#candle maker’s wife

[leaf-in-a-flower-garden]

They’re so couple goals

(feat. Their amazing child, who I’ve dubbed Saoirse, being less than enthusiastic at their parents’ pda)

[adler-obsessed]

god. Vivienne really is just. that character. She is taken to the circle so young she does not remember what her parents even looked like and someone had to tell her. She wouldn’t even know if they were telling the truth. She is ruthless, the terror and nightmare of the Orlesian court. She almost weeps when you find the Tranquil skulls in Redcliffe. She hates drop waists. She is harrowed younger than any other mage in living memory. She teaches Bull the steps to the dance of the six candles. He likens her to a Qunari dreadnought that has half the enemies on the ground before he’s even reached the front line. Her accent’s not Orlesian. No Free Marcher can tell where she is from either. Is her original voice another part of herself she cut off? She enchanted a duke within one meeting and they scandalised even Orlesian society. She was good friends with his wife. They possibly fucked too. No can control her. She’s been owned since the moment she was first brought to the Circle. She belongs to no people. There are a dozen leashes around her neck claiming otherwise. She makes fun of an elven god for setting his coattails on fire.  She is on the verge of banishing Cole back to the Fade all the time. She can’t help but grow to care for him at the end despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise. She hates herself for it. She thinks caring makes you weak. During the first conversation you have with her unmasked as a Trevelyan, she begs to know if you also cared about her childhood friend, Lydia. She tries to import illegal fur into Skyhold. Did she kill everything soft within her soul herself or did the Chantry sisters do it for her? She is impossible to prank. Some might say she’s even better than Sera at pranking. She was pulled into the game by the time she was nineteen. She’d faced worse things since she could first remember her dreams. Life has never been fair. One merely needs to be hard enough to survive. The blade at her neck when she lay on the floor of the harrowing chamber was no different from the hunger in her belly as child, a necessary pain that only drove her forward. Maker, was there ever any chance that she did not see cruelty as simply another word for life? Is there any version of her that does not end up surrounded by moral filth? 

[therightbeaches]

𝐬𝐮𝐛-𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨 ⋆ 𝐚. 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

synopsis: you grapple with the weight of your position in the bau (and, worse, your feelings for your boss.) [3.2k] contents: bau!reader, angst, PINING. basically this entire fic is pining No Joke and reader is not nonchalant about it, brief bed sharing, sort of ambiguous ending? there is no resolution of aforementioned pining, reader is lowkey sulking the whole time a/n: i'm definitely still trying to get comfortable writing for hotch so again, the characterization probably isn't perfect 🙂‍↕️

Hotch is very likely the nicest person you know. The smartest one, too (actually, the second smartest if you think about it, because Spencer has an IQ of, what, 190? But, well, in the emotional intelligence department he sometimes lacks — you still like him bunches but the truth is the truth.)

You know the rest of the team might disagree with the statement Hotch is nice, but there’s an unspoken bond between you and him that’s been present since the day you joined the Bureau, and he doesn’t play favorites but if he did you’re sure you’d be it.

Regardless, meeting Hotch was like scoring a really nice vintage Coach purse at the thrift and opening it to find a crumpled twenty dollar bill stuffed into one of the inside pockets. Lovely on the outside and even nicer on the inside.

Really, you could go on a whole tangent about how sweet and passionate and generous and thoughtful he is. For your birthday, he’d showed up to the office with a four-pack of cupcakes and held your shoulder while you blew out the candles. On Christmas, he’d appeared on your doorstep in the snow to give you a copy of his favorite novel with his annotations scrawled into the margins.

You’ve found yourself in Alaska again. This time, thankfully, there’s a substantial lack of bodies. Rossi had ushered you and Hotch away to participate in a college guest lecture on criminal psychology for aspiring FBI agents — just don’t mention the janky coffee makers, he had instructed half-heartedly while seeing you off on the tarmac.

It was strange. Given, the seminar went off without a hitch, but leaving the lecture hall you’d had this horrible sense of unease. Hotch had the good conscience not to ask you what was troubling you when the imaginary bruise that your lecture pressed down on was aching. More a festering rot that eats through skin and fat and muscle than a bruise, in fact, if you don’t seek to sugarcoat it.

The lobby of your hotel is luxurious but empty. There’s a big window overlooking the expanse of nothingness beyond the hill, squishy velvet couches of emerald green, high-backed armchairs, scratchy wool throw blankets with tassels dangling to the ground. A big fire crackles in the hearth into the silence. The spillage of lamplight outside through the glass only stretches a few feet till it tapers off into the void, an endless pit of tar dotted by twinkling city lights miles away.

You exhale through your mouth and it turns into a smear of fog against the window. This job destroys people. Whittles them down till their bones are so brittle that they collapse under their own weight. You think of Elle, of Gideon, of Jordan, even, how it had eaten them alive inside-out until they had nothing left. You think of Hotch’s torn-apart family and his late wife, of his son who’d lost his mother, and the weight of Spencer’s abduction, his addiction, how it still affects him so deeply today. You think of JJ’s face when there’s a case involving a baby close to home (in a slightly altered timeline, it could just as easily have been hers), of the tough-guy façade Derek puts on, because what else can he do, let the work tear him apart?

There’s only so much someone can bear, only so many back-to-back days of another child missing, another dead body gutted and dismembered and dumped like garbage, another grieving family who lost a son, a daughter, a sister or a brother, a parent. And it’s difficult, more difficult than anyone can articulate, to know that it will never end. So, what’s the reason? Why are you still here, letting this job take and take and take everything you have to give?

Because you’re helping people, argues one half of your mind. You’re changing lives. In turn, the other half: but while you can help in one place, in a thousand others there are countless people getting hurt by cruel hands. What then? What makes one life more valuable, more worth helping than another? There isn’t a good answer (and it’s the reason that you think JJ needs a raise.)

Then, amidst the quiet, there’s the tap of shoes against mahogany floorboards, and Hotch’s distorted reflection materializes behind you. Your own is one you hardly recognize. Worn down to the bone, self-loathing, lonely. Drowning in a three-foot deep pool because you can’t get your legs straightened out beneath you.

“I thought you went to bed,” you say to the window.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He tracks your gaze to the outside. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I couldn’t either.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Profilers, you think mournfully. Hotch can read body language accurately to a scary extent, and maybe now it’s because you wanted him, wanted someone, to notice. Notice my struggle. Notice that something is wrong.

You rub a stiff hand over your jaw. Self-soothing. “I don’t know. This job is just hard. And of course I understand the appeal, but...”

“…But you don’t know why bright college students would want to commit to something so macabre.”

It’s an extension of yourself, really. Why did you want to commit to something so macabre to begin with? He gives you a look in the reflection that says talk to me. He’s your boss but he’s your best friend too. You tend to suffer in silence rather than burden a friend with personal qualms, and it’s why you don’t respond.

You wait with bated breath for something, anything, maybe searching for an answer that he can’t offer. This is one of the few things out of his field of expertise. He won’t give you some bullshit non-answer to make you feel better because that isn’t what you need.

Honestly, what you do need to do is take some time off, spend it somewhere tropical, and he’d give you the time off if you asked, but it’s the easy solution that you don’t truly want because it won’t fix anything. You can fly away in a luxury jet and drink a piña colada out of a coconut on a sunny beach somewhere on the other side of the globe and there will still be people dying while you sunbathe.

“If you had a do-over, would you still join the BAU?” Hotch asks suddenly.

He words it like this but it isn’t what he means. He’s asking if you can continue doing this. If, when you go home, he’ll find your gun and credentials on his desk. If the job is still worth it to you.

“I thought you didn’t really like hypotheticals.”

“In the right contexts I’ll… indulge.”

“And is this the right context?” you ask and turn to face him. The window is cold against the skin of your back.

“It’s something that’s making you upset, so I think it is.”

A beat, in which he levels his steady gaze at you and look down towards your feet as if your shoes can tell you the right thing to say. And, yes, you know that the right thing to say is the truth and it’s the truth that he wants to hear, but to tell the truth is to admit defeat in the face of struggle. You’re not the first agent to be ripped to shreds by the work you do and you won’t be the last but that knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

All withstanding, there’s nowhere else in the world you can imagine yourself working at aside from the BAU. Never, not in a million years, not for a million dollars, would you wish to be apart from your family.

