustingly cute about each other but not in a healthy way

DNW: piss, scat, vomit, age play, omegaverse, unhappy ending, major character death

• Rage, rage against the dying of the light by Golden_Daffodils

Palpatine miscalculates. Killing Obi-Wan Kenobi is the reason Anakin falls, but he did not expect the boy to rebel and try to kill him in return when Anakin learns who he is and his role in Obi-Wan's death.

Would love a angst filled fic, with Anakin falling because Obi-Wan is dead, as Palpatine thought he would, and that biting Palpatine in the ass lol

Also it's up to you if Obi-Wan is really dead or not. I just want to make clear that the most important person for Anakin will always be Obi-Wan.

If nsfw, bottom Anakin/top Obi-Wan and lots of tender/passionate sex reunion.

No rape/non con, hardcore kinks, Anakin kneeling to Palpatine, Anakin killing other Jedi (I don't want him to be the instigator but he can kill to defend himself should you wish to go on that route), anidala, Obianidala, QuiObi.

• Bound By You by BlueAreTheStars

Reverse Age AU - Takes place in GFFA

Peace in the galaxy. A shaky treaty resulting in a tri-annual competition to see who reigns for a short period of time: the Empire or the Republic. It is not built to last.

Anakin Skywalker, older but no wiser from his Clone Wars escapades, is of course the Jedi's chosen champion, as much as he does not wish to be. There is no match for his power, his skills, anywhere in the galaxy now that peace has been declared but when a lithe young man steps into the arena, with gold eyes and an obvious hard-on for him, maybe Anakin has finally met one.

• mine, always by DPRen

Set in Rots. Canon divergence. Obi-Wan kills Palpatine in a fit of jealous rage at seeing Anakin kneel to be Palps apprentice. And now Anakin has to try and get his master back from the dark side while fighting his own internal battle. No unhappy endings ( happy sith murder husbands pretty please )

[joshuasumter]

Across the Netflix-Verse: Joshua Sumter Meets She-Ra and the Princesses of Power 

SYNOPSIS: When creative and autistic Joshua Sumter teams up with orphan-turned-heroine/warrior princess Adora, Etheria will never be the same! But together, they just might save the universe. Think you know the story of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power? Well, think again because Etheria will never be the same as Joshua Sumter stars (and returns) in his latest self-insert, Isekai-turned-multiversal, retelling epic that not only flips the script on the hit animated reboot from DreamWorks and Netflix by ND Stevenson to reimagine and change the events of the show...but also spans across the wild, the wacky, the scary, the magical, the mythical, and sometimes very mature worlds and universes of the Netflix-verse, a multiverse featuring your fan-favorite Netflix shows and movies. Based on the hit animated She-Ra and the Princesses of Power series and in the tradition of Space Jam (1996), it's an Isekai-turned-multiversal, dimension-spanning epic that reimagines the narrative of the show -- with the inclusion of Joshua Sumter as an unlikely, live-action hero who finds himself on a strange, animated world and beyond that is familiar but slightly changed.

Life was carefree for creative and autistic Joshua Sumter (That would be me) of Earth (Our universe, the real world) as he was enjoying yet another typical, relaxing day and cozy life eating food, reading media tie-in books and comic books, and writing fanfics. Everything was perfectly normal...that is, until he lands smack-dab into the war-torn planet that is oddly familiar but yet slightly changed. It is the planet of Etheria, the world and universe of the hit animated reboot series from Netflix and DreamWorks She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, where an ongoing, full-blown war ensues and rages on between the princess-led Rebellion that wants to maintain peace and harmony for all of Etheria and the dreaded Horde that wants to conquer the planet in the name of its leader, Hordak.

At first, Joshua believes under the impression that everything going on is all just a dream of himself being in a reinterpretation of the rebooted TV series from the 80s as a full-fledged guest star, taking the first steps of his very own Isekai adventure when he bumps into Adora, Glimmer, and Bow, hangs out with them, and unknowingly accepting the full invitation to join in on the fray as a feature of his dream (All the way from Season 1 to the Battle of Bright Moon). But Joshua's enthusiasm falls flat when he quickly gets wrapped up in some very serious stuff during that experience, letting his newly found zany antics and madcap-style wits guide his ideas and actions enough to make Joshua fully consider the oddest possibility...that this ISN'T a dream after all.

