#but - God preserve me - I shall!

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

thinkin about how I can't accept that I have severe depression or anxiety (DASS-21 claims I have severe/extremely severe both) bc if I did I'd be in my room in bed all day or curled up in a corner screaming. I function. I cope. I'm fine, right?

(the dozens of deep self harm wounds, the sixteen days straight I've harmed multiple times a day, every day, might beg to differ. but I'm coping, right?)

[binch-i-might-be]

right now I'm considering going on with my 21 hour work week for another couple months and saving up some more extra money and then switching to a minijob which is about eight to ten hours a week. would leave me with 520€ a month but I have a huge chunk of savings and I also would love to experience an emotion besides dread and horror and suffering. so. yeehaw

[caladblog]

i know right know everyone's (correctly!) obsessed with arno for throwing that Molotov cocktail onto the jamis/remy slow burn but i have to impress upon u all just how unwell i am about how luck/maldoror is about ludovica seriously they're like

i'm an evil god. i'm ten thousand past lives in one lesbian trenchcoat. i could kill you any moment. you're not afraid of me? what's wrong with you? be afraid. call me if you need anything. i'm only helping you out of boredom. i'm not impressed by you. you're fascinating. i want to give you the world. i want to raze the cities of your enemies. i'm not giving you my secrets. what do you mean, you're back to find my secrets?? don't you have any sense of self-preservation? oh ok that's a no then. haha same. i've got the sinking suspicion you might be dangerous to me specifically but whatever it's not like i'm the god of good decisions. i'm the manifestation of divine rage and loneliness. i'll physically fight my other selves if they try to hurt you. girl i think you got me experiencing the mortifying ordeal of being known? i don't know what's going on but here's the means to achieve all your hopes & dreams. i'm a pirate. i'm made to destroy the world. you asked me why i haven't destroyed the world yet, oh my god, who DOES that?? tell me to kiss your ring so i can smirk and call you arrogant. you're a baby. you're a speck of nothing. pray and i shall personally answer. no of course i don't have a coherent plan, why did you even ask at this point!

and that's not even as a character arc that's just like! all at once! chaotic monster feelings that stem from being simultaneously a thousand versions of the same monster but also a single person and who knows why anybody wants anything but this want is undeniable as a rising wave and they're excited to find out if they drown in it, appetite of their own appetite,,

hh.

[see-arcane]

Something I’ve been chewing on for this go-around of Dracula Season is the fact that, for all that I am absolutely 110% on board with the whole ‘Dracula wants Jonathan for himself, calls dibs, wants first taste, wants to keep him as part of the castle permanently, I too can love~ et cetera’ deal, I can admit now that I’ve been overlooking one very key part of the whole Bluebeard wifery setup.

And that’s the unavoidable fact that Dracula fully intends to leave Jonathan Harker to be drunk and collected by the Weird Sisters.

Now there’s all manner of guesswork to make about what exactly these three’s relationship to Dracula really is. A personal harem is usually the go-to, and what I usually land on as explanation, considering how things will play out in the future regarding his usual choice of vampiric victim. But others have suggested familial connections, going by Jonathan noting a couple similar traits between the two brunettes, ala facial features, hair, the same red eyes and so on, leaving Blondie as a potential wife the Count turned along with their daughters. Or hell, maybe they’re all actual sisters. We never get to know.

All we know is that they accuse Dracula of ‘Never loving,’ while Dracula stares meaningfully at Jonathan, insisting otherwise. And claims that the trio themselves know it is so from the past. Whatever past that is.

To that end, the Weird Sisters matter to Dracula. Enough to keep them fed, enough to not even put up a full villain monologue at them when they go against his orders to try and snatch Jonathan out from under him, followed by laughing in his face. Beyond his far-too-intimate interactions and abuses with Jonathan, this is the closest we get to seeing Dracula trying to be close with and/or properly*** interacting with someone. An exchange that ends not only with handing over the poor stolen baby in the sack, but outright promising Jonathan to the Sisters once Dracula is finished with him.

And that’s sticking with me this year. Because for all that I’ve joked and memed about it in the past, it never really whacked me over the head with the import and terror that comes with Jonathan’s opening line in this entry.

God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced.

Reduced. That’s the key word here.

Even if he doesn’t know all the rules, he knows now that he is no longer just a temporary prisoner. Not even a mere murder victim waiting out the clock. No. He has been reduced to a living decanter. A possession there to be nursed from and used and given as a gift from Dracula to his companions. Like a toy or a new pet.

At the risk of slight spoilers (avert your eyes first-time Dracula Dailiers!), two important lines are yet to come during Jonathan’s stay in Vampire Hell. One from Dracula:

But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula.

(Yes, he does think he’s very funny. Prick.)

And another from Jonathan:

At its foot a man may sleep—as a man.

Two vital beats.

The first, because it is a winking confirmation to all that Jonathan has feared. Namely, that Dracula and the Weird Sisters mean to never let him leave the castle again, alive, dead, or otherwise.

The second, because it shows that for all Jonathan is not aware of, he does rightly suspect that there is more expected of him than being a mere meal to have and discard. He knows he is not due for a fleeting pain and escape, even via death. Because Dracula wants to ‘love’ him. To keep him.

And Dracula will do so because he keeps the Weird Sisters, and they will keep him. A parting gift from their loving lord of the castle. The conqueror’s playbook in miniature.

I turned you. You turn him. I have you all.

This, buried under the veneer of:

See girls? I care! Here, a fine new plaything to keep you company. Housebroken already.

(To this I am reduced. To this I am reduced. To this I am reduced.)

There’s time right now. However much time Jonathan can win by playing a good guest. But if he doesn’t get out by the time Dracula is done with him? He lives the rest of his human life as a wine bottle and then all of eternity after that as joint undead property.

Better hope your acting skills are up to the task, Mr. Harker.

[astarioffsimpmain]

Persuasion

[Screenshots by @laezels]

Enver Gortash x afab!Reader

Warnings: Biting, nudity, cockwarming

Synopsis: You and Gortash have a special kind of alliance, and your companions don't approve

Author's Note: I know I promised Halsin smut and I will deliver! But these images, along with some extra Gortash brainrot sent me into overdrive, so here is exactly 500 words of soft/intimate Gortash. Prompt inspiration by @creativepromptsforwriting !

“We’re so different. I wouldn’t want to bring you down.” It was whispered into the column of his neck as he stroked your damp hair. 

“Oh, come now.” he cooed quietly, pressing a kiss against the top of your head as he pulled you closer. “We are not all that dissimilar. You have cut your way across Faerun where everyone else has failed to do so, and I fought my way to the top when the odds were impossibly stacked against me. You will stop at nothing to preserve the safety of your friends, and I will stop at nothing to preserve the safety of my people; including you.” A deep-set heat spread across your cheeks and although he could not see it, you were certain he could feel it on his skin because the deep rumble of his laughter sent vibrations barreling through your bare body. The sharp edge of his gauntlet scraped a taunting line up the curve of your spine and you shivered against him, your arm curling further around his neck as you pressed closer to his warmth. 

“My companions greatly disapprove of this union.” you murmured, your lips brushing his skin with each pass, and even you struggled to find concern in your words as his hands found your bum and squeezed before hoisting you up higher in his lap. Your fingers curled into his jet black locks on instinct and you mewled as his lips latched around one of your nipples and sucked. He then dragged the flat of his tongue against the hardened peak and you squirmed in his grasp. 

“Your companions will come around.” he whispered before blowing gently against the bud, pulling a whine from your throat. 

“Gods, Gortash.” you moaned, then yelped suddenly as you received a hard bite to the side of your breast. 

“I thought we discussed this, my love.” he growled against you, the claws of his gauntlets piercing your skin as his grip tightened. 

“Apologies, E-Enver.” you stuttered, the wind leaving your lungs as he rewarded your cooperation with a gentle kiss against the place he had bitten. 

“Much better, kitten.” he smiled against your sensitive skin and continued to pepper it with kisses as he ran his hands up and down your curves. 

You groaned lewdly as one of his hands pressed your hip downwards, his other snaking around to line himself up with your abused slit. He slid home with little resistance and you moaned into each other’s mouths, the feeling of being joined again akin to coming home. When he kissed you there was no malice or anger, and you drank in his hazy, lustful need for your lips on his with a need of your own, wrapping yourself around him like your only lifeline. “Come,” he mumbled against your mouth, repositioning himself to lay down on the plush bed with you atop him. “Sleep, my love. We shall discuss bringing your friends around in the morning. Tonight, you belong to me alone.”

fin

[space-mango-company]

Stranger | Chapter 2

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

TW: Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Cannibalism

Tags: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut (still not in this chapter lmao), No use of y/n, Original Characters, Canon what canon

Word Count: 2k

A/N: So... this was posted prematurely a couple hours ago. This is the actual finished longer version. If you don't know what I'm talking about, thank god. Sorry this took so long, lmao

Just letting you guys know that my knowledge of the lore is purely based off of the movies and the Dune wiki rabbit hole I fell into right after watching part two. I also took a few liberties with the canon here.