Never would you wish to be apart from Hotch, who’s changed your life in a million ways, all of which are for the better.

“I would,” you say, then bid him a despondent goodnight before retreating to your room.

The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 12:03 a.m. into the dark and you’re wide awake.

During the seminar, you’d touched on a few cases you’d worked and how the art of profiling directly correlated with catching your bad guy. The fundamentals: this is why we’re looking for a person fitting this exact description, and this is how we know, these are the classifications of serial killers. Oh also, once, three cops walked straight into a trap and I was the one who had to tell their families that we gave them the green light to breach the premises.

Of course, the last part isn’t what you said. It’s not a thing you can say because the FBI is always searching for bright-eyed, bushy-tailed applicants, but it’s the harsh reality that comes with doing this job that goes unsaid until rookie agents learn it themselves in the field. You still remember it. The first case you were on. The first time someone got killed in front of you. The first family you had to inform. The first videotape sent to the cops, the first letter addressed to you personally. The terror, the dread, the constant need to look over your shoulder, the ever-present fear of shadowy corners and what could hide within their tenebrosity.

It’s really fucking cold in your room. The radiator has to be busted, you think. It’s no better in here beneath your thick quilt than if you were bare naked outside in the blizzard, and there’s no way you’ll be getting a wink of sleep tonight unless… well. It wouldn’t be the first time you slept in the same room as Hotch. Two summers ago or so the coordinator had royally screwed up your reservations and booked doubles instead of singles and you’d roomed with him for the entirety of five agonizing days, in which you ate together and watched TV together and sat shoulder-to-shoulder on his bed over chow mein and case files.

He lets you in when you knock. Sets up the pullout couch for you but offers you the bed and relents with little resistance when you shake your head no. He gets you situated and turns the lamp off and it’s just you and him in the stagnant, suffocating silence.

“Do you want to know why I decided to hire you after the first round of interviews?” he finally asks, a low murmur so quiet that you can barely hear it.

You turn over onto your side, a curled palm sandwiched beneath your head and the pillow. “Why’s that?”

“Because I saw in you what I wanted to be when I first joined the BAU. Passionate. Dedicated. I know I made the right choice in hiring you and you reaffirmed it even more today during the seminar. I can’t think of a singular time you’ve let the team — let me — down.”

You roll back over, squint at the ceiling, trace the water damage stains turning white to brown with your eyes in the dim light from the window. You’re able to grab the tails of the curtains and tug them closed. Hotch is speaking with some secret, underlying, cryptic meaning to his words; he doesn’t sing praise just for the sake of singing praise. He must’ve forgotten you’re a profiler too, though it wouldn’t take a genius to decipher just what he means. I don’t want you to leave the team.

“Hotch, I-”

“People like you are what the Bureau needs,” he says sagely, as if you needed confirmation for his invisible meaning.

You sit up, pressing your back against the cushioned bottom panel of the couch. “People like you are. I mean, you’re such a good leader, Hotch, and I know how much you care. You always handle everything with so much grace and honesty, I think you’re great and so kind, you know, and…”

There’s the scrunching sound of fabric against fabric and the squeak of springs in the mattress as he props himself up too to stare at your silhouette in the dark, and you most certainly have given you and your stupid feelings away.

Your elbow bumps into the cotton upholstery behind you as you lift an arm to rub your eye. Your cheek squishes against the hill of your shoulder self-consciously. There are worse things in the world than you taking the bait (truthfully, there was no bait to tempt you in, but you think wanted to say it; it’s been a weight on your shoulders for too long now) and spilling your guts to the object of your affection, aren’t there? Not in this moment, you think, dejected, because you can feel his heavy gaze on you even in the pitch-black of night.

There’s a drawn-out pause, filled only by the sound of your shallow breathing.

His voice scratches when he speaks. “Is it cold down there, on the pullout?”

“What?”

“There’s still a lot of space in the bed.”

𑄻𑄾 ᵎᵎ.

The snowstorm outside has escalated overnight and has reduced visibility to zero. This means no plane travel until the storm wanes, and this also means you’re trapped in your lodging with Hotch for the short-term foreseeable future.

He finds you in the east-facing solarium the following morning sitting on a porch chair. Dressed in thin pajamas against the lesser insulation typical of a sunroom, you’re curled in on yourself with your knees to your chest, socked feet crossed in front of the backs of your thighs, chin atop your forearm.

Your conversation from the hotel lobby the prior evening weighs on you heavily. You would choose the BAU again and again if it came down to it, and when it did, you have chosen the BAU again and again. If anyone asked how much you like your job you might tell them how it’s saved you, how it’s given you so much of what you have. Your closest friends, your home, and selfishly, it’s brought you him.

How obtuse is it to weigh an individual at the same level as the comfort of your own space, as those you value most? Surely very, but he’s everything. He gives you everything you could ever ask for, he’s done the most to make sure you’re doing well, he’s held your head above the surface of your terrible, shallow pool until you could find your footing more times than you can count.

And, sure, it’s his job to do these things, his duty as your supervisor to act in the team’s best interest, but it isn’t his job to walk you to your car in the garage every evening. It isn’t his job to bring takeout to your front door after a hard case, and it isn’t his job to hold your hand in a big crowd so you don’t get separated, or button up your coat for you when you can’t get the button aligned with the opposing slit, or call you each morning to ask how you slept.

You know he’s behind you before you turn. An itchy blanket is draped over your lap from over your head.

“Where’s your jacket?” Hotch asks, neither kindly nor unkindly.

“It’s in my luggage.”

“I meant, why aren’t you wearing it?” A broad, warm hand smooths over the outer expanse of your upper arm to try and rub some heat back into your skin. “You’re going to get sick. It’s cold in here.”

“I don’t know,” you respond, saturnine, with words sticky like taffy in your mouth.

He settles into the chair beside you, passing over a plate with a still-warm scone from the buffet room across the lobby. Twin mugs of tea are placed on the glass patio table between you. The legs of the chair screech in protest as he turns it so his body angles towards yours, his elbows on his knees and his palms pressed flat together. His voice, when it comes, bleeds with the gentleness, the softness, he might use with a small, skittish animal that will startle and flee if he’s too loud.

“Look, I’ve been thinking, and if you want to put in a request for a transfer, I can have it processed by the time we get back to Quantico. I don’t want you to be unhappy, don’t say that you’re not, I know you are. You don’t need to keep suffering because you think you have some obligation or loyalty to the team.”

“Who says I’m suffering?” It comes out thickly, tone teasing the edge of wounded. You recoil at yourself and shake your head. “I’m not. I’m not unhappy, either. I love the team. I love…” You blink and suck in a breath. “I stay because I want to.”

“You must consider me to be—” he sighs and takes your hand into his own, brings your knuckles to his mouth, a ghost of his lips against your skin, “so bad at my job if you think I can’t read my own team.”

“I didn’t say that, Hotch,” you murmur.

He laughs. Your mood brightens marginally with the sound. “You didn’t say it, but you must’ve thought it.”

It’s hard to not want it. He’s done everything right. He’s hooked his kind claws into your tender, wanting flesh and you’ve no desire to get away, even if it hurts, even if it means the puncture wounds will have you bleeding to death right here in front of him. Or, a hand reaching into the gaping cavity of your chest, latching onto your heart and tugging and tugging and tugging till fibers stretch and fray and split, and what else can you do but sit still and let it happen?

The same hand opens doors for you and makes your coffee just the way you like it and touches you with reverence. And is that what this is, reverence? Love? To seek to dissect bit by bit, to pull you apart till but your innermost pieces are left? To flay and open you up with a neat incision, and force a loving hand between the gaps in your ribs and lay a gentle head upon your raw chest to hear, to feel his name thrumming in time with your heartbeat?

No, that is not love, but you love him still. Indubitably, irrevocably, impossibly so. It’s a harsh, mocking finger jabbed into your sternum, and it’s not something that you think you can come to terms with.

[yandere-toons]

I know this is a little early but can you do a Book of Life headcanon for Dia De Los Muertos? It can be La Muerte and Zebulba or Maria, Manolo, and Joaquin. (I love your writing so much!)