Not only that, but the soul and consciousness of the previous She-Ra, Mara, resides in Joshua's body, along with all her past memories, allowing her to control his body as the two experienced many battles as possible in order to increase their combined strength. This transferal-like link allows both Joshua and Mara to communicate with each other, as if living in their shared mind, providing guidance and advice. When Mara manifests in the physical world as a corporeal spirit in her ethereal appearance and bluish glow, only Joshua can see her. Despite this unexpected turn of events, Joshua and Mara formed a cooperative relationship, much to Joshua's little shock and ire of Mara living inside him*. (*Similar to the term 'Emblems' from Fire Emblem: Engage; the Soul transferal from Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; the Soul Link System from Dragon Ball FighterZ; Jaden/Yubel's relationship from Yu-Gi-Oh! GX; Byleth and Sothis from Fire Emblem: Three Houses; and Yuma and Astral's friendship from Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal in the trope of "Symbiotic Possession", "Fusion Dance", "Sharing A Body", and "Romantic Fusion")

Now forced into a whole, new universe, surrounded by characters he now considers his new Etheria pals, having the soul of Mara living inside him, and being completely aware that he's starring in his very own self-insert retelling of the animated show while helping Adora, Glimmer, Bow, and more allies like Perfuma, Mermista, Frosta, Sea Hawk, Spinnerella, and Netossa in their fight against the Horde, Joshua decides to flip the script on the She-Ra and the Princesses of Power series to make some changes around here his own way by reimaging and changing events of the show that'll help turn things around for the future of Etheria and Adora's destiny...sort of.

As Joshua continues to influence the characters with his twisted action makajalaka of awesomeness in the form of a hard-hitting baseball bat that acts as his holy-sword-like weapon, his sense of imagination, his Official Handbook-level knowledge and more while imagining his fights in the style of the Persona 4 Arena games, Adora and her friends can't help wonder about what they make of Joshua and his bizarre, other-worldly perspective and shenanigans, not to mention how he fights like an entirely different person, courtesy of Mara's soul possessing him.

Along the way, Joshua later gets into numerous comedic adventures across the Netflix-Verse, a shared crossover multiverse of worlds and universes based on and inspired by your favorite Netflix shows and movies.

But when things in Etheria got a little too serious and with the help of the soul and consciousness of Mara, along with the animated worlds of the Netflix-Verse, will Joshua be able to beat the odds by letting loose the looniness and wreaking some hilarious mayhem in the process to help his new Etheria pals Adora, Glimmer, Bow, the Princess Alliance, and the Rebellion out of a real jam by saving the world his own way from a much, bigger threat than the Horde?

Based on and inspired by the She-Ra and the Princesses of Power series by ND Stevenson and featuring the worlds of your favorite Netflix shows and movies such as "The Cuphead Show", "Green Eggs and Ham", "The Dragon Prince", "Tiger & Bunny", "We Can Be Heroes", "Lego Elves: Secrets of Elvendale", "The Sea Beast", "Maya and the Three", "Nimona", "Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous", "Dragon Age: Absolution" and much more, be prepared for a block-busting, hard-partying, mind-blowing, world-hopping, fourth-wall-breaking, live-action/animation mayhem in this self-inserting tale that spans both our world and theirs. DISCLAIMER: In the tradition and style of Space Jam (1996) meets Epic (2013), the Kingdom Hearts series, Gwenpool, and other Isekai tropes, Across the Netflix-Verse: Joshua Sumter Meets She-Ra and the Princesses of Power basically reimagines and changes the narrative of the show (Seasons 1-5), but with the inclusion of, yours truly, Joshua Sumter, and new twists and different outcomes inspired by some of the She-Ra and the Princess of Power fan fictions than the ones in the actual show for "anyone who wants to enjoy an entirely, different story with some few changes".

The Netflix-Verse, as the name implies, is a shared multiverse of worlds and universes that are mostly based on, inspired by, and from your favorite Netflix shows and movies in the tradition of Powerpuff Girls: Super Smash-Up!, Sonic Prime, Space Jam: A New Legacy, and the Kingdom Hearts series. The main hub of the Netflix-Verse is a vast expanse of space between that resembles Netflix's home menu, composed and surrounded by posters that served as gateways to these worlds. From the wild, the wacky, the scary to the magical, the mythical, the epic and sometimes very mature, it's a dimension-spanning epic into these Netflix-based worlds.

Inspiration and allusions from...

Space Jam (1996) and Space Jam: A New Legacy (2021) – Just like how Michael Jordan and Lebron James are live-action superstars entering a spectacular animated world and teaming up with the Looney Tunes in their two movies, Joshua Sumter (That would be me) does the same as he gets forced into the animated world of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power to help Adora and her friends in the princess-led Rebellion in their ongoing war against the dreaded Horde.

Epic (2013) – M.K. is a teenager finds herself transported to a deep forest setting where a battle between the forces of good and evil is taking place. In similarity, Joshua is a grown, autistic young man who finds himself transported to a war-torn planet based on a rebooted TV series from the 80s.

