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callsigns-haze · 1 month ago

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Pamper queen

Azriel might be the most intimidating man, the definition of the devils shadow, but really he's a pampered drama queen. Each weekend him and his mate go full out in skin care and Rhysand and Cassian find it hilarious.

Warnings: Fluff, alcohol, would acne extraction be one??? sparring and cursing oh and Azriel being a drama queen

Wordcount: 2.8k

Azriel x reader

Cassian's laughter rings out like a clap of thunder, echoing off the walls of Rhysand’s office. He’s leaning against Rhys’s desk, half a glass of wine in one hand and a teasing glint in his hazel eyes. Rhys, seated comfortably in his high-backed chair, smirks in that lazy, knowing way of his. His violet eyes flick to Azriel, who is leaning stiffly against the far wall, his shadows unusually still as they curl around his shoulders.

“So, Az,” Cassian starts, dragging out the name like it’s a punchline in and of itself. “You’re telling me you—the terror of Illyria, the spymaster of the Night Court—spend your Sunday nights getting your face poked at?”

Rhys snorts, swirling his wine. “Careful, Cass. If you laugh too hard, he might sic Y/N on you. I hear she takes her...skincare duties very seriously.”

Azriel doesn’t so much as flinch, though you can see the faint twitch of his jaw, a crack in the stoic mask he always wears. He levels them with a cool, unbothered stare, but you know better. He’s biting back a sigh.

“She does it for me,” Azriel finally says, his voice even, though there’s a defensive undertone there. One that makes Rhys's smirk widen and Cassian practically howl with glee.

“She does it for you?” Cassian wheezes, his wings rustling as he doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Oh, please, tell me she gives you one of those fancy face masks too. Maybe with cucumbers for your eyes?”

Azriel’s shadows swirl as if annoyed on his behalf. “You two wouldn’t understand,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rhys raises a brow, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “Oh, we understand perfectly, Az. Your mate loves taking care of you, and you love letting her. But—” Rhys’s grin sharpens, his tone turning wicked— “we also understand that you’re probably lying there, utterly miserable, while she does it.”

“You don’t move, do you?” Cassian cuts in, barely containing his glee. “You just let her sit there with her little kit of torture devices and—what—dig into your pores? Do you even blink, Az?”

“Of course, I blink,” Azriel replies dryly, but he still hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall. You suspect he’s calculating the fastest way to leave the room.

Cassian doesn’t let up, his laughter spilling out in waves. “I’d pay good money to see it. You, flat on your back, probably wincing while she scolds you for not using whatever cream she gave you last week.”

“She doesn’t scold me,” Azriel says calmly, though his shadows twist tighter, betraying his irritation.

“Oh, I bet she does,” Rhys says with a chuckle. “And I bet you love it.”

That earns him a glare, but Rhys just shrugs, unbothered.

“Does she threaten you too?” Cassian adds, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Like, ‘Hold still, Azriel, or I’ll use the extractor tool.’” He waves his hand dramatically for effect, then bursts into laughter again.

You can’t help but grin as you step into the room, the scene unfolding exactly as you imagined it would. All three males glance your way, but it’s Azriel who straightens immediately, his shoulders relaxing as you approach.

“You’ve been talking about me, haven’t you?” you ask lightly, fixing Cassian and Rhys with a knowing look.

“Never,” Rhys drawls innocently, though his smirk gives him away.

“Always,” Cassian counters, beaming. “But it’s not our fault Az is the perfect source of entertainment.”

Azriel lets out a long-suffering sigh, his gaze softening as it meets yours. You cross the room to stand by his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Don’t let them bother you,” you murmur, though you’re smiling. “They’re just jealous because they don’t get this kind of attention.”

Cassian gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Jealous? Of him? Sweetheart, I’d rather face the Blood Rite again than let anyone near me with one of those pointy tools.”