Yandere La Muerte & Xibalba (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: Death, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – ¡Feliz Día de los Muertos!

While the candle of her chosen mortal is aflame with life, La Muerte dons it proudly in a prime spot among her dress or hat, close enough to where she can always feel its heat and wince at the exact moment it goes cold. If so exists even a whiff of foul play, it is her husband Xibalba who punishes the living with a sudden uptick in fatal snakebites.

Hot boils the resentment of Xibalba, who never so wished to eradicate the Law-Maker as he does watching his own helpless reflection in the window of a home where his favourite mortal lay despairing. Decades of deceit and contrivances just to share a few words, forced by ancient law to conceal his true name and nature, have worn his patience to a thread. At the same time, Xibalba is inclined to thank this purveyor of death in person, to offer a taste of what the latest victim endured and send the slain soul to rot, as he did, in the Land of the Forgotten.

La Muerte, for all her power in death, can in life offer only words of encouragement from the mouth of a kind stranger. She often observes their day from the secrecy of terraces and distant roofs, watching to ensure their happiness and step in with bits of wisdom should they seem lost. She refrains from direct intervention until the day they wander inside her castle, at which point she cannot help wondering how much longer it may have taken to meet them this way had they lived the life they wanted. Such rumination is channelled into action as La Muerte focuses on bringing them more comfort with their new arrangement than ever they found with the living, seeing it as a way to make up for all the strife she was forbidden from preventing.

La Muerte is happy to join their visitation for Día de los Muertos, believing it will help them grow more accustomed to her and accept her as someone deserving of a higher role in their existence. Xibalba gripes the whole time while wondering where he went wrong to make them so opposed to his presence that they would choose the company of mortals over a night spent drinking and feasting with him and his wife, even questioning whether La Muerte is behind all of this to punish him for some ancient crime.

Xibalba muses that, for a bond so strong as this, he could use his deathly touch to kill their relatives all at once, feigning the promise of a reunion — while keeping to himself that such a deed would only eliminate the last of their tethers to the living and thus send them straight to his realm in perpetuity. Xibalba has one finger outstretched to do just that when La Muerte slaps it down and swears she will never forget this should he go through with it.

Xibalba wilts at her wrath but soon grows restless with spite and decides a more clandestine approach will net him his petty vengeance. If simply snatching away a few lives is too vulgar, then perhaps he can make a wager of it. La Muerte, her inner child intrigued, listens as he spins the age-old tale of a fair trade: if their spouse in life leaves town; if the kids down the street go on to marry one another — Xibalba will claim hosting rights, and if not, he will stop cursing their mortal attachments.

Neither are too moved by sympathy plays, having heard every plea imaginable from souls desperate to live and reunite with those up above. A bet, however, draws from both gods the memory of a younger time, a splash of excitement in an otherwise predictable system.

La Muerte's conditions are more palliative: not protesting when she requests a day spent with her, not trying to breach the living-dead barrier before its time. When others or perhaps even the soul themselves begin to question these once-thought agape embraces and invitations to dine, the goddess admits to a more personal interest. She has walked beside them for much of their life and feels they were cheated by it, seeing the bad side of the world too much and the good side too little, and so has taken it upon herself to show them what could have been.

Xibalba's conditions revolve around staying with him for longer periods, say a millennium instead of a century, or granting him explicit permission to kill some mortal companion of theirs who stokes his envy. Such a blessing is by no means necessary to carrying out the hit; rather, it serves as a colossal show of deference as well as a convenient method of claiming the person's blood is now on their hands.

La Muerte can generally be relied upon to act as a restraining influence on Xibalba, keeping him from wiping out whole droves of mortals in a fit of cruelty; however, even she will leave them to their fate if the terms are clear and both parties have agreed, for a wager with a god is all-binding. By refusing to fulfil one's end of it, the winning side is bound no longer to the stipulations set forth in the agreement and may exact any price as recompense.

Only one path to victory remains: accuse Xibalba of rigging the bet, which La Muerte will be inclined to believe given his history, assuming a trip to lodge this complaint with her is even feasible. Xibalba may suspect this intent to oust him and cancel the next dinner date in haste, professing to La Muerte that he and his new roommate are getting along splendidly.

La Muerte laments their absence and voices her desire to see them again, to which Xibalba pleads that she has hosted them long enough and to give him a chance. Despite a winding series of lies and broken promises to consider, La Muerte is committed to forgiveness and thus gives her word that she will not try to ferry them back to her land, at least until the next bet is up.

Xibalba's lonely heart is all too eager to drag them down into the Land of the Forgotten, where souls hardly move or speak, having lost all sense of self. Immortals and mortals alike who spend any significant amount of time in this realm incur some degree of degeneration and start to lose touch with what made them human, a process Xibalba endlessly chatters about to fill an otherwise eternal silence.

La Muerte, once content with this tenuous sort of balance, finds the scales tipping when they express a disinterest in reconnecting with the living world. Chaos erupts as La Muerte challenges Xibalba to return their soul, convinced he is poisoning their heart with his own bitterness for humanity. Xibalba deflects at every opportunity, suggesting that he merely speaks a harsh truth and offers an escape from the drudgery of mortal life.

A deep frustration ignites within La Muerte, less now at the dark turn of her husband, which she has begrudgingly come to accept, and more at the threat of losing her chosen soul to exactly the kind of existence she strove so hard to separate from them. Even though the march of time will one day condemn the soul to what comes after, La Muerte sought to enrich their short journey and give them the taste of true happiness they could never afford.

While she has walked this path with many and knows the weight of her title demands she overcome her grief, cursed objects of half-formed immortality and interjections of the soul's name into increasingly unrelated projects and movements are the desperate final scratches of Xibalba. A god who chases off the inevitable, Xibalba scrambles to build this entire false history in those last few years, only to watch it crumble when his actions force La Muerte to banish him for upsetting the natural order.

[leah-lover]

Sorry baby. Mary earps x pregnant reader.

You hate staying at home. You were an active person. You liked going to work, working out, and just overall moving. However, ever since getting pregnant and leaving work on maternity leave you have been restless.

The first few weeks were a bliss. Your body really needed the rest. However , the lack of purpose has caused your mood to change from blissful to angry.

Today started like any other day. You watched the sun start to creep into your bedroom because you woke up early. You were lost in your thoughts when you felt the sleeping body next to you start to shift. Your wife likes to move around alot when she sleeps, so what started as her spooning you ended up in her facing the other side of the bedroom. Realizing where she is facing she turned around, placed herself on your chest, and nuzzled her face in your neck.

“Morning my love.” you said before giving her temple a kiss. She only hummed in response, too sleepy to talk.

You stayed like that for a while. She then moved down your body, kissed your bump and started caressing it with her hands. “ goodmorning sweet golden boy.” she said, her voice deep with sleep. “ I am officially jealous of you golden boy. I don't even get a kiss. "I said, pretending to be upset. *

“ good morning my beautiful wife.” she said sarcastically. She then moved up my body to kiss my lips all while her hands were still on my bump. Her kiss was soft, passionate, and full of love.

“ I love waking up like this.” she said.

“Me too,” I responded.

We started like that for about half an hour before we got up. As usual Mary instructed me to stay on the counter refusing to let me help with breakfast. After we were done eating, she got ready because it was time for training.

“ Please take care of yourself. I love you baby.” she said before leaving. She then kissed me and proceeded to leave several kisses on my bump. “ See you soon golden boy.” she whispered to the bump which always makes me smile.

After Mary left, the day was boring. I watched a movie, ate some snakes, and scrolled on social media, but the hours seemed very slow. I then went to the nursery and decided to put the dresser together and relieve Mary of that task.

I seemed to forget the time and didn't hear Mary come in. I only realized she was home when I felt the weight of the wood get lighter in my hands.

“ Have you lost your mind? I told you to relax. This is too heavy for you, you can get injured or worse.” she said with an angry tone.

“ yeah we don't want anything to happen to your golden boy. I am not an invalid mary i can to stuff like this.'' I replied.