I'm super open to constructive criticism, or any criticism at all (feel free to absolutely roast me). Like I mentioned, I've never written fanfic before so I'd love to hear your thoughts!

The evening of your first day in Giedi Prime was celebrated with a banquet where you were introduced to the most important people on the planet. You've heard many stories of the ruthlessness and brutality of the Harkonnens, hence surprised by the courtly welcome during the dinner. Although you did your best to politely ignore the Baron who floated at the head of the table being fed by servants.

You were sat beside his nephew who, despite your mother's education, has evaded your insight. You couldn't quite get a read on him.

Feyd-Rautha whispers to you amid the buzzing conversations of the banquet hall, "are you enjoying the food, little hawk?"

You shoot him a questioning look.

"I like your hairpin," he sneers.

You resist from reaching to touch the Atreides symbol affixed in your hair.

"We don't see such ornaments often here." He quietly laughs in his devilish way, only too amused with himself.

Ah, you realize. He means to torment you.

"Seems early for pet names," you say, picking at your plate, "we've only just met."

"Oh, and yet we are to be wed in less than a week's time," his raspy voice rings in your ear, "I should like to be familiar with my future wife, Lady Atreides."

The marriage pact had been signed when you were only a little girl. Inheriting your father's inclinations, you swore you would uphold your duty, undeterred by the gruesome and abhorrent stories about the Harkonnens—because you knew that centuries of conflict could end within a generation with this union. You were a willing bride.

And yet.

You give him a smile that, to those not privy to your conversation, would seem genuine, "You know nothing of me, na-Baron."

"I should like to learn," you doubt his sincerity but care not enough to discern it. He takes a smug bite of a forkful of meat, "perhaps tomorrow, you shall learn something of me."

The following morning Iassa helps you into another black gown, this time with a veil in anticipation of the black sun.

"Is it not dangerous for Feyd-Rautha to wager his life for a show?" you question.

"The na-Baron is a skilled fighter, my lady. He will emerge victorious," Iassa is straight-faced as she drapes the veil over you.

"Yes, I do not doubt it, but given he is the Baron's heir. Does it not seem a touch irresponsible to even risk it at all."

Not that you actually cared for his life, you just expected that the Harkonnens would be concerned with the preservation of their house regardless of their brutality. You recall your grandfather who got himself killed fighting bulls for sport.

"The na-Baron will be fighting war prisoners. They will be drugged beforehand. It is perfectly safe, my lady."

"Oh." You couldn't decide if you were disappointed or not, "I see."

Iassa seemed intent on dropping the subject, so you do.

You stand before a mirror and take a look at yourself. It is impossible not to be reminded of your mother. She was never one for vanity, but you like to think there was a part of her that always enjoyed the elegant dresses she and you 'had' to wear. You allow yourself a somber smile behind your veil.

"You look beautiful, my lady," Iassa curtsies.

"Thank you," you look at her bowed figure, gray robes made more dull by the stark black choker on her neck. You were sure she was at least 2 standard years younger than you are and it had only been a few months since you came of age. You wondered if she liked pretty dresses too.

Before you can ask her, there is a knock at your door.

The house steward, Jaromir, clears his throat when Iassa opens it for you, "The na-Baron requests your presence before he enters the arena."

Heavy doors open for you in one of the chambers beneath the arena. You are greeted by the sight of a half-dressed Feyd-Rautha being helped into his armor by a servant.

"Lady Atreides," he looks you up and down, "I hope you slept well."

You bow your head in acknowledgment.

"Your knives, master," a large man whom you assume to be the bladesmith presents Feyd-Rautha with two daggers.

The young Harkonnen takes one and caresses the blade with his fingers.

"I've come to wish the brave na-Baron well before his fight in the arena," you say in false earnestness.

He smiles at your inflation of his ego.

"Though I must say, I am relieved it is all for show. I would not like to see my groom wounded before we are wed."

"For show?" Feyd-Rautha tilts his head and you see his arrogant facade show the slightest crack.

"Yes, I've heard your opponents will be drugged will they not?" your voice dripping with innocence, "to ensure your safety, of course."

His grip on the dagger tightens, "and where did you hear this exactly?"

You sense the awkwardness and tension in the servants. The one who had helped don Feyd-Rautha's armor has quietly retreated to the far side of the chamber. There is a subtle tremble in the hands of one holding a plate of towels. You finally notice the three women piled upon a raised platform glaring at you.

"Just voices around the fortress," you shrug.

A deep breath recovers Feyd-Rautha's smug expression. "Call for the warden," he orders one of the guards by the door, "tell him to prepare new prisoners. Sober ones."

"My lord, you need not endanger yourself," you feign worry.

"Nonsense." The na-Baron walks closer to tower over you, "My lady bride deserves to see my true prowess."

He sees through your challenge, but you don't care. Seeing his self-satisfied smirk wiped from his face for even just a second was worth it.

"Besides," he turns away from you to inspect the second knife, "my darlings enjoy meat that's fought for its life."

The three women sneer at this and you see their sharp teeth as they hiss amongst themselves.

You've heard of Feyd-Rautha's concubines long before you arrived on Giedi Prime. Tales of their taste for human flesh were one of the things that tested your resolve in fulfilling the marriage pact. You didn't mind that the na-Baron would keep other women. It would result in less of his attentions on yourself, you figured. It was their perverse appetite that nauseated you.

A look of revulsion hides behind your veil which you sense they would be all too happy to rip to shreds.

"I will see you in the stands, little hawk," Feyd-Rautha whispers to you as he waves for a guard to escort you out.

You do your best to drown out the noise of what seemed to be a countless audience that came to see the na-Baron fight. You could understand now why they uphold such brutal traditions. The people are so excited for it.

On the other side of the arena, you sense Vladimir Harkonnen watching you from the Baron's Box that towered over the whole arena. The blazing sun only helps you avoid looking in his direction. You were sat at a viewing box, still for nobility and separated from the masses, but much lower and closer to the sands of the arena. Jaromir had told you that you were to 'give the na-Baron your favor'.

Before long, the master of ceremonies announces Feyd-Rautha's entrance in Giedi Prime Speech. They are celebrating his betrothal to you and the union of Harkonnen and Atreides, you translate in your head. You wonder if the people care for the politics of the Great Houses. They seemed no less excited to cheer at your name despite the centuries-old blood feud.

Massive doors open as the na-Baron walks into the arena. His arms outstretched holding his knives like an extension of his limbs. He riles up the crowd as he walks towards the Baron's Box and kneels to his uncle. He then rises and walks toward you, smirking under the stark light of the black sun.

You may not fear earning the Harkonnens' contempt, but you were the Duke of Caladan's daughter and you knew that the favor of the people was invaluable.

You stand and walk to the edge of the viewing box. The glowing smile you reveal as you lift your veil draws cheers from the crowd that rival what Feyd-Rautha received. You produce a pure white handkerchief from your dress pocket and make a show of kissing it and waving the cloth at the buzzing crowd. You throw it off the edge and it floats toward the na-Baron who had moved both daggers to one hand to catch it. He looks up at you with what you think could be the seeds of respect and tucks the cloth into the tight armband around his right bicep.

He turns back to the audience and raises his knives in a war cry. The crowd explodes in guttural cheers and applause. Feyd-Rautha takes his position in the middle of the arena as his first opponent is released into the white sands.

You've heard of the Harkonnen heir's aptitude in single combat. It's time to see if the stories were true or if it was just another part of their menacing facade.

You were handed a pair of spyglasses to observe with. The two fighters approach each other, the prisoner wielding a knife of his own. Feyd-Rautha holds a taunting stance. The prisoner was sober, you were sure, but even without the spyglasses, you could see he was weak. You surmised the Harkonnen cells weren't very hospitable. He attempts a swipe but the na-Baron parries with ease. Another and the na-Baron dodges. Zooming in, you could see Feyd-Rautha's twisted amusement. He was toying with the poor man—and the people loved it.

The crowds cheered at the clashing of metal, thundering when the na-Baron drew first blood by slashig his opponent's arm. It wasn't long before Feyd-Rautha's dagger had impaled the prisoner's heart. There was no pause before a second prisoner was brought out to meet a similar fate.

Feyd-Rautha stood unwounded, seething with exhilaration. He enjoyed this; the thrill of killing. He basked in the roar of the crowd. You had never ended a life before, but some deep part of you could almost understand how he felt in that moment.

A third prisoner enters the arena. He looked older than the first two, bearded and taller. He reminded you of Gurney Halleck, the Atreides Warmaster. This man certainly wasn't at his prime but you could tell he would not go down as easily as the first two.

The warrior holds his blade out in a firm fighting stance, refusing to make the first move. You notice picadors in black suits have entered the arena, circling the na-Baron and his opponent. Feyd-Rautha lunges at the prisoner and a quick series of parries from both sides occur. You see the finesse in the na-Baron's movement. He recognizes his opponent's skill and he is taking this one seriously. You were not sure what you expected of the Harkonnen's fighting style but Feyd-Rautha was vicious but precise. The crowd gasps when the prisoner disarms one of the na-Baron's knives. The warrior manages to get a grip on Feyd-Rautha's armed hand and aims to pierce the na-Baron's neck with his blade. The na-Baron struggled against his hold and the arid air was thick with anticipation.