You glance at Azriel, biting back a laugh at the subtle flush creeping up his neck. He doesn’t say a word, just shifts closer to you, his hand brushing against yours.

“I think he looks amazing,” you say simply, giving Azriel a warm smile.

That shuts Cassian up—briefly, anyway. Rhys just grins, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

“To the neatest, most put-together Illyrian in all of Prythian,” Rhys says, his tone light. “And to his very patient mate.”

Azriel rolls his eyes, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Later, you know he’ll pretend their teasing didn’t bother him. But for now, you squeeze his hand, silently reassuring him. And as always, he squeezes back.

-----

The bedroom is quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Warm golden light flickers across the walls, casting shadows that seem to dance lazily as Azriel lies sprawled on the bed. His wings are folded neatly against the mattress, his arms resting loosely at his sides. He’s shirtless, his dark hair slightly tousled, the picture of relaxation—or as close to relaxed as Azriel ever gets.

You sit comfortably on his chest, your knees bracketing his ribs as you settle into your usual Sunday night routine. Your little tool kit is open on the bedside table, neatly arranged like a surgeon’s tray. Azriel’s shadows are quieter than usual, watching from the corners of the room as you bend over him, your focus completely locked on his face.

“Doesn’t this hurt?” you ask softly, your tone teasing as you press your fingers gently against his cheek, angling his face toward the light.

“No,” he replies evenly, though his voice is low and smooth, a sure sign he’s trying to play it cool. “It’s not painful.”

You hum, leaning closer as you examine the faint speckles on his nose and along his jawline. “I don’t believe you. You always flinch when I use the extractor.”

“I don’t flinch,” he counters, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours. There’s a glint of challenge in them, though it’s softened by the way his hands rest lightly on your thighs.

“Oh, you flinch,” you reply with a smirk, reaching for the little metal tool. His gaze shifts briefly to it, and though his expression remains impassive, you catch the subtle way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“You act like this is torture,” you tease, pressing the flat of the tool against his nose and gently extracting the first blackhead. He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“It’s not torture,” he says, though his tone is a little clipped.

You pause, raising a brow as you glance down at him. “Would you prefer I stop?”

“No,” he says immediately, his fingers tightening slightly against your thighs. “Keep going.”

You grin, biting back a laugh as you lean over him again, the warmth of his skin brushing against yours as you work. His sharp cheekbones and strong jawline are as familiar to you as your own hands, and you take your time, your fingers brushing softly against his face as you clean every little spot you can find.

“Cassian and Rhys would have a field day if they saw this,” you murmur after a moment, sitting back slightly to admire your work.

Azriel lets out a low sound that might be a sigh—or a groan. “Don’t remind me.”

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, setting the tool aside for a moment to trace your fingers along his jawline. “That you let me do this. That you trust me with this.”

His eyes soften as he looks up at you, the intensity in his gaze making your heart flip. “I trust you with everything.”

Your breath catches at the honesty in his voice, your chest tightening as you lean down to press a kiss to his lips. He lifts his head slightly to meet you, the kiss slow and gentle, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips.

When you pull back, you smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his shadows curling lazily around the edges of the bed. “I’m far from perfect.”

“Well,” you say, reaching for the tool again, “your skin is getting pretty close.”

He groans softly but doesn’t protest, his hands returning to your thighs as you continue your work. And though he’ll never admit it out loud, you know he doesn’t mind. Not really. After all, this is one of the few moments where the walls he’s built so carefully come down, where it’s just the two of you, and he can let himself be cared for.

The fire crackles softly in the background as you press the extractor tool gently against Azriel’s nose, your fingers steady and precise. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his breath even—at least, for now.

You’ve just started working on a particularly stubborn blackhead when Azriel lets out a low groan, his head shifting slightly on the pillow.

“This is taking forever,” he mutters, his voice a deep rumble laced with annoyance.

You pause, your fingers hovering mid-air as you shoot him a look. “Azriel.”