“ As long as you are pregnant you are not to do anything that will endanger you.” she continued.*

“ I am more than this baby Mary. a fact which you seemed to forget i am your wife. Your love. Not just you baby maker. As soon as this bump appeared you cared more about it than me.” i yelled.

“ I am gonna go to the kitchen and make dinner.” I declared as I left the room.

After a while I heard Mary call for me. Not wanting to make the situation work, I went to her. I found her in the bathroom. She prepared a bath for me, lit the candle and changed out of her training kit.

“ I am sorry I made you feel bad. I love you and our baby. I am just too protective I guess. But you are my wife, the love of my life, and the mother of my child. I don't want anything bad to happen to you.” she said with her hands on my waist.

I moved her hands to my bump and said. “ I love you too and I love our baby. I am sorry I yelled.”

She then kissed me, “ come on let's relax. She said before getting in then helping me sit in front of her.

we are gonna miss these days when the baby comes.

[arcandoria]

Prompt: Romance

for Veilguard30, featuring Alythess Cousland and Alistair Theirin (Queen/King) on ao3 note: this one got big, sorry! reading might be better on ao3

Nightmares came for everyone, but between what he’d seen Seheron, what he’d gone through during the 5th Blight, and the actual darkspawn taint running in his blood, Alistair had enough reasons to wonder which source of his were every night. Most of the time, they’d eventually mix into one and he’d jolt awake from melodic whispers he couldn’t quite understand.

He’s in his bed in the royal chambers when he starts, mumbling a curse. The sky by the window right in front of him is still near dark, but bright gold has begun to push through enough to fend off the night.

Turning his back on it, Alistair sinks in the sea of linen sheets and fur blankets, pressing his eyes closed as he tries to get his breathing back to a normal pace.

A weight shifts on the mattress, and soon after warm, gentle fingers brush across his cheekbone, seeking permission. Recognizing her touch immediately, he reaches for them with his own hand, pressing it against his skin, fingers interlocking. Soft palm cupping his face, a thumb caresses a line by his cheek, the motion soothing his senses immediately.

Pressing his own thumb against the back of her hand, Alistair sighs quietly in relief, and gets his mind to focus on the feeling of her skin against his.

As the motion grounds him, the oniric haze gives way to the real world — the lingering smoky scent of the extinguished fireplace, the cold air biting his skin where the covers had slipped, the soft snoring of the dog sleeping somewhere on the floor by the feet of their bed. But what ultimately lulls him gently, as always, is her. It doesn’t take long for the persistent caress, the warmth irradiating from her body, and his wife’s quiet presence to set his heart at ease, his body catching up to the fact there’s no real danger in sight to fend off.

Once she’s satisfied with the pace of his breathing, Alythess leans closer, softly pressing her lips to his closed eyelid and sustaining the kiss for a precious second or two, before retracting her hand and sitting back on the bed.

It’s been a years-long ritual now, with the roles usually alternating. Although lately, it seems most of the time he was the one being comforted. Alistair didn’t know if she was just always waking up that early, or if she was simply not sleeping at all — Maker knew she had a way longer list of reasons to have unrestful nights — and any attempt of finding out led nowhere as she refused to “let it worry him”. Stubborn woman.

He’s blessed by the sight of her nude, scars-peppered back, muscles from years of swordsmanship rolling gently under her skin, half-lit by a candle nearby that confirmed she’d been awake for a while now before he was. Alythess is part-way through styling her hair, some of the brown locks still falling loose all the way down her waist as she focuses on braiding part of it, a Cousland-blue ribbon running through it, and for a few moments he relishes at her handicraft, watching as the strands slide up as she pulls them, wrap around her fingers and between each other, before flowing down again across the curves of her back, hiding marks, revealing others. Her skin being pulled taut as her arms raise to handle the locks, before relaxing again and bundling together by her waistline when they are lowered.

When watching isn’t enough, Alistair reaches towards her with the back of his hand, knuckles gently brushing on the center of her lower back. Alythess pauses for a second at his touch, before carrying on with her task.

He sees her skin pebble like gooseflesh under the candlelight, and a smile curves his lips.

Carrying on with the gesture, he inspects a dozen scars he’d already memorized by now, but still admired all the same. A gash that ran at an angle all the way up the shoulder, an unwanted souvenir from the Deep Roads. A smaller one that began close to the spine before disappearing on the side of her ribs, which she had from even before they’d met — he still recalls running a fingertip across it the first time he’d undressed her. A dozen smaller ones, newer and old and older.

No matter his persistent caress though, she doesn’t budge and leave the hair aside to join him back on bed as he had hoped she would. Which sadly meant she was set on leaving.

“Should I know what my wife is up to when it’s barely sunrise?” Alistair sighs, turning to lay on his back.

She glances at him over the shoulder, focusing on finishing the second braid on her hair before securing the two of them at the center behind her head, leaving much of the brown locks cascading down her back, contained between the two braids.

Alythess turns in place, then lays down across the bed, propping one of the legs up the mattress and resting her head on his chest, partially submerged on the furs. Despite the tiredness of those green eyes, her expression is soft.

He rests a hand on her nude side, and she interlaces her fingers on his before speaking.

“Since ‘his Teyrn is failing to take the matter seriously’, Bann Franderel reached for the Warden-Commander ‘as he trusts she will recognize the severity of the possible threat’...”

As soon the name passes through her lips, Alistair is groaning. For all their barking, fereldan nobles could sometimes be worse than orlesian gossipers, offended by everything. With Teyrn Fergus Cousland a widower, Bann Franderel was hoping the man would take interest in one of his daughters. When declined, he’d made a point to find any and all reasons to bother everyone involved. Apparently being told by the King ‘What do you want me to do, strap the man to the chantry pulpit?’ was a big motivator.

Alythess nearly fails to suppress her laughter at his reaction, and continues.

“... so I told him that my court duties were keeping me at the Capital, and that if he’s sure there’s a chance of darkspawn lurking about West Hill, he may join Arl Sighard and I at Fort Drakon by dawn so he can see if the darkspawn weapons we have in display are any close to the ones he found on his lands.”

She’s almost monotone as she talks, near mockingly, without pause. He listens to it all with his free hand fully pressed to his face, hoping he could go back to the nightmares just now.

When he uncovers his face, she remains amused at the situation. Alistair shakes his head.

“I can’t believe you’re entertaining the man just because your brother won’t budge with the marriage proposals.”

“Not quite, my love.” She snorts, running a finger from her free hand on his chest. “As much as I'd like to dismiss this, if Franderel is willing to cross the Bannorn at lousy hours it might be more than just to annoy the Queen and Denerim’s Arl over politics.”

Alistair grumbles again, rolling his eyes. He didn’t doubt it was just for that — but she was right. Besides, neither of them had pressing duties for the day until later, so Alythess had lied about that too only to gauge the man’s commitment.

“I could go as well.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t plan to take long.”

Taking his hand from her body, she brings it up to her lips to kiss his knuckles. Then, bracing on an elbow, she leans to press her mouth on his.

He takes both hands to gently hold her face, and though she’d meant to give him a quick morning peck, he tries to keep her in place for a moment longer. Maybe if he deepened the kiss…

Alythess pinches at his ribs, and he releases her with an exaggerated yelp, pouting like a child as she retreats.

“Nice try.”

He’s left alone, staring at the drapery of the bed’s canopy as he tries to accept his defeat while his wife gets dressed for the blasted meeting.

She stops by the bed once that’s done, pulling silver fur over her shoulders, contrasting on the blue dress that deliberately shares blue with the Grey Wardens armor. Cernunnos has finally stopped snoring and drooling all over the carpets, and stands at attention to follow his mistress.

“I mean it. An hour or a little over at best.” She blinks almost innocently at him. “You can wait if you’d like. Have a nice wash.”

Alistair tries, but fails, to not answer like a begrudged kid. “Sure, I can just sit here for an hour. Doing nothing. Play with a toy boat or something.”

She rolls her eyes. “What I mean, dear husband,” Alythess walks up to the bedroom’s door, unlatching it and releasing the dog first before finishing her sentence. “Is that if you happen to be at the bath when I return, I might join you.”

Oh. Alistair sits, but she’s gone already. OH.