You were unsure what outcome you desired as you stared through your spyglass. Perhaps this warrior kills your betrothed. What then? Would you really be able to go back to Caladan's windy cliffs again? Return to the arms of your mother as if it were all a bad dream? You wonder if when Feyd-Rautha becomes baron, and you his baroness, could you convince him to let you see your family.

The warrior's blade was dangerously close to your future husband's throat when one of the picadors lashes at the warrior. The na-Baron growls at the offending picador as the warrior is weakened. Feyd-Rautha pushes him off and allows him a moment to recover, taunting him to try again. Blades clash once more and after a sequence of quick ferocious movements, Feyd-Rautha's blade slashes the warrior's throat. Blood made black by the infrared of the sun splatters onto the na-Baron. He licks the darkness that landed on his lips. Heaving, he takes your bloodied handkerchief off his armband and raises it to you and the roaring crowd.

You did not even realize you were already standing, breathless at the sight.

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

Taglist: @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @dreamlandcreations @emeraldsgirl @strawberryfieldsforevermore

[inexplicifics]

Do you think we'll ever meet this man, from Must Brave the Thorns? "It is only that when I was quite young, I discovered entirely by accident - and much to his dismay - that the head of my father’s guards preferred men" Could be interesting, both to see someone who likes and knows Milena to see her flourishing, and also to see an older gay human meet some Witchers.

I have a WIP with him! He is very confused and also has met a friendly Bear.

I have no idea when or if that one will get done, so here's a snippet:

It’s been a week and a half before little Lady Milena sneaks out to join him on guard duty up on the wall, which she does about twice a month. He’s never reported it, even if he probably should. She’s not hurting anything, and it does the girl good to get away from her eldest sister’s nastiness once in a while. “Captain Lukasz,” she greets him gravely, just as she always does. “My lady,” he replies, just as gravely, just as he always does. She keeps pace with him as he walks his rounds, little soft slippers pattering gently against the stone of the wall, and says nothing. At last they reach the corner, where they usually stop and talk a while. Lukasz cannot decide on what to say, though. He can’t exactly ask her if she’s going to tell his secret to her father. Little Lady Milena takes a deep breath and says, “Marika has told me that when I am old enough to go to court, I will see a great many things that are strange to me. That - that I will witness or hear about a fair number of very private assignations.” Lukasz blinks. “That’s true,” he allows. Gods know he sees enough of that sort of thing while the family is at court. “She also told me that if the people having the assignation are my enemies, I should take careful note in case the information is useful to me someday; but if they are my friends, I should never speak of the matter, and do my utmost to preserve their privacy, so as to protect them.” She looks up at him solemnly. “I count you a friend, Captain.” She’s not going to tell. Lukasz bites down on a curse of sheer overwhelming relief. “I think your sister gives very good advice, my lady,” he says. “If you follow it, you are likely to gain the unending loyalty of your friends. Among whom I am honored to be counted.” Little Lady Milena nods. “I shall be sure to do so, then.”

[aemonds-sapphire]

Punishment

Summary: Ser Erryk makes the mistake of looking for too long at you and Aemond makes sure he pays for it.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Jealous/Possessive Aemond. Exhibitionism. “Just the tip”. Dry humping. Creampie.

A/N: If you recognise this is because it’s a rework of a short fic I posted a few days ago. I added a smut scene and some other minor changes. Hope you like it!

A/N2: Can be read as part 2 of “Precious Stones”, but also as a stand-alone.

Word count: 2.5k

“Ask Ser Erryk if he wishes to preserve all his limbs intact.”

“My prince?”

“You heard what I said, Cole.”

To anyone unaware of what had provoked such serious solicitation, it would seem that Prince Aemond was merely poking fun.

But Aemond does not fool around when it comes to what belongs to him.

You swallowed your wine quietly, crossing eyes with Ser Erryk Cargyll whose stare was bold enough to have your heart clench.

And it was not because you welcomed the daring attention, but because you knew Aemond wouldn’t.

Aemond Targaryen had made his claim, and anyone who dared defy him would face the consequences.

You watched as Ser Criston Cole walked towards Ser Erryk to deliver the prince’s message.

His reaction was appalling.

The young member of the Kingsguard, entrusted with protecting Prince Aegon, decided that scoffing and chuckling was an appropriate way to respond to Aemond.

How wrong he was.

Sitting beside you, Aemond shifted in his seat, eye fixed on the man in front of him. “What is so amusing, Ser Erryk?”

You thanked the Gods that the king and queen were absent from supper, but you weren’t as fortunate when it came to Aegon.

“Oh, this ought to be good,” said the young prince, relishing in the eminent conflict.

Ser Erryk dropped his smile at once. “Nothing, my prince.”

“So you laugh at nothing? That is… concerning.”

Aemond was an expert where taunting others was concerned. He would know just what to say and how to say it, in order to set anyone off, ultimately prevailing as his skill with sword matched his words.

The silence was so thick you could hear the flames flickering on the candlesticks and the wind wailing angrily outside.

“Aemond…” you began, placing one hand on his thigh.

“Give me one reason not to behead you.”

Ser Criston Cole was tense through and through. “Prince Aemond, what happ—”

“Now why would you behead Ser Erryk, dear brother?” Aegon spoke, visibly amused. “Is my safety of no concern to you?”

Oh Gods…

Helaena would have no part in this, and simply kept to herself, lowered gaze and focused on downing the food in her plate.

“Stay out of this,” Aemond said calmly, his eye never leaving Ser Erryk.

A wise person would have followed this warning, but Aegon was not wise. In fact, he was a fool who thought himself to be wise. And there was no bigger foolery.

“I shall not,” Aegon voiced his indignation. “What is his crime, brother? Staring at her?”

Cold sweat ran down the back of your neck as you felt his eyes on you.

“Prince Aemond, I meant no disrespect,” Ser Erryk said as dutifully as possible given the current situation. “I apologise.”

Aemond gripped your hand tightly. Even though he excelled at keeping his composure, he had difficulty reining in his feelings when it came to those he cared about.

Aegon huffed in annoyance, twirling the fork in between his fingers. “Ruining our meal over some wench… I mean, really, Aemond…”

At this, your lover rose to his feet, banging his fist on the wooden table, nearly spilling the glasses of wine in the process.

But his anger wasn’t aimed at Aegon and his infantile demeanor.

After all, the cause of such commotion was far simpler.

Ser Erryk had made a mistake, and now he would pay for it.

“I may have lost an eye,” he told the kingsguard, voice dripping with poison. “But you are the one who is too blind to see that there is no scenario in which you come out victorious.”

The man responsible for prince Aegon’s well-being swallowed hard, but stood his ground, not showing anything other than respect for the dragon prince.

“Prince Aemond,” Ser Criston spoke once again. “Let us all calm down. I will make sure nothing of the sort happens again.”

Aemond chuckled. “First and final warning. Next time, you will not be so fortunate should you glance in her direction again.”

The young man nodded, staying silent.

“Mother will be delighted to know you’re threatening to kill my protector because of our sister’s lady-in-waiting,” Aegon said, clearly wanting to provoke his younger brother.

Aemond snapped his head at him. “If your own protection was of any concern to you, you wouldn’t dismiss his services so you can disappear into Flea Bottom,” a smile curved his lips as Aegon’s face dropped. “Do tell mother. Tell her that my flaw is caring for those I love, as she does. See how far that will get you, dear brother.”

Aegon’s eyes shot daggers at his younger brother in silence, and you vaguely wondered why he hadn’t snapped at his words.

But then again, Aegon thrived for simpler things in life other than picking fights with someone who could best him in whatever weapon of choice they’d decide to wield: sword or words.

As such, the rest of supper remained uneventful, with Aemond keeping one hand firmly on your thigh at all times.

That sense of belonging swept you off your feet completely.

Knowing that Aemond would not hesitate to let others know how strongly he felt about you.

By the time all cups and plates were emptied, Aegon left his seat, waving one hand dismissively at Ser Erryk as he exited the dining hall, proving once more that Aemond’s words had been true.

Aemond scoffed, raising to his feet while taking your hand in his. “Shall we?”

Heat flared in your cheeks as he tightened his grip lightly on you.

Nodding, you crossed eyes with Helaena. “I shall meet you in your bedchambers, my lady.”

Her eyes dropped to the sapphire necklace you had put on and she curled her lips into a warm smile.

Aemond held your hand closely as he paced across the room, until he was standing in front of Ser Erryk.

“Seeing that my brother won’t require your services, may I make use of them?”

It was a simple inquiry and it sounded innocent enough coming from him, but the look on Ser Erryk was far more revealing.