Kanji Tatsumi’s storyline from Persona 4: Arena – In Persona 4: Arena, Kanji Tatsumi still thinks that everything in the entire P1-Grand Prix tournament is all a dream until he eventually finds out it is in fact not, so when Joshua first lands smack-dab in Etheria, he believes that his experience in Etheria from Season 1 to the Battle of Bright Moon is all a reinterpretation/Isekai adventure dream, that is…until he eventually later finds out that it’s not a dream when he reaches the first episode of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power’s Season 2.

Kingdom Hearts and PowerPuff Girls: Super Smash-Up! – The Kingdom Hearts franchise features Disney-based worlds and how Sora embarks on an epic journey across the multiverse and encounters Disney and Final Fantasy characters in their respective worlds and helps them while the Powerpuff Girls: Super Smash-Up! comic crossover mini-series is a dimension-spanning epic inspired by Batman: The Brave and the Bold where Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup visit other Cartoon Network universes. In Across the Netflix-Verse: Joshua Sumter Meets She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, Joshua did the same thing - this time, it features worlds and universes that are mostly based on and inspired by your favorite Netflix shows and movies. In actuality, the She-Ra and the Princesses of Power world Joshua was first isekai-ed into was one of the Netflix-based worlds in the Netflix-Verse, so he then later goes on a world-hopping journey across the Netflix-Verse and encounters main characters in their respective worlds like The Cuphead Show, Green Eggs and Ham, The Dragon Prince, Tiger & Bunny, We Can Be Heroes, Lego Elves: Secrets of Elvendale, The Sea Beast, Maya and the Three, Jurassic World Camp Cretaceous, Nimona, Firedrake: The Silver Dragon, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish, and Dragon Age Absolution and helps them out.

[cookiescraems]

tsukikage fairytale/royalty au

where prince tobio is trapped in a tower by dragon shapeshifter and warlock kei except it's actually tobio demanding kei to keep out all of the intruders while he tries to find a way to get those corrupt lords out of his kingdom

kei's less bothered about being branded a villain because he's already used to it being a shapeshifting warlock. he's more miffed about being ordered around by this high and mighty prince he likes to piss off by calling king

kei: and that is the eighth knight in shining armor they're sending to rescue you tobio: mmhm. now breathe some fire on their path so they don't come any closer kei:

one time kei nearly burned down noblemen hinata and oikawa because they wanted to help their friend tobio and the 2 of them were so shocked to see their friend slapping the dragon with the magic staff kei used because the warlock couldn't hear tobio telling him no

in kei's defense, the trespassers were really annoying and hinata's voice was grating on kei's ears

tkkg's first meeting was tobio barging in the manor kei was staying in and immediately going to business by saying "i want you to kidnap me" and kei's either stunned or had his first laugh of the week or both of them. he told tobio to leave him and go back to his fancy palace

high society really thought their poor and precious prince was held captive by the big bad dragon/warlock while the commoners are welcoming kei and tobio in their weekly dinner in their villages

the commoners are actually convinced that their prince tobio left the palace to elope with his one true love aka kei which is funny because everytime they see the "couple" they're always one step away from biting each other's heads off

speaking of, i imagine that kei didn't have a good reputation because 1) his serpentine eyes are hella scary 2) he has magic 3) he literally lives in an abandoned manor with a high tower surrounded by a huge moat

tobio was the one who helped improve his reputation (which also helped improve his reputation among the common people)

and now the people understand that their local shapeshifting warlock is actually just a hermit

tobio doesn't like that kei's purposely shutting himself out because it was a waste of his potential and talents in magic

what if their actual first meeting was during when they were kids and tobio's just a little prince who wanted to see more of the kingdom so he snuck out with nobody noticing but he ended up getting lost and he got help from warlock in training kei

and after that, kei couldn't shake off the years long curiosity of the princ who badly wanted to see the world outside of the palace and noble society. he thought it's stupid he kept on thinking about tobio when they were worlds apart and would never see each other again

at least that's what he believed until that same prince he had helped barged in on his living space and demanded to be helped once more

ANYWAY the ending is that after a grueling battle and tkkg nearly dying (gotta keep up with the death toll i have for them),they managed to stabilize the kingdom. tobio lets miwa ascends the throne while he "elopes" with kei.

tobio decides to move closer to commoners because he realizes that he prefers helping his people directly like all the times he has done during his times of "captivity". so kei's manor now has 1 more permanent resident yipeee

this au came to me bc it was during misterms szn when i started typing this, an image of half dragon kei hugging tobio from behind with his arms and his big dragon wings, and because i remembered the popular dragon trope of them being possessive with their belongings so....

i also have this wild and incredibly self-indulgent image of kei going feral when the corrupt nobles kidnapped tobio from kei's estate and hid him to 'execute' him for his crimes

and by feral i meant that kei barged into the imprisonment where they locked tobio in and slayed everybody with just his strength and rage alone no magic