He nearly trips off the bed as he kicks blankets and sheets aside, eager to find a servant to ask for a hot bath to be arranged, then stops for a moment — maybe… he shouldn’t do that naked. Right. Clothes first. They didn’t need to see that.

[screechingsandwichhologram]

my amrev ocs if they had tumblr

🌓 dressedsword

HOLY SHIT PAUL REVERE JUST RODE THROUGH TOWN HOLY FUCK ITS HAPPENING

🪁 kiterrrrr Follow

why r you blogging and not fighting. fake ass

🌓 dressedsword

bitch i'm a fucking woman. can't exactly pull up to fort william and mary in stays now can i

🐴 pennsylvaniarifle Follow

not if ur coward

35 notes

🐏 tumblefarmer

man we kicked their fucking assesss let's goooo !!! first fight of rebellion woooo !!!

👒 spindledpoet

..... i'm glad you made it back home but not sure we should be celebrating the beginning of what certainly will become a war

🌓 dressedsword

john shut the fuck up ur just salty sam trampled ur flowers on his way out of the house

5 notes

🌺 massalilly Follow

FIRST SHOTS FIRED IN LEXINGTON AND CONCORD HOLY SHIT

🐏 tumblefarmer

WHAT THE FUCK MASSHOLES RUIN EVERYTHING

17,756 notes

👒 spindledpoet

hey guys is coughing up blood normal

💦 pantingmanthing Follow

NO???

👒 spindledpoet

damn

12 notes

👣 sandyfootprints Follow

god war fucking sucks. first day on the job and im spitting out some dudes blood. he probably had a wife. cant even drink bc they told us not to

❣ crimsonfingerlicking

yummy

👣 sandyfootprints Follow

why am i on tumblr

67 notes

🐏 tumblefarmer

guys. i really really really wanna join the war. is that a good idea. my cousin is ill and his sister is unmarried but i cant just stand by. i cant leave them but i must fight for my homeland and for the freedom my ancestors were promised

🫡 kissingcontinental Follow

join us we need men so so bad plsss

🪶 writerlover Follow

fight to build a better tomorrow for your family

🐏 tumblefarmer

okay im doing it!!! going down to mass this weekend

23 notes

🌓 dressedsword

hey so like. is. is. do we think that. maybe in the new country we could like. idk . maybe uhhh. give women rights?

1 note

🐏 tumblefarmer

guys war sucks ass its so fucking boring im just sitting in camp. a guy just fucking sneezed in my food. i hate it here

🌹rosedlionheart Follow

thats what you yankees get for picking a fight with the strongest army in the world

🐏 tumblefarmer

doesnt ur king piss blue

784 notes

🫶 letteredolley Follow

damn my fav dress maker is too sick to make me a new dress :// fuck my life

🐓 kickerchicker Follow

girl we are in the middle of a war that is Not the thing to worry about

💋 marieantoinette Follow

god forbid women do anything

🥖 lalanterne Follow

wrong dash. ur time will come

1,789 notes

🕯️carpediemcandled Follow

aw fuck the cute boy that was stationed near me just fucking died from camp fever </3

🕯️ carpediemcandled Follow

he was so cute too :// a french canadian farmer from new hampshire that was like. super into sheep and goats. he was super clumsy too. but like in a cute way

🕯️ carpediemcandled Follow

aughhhh :((( i was going to bring him one of my nice candles :(((

10 notes

🌓 dressedsword

FUCK

0 notes

👒 spindledpoet

yknow that feeling you get when you look at your reflection and you feel like you are going to throw up

🙏 universalfriend Follow

yes

��� spindledpoet

thanks

7 notes

❣️crimsonfingerlicking

is there.... money? in war

🦁 redbloodedredcoat Follow

dm me

2 notes

🦋 painfulpoet Follow

@ spindledpoet are you , okay??

👒 spindledpoet

i have a horrible thing inside me that i understand now but i can not continue. i am dying.

👒 spindledpoet

please do not let them forget that i was among you

9 notes

👒 spindledpoet

i am making a dress. i must finish it. it will be the best yet. it will be my last one. delphine needs the dress. she needs the dress. i need the dress

1 notes

🦋 painfulpoet Follow

@ dressedsword hey is ur brother okay?

🌓 dressedsword

he is very ill and delirious often. our cousin has died in the war. i have little means of supporting us and he is too sick to leave the bed. when he is aware he cries and writes. his handwriting has spoiled

🌓 dressedsword

he is not for long. he will be gone before any letter or parcel of yours will travel the atlantic. i am sorry

4 notes

👒 spindledpoet

i don't want to hurt my sister but delphine is waiting for me

0 notes

🌓 dressedsword

gonna log off for a bit

1 notes

🌗 designedpamphlet Follow

shit. i'm fucking doing this

0 notes

[carnivorousyandeere]

Should be a responsible adult and clean my car and fish tank and do laundry. Or write the C Girl Autumn Yan as promised, or work to get further ahead on Kinktober (it’s looking a little overwhelming 😂😭) but actually the Vampire Couple is taking over my braincase instead.

A perfumer and a candle-maker, husband and wife, isolated in their old manor. Would it be too cheesy to call them the Count and the Countess until they’re actually named? Having some fucked up thoughts about them hosting a party for some fellow vampires with humans as the main courses and entertainment— their all-too human Darling being reminded at every turn at of the immense danger they’d be in… if it weren’t for their oh-so-gracious captors hosts there to protect them…

[scribeofskyrim]

Sundas, 7th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 201

Well, we didn't make it back to Falkreath. We're camped out in a grassy area beneath the cave where we found Valdr, waiting for Valdimar and Erandur to come back.

Lucky for us, the weather's been good all day, and with luck it'll continue.

But this morning was rough, in more ways than one.

First off, Lydia woke up with a headache that had her grumbling like the bear on her helmet. We all had breakfast, and while we ate I told them about the request from Thadgeir to deliver his friend's ashes to the Priest of Arkay. Erandur commented that he wanted to stop by the cemetery to pay his respects to the dead there, anyway.

I also told them about Valga's request to look for Valdr and his people. It was on the way to the mine Siddgeir had asked us to clear out, so it didn't look like it would be much trouble.

While Lydia waited for her headache to pass I took some time at the alchemy table in the corner of the Inn, and the guys got our supplies ready.

Our first stop was the Hall of the Dead. The cemetery's not far from Dead Man's Drink, just down a path by the gate. As soon as you start down the road, the area fills with mist, and there's Deathbells and Nightshade everywhere. Even in the bright sunshine, it looked gloomy.

There's several areas full of headstones, and to the right of the path is the Hall. The Hall of the Dead is just a small stone house, from the looks of it, but there's candles and a Shrine to Arkay outside the door.

We passed a big man who we later learned was named Kust as we walked in. Runil, the Priest of Arkay, was standing amongst the headstones, holding a funeral by a little stone maker next to a worryingly small patch of disturbed earth. Two people were there, a man and a woman, and they looked distraught.

We hung back, and listened as he finished his words. We gathered that it was the funeral of a little girl named Lavinia, and the people there were her parents.

As they turned to leave, I had to say something, so I offered my condolences to them. Her father said he couldn't believe someone could do something like that, much less to a harmless little girl. I asked him what happened, and he said that a drifter named Sinding came through town looking for work. He seemed all right at first, but tore their daughter to shreds.

He said they hardly had anything left of her to bury.

They threw Sinding into "The Pit", whatever that was, while they decided what to do with him. He then excused himself to go tend to his wife.

The others and I traded glances before we went to speak with Runil.

Runil is an older Altmer, and he greeted us warmly when we approached him. He and Erandur bowed slightly to one another, and addressed each other as "Brother".

I swear, all priests and priestesses of the Divines must have some sort of secret hand signal or something. I'll never figure out how they can just recognize Erandur as one of them.

I told him why we'd come, and handed over Berit's ashes. He said he would tend to them, and gave me a bit of gold for my trouble. I asked him if he tends the place all by himself, and he said he was far too old for that. Kust is his assistant and tends the grounds, while he takes care of the funerals and such. They both live in the Hall.