Criston Cole shared the sentiment, stepping between both of them. “Prince Aemond, I-"

Aemond heaved an audible sigh that effectively silenced him. “Ser Criston, you forget I’m skilled with my dagger,” he said, removing the blade from its sheath, twirling it effortlessly in his fingers. “If I wished to bring harm to Ser Erryk, I would have done so before you could blink.”

The young member of the Kingsguard did not seem all that convinced, but stepped aside regardless.

A mischievous smile danced on Aemond’s lips as he sheathed the dagger.

The sudden realisation that he was up to something suddenly hit you.

Never letting go of his hold on you, the three of you paced quietly along the vast corridors of the Red Keep.

There was certainly no need for Ser Erryk’s services and, for a fleeting moment, you wondered if Aemond actually intended to harm the young man.

But your fears vanished quickly when you reached the door to his bedchambers and watched as Aemond asked him to stand guard.

Ser Erryk held a blank expression, not daring to look at you.

Your lover let go of you hand and you felt him get behind you, pressing both hands on your shoulder.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

As soon as those words left his lips you turned to face him, embarrassed washing over you. “Aemond!”

One hand slid to your neck, slowly bringing his warm fingers to angle it, exposing more skin to his touch.

“Answer the question, Ser Erryk,” he said, caressing you with his thumb. “You may look at her now.”

His face hardened before your eyes, and he swallowed hard, probably thinking it was bait.

Embarrassment eventually subsided and made way for a fluttering sensation in your stomach as Aemond’s tender caressed kept you yearning for more.

Ser Erryk eventually turned his gaze to you. “Yes, she is, my prince.”

A low chuckle escaped Aemond’s lips before pressing a soft kiss to the crook of your neck.

Your eyes immediately fluttered shut and you thanked the Gods that his hold on your shoulder was enough to ground you, for your knees momentarily faltered.

He lingered for a while before drawing back, leaving a wet spot that made you shiver. “Do you trust me?” Aemond whispered in your ear.

You shouldn’t.

You couldn’t

But you wanted to.

Just to see how far he’d go to make you his.

“Yes.”

You open your eyes only to be met with Ser Erryk’s that seemed to be fixed on you.

“Ser Erryk,” Aemond said in between scorching kisses to your skin. “Would you want to touch her?”

The young man blinked in confusion. “My prince?”

“Oh, do not misunderstand,” he said and you could feel his smile. “It is not an offer.”

The hand on your shoulder moved to your belly before he settles his forearm right under your breasts, pulling you into his embrace and sealing your heated skin of with another kiss.

“Answer it.”

Through half-closed eyes you watched Ser Erryk swallow, visibly unsure of how to react. “No, my prince.”

Aemond scoffed, pulling you even closer, until you started to feel the outline of his cock being pressed firmly against your ass. You parted your lips, unable to control your breathing as pleasure overtook your senses.

His breath fanned your neck one last time before he let go of you at once.

“Ser Erryk, you are to guard this door.”

He threw one last look at you, straightening himself.

Aemond swung the door open and pulled you in, and before you could process whatever was happening, he had you pinned against the wooden boards until the foor slammed shut.

“Aemond…”

But he would have none of your words.

Hunger and possessiveness commanded the kiss he took from you, framing your hand with his strong hands, and grunting from having his cock rubbing against you.

He tore his lips away, ruffling the fabric of your dress up your thighs. “Legs around me. Now.”

The sense of urgency in his voice jolted you, but you immediately wrapped one leg first and once he had it secured with one hand, you lifted the other, immediately bringing your core into contact with his strained cock.

Aemond immediately bucked his hips into you, purely out of reflex, and you moaned as he held your jaw with his hand, forcing you to gaze at him.

“He’s… outside… my prince,” you managed to breathe out, nearly rolling your eyes when the fabric of his pants rubbed against your throbbing clit.

“And he will know I’m the only men who is ever allowed to have you,” he said before pressing hurried kisses along your jawline. “He will hear it.”

Lust had taken over and guided your body to sway alongside his, welcoming his desperate thrusts and your own need to quench the thirst you had for this man.

Your eyes had fluttered shut when his took your lips in his, but quickly snapped open at the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn.

Aemond had removed his eyepatch and his stare nearly took your breath away as he lifted his dagger to rest on the sapphire necklace he had gifted you.

You widened your eyes and let out a gasp once he dragged the cool metal along you skin, careful enough not to hurt you, settling it on the neckline of your dress.

“Do you trust me?” he asked for the second time that night.

You bit your lip, staring into his own sapphire. “No.”

“Allow me to change your mind.”

And with no further warning, he slide the dagger into your dress ripping it at the front, the tearing sound filling your ears.

You watched in shock as he threw the dagger to the blade to the floor.

Had Ser Erryk heard it too?

Even if he had missed it, he surely wouldn’t be able to miss the obscene noise of Aemond latching on to an exposed nipple, desperately sucking on it.

“Aemond…” you gasped, feeling your own wetness starting to coat your folds. “Aemond… Aemond…”

You kept on repeating his name like a prayer, not sure whether you were urging him or simply too lost in your own pleasure to say anything else.

He grunted as he rolled your nipple in between his teeth teasingly.

It was your time to snap your hips into his, and he immediately halted his ministrations to let out the most delicious growl you had ever heard.

“The many times I have wished to take you like this,” he whispered into your lips, rolling his clothed cock against you, one hand resting on the sapphire necklace. “You’re mine.”

A deep moan filled the room joining the rhythm sound of your body being slammed against the wooden door, certainly letting the man on the other side know the how it sounded to defy Aemond Targaryen and what he deemed as his.

“Ask him,” Aemond suddenly whispered as he fumbled with his pants.

“What…”

His hand finally managed to spring his cock free and, wasting no time, he pressed it on top of your soaked folds, applying just enough pressure until it sank in between them, relishing in your wetness.

“Tell him who you belong to,” he managed to say in between heavy pants.

As if to serve as motivation, he moved his hips to have his cock sliding up and down, the underside rubbing your clit.

“Ser Erryk…” you said, grasping his shoulders with both hands to keep the balance. “Ser Erryk…”

“Yes, my lady?”

His voice was low but firm, and you nearly let out a another breathy moan when Aemond brought his lips to your neck, sucking soundly.

“Who.. who..” your voiced died in your throat as the young prince’s cock relentlessly collected your wetness and spread it. “Who do I belong to…”

The member of the Kingsguard cleared his throat. “To… prince Aemond.”

Aemond removed his lips from your skin and planted a kiss. “Just marking you. Ser already Erryk knows you’re mine, and now others will, too.”

At this point you immediately realised you weren’t going to last much longer. Between his thick cock rubbing steadily into you and his words of lust, you knew your body wasn’t meant to withstand the unbearable level of pleasure.

You reached your peak first, crying out his name and pressing your head firmly against the door as your body rolled and your walls clenched around nothing.

Aemond pressed his forehead to the door, panting heavily into your ear. “Let me… just the tip…”

“Gods!” You sobbed as pleasured blinded your vision.

You felt him quickly shift under you, and gasped loudly once you felt him push the head of his cock into you.

Your legs quivered reflexively as he spilled profanities in High Valyrian as your walls clamped around him, rhythmically pushing him over the edge.

By the time Aemond went over the edge, you had already descended from your high, but still managed to find bliss in feeling the hot spurts of cum dripping from you.

Aemond threw his head back and his lips parted in a loud growl that you were sure would be heard across half of the Red Keep.

Both of you were left panting and by the time he had let you slide off his waist, you were able to feel the droplets of his released coating your folds and sliding down your thighs.

[jamesfrain]

🗡July 28, 1540 — The Execution of Thomas Cromwell

'But the king can change his mind. He can do whatever we wills now. He has the absolute power. And what he has given, he can take it away.' — Anne Boleyn (2x06)

"Most gracious and most merciful sovereign lord, beseeching almighty God, whoever in all your causes has ever counselled perceived, opened, maintained, relieved and defended your highness so he now will save to counsel you, preserve you, maintain you, remedy you, relieve and defend you as may be most to your honour, wealth prosperity, health and comfort of your heart’s desires. For the which,  and for the long life and prosperous reign of your most royal Majesty, I shall, during my life and while I am here, pray to almighty God that He of his most abundant goodness, will help aid and comfort you, and after your continuance of Nestor’s[13] years, that that most noble Imp, the prince’s grace, your most dear son, may succeed you to reign long, prosperously and felicitously to God’s pleasure, beseeching most humbly, your Grace to pardon this, my rude writing, and to consider that I am a most woeful prisoner, ready to take the death when it shall please God and your Majesty. Yet the frail flesh incites me continually to call to your Grace for mercy and pardon for my offences and in this, Christ save, preserve, and keep you. Written the Tower, this Wednesday the last of June, with the heavy heart and trembling hand of your highness’ most heavy and most miserable prisoner and poor slave. Most gracious prince, I cry for mercye, mercye, mercye!"

(source)

for you @cromwelll

[batchilla]

Fata Morgana Chapter one: A Favor Given.