Runil is the talkative type, and he soon started to chat with Erandur. While they spoke, I took a second to wander through the graves. There's not much interesting aside from rows of markers and flowers - Kust does a good job - but there's a section out back of the Hall of the Dead with graves that look Ancient. I actually felt a bit of a chill looking at those, and realized that Septim hadn't joined me back there.

Smart boy!

I rejoined the others and we left Falkreath to go look for Valdr and his hunting party.

We headed north, and could see a tower not far from the town. It looked like a watchtower, and I wanted to go up to get a better view of the landscape and see if there was a good route for us to take.

We followed the road to the tower, and there was a skeleton right by where the path to the tower breaks off from the road. A pair of Vigilants just happened to be passing by, and they quickly took care of it.

I saw them exchange nods with Erandur as they moved on.

Seriously, how can they tell?

Anyway, turns out there was a necromancer camped out on top of the tower, and she was a tough one, too! She had some nice soul gems on her, though.

The view from up there is wonderful, and I could see that going overland to where Valga had indicated would be pretty easy. The others agreed, and we were on our way.

The hike was easy, with only the occasional interruption from a bear or wolf as we walked. We couldn't help but talk about what we'd heard at the cemetery about that poor girl. How could a person tear someone else apart? That sounded like something a bear would do, and even her own father had compared the scene to a sabercat slaughtering a deer. Why would they blame that Sinding fella and not an animal? Was it in broad daylight? If so, why would he do that?

We had too many questions for it to make any sense. We'll look into it once we get back to Falkreath.

It wasn't long until we found the road again, along with a mill. The worker we spoke with said there were hunters nearby, and pointed us to a bit of smoke coming over a rocky outcrop nor far on the other side of the road.

The smoke came from a shack in a stand of trees, and there were two hunters outside, cooking and cleaning pelts. They weren't Valdr, or part of his crew, but they said they saw three people pass by not too long ago, and gestured to a small path that followed the rocks.

We followed the path, and soon heard a voice weakly calling for help. We rushed towards it, and found a big man sitting on a log by a cave. He was covered in blood and holding his hands over a nasty wound in his gut.

It was Valdr, and he said they were attacked by Spriggans. He was obviously near death, and he asked us to help him. The words were barely out of his mouth before Erandur and I both started Healing him, and he was soon looking a little more healthy.

He told us how they'd tracked the bear to the cave when three Spriggans jumped them. He managed to escape but his friends, Ari and Niels, weren't so lucky.

He said he had to give them a proper burial, and asked us to help him clear out the Spriggans so he could retrieve their bodies.

Considering that it looked like there was more of Valdr's blood on the ground than in his veins, Erandur forbade him from even standing for a while. I assured him that we'd take care of the Spriggans for him. Luckily, Valdr still had his pack on him with his supplies, so Erandur told him to just sit there and eat something to get his strength back.

I promised we'd be back soon, and he was very grateful that I'd do something like this for a stranger. Lydia smiled and said that I did that a lot, before we all went into the cave.

The first part of the cavern is long and narrow, with little ledges you can walk along on either side. We found a dead woman, Ari, not far from the entrance like Valdr said we would.

What he DIDN'T tell us about were the bear traps! I think I found all of them the hard way, dammit!

I'm gonna need new pants after this.

Of course the bear they were tracking ran up on us while Valdimar was helping me get my boot out of a trap, followed quickly by a Spriggan.

You know, I think Spriggans are pretty to look at, like a Flame Atronach, but that buzzing sound they make, like a thousand angry bees, never fails to set my teeth on edge. Makes me nervous just thinking about it!

At least they're not actually full of bees. That would be a pain in the ass to fight!

Septim and Lydia tackled the bear, while us mages lit the Spriggan on fire. They go up like a pile of kindling, and I summoned a Flame Atronach ahead of us to see if I could lure out another one.

The next part of the cave is beautiful! There's a break in the ceiling that lets the sun in, and it's like a little forest grove in there, complete with a clear spring.

Honestly I don't know why we didn't just camp in there.

Anyway, we found the other two Spriggans, and while one was of the normal type you see, the other one was wicked-looking! Like an evil thicket come to life! She did a lot of damage to me, too. I had to down quite a few healing potions, but in the end, we got her.

Septim snapped off one of its… Antlers? Branches? It seems like normal wood now that it's dead, so I think it's okay for him to be chewing on it.

Oh, well. He's happy!

Anyway, once we'd taken care of the Spriggans, I took the opportunity to search the cave. There's a bunch of different types of mushrooms in there, along with a lot of other alchemy ingredients.

I also found another bear trap.

At least Septim didn't find it, first.

Oh, and I found not one, but two chests! One's in the back part, and is the bigger, fancier type of chest that you see, and the second is a regular one. It's really well-hidden on a ledge near the entrance. I walked past that one several times before I found it. I would've missed it entirely if I hadn't jumped up there to look for more mushrooms.

Both had good loot, including some scrolls and enchanted weapons.

When I was done, we went outside, and Valdr was standing there, waiting for us. He looked a lot better, and thanked us for helping him. He gave me his lucky dagger as payment. We said we could help him more if he wanted, and Erandur offered to at least say some words over the unlucky pair inside.

Valdr started to refuse, but swayed a bit on his feet. He was still a little off from losing all that blood, and said he'd appreciate that. There's a clear spot just down the hillside, and since my leg's bothering me from stepping in all those traps Lydia and I said we'd make camp there.

She and Septim kept an eye on me while the other two took care of things in the cave with Valdr.

Valdimar and Erandur came back not too long ago, and said that Valdr had left to camp with the other hunters we met earlier. Erandur checked over my shin, and said there's no real damage there to Heal. It's mostly the bruising that has to fade, and the ache of getting caught in those iron jaws. He said so long as I keep it up on something it should be fine by morning.

I hate those things. I swear, I always get caught in them.

Valdimar joked that we should call them Bronwen Traps, instead!

Maybe he's right!

That got us joking about what sort of bait we'd put in traps to catch each other, so here's the list:

Me - Lydia would put Wine, Erandur would put a new journal, and Valdimar would put in an empty box with a closed lid. Valdimar wins.

Lydia - I would put in an Ebony greatsword, Erandur would put in a new whetstone, and Valdimar would put in a book on fighting techniques. Valdimar wins.

Erandur - I would put in some warm tea, Lydia would put in a book on the saints, and Valdimar would put in some fur blankets. Valdimar wins.

Valdimar - We all agreed that a book on Dwarves he hasn't read yet would do it, and he said if we tossed in some good mead, he'd set the trap himself!

Septim - Nothing. He's too smart for it. He's never once set off any kind of trap.

Anyway, my watch is almost over, and I need to figure out a comfortable way to put my foot up while I sleep. Tomorrow we clear out some bandits, and hopefully end up back in Falkreath before nightfall!

---

Back | Next

[gojuo]

Tell us now your top 5 most hated characters on ASOAIF and F&B please!

My no.1 most hated ASOIAF character is Tywin Lannister. I hate this man. I hate him very much. I wish he would go away and die somewhere where he will inconvenience no one but the vultures. I loathe his manner. I loathe his style. I loathe the fact that he dares draw breath in a world where my loved ones do not or rather cannot because he murdered them. I loathe that he was rewarded for behavior which, in-universe, he should have been quartered for. I want him dead. I want to kill him and destroy him. I want him died. #SCENE #ANGER #FUCK #DIE #HATERED

There is not a single ounce — not even a miniscule amount ­— of sympathy I have for this scumbag. Not a single thing likeable about him. Not a single redeeming quality he has to his name. From the first moment he showed up on page until the very last mention of him, he was nothing short of disgusting. He is diabolical, satanic, monstrous, loathsome, ghoulish, sadistic, cruel, insert every single synonym of the term demonic here, etc. etc. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him.

The whole “Yeah he’s evil uwu but Charles Dance is so granddaddy I can fix him <3" sales pitch this low IQ fandom has been pushing since the dawn of that accursed adaptation on top of it all only makes the intense disgust I hold for him so much fucking worse. Tywin Lannister has no conscience, no charisma, no morals, and he has no honor — all of that in an un-sexy way, one of the greatest crimes a villain with no traumatic backstory could objectively ever commit. Never mind the beyond immoral execution of the Red Wedding (“Machiavellian” my ass. Any stupid fool who says this crap needs to go back to elementary school in order to relearn how to read and how to interpret literature and themes in literature right the fuck now), never mind the severe mental torture he’s put his own flesh and blood through to the point where two of them are in a destructive incestuous relationship with each other and the other pushed to the point of patricide, this monster had his son's fourteen-year-old little child-wife gangraped by his guards, had each of them give her a silver coin after one was done with her, then had thirteen-year-old Tyrion rape her last and, contrary to the others, give her a gold coin because “Lannisters are worth more”. All because she was a common-born little girl who dared to marry the disabled son he hated so much. Am I supposed to think this piece of shit falls under the sexy evil category of villains? What sad backstory does this trash have to his name that would woobify him enough to “if villain bad why sexy” him? His father had a few mistresses after his mother died and gave them gifts and cared for them? Was that the tragic past of his that elevated him enough for people to wash their conscience clean so to cross moral boundaries all to lust after this so-called “sexy villain”? Tywin Lannister had his father’s mistress, who was nothing but a poor common-born daughter of a candle-maker, stripped naked and paraded through the streets of Lannisport for two whole goddamn weeks, and forced her to tell every man she came across that she was a thief and a whore, quite alike to what he did to Tysha as well. This man hates women. I cannot stress this enough, like Tywin Lannister hates women. And not just women, but especially commoner women. His modus operandi is inflicting sadistic sexual violence on any and all women he doesn’t like (which is like, all of them). As a true “if villain bad then why sexy” connoisseur and quite frankly, the president of the club, this man is not, never was and never will be a part of that esteemed category of villains.

And you know something that’s a veeery personal ick of mine — and this is really the icing on the cake for me — is shit-for-brains dickriders of this ghoul having the gall to pretend like he did not explicitly order the murder of Elia and her babies, that he apparently just “let” Clegane and Lorch loose on them. These low IQ fucks know what that demon did to his father’s poor mistress and what he did to little Tysha, and then somehow they still think this sadist with a severely fragile ego did not tell Clegane and Lorch to do what they did to her with his own mouth? Any waste-of-space who parrots this BNF-drivel (all said in order to minimize what happened to Elia, Rhaenys and the baby in place for Aegon) is not only going on my blocklist like immediately, they also need to die. Respectfully.

Now, I mostly spoke on his character from a moral standpoint, but I want to make clear that this loser’s shortcomings aren’t only morality-based. All the shit-for-brains stans this demon has know he has no morals so they always deflect to the “b-b-but he’s a military genius, that’s why I like him, I’m so edgy!!!” excuse and I want to emphasize how fucking stupid you have to be to believe Tywin is anything but brainless. AFFC is literally right there. GRRM’s explicitly spells out to the reader through Jaime’s POV how fucking stupid Tywin was in everything that he did. How the only show of military genius this demon had was through being nothing but a bully. All his work unraveled the second he died. He built nothing, and he will go down in history as nothing. That’s why his one and only legacy will always be that he got murdered on the shitter by his own son, like the fucking loser that he is.

I hate this fucking character with every fiber of my being.

On number 2 stands Aerys II Targeryen. Do I even need to explain this? What I said about Tywin applies to this racist, rapist, fascist piece of shit as well. I’m not going to waste my time and money psychoanalyzing this bottom-of-the-barrel trash. Aerys is the pinnacular culmination of three hundred years of Targaryen delusion, self-worship, egotism and five thousand years of Valyrian hubris, god-complex, and megalomania. Him and his daughter both, but I’ll get to her in a minute. This man’s lucky he’s only got 2 stans — and those two are only stanning just to be contrarians — unlike Tywin, who’s got an actual dedicated fanbase. Ugh. Two peas in a pod. One edge he has over Tywin is that at the very least Aerys has some sort of tragic backstory that’s actually valid. Too bad for him idgaf. Pour one out for Rhaella :(

My third most hated is ... Daenerys. Man… How do I even open this can of worms… I’ve a whole tag dedicated to hating her, soooo awkwardly waves hand in that direction. Everything about Daenerys is just so … racist. Racist on an in-universe level, racist on a meta level and racist on a fandom level, so I was never going to like Daenerys no matter what. The fact that she has the most insane and delusional and downright disgusting fanbase ever in all of media history really doesn’t help her case. If they hadn’t been this rabid and racist, then I don’t think I would have hated her this much. Because then I could’ve just had her character be as she is: the Paul Astreides of the series. A false Messiah, basically. The meta-level racism (GRRM making every single antagonist in her plotline nothing but walking, talking Reel Bad Arabs tropes; the use of POV trap which leads to none of the brown and black supporting characters in her story having a voice; GRRM’s own racism as in exotic-erotic tropes for all of the Essosi people, really badly researched POC cultures he based the Essosi off of, using brown and black people as nothing but props for the main white girl) and Daenerys’ in-universe racism (conquering and colonizing lands and peoples; white saviorism; imperialism; her hypocritical use of slavery) would still be there, of course, and I still would not have been able to stomach it meaning I still would not have rooted for her in any way, but then at the very least I would not have been subjected to a long decade of fandom racism being justified through the excuse of her freeing slaves from evil Reel Bad Arabs (spoiler alert: she is not freeing anybody).

Ugh, I don’t wanna talk about her. Everything about her from her character to the plot and storyline and her place in the narrative is downright insulting to me as a WOC, and quite frankly, any WOC that lays down their lives to defend this girl baffles me. Like, stop it. Please have some self-respect.

Then comes Jaehaerys the Old King. Father and inventor of misogyny. It’s crazy.

No. 5 is Rhaenys I and Daeron I the Young Dragon. EVERY TONGUE THAT RISES AGAINST THE DORNISH SHALL FALL!!!

[rabbitcruiser]

Benjamin Franklin Day

Founding Father Benjamin Franklin was born on this day in 1706, in  Boston, making today Ben Franklin Day. He was a polymath, or expert in  many subjects. Some of the titles that could be given to him are  inventor, scientist, politician, diplomat, civic activist, printer, ��author, postmaster, and mapmaker. He also founded or was a part of many  organizations and groups.

Franklin was the tenth and youngest son of a soap and candle maker,  Josiah Franklin, and Josiah's second wife, Abiah Folger. The elder  Franklin wanted his son to follow the path of a preacher, but did not  have the money to send him to school. Benjamin only attended school up  until the age of ten, when he began working full-time in his father's  shop. At the age of twelve he was sent to apprentice his older brother  James, who was a printer. James started The New England Courant  in Boston when Benjamin was fifteen. Benjamin wanted to be printed in  the paper, but James would not allow it. So, he wrote letters under name  of Silence Dogood, a fictional widow, and slid them under the print  shop door at night. The fourteen letters he wrote were published; they  gave advice and were filled with critical observations of the world.  Benjamin eventually confessed to writing them, and James was not happy.  Later, after harassment and beating at the hands of his brother,  Benjamin ended up running away to New York, and then ended up in  Philadelphia in 1723.

In Philadelphia, Franklin found work as an apprentice printer. He  then went to England for several months of print work. He came back to  Philadelphia and helped out a printer, but eventually borrowed money and  set up his own printing business a few years later. Franklin bought the  Pennsylvania Gazette in 1729, which became the most widely read newspaper in the colonies. He printed it and contributed pieces under aliases.

In 1728, Franklin had a son, William; it is not known who the mother  was. In 1730, he married Deborah Read; it was a common-law marriage, as  Read's first husband had deserted her. The Franklin's had two children:  Francis, born in 1732, died at the age of four from smallpox. Sarah was  born in 1743.

The Library Company, the nation's first subscription library, was founded by Franklin in 1731. He started publishing Poor Richard's Almanack  in 1733, under the pseudonym of "Richard Saunders." Its lively writing  and witty aphorisms separated it from other Almanacs of the day, and it  was printed for twenty-five years. The first fire department of  Philadelphia, the Union Fire Company, was organized by Franklin in 1736.  Franklin also worked for environmental cleanup in the city, and  launched projects and advocated for paved and lit streets. The first  learned society in the country, the American Philosophical Society, was  launched with the help of Franklin. In 1751, he brought together another  group of people to form the Pennsylvania Hospital.