Content warning for some … outdated views on women. Don’t worry, you can fix him.

The tournament of Fata Morgana brought with it all the excitement of a tournament, but given it fell so close to the annual Festival of Cupid, it held more still. For as well as the honour of victory, a gold purse and acclaim, the winner was given a crown of roses, to give to any maiden he saw fit to choose, and to open the Ball of Cupid by sharing a dance with said maiden. Captain Jason Todd, the knight of Arkham, had won the past three years, and each year, the same maiden had been given the crown.

You.

You, the princess, and only daughter of the king of a small yet ambitious nation. You, who while understanding that your affection for the hero of the battle of Arkham, the captain of your personal guard, could never be fully realised or acted upon. You, who had the last three years watched him compete with baited breath hoping to dance with him once more. You, who after he had first presented you the crown three years hence, had given him a favour the next two years. You, who on the eve of his fourth tournament, are sneaking down to where the competitors have pitched their tents around the competition field, to do so once more.

The air is warm, crickets and the nickering of horses punctuated by the occasional voice. They are stoic, not rowdy or drunken, that will come tomorrow when the contest is over. Tonight, the sense of anticipation and solemn preparation lingers over the field. You find his tent with relative ease, it’s blood red fabric near black in the darkness, but his steed is tied outside and pays you little mind as you hesitate outside the tent flap. There had been no hesitation when you slipped past your guards. No hesitation in deciding to come here. Still, you hesitate now, when the only thing separating you from him is canvas, struck with nerves over what exactly you would say to him.

Your stalling is ended by the tent's flap opening to reveal the Knight of Arkham standing there, staring you down looking less than impressed. Your mouth goes dry as the desert.

He stands there in loose pants, and a white shirt with the top eyelets undone to just above the lowest point of his pectoral muscles. His hair is mused and out of order. You feel your breath catch, and it is only your lifelong etiquette lessons that prevent you from doing something completely humiliating and degenerate like bite your lip. Granted you saw him nearly every day, but there was something about seeing him out of plate, seeming so much himself rather than maintaining stoic professionalism.

“Your royal highness, you ought not be here so late - and where is your guard? God preserve me…” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

You try not to stare at the way the action causes his arms to move and flex, or how soft his hair seems. Instead, you force yourself to look him in the eyes, and reply.

“All is well, surely. These tents are filled with knights. Men of honour. I am perfectly safe.” You speak softly, so as not to draw attention to your presence, despite what you verbally claim, you know full well that being undiscovered will better serve you.

Captain Todd-Wayne opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Sighs. You suppress an urge to smile, practically able to see his mind working on how to respond to that without offending your feminine sensibilities.

“Your Highness while your father’s knights - myself included - would of course never consider harming you, the matter persists you are without escort.”

You bat your eyes, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “You are the captain of my guard, and have acted as my escort a great many times.”

His jaw clenches, and he makes no attempt to rebut the statement. “Who was meant to be guarding your door this evening?” He asks tiredly.

“Sir West.” You supply.

“Well. Rest assured that by sundown tomorrow he shall be thoroughly reprimanded for allowing this to happen.” He says, anger brewing under his carefully stoic features.

You sigh, but do not argue. You came for a reason, and you will not be distracted by his ire in your goals accomplishment.

You reach into your pocket, and produce a thick, blood red ribbon of finest velvet.

You hold it out, and he takes it, carefully not touching your hand, but where the ribbon hangs from your fingers.

“Best of luck in the morrow.” You say softly. You hope he understands what you really mean. What you cannot say.

You hope he knows you love him.

You turn back into the night before he can respond, the soft look of awe on his face, though the same each year, too great a source of pain and longing for you to take.

___________________________________________

Later that night, Jason lays on the temporary bed in his tent, staring at the ceiling as he idly runs the ribbon through each digit, feeling its weight, its softness. He slides it through his fingers, pulling it through and winding between each with his opposite hand. He closes his eyes and his breath shakes as he recalls its owner. Imagines it in her hair, tying it up, exposing her neck and …No. No. No.

He clenches his hand into a fist, his eyes snapping open. He was a knight. Her Knight, Her protector.

He would not dishonour her with his perverse thoughts.

He refused to.

She had done him a great kindness, in extending her favour. Clearly she knew of his affections, given his actions at the three Tournaments of Fata Morgana past even a woman could deduce the truth of his pathetic circumstance.

It was a great kindness indeed that she allowed him to indulge, one night a year in an unreciprocated fantasy, even feeding into it with this, the most generous of gifts.

Fata Morgana. An illusion. How terribly fitting, his lone solace, the one mercy he allowed his starved soul. To dance with her, once a year. To lay the wreath of roses in her hair, and pretend he was more. That he was worthy.

That he was not the second, adopted, common son of his father. That he hadn’t been sent off to be a squire so young that the Wayne estate no longer felt like home. That he had risen to his honoured rank of his position because he deserved it.

They’d said he was. The king had called him a hero. The people called him a legend. It would not surprise anyone if his story outlived him three generations. Jason Todd, the hero of the battle of Arkham. He had rallied his men, and turned what should have been a massacre into an unparalleled victory, but when the screams fell silent and the dust settled, he had disappeared. He had been declared dead. Turned into a martyr. A fallen hero.

Until he had been found in the woods of the Al Ghul estate, with no memory of who he was or how he came to be there, six months later.

The greatest of healers had helped his mind return - but what happened to him in the lost six months escaped him still.

His Father had asked him to recover at the Wayne estate. He had refused. He said it was duty. It was. But not to his king. It was duty to her, and to his heart. He had not spoken to his father since.

He knew she surely saw only a knight. How could she see more, given how little he was? A knight pinning after her to be sure, but not one she would seriously consider as a marriage prospect. He was not heir, afterall. He was not respected, he was a novelty. A fearsome novelty.

Sleep finds him eventually, a merciful reprieve from his spiralling consciousness. Only to take him away to the same nightmare he has had each night since his return.

That flash of sky, of rocks ascending skyward, the smell of salt and of decay. Pain. Nothing.

[calisources]

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒.

All of these sentences are mostly taking by my own mind and i'm not joking. It was hard finding material quotes regarding tournaments in historical or fantasy setting. Some are from shows or media but eighty percent is all from my own mind, please give credit if use these. Change pronouns, names, locations as you see fit. All of these involve the medieval event of a tournament and what happens around them.

I fear I am already bending far too many rules just by taking you, my young princess.

Show me your hands, you will have blisters soon.

Lady Eglantine doesn’t believe in love, only lust.

In the world of competition, only the strongest shall prevail.

A true champion is not defined by their victories, but by the obstacles they've overcome.

Victory is sweetest when it's earned through sweat, hard work, and determination.

Will you not participate in the tourney, my lord? 

May I have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady?

Good luck to you, my Prince.

The tournament is not just a test of skill, but a test of character as well.

Is it always this bloody? Will those poor men die? Someone must see them.

I want him to wear my favor.  Only him. 

If he wins, the knight has the right to name his Queen of Love and Beauty. And at the feast, they shall dance.

Be careful. A tourney is a grand place for courtly love, but also, for blood to rise and affairs to appear.

Call me what you like, say I'm without honor, I don't care. I'm not getting on any more horses to whack you people with a stick.

Kings may be chosen by God, but they still make the mistakes of men.

When even those who rule can sink this low, it is not possible to change anything.

It's my lucky charm, be sure to bring it back to me.

My favorite blue ribbon. Take it.

It will bring you good fortune and you will return from joust unharmed.

I was hoping to ask for the Princess's favor.

How about a kiss, for luck?

Courtly love was the culture around the performance of love at court.

And now, rather than admit these feelings, you're dancing around one another with this mind-numbing and frankly boorish mating ritual.

The knights take on the duties of shadows with pride.

Whoever wins the tournament, shall become the prince/princess’ new betrothed.

You want to marry my daughter? Prove yourself worthy.

Petyr survived only because I begged Brandon not to kill him.

When Petyr heard of my engagement, he challenged Brandon to a duel. 

You do qualify to marry my daughter.

What matters most is who she will give her favor to. 

Her face is one that can create dynasties or crumble empires.

I was hoping for a word before you rode on the tourney, my Prince. 

My brother is the one competing against you, please be gentle with him.

The games are done for the day, please, feast and drink as you wish. 

You have been staring all day, my lord. I was beginning to wonder if I had something in my face.

Any damsel that's in distress - she'll be out of that dress when she meets Jim West.

Great men do not seek power... they have power thrust upon them.

My daughter seems. . .infatuated with you. I have yet to see why.

The princess is naive and thinks any man who is kind means well. A tournament will only show her the reality of life.

You honor the arena with your combat. May your swords and shield preserve the peace.

In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining.

I will be brave for Princess Pea.

As a squire, your first duty is to your knight’s armor. Your knight’s armor is more important than your own life. 

You will be knighted and you will have earned your knighthood.

You are hurt. At least let me tend to your wound.

The men laugh and fight and the ladies search for husbands.

Nothing like a good tournament to find a husband, or a companion for the night. 

Rumors are always spread with ease in these.

Can I have your daughter for the rest of my life?

You say I'll never get your blessing till the day I die.

We're married now, but we still haven't told your dad. This is the right time.

Are you promised to someone?

My sister's getting married. It's a love match. A rare thing. I’m not so lucky. My husband is to be chosen by who can hold a sword the longer.

Why can’t women participate in the games?

There are games for the ladies, Your Grace. But they are less. . .gruesome. And of course, the dancing.

Princes and Princess all over the realm and across the sea are coming for this event. You must shine brighter.

Let me help you with your armor. It appears loose.

As I promised, I return your favor to you, my lady. 

The Prince never loses a joust. He will crown his queen and then all will be well.

I do not understand the appeal of this. 

I spend days making these favors, let me stay a little longer.

My lady, I do not need your favor to win, but perhaps, a kiss of good faith. 

I do not care who wins these games, your hand is already arranged for another.

Men are scoundrel, specially when blood runs hot after a good battle, stray away from them.

These games are done in honor of the king’s heir.

The lord’s daughter is said to have bloomed, and the man chooses to announce it like this. 

A tournament is for men to boost their strength, fathers sell their daughters like mares and for affairs to happen.

I saw you on the stands today, my lord. But you did not participate on the games.

My brother wishes to dance with you, my lady. He is all too shy to ask himself.

You were injured. Have you allowed someone to heal them or are you too stubborn to let them?

Princess, you must not stray too far away. 

Mother is too drunk and annoyed to care, she won’t mind. 

[daitranscripts]

Solas Romance

The Truth

Solas Masterpost

Solas leads the PC to a grotto in Crestwood.

Solas: The Veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?

They stop, and Solas places a hand on the PC’s face.

Solas: I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.

Dialogue options:

General: I already know. [1]

Flirt: Interesting! [2]

General: You don’t have to do that. [3]

1 - General: I already know. PC: That’s not necessary, Solas. You’re my… Solas: That is the question, is it not? [4]

2 - Flirt: Interesting! PC: I’m listening, and I can offer a few suggestions. Solas: I shall bear that in mind. [4]

3 - General: You don’t have to do that. PC: I know what we mean to each other. Solas: Even so. [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Solas: For now, the best gift I can offer is… the truth. You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.

Dialogue options:

End relationship: I don’t think this will work. [5]

I feel the same way. [6]

5 - End relationship: I don’t think this will work. PC: Solas, I’m sorry. I’m afraid you were right. I was too impulsive earlier. Solas: (Sighs.) Even in this, you surprise me. Solas: I shall speak no more of it. Still, know that whatever happens, you are a rare spirit in this world. Goodbye. He leaves. Scene ends.

6 - I feel the same way. PC: As you are to me. Solas: Then what I must tell you… the truth… Your face. The vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean. PC: They honor the elven gods. Solas: No. They are slave markings, or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.

7 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: That can’t be right. [8]

Stoic: That doesn’t matter. [9]

Angry: That’s a lie! [10]

Sad: We were wrong? [11]

8 - Investigate: That can’t be right. PC: My clan’s Keeper said they honored the gods. These are their symbols. Solas: Yes. That’s right. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot. [back to 7]

9 - Stoic: That doesn’t matter. PC: Whatever the marks were before, the Dalish have reclaimed them. They mark me as one of them. Solas: I know. For everything I have said about the Dalish, I admire that indomitable spirit. [12]

10 - Angry: That’s a lie! PC: Why would you say that? Solas: Because it’s true. PC: Bullshit! That’s bullshit! Is there anything in this world you won’t tear down just to prove how smart you are? Why would you tell me this? Solas: Because you deserve better! [12]

11 - Sad: We were wrong? PC: So this is… what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong? Solas: I’m sorry. PC: (Breathes.) We try to preserve our culture, and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter? Solas: Don’t say that. For all they got wrong, the Dalish did one thing right. They made you. [12]

12 - Scene continues.

Solas: I didn’t tell you this to hurt you. If you like, I know a spell… I can remove the vallaslin.

Dialogue options:

General: I’m not sure. [13]

General: I’d like that. [14]

General: No. They matter to me. [15]

General: No. Forget the past. [16]

13 - General: I’m not sure. PC: These marks have been part of me for so long. I don’t know if… [17]

14 - General: I’d like that. PC: If what you’re saying is true… Solas: It is. PC: Then… my people vowed never to submit to slavery. [17]

15 - General: No. They matter to me. PC: Even if what you’re saying is true, I don’t think I can just let you erase them. [17]

16 - General: No. Forget the past. PC: I don’t wear the vallaslin for the ancient elves. I wear it for me. Solas: I know. [17]

17 - Scene continues.

Solas: I’m so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are… And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.

Dialogue options:

Remove the vallaslin. [18]

I want to keep the vallaslin. [19]

18 - Remove the vallaslin. PC: Then cast your spell. Take the vallaslin away. Solas: Sit. Solas leads the PC to the waterside, and they kneel. He passed his hands over the PC’s face, and the vallaslin are gone. Solas: Ar lasa mala revas. You are free. They stand. Solas: You are so beautiful. They kiss.

19 - I want to keep the vallaslin. PC: I know you told me because you wanted to help, but the vallaslin is part of who I am. I hope you can see past— Solas: Stop. You are perfect exactly as you are. They kiss.

20 - Scene continues.

Solas: And I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.

Dialogue options:

General: I don’t want to lose you. [21]

General: Are you kidding me? [22]

General: If you must. [23]

21 - General: I don’t want to lose you. PC: Solas… Solas steps back. Solas: Please, vhenan.

Dialogue options:

Sad: I love you. [24]

Angry: Don’t do this to me! [25]

Stoic: I believe in us. [26]

24 - Sad: I love you. PC: Solas… don’t leave me. Not now. I love you. He shakes his head, and continues to back away. Solas: You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world— PC: Why not this one? He raises his hands between them. Solas: I can’t. I’m sorry. Solas leaves. Scene ends.

25 - Angry: Don’t do this to me! PC: Tell me you don’t care. Solas: I can’t do that. The PC shoves him. PC: Tell me I was some casual dalliance so I can call you a coldhearted son of a bitch and move on! They leave Solas standing there. Solas: I’m sorry. Scene ends.

26 - Stoic: I believe in us. PC: I’m not giving up on you, Solas. Solas: You truly should. PC: Whatever you need, we can find together. Solas: No, we can’t. You’ll see. Solas turns. Solas: I’m sorry. He walks away. Scene ends.

22 - General: Are you kidding me? PC: Wait. What?

kept vallaslin PC: I say no to you altering my face, and just like that we’re done? Solas: It’s not that. I’m sorry. I should have ended this long before. I never wanted to hurt you. [27]

let Solas remove the vallaslin PC: You bring me here, take the vallaslin from my face, and now you just end it? Solas: I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. [27]

23 - General: If you must. PC: All right. If that’s your decision, so be it. Solas: I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. [27]

27 - Dialogue options:

Stoic: You did. [28]

Sad: Great job. [29]

Angry: Your loss, asshole! [30]

28 - Stoic: You did. PC: Everyone makes mistakes. Solas turns and leaves. Solas: I will see you back at Skyhold. Scene ends.

29 - Sad: Great job. PC: Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we? Solas turns and leaves. Solas: I will see you back at Skyhold. Scene ends.

30 - Angry: Your loss, asshole! PC: Banal’abelas, banal’vhenan! Solas turns and leaves. Solas: I will see you back at Skyhold. Scene ends.

[marvelousmagicalaura]

I have a bunch of theories about The Lost Metal and Era 3, particularly about what Sazed is planning.

Sazed has master plans

I know this may end up being an unpopular opinion. But to me the story came across as if Sazed has been operating as the Chessmaster the entire time, all part of a coordinated effort to outmaneuver Autonomy. An effort to make her withdraw her army and interest in Telsin. I think a lot of little quotes in The Lost Metal, and certain quotes in the previous books, point to Sazed subtly maneuvering everyone - Wax, Wayne, Marasi, Kelsier and his Ghostbloods, Marsh, Tobal and Maraga, Steris (?). All with very powerful, very subtle future sight to make specific outcomes come to fruition.

Since chapter 19 I suspected Sazed had a plan in motion, one that needed him to arrange “help” unaware they were mobilized to be the “help.” One that required him to play games over and over with Autonomy. This suspicion came back once Wax speculated he always intended for him to be the Sword that stops a God Metal bomb.

Chapter 71 confirmed aspects of future sight I was curious about… ever since I started analyzingthe Terris Prophecies. Sazed confirmed that he sees future possibilities, automatically analyzes something as complex as a harmonium-trellium bomb, think much faster than mortals, and can discern the probabilities of an action (i.e. 1% chance of success, 99% chance of failure). Sazed even fleshed out what Fuzz warned Kelsier - even future sight as great as Preservation’s can be wrong. Sazed also confirmed that while Shards see future possibilities and analyze probabilities, they don’t always know the “why” of a possibility. Such as “why” it is good. This eased my suspicions.