Franklin's bright mind came up with many inventions. His 1752 kite  and key experiment demonstrated that lightning was electricity, and he  also invented the lightning rod. He came up with other electricity  related terms that we still use today, such as "battery." He invented a  fireplace that became known as the "Franklin stove." Compared to the  popular fireplaces of its time, it gave off more heat and used less  fuel. Franklin refused to patent it, and wanted his invention to serve  others freely. Franklin invented bifocals, which could be used for both  distance and reading. He even invented a musical instrument, the  armonica, which Beethoven and Mozart wrote music for. He charted the  Gulf Stream and gave it its name, and suggested the idea for, and helped  design the first penny in the United States.

In 1757, Franklin went to England to represent the Penn family over  who should represent the colony. Until 1775 most of his time was spent  in England. He served as a Colonial representative for Pennsylvania,  Georgia, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. His wife Deborah died in 1774,  while he was still in London.

Franklin was originally a loyalist, but after the 1765 Stamp Act his  views shifted. He testified before Parliament, helping persuade members  of that body to repeal the law. He later became embroiled in what became  known as the "Hutchinson Affair." Thomas Hutchinson, an English  appointed governor, had written letters that had called for the  lessening of liberties of colonists. Franklin got ahold of the letters  and sent them to America. He was condemned publicly, and soon came back  home.

He was elected to the Second Continental Congress, and was part of  the committee of five that drafted the Declaration of Independence. He  also was a signer of the Declaration. He was the first Postmaster  General of the United States; long after his death he was honored by  being put on the first US postage stamp.

He left America to become the first Ambassador to France. During this  time he helped secure a treaty with them in 1778. He also helped to  secure loans during the war. When the guns fell silent, he was present  at signing of Treaty of Paris in 1783, which formally ended the war.

Franklin returned to his home country, and became a delegate at the  Constitutional Convention; he signed the Constitution, being the oldest  person to do so. Although Franklin owned slaves early in his life, his  views changed over time, and in his last years he worked for the  abolition of slavery. After suffering from gout and other ailments, he  died on April 17, 1790, at his daughter Sarah's home. His funeral was  attended by 20,000 people.

It is fitting a day would be dedicated to Benjamin Franklin, as he is  so much more than just the man on the $100 bill. The breadth and scope  of his achievements are almost unparalleled, not only in his political  contributions to a fledgling country, but in his many other pursuits as  well.

Here are just some of his accomplishments and activities: As writer/printer/publisher:

wrote as Silence Dogood in The New England Courant

published Poor Richard's Almanack for twenty-five years

owned the Pennsylvania Gazette

wrote an acclaimed autobiography

As an inventor:

"Franklin stove"

proved lightning is electricity and invented the lightning rod

bifocals

swim fins

carriage odometer

armonica

flexible catheter

As a founder:

The Library Company—the country's first subscription library

Union Fire Company of Philadelphia—the first fire department of Pennsylvania

American Philosophical Society

Pennsylvania Hospital

As a politician:

Colonial representative in England

member of Second Continental Congress

first Postmaster General of the United States

helped draft the Declaration of Independence and signed it

first ambassador to France

present at signing of Treaty of Paris

delegate to Constitutional Convention and signed Constitution

How to Observe

One way to celebrate the day is to follow the example he left of living a full life. Maybe you can start to do this by following his daily schedule.  Learning more about the man may be a good way to celebrate his birthday  and life as well. Why not read the man's own words in his Autobiography? You could also read his Silence Dogood letters, or some of Poor Richard's Almanack. Besides reading his own words, you could read books about him, or explore resources at the Library of Congress. Once you tire of reading you could find and watch the PBS mini-series on Franklin. Finally, you could plan a trip to visit his grave and the Benjamin Franklin Museum in Philadelphia.

Source

Benjamin Franklin, an American polymath and one of the Founding Fathers of the United States, was born on January 17, 1706.

[marmiteprinter]

It's time for Julia's first birthday! While Victoria blew a noise maker, Domingo cooed over her. (Everett was already in bed.)

"Let's blow out the candles, nooboo!" gushed Domingo.

Is he going to start helping out with parenting again?

Straight after she aged up, Domingo put Julia to bed even though she wasn't all that tired. Hmph. Maybe not!

However, he did roll wants to flirt, kiss, and make out with his wife! Hooray!

"Ooh, Domingo, where is this coming from all of a sudden?"

"You just look so beautiful tonight, mi amor. Shall we take this to the bedroom?"

Victoria giggled and blushed, letting him lead her to the bedroom and hoping this meant their recent marital issues were behind them.

[spotamus]

Yet another hobby of my wife! She was a great soap and candle maker,but the fiber arts have overshadowed the rest.

[betweenboxes1]

Valentine's Day Gift Guide: Thoughtful Gifts for Her and Him

Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and finding the perfect gift for your special someone can make all the difference. This year, make the day unforgettable with a gift that shows just how much they mean to you. Whether you’re looking for something romantic, practical, or truly unique, our curated selection at Between Boxes has you covered. Dive in to explore thoughtful Valentine's Day gifts for her and him.

For Her: Gifts That Show Love and Appreciation

When it comes to expressing your love, the right gift can make her feel truly cherished. Here are some ideas to inspire you:

Personalized Jewelry A timeless gift that she’ll treasure, personalized jewelry lets her carry a piece of you with her wherever she goes. Consider a necklace with her initials or a bracelet with a special date engraved. Each time she wears it, she’ll be reminded of your love.

Luxurious Self-Care Kits Show her that she deserves to be pampered. Choose a curated self-care kit filled with spa essentials like bath salts, scented candles, and face masks. This thoughtful gift is perfect for those days when she needs to unwind and feel loved.

Custom Keepsake Boxes A keepsake box filled with memories is a wonderful way to celebrate your journey together. Fill it with photos, mementos, and love notes that represent your relationship. It’s a sentimental gift she’ll cherish forever.

For Him: Gifts That Capture the Essence of Your Relationship

Finding Valentine's Day gifts for her is all about understanding his passions and showing that you appreciate who he is. Here are some thoughtful ideas:

Customized Leather Accessories A sleek leather wallet or watch band adds a touch of class to his everyday look. Personalize it with his initials or a meaningful date to make it a gift he’ll use daily and think of you every time he does.

Grooming and Self-Care Kits Men appreciate a little pampering too. Choose a grooming kit with quality products like beard oils, shaving creams, or colognes that suit his style. A thoughtful gift that lets him indulge and feel his best.

Adventure Gear If he loves the outdoors, surprise him with something that speaks to his adventurous spirit. From a portable coffee maker for his camping trips to a sturdy backpack, these gifts show that you support his hobbies and passions.

Personalized Gadget Accessories For the tech-loving guy, gadget accessories like a custom phone case or engraved docking station can make his day-to-day life a little more personalized. These gifts are practical and thoughtful, showing that you pay attention to his interests.

Conclusion: Celebrate Love with Meaningful Gifts

This Valentine’s Day, go beyond the usual and give a gift that resonates with your partner’s personality and passions. At Between Boxes, we believe in the beauty of thoughtful gifting, making sure each item is chosen with care and meaning. Whether it’s a personalized piece of jewelry or a memorable experience, these ideas are sure to make this Valentine’s Day unforgettable for both of you.

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[greenviewhq]

THE CANDLE MAKER - Soaps & Candles Artisan | OPEN

You went to school with both Henry Bellevue and Duncan Farley and witnessed the fight on the boat that ended in Duncan's death. You were friends with Henry and his now-wife and you feel guilty for not stepping in and trying to deescalate the confrontation. You do your best to give back to the community in healing, holistic ways in an attempt to fix your karma. You can't speak to what happened to Duncan, as you're pretty sure you didn't see him go over, even though you've had nightmares about it ever since.

Name: UTP Age: 44-48 Pronouns: UTP

Connections: the butcher, the butcher, the librarian, Henry Bellevue, Jason's mother

Secrets -

You did see Henry push Duncan, but you're so far in denial you truly believe you didn't.

UTP

UTP

fc suggestions: simone kessell, renee elise goldsberry, amy adams, poorna jagannathan, laverne cox, reese witherspoon

[atplblog]

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