But then Kelsier’s epilogue came along. While I don’t think Sazed is acting “all is perfectly according to keikaku,” he’s acting close enough. I think he was ultimately keeping certain, ultimate future outcomes in mind. The responses to Kelsier’s frustration made alarm bells ring in my mind:

"I had it in hand."

"Luck is a different thing to a god who can see futures, I think."

"I have it in hand."

"People should discover it on their own. If they do not, there are subtle consequences."

What if Sazed always knew Trell was Autonomy? After all Autonomy created Trelagism, and we know from book 3’s epilogue that Preservation hid “gems” in Trelagism to help the Hero of Ages. What if he let Autonomy’s plans get to this stage, knowing he could efficiently arrange pieces that could stop her? Or maybe he bet it would be the perfect event to encourage the continents to advance and progress?

What if Sazed was betting on Wax fulfilling his duties after the Lessie fiasco? What if he intentionally molded Wayne into the Slider who could accomplish the partial detonation? What if he knows the history of Scadrian eugenics and discerning what could happen if he directly GIVES knowledge of future tech?

His name shall be Discord, and they shall love him for it.

It’s obvious that Sazed is becoming Discord. Or perhaps, he’s already Discord by the time of Kelsier’s epilogue.

There’s clearly something going on with Sazed’s Shard, we just don’t know what. Harmony’s Intent left him unable to act, creating a state where every action needs equilibrium between P&R’s attributes. And there was a dark shadow throughout TLM. Kelsier speculates the shadow exists because Ruin was always stronger. Marsh’s interview with Khriss implies it may be the result of Ruin being subservient to Preservation.

My theory is Discord will be a good thing. Sazed directly educated Wax and Wayne about the bomb’s mechanics AND told them how to detonate it. Dulled the wave coming over Wax. Arranged for under 10 people to foil Autonomy’s complex plans, while his future sight was BLINDED. This is the most effective he’s been yet. I think Discord will be a Shard representing Sazed’s realization that Ruin and Preservation can’t always be in exact balance. Sometimes, Preservation’s attributes are needed most. Other times, Ruin’s attributes are needed most. I believe this mindset allow him to act, to commit actions that are EITHER of Preservation or Ruin.

I think Sazed is just trying to carefully move through his web of future possibilities. Preservation seemingly foresaw Discord will be a good thing. But if Sazed makes the wrong move, I bet he could invalidate that prediction.

How to make the Bands of Mourning, Excisors, unkeyed metalminds

Unkeyed metalminds contain attributes that aren’t attached to a Feruchemist’s Identity. But without Full Feruchemists, it’s impossible for a sole Feruchemist to create an unkeyed metalmind.

My theory is the Southern Scadrians are extensively using the same method as the Set’s keep-people-alive Hemalurgy. I think to create an unkeyed metalmind, Southerners are using a Command and a very thin duralumin spike. This would rip off a piece of the Feruchemist’s Identity, making any future storing Identity-less.

I think the Excisors are nicrosil and/or duralumin spikes.

The Bands of Mourning is the really tough cookie. Kelsier is no longer an Allomancer and definitely not a Feruchemist, so he couldn’t use his own powers to create the Bands. There’s no way he used Northerners to make them. There are a lot of logistics issues. My theory is Sazed directly created the Bands of Mourning and guided Kelsier into hiding it.

It wouldn’t be the first time Sazed subtly helped the Southerners. Sazed gave them harmonium and a perpendicularity, and we’ve seen how well they’ve been used.

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 12/?

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

Fun fact:

I was supposed to include Heaven in this. The og plot was like Heaven was already friendly with them- like Luci's siblings, and they were supposed to be in the meeting back in chapter 4 and 5.

The argument would have been that Heaven is bound to help because Roo won't stop at Hell and it will eventually reach Heaven, making it their problem too.

But obviously I had a change of plans and I think this plot would be better.

A plot fit for a possible sequel, one might say.

Apologies for the shortness of the chapter but thank you still for the constant support! Your likes, reblogs, and comments are the things that give me inspiration to do this every day!

----------------------------------------------------

The good news is the problem has not reached any of the upper rings in his absence. The bad news? Sloth is almost devoured.

Overgrown roots have enveloped the main city's buildings, he can't even see the Goetia territory anymore. The blood-red flowers are still spewing black miasma and he can feel it slightly burn his skin.

Lucifer thinks that this is what real Hell looks like.

This means that everyone is just exerting enough power to keep it at bay but not enough to fully stop it. Lucifer was right in his decision to look for Goodie. Speaking of Goodie- the embodiment of good barely reacts. If she's being burned by the mist, she's doing a pretty good job of not showing it.

Goodie: Oh my. What trouble you are causing, Roo.

A fucking understatement but Lucifer won't argue. This is trouble, but a million times worse.

Lucifer: Let's go.

----------------------------------------------------

At one corner of Sloth, the Sins and the other higher powers of Hell have just finished another round of the sealing ritual. They've been going at it a month straight, there is no end in sight, and they are exhausted. Even Alastor is mostly drained as he is leaning a lot on his cane.

Beelzebub: Fuck! I knew this wasn't going to be easy but what the fuck?!

Someone scoffs.

Vox: Maybe if our dear king is here this would be over. Like, where the fuck is he huh??

Leviathan: Don't forget who you are speaking to, filthy sinner!

Vox: Oh boohoo. If we're all gonna die anyway, why should I be afraid of you? Should've known that absentee of a ruler left us all to rot after damning us here in the first place-

Vox suddenly finds a giant hand wrapped around his throat. It took him a few seconds of reconfiguration before he clearly saw who the fuck-

Vox: Fuckin- gah! Alastor!

Alastor has transformed into a taller, lankier, and more sinister of himself. Eyes turned into radio dials, face, and body adorned with glowing green stitches like a puppet whose master has on a string.

Alastor: Shouldn't frivolous televisions come with a silent setting?

Vox: Fuck! Off!

Alastor: Hahaha! What is the matter, Vox? You seem to have developed the illusion that you are the strongest person in the room. Shall I remind you of what came about your moth friend?

Velvette: You better let him go, old man!

Velvette yelled to back up Vox. She flinches as Alastor turns his head in her direction with a sickening snap of his neck.

Not wanting to back off, she was about to argue more when Carmila stepped in.

Carmila: Velvette! Cease this at once. Do you and the Vees have no self-preservation??

Velvette: Well- I- Vox's right and you lot know it! Great Lucifer called us all here, basically threatened us to help him fix a mess he caused, then fucks off to God knows where leaving us to practically kill ourselves for a mess, again, HE CAUSED!

The Sins and Goetia's have now transformed into their more monstrous forms at hearing the disrespect the lowly sinner said about their King.

Velvette and Vox are saved from near-permanent death by a commanding voice.

Lucifer: Kneel.

Everyone's bodies acted on their own. Their knees bled from the sudden contact on the ground.

None of them could move- try as they might. Their air became heavier, plus with the miasma, a lot of them were gasping for air. Nothing is coming in. They can't breathe. They can't-

They look up to see the King of Hell and an unknown woman. Unknown to most but the Sins very much recognize her as indicated by the widening of their eyes.

Satan: Goodie!

The woman giggles and waves cheerfully as if there wasn't a looming threat in the air.

Goodie: My, my. What big mouths you have~

----------------------------------------------------

What to look forward to in Part 13:

Some talks and reprimanding.

Another round of ritual.

The situation becomes worse.

Lucifer and Goodie's solution.

[radiojamming]

My apologies if you've already answered this somewhere, but do we know what Charles Hartnell did for a living/what his life was like after losing his older brothers?

Hi there!

Charles Hartnell trained at Chatham Dockyard for several years and ended up becoming a shipwright like his father, grandfather, great-grandfather etc. At one point, in the 1881 census, he was a lead shipwright at the yard.

He married Hannah Owen in 1852 when he was 24 years old and had five children with her, including his son Thomas (!!) who worked as a steam engine draftsman at Chatham. In the census records, it shows that all of his children were educated (listed as 'scholars') and one of his daughters became a schoolteacher. I've heard that Charles seemed to prize education and was insistent on his children being literate and making something of themselves.

As to what his life was like after his brothers' deaths, it's hard to say. I do know he wrote quite a few letters to the Admiralty which are currently held by his family and not available to the public. The letter declaring John's death and debt was delivered to him personally, and Thomas' Arctic service medal was also delivered to him. He seemed to be the most insistent on preserving their memory, as his descendant Donald Bray was the one who provided the "may we be spared to meet on earth" letter to researchers and his other descendant Brian Spenceley was the one who served as photographer to his great-great uncle's exhumation and provided a painting of Charles as an adult.

(HARTNELL NOSE! REDDISH HAIR! YEAH!!!!!)

Here's an article from 2014 about Spenceley talking about his family and seeing John Hartnell's body in person, as well as showing the picture of Charles.

I do wish we knew more about him and his thoughts and feelings about his brothers. All we currently have are a few comments from his now-famous letter (which includes a phonetic spelling of his Kentish dialect!):

Dear Brothers  This comes with my kind love to you hoping it find you both in good health as thank god it leaves me at present. It is nearly three years since we parted but I hope it will not be that time before we meet again. There has [written as 'their as’!] been great changes taken place since then. [...] But if I tell you all the news now I shall have none to tell you when you come home which I hope will not be long as three long years have nearly passed away[.] [...] I wish you a prosperous passage to return safe home as no more at present from Your Affectionate Brother Charles Hartnell

[sulky-cabbage]

AU: Where Sukuna Wins

Part 2

Part 1 here

This au makes me go crazy I had to make a part 2

Especially after reading your tags @fortunatelyenchantingtaco

I couldn't write this post until now cuz I was kinda busy but OH MY GOD

Yessssss you get it

I'm having trouble imagining what would Sukuna be thinking after all those centuries though...

Would he realize that he's in love and that he got it bad?

Or would he deny it and make excuses?

(both options are sooo good but I prefer the latter, since he's a curse and all that... he's constantly cursing himself; this man is doomed, he can't have nice things. his worst enemy is himself)

I also wonder what would the people make of this. Like, why is Sukuna protecting babies with blue eyes when doing so would surely lead to his demise??? They must find that strange. They must believe he is suicidal or that he is looking for a worthy opponent (they are not that far off), or that he is incredibly arrogant and believes he can defy fate and crush their hopes by killing their symbol of hope.

And yes, imagine Satoru hearing all of that... his perception of Sukuna will undoubtedly be influenced by hearing all of that while growing up.

And I wonder what Uraume has to say about this... They must think that Sukuna lost his mind due to boredom, they gotta be a little worried...

God, oh god Imagine the day of Satoru's rebirth. (Make it nighttime for a more dramatic effect.)

As Sukuna gets ready for bed, he senses the shift in the universe, and then Uraume sees Sukuna bolt out of the window and sprint frantically in the direction of the closest village. He burns it to the ground while laughing maniacally. (end of ep 1 style)

(Bonus points if he shouts some dramatic, unintentionally romantic shit with the fire burning all around him, as we hear the screams of the villagers)

He was feeling ECSTATIC.

It's like he's the one being reborn

He hasn't felt this way in centuries...

His last memory of experiencing anything remotely similar was from a few centuries ago when he was ravishing a village and he heard a villager shout at him about a powerful person with blue eyes that shall be born soon to free humanity from his curse.

That had surprised him...

After all, Gojo Satoru had been forgotten for hundreds of years. All those who knew him were already dead. It was only he who was preserving Satoru's memory.

You can only imagine his astonishment upon hearing a random peasant bring up gojo Satoru after hundreds of years.

He abruptly stopped what he was doing, approached the man, and inquired as to how exactly he had learned about this. The man, who was obviously terrified, informed him that he wasn't meant to tell. Sukuna answered that if he tells him, he will spare his life and the lives of his family; if not, he will kill him and the rest of the villagers.

The man informed him that it is a prophecy that the elder shamans at Jujutsu High had predicted. He said that it was meant to be kept a secret because they were worried about what Sukuna would do if he found out, but somehow this information got leaked (probably because people are desperate and needed some solace), and now this villager blew everything out of frustration and anger.

Sukuna was in a VERY pleasant mood after that so he just left him alive and left the village alone.

He may or may not have gone to Shinjuku after that

The prophecy became even more widespread, he began to hear about it more frequently, and it lifted his mood every. single. time.

He gets even more excited as the decades pass by, Now that there are mentions of Gojo Satoru around him (even if he isn't mentioned by name), he feels as if Gojo Satoru is actually alive.

Gojo Satoru isn't just a memory anymore.

He's a prophecy

He's a threat

He poses a danger

He's a promise

He's an assurance.

From the cosmos itself.

A universe-given gift to him.

This promise is what makes his days worthwhile. He now has something to anticipate.

So yeah back to present time..

Sukuna just felt the shift in the universe and just finished destroying some village, including blue-eyed babies, he doesn't need to spare them anymore..lol

And now...

he's at a loss about what to do.

Should he go and find the whereabouts of Gojo Satoru to train him? (calm down, Sukuna, he's still a baby omg) Or Should he leave it to fate and wait for Gojo Satoru to come for his head?

And How long would that take?

He begins to wonder if the prophecy got influenced by the people's desire for salvation. Perhaps the original prophecy was about someone who would be comparable to him and cause him problems in battle, and people simply took it and ran with it, believing it to mean he would be overthrown...

Surely, it is quite a rare enough occurrence for someone to match his strength, so much so that it warrants a prophecy.

After all, Gojo Satoru lost to him last time, Why should this time be any different?

(He will not get his hopes up)

In the end, Sukuna is and always will be the strongest. Satoru would need to receive training directly from Sukuna in order to have any chance of surpassing him.

So yes... he will train Gojo Satoru to make sure he becomes the strongest version of himself...

(yeah that's the only reason... And definitely not because he missed him and wanted to see him right now even if he was still a freaking baby)

(Sukuna bringing Satoru to his house is also very Pharoah-ish)

But there would be a little problem...

If Satoru lived with Sukuna he wouldn't experience loneliness nor would he know the depth of people's suffering.

Sooo yeah... I kind of want them to not meet that often, because I want Satoru to live amongst regular people, and feel the depth of their suffering (and witness the precise harm that Sukuna is causing to everyone), while also feeling lonely and different from regular people.

So maybe the night that Sukuna goes to snatch baby Satoru, he ends up making some kind of deal with the Gojo clan regarding Satoru...

he agrees to let Satoru live with them and and in return they will name him Satoru (omg) and teach him the clan's secret techniques to make him stronger, and send him to Sukuna from time to time after he becomes an adult to train with him and see if he's ready for the fated battle...

Imagine Uraume's reaction upon learning that "Sukuna-sama" is actually instructing the strongest human sorcerer how to murder him 😔

Now What if Sukuna handles Satoru a little more cautiously during training? And attempts to teach him ways to avoid the world cutting slash...

He vows to himself that he will not use the world cutting slash against Gojo Satoru, he has to find another way to defeat him.

If he killed him in the same manner, it would be boring (yeah, that's definitely the reason; it has nothing to do with the trauma of missing Satoru for centuries and being so bored that it could drive a man insane. Yup, nothing to do with it AT ALL... even if It has gotten so bad to the point of making him completely unable to kill Satoru again. He suspects his brain will NOT allow his body to move and do it. But all will be more clear during the real battle so he just doesn't give it much thought)

And Satoru...

oh dear..

Imagine living your life with everyone expecting you to defeat the king of curses that has been looming over Japan for centuries, and he's also expecting you to defeat him and is training you himself????? Like??? Helloooo???

And the insane elders of his clan are clearly only using him for power; everyone keeps calling him Satoru Satoru, they keep saying he's this Satoru guy, they EVEN NAMED HIM SATORU??? (he's Unaware that it was Sukuna's request).

And he would definitely deny being Satoru due to his rebellious nature T-T

But they keep telling him that when he grows older, he will unlock limitless, have purple, and so on...

So as he gets older and everything unfolds exactly as they predicted, he begins to doubt himself...

And if his "Satoru" identity is the only reason he has this much power; This elevates the question: "are you the strongest because you're Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you're the strongest" to a whole new level 😭😭

(It seems that he will experience an identity crisis in every universe, huh?)

Given that Satoru would be quite young and undoubtedly beneath Sukuna in skill, it would be only natural for him to look up to Sukuna, who would essentially be his teacher, teaching him how to kill him. Which would leave Satoru bewildered as hell.

And After training with him for years Satoru starts to sympathize with Sukuna and feel like he's the only one that understands him, (his savior complex begins to take hold)

and Satoru's like: uh oh am I falling for the king of curses??? I've been training all this time to kill him, I don't want to fail everyone... (This man will never be free)

So he's torn between saving humanity or saving this curse (by reaching to him and teaching him love and oh boy here we go again history is repeating itself)

So he tries to reach Sukuna in his own way, and Sukuna clocks him right away😭😭

(And he's like you really haven't changed... Albeit he seems pretty pleased about it)

And then he starts monologing about how worthless love is, etc. etc. (He doesn't sound as convinced as before🤭)

Bonus points if we have Uraume in the back staring at the camera like in the office.

So Satoru figures out that Sukuna is too far gone and can not be fixed, but he will continue trying to reach him anyway. (There will be some cracks in Sukuna's walls but he's stubborn as hell)

Nevertheless, he's made up his mind to kill him if necessary. However, he made the decision that he will die along with him. (the prophecy would come true after all; it's fate; there's no avoiding it; Sukuna will die.)

And he doesn't want to remain alone after Sukuna dies.

Now would Satoru inform Sukuna about this plan of his?

Probably not, I want them to have communication issues because it's more fun that way🤭

I'm at a loss for what words they would say to each other before they die...

Especially when Sukuna realizes that Satoru is gonna die with him💔

My mind simply goes blank...