“What?” He arches a brow, feigning innocence, though there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays his irritation. “I’m just saying, it feels like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. You set the tool down and lean forward, planting your hands on either side of his head so your face is directly over his. “Would you rather I stop and let your pores clog up completely? Maybe let your skin get all rough and dull so Cassian can tease you even more?”

He scowls at the mention of Cassian, his hazel eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” you say, sitting back and picking up the tool again. “But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he mumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?” you ask, tilting your head as you press the extractor against his cheek.

“I said,” he repeats, louder this time, “I don’t see why this is necessary every week.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” You pause again, raising an incredulous brow as you set the tool aside. “This coming from the man who polishes his knives until they shine and organizes his weapons room by category, size, and colour?”

“That’s different,” he says defensively, his shadows stirring faintly around the bed as his wings twitch against the mattress.

“How?” you challenge, crossing your arms over your chest. “You care about your weapons. I care about your skin. Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing,” he mutters, though his voice has lost some of its bite.

You let out an exasperated sigh, leaning forward again. “Azriel, if you don’t hold still and stop complaining, I’m going to start using a much rougher technique.”

His eyes flick to the extractor in your hand, and you catch the faintest glimmer of unease in his gaze. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you say, your tone firm but teasing.

He groans again, throwing an arm over his eyes like a petulant child. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re impossible,” you counter, gently nudging his arm aside so you can get back to work.

Despite his grumbling, he stays still, his hands resting lightly on your thighs again as you focus on the task at hand. You work in silence for a few moments, the tension slowly draining from his body as your fingers move carefully across his skin.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters after a while, his voice softer this time, almost fond.

You pause, smiling as you glance down at him. “I know,” you say lightly. “And you’re lucky I’m patient enough to deal with you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his lips twitching upward despite himself. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, his complaints cease, his body relaxing completely as you finish up your work. Because deep down, he knows—no matter how much he groans or grumbles—there’s no one else he’d trust with this, with any of it. Only you.

-----

The sun spills golden light across the Illyrian training ring at the House of Wind, the morning air crisp and filled with the faint rustle of the breeze over the mountains. Azriel stands at the edge of the ring, rolling his shoulders to loosen up, his wings spreading slightly before tucking back behind him. He looks as sharp as ever—his dark leathers perfectly tailored, not a hair out of place, his skin practically glowing.

Cassian is the first to notice.

“Well, well,” Cassian drawls, swaggering into the ring with his usual cocky grin, his wings flaring slightly as he stretches his arms above his head. “If it isn’t Prythian’s finest male.” He eyes Azriel with mock scrutiny, squinting at him as if trying to decipher something.

Azriel doesn’t respond, just rolls his neck in that deliberate, unbothered way of his, but you can already see the faint tightening of his jaw.

Rhysand strolls in behind Cassian, his violet eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes one look at Azriel and smirks. “Cass, do you smell that?”

Cassian sniffs theatrically, tilting his head as if deep in thought. “Hmm. Smells like… lavender? No, wait—rosehip oil.”

“Ah, that’s it,” Rhys says with a chuckle, crossing his arms as he leans casually against one of the posts. “Our spymaster smells like a luxury spa. Did Y/N slather you in some kind of serum last night, Az?”

Azriel levels them both with a flat look, his hazel eyes dark and unimpressed. “Are we training today, or are you two just here to run your mouths?”

“Oh, we’re training,” Cassian says, his grin widening as he steps into the center of the ring. “But we couldn’t start without acknowledging the sheer… glow you’re giving off this morning.”

Rhys raises a brow, feigning curiosity as he gestures to Azriel’s face. “What is that, Cass? Would you say he looks… radiant?”

“Definitely radiant,” Cassian agrees, nodding solemnly. “Like he just stepped out of one of those little beauty salons in Velaris.”

Rhys chuckles, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You know, I bet Y/N has a standing appointment for him every Sunday night. Blackheads, moisturizers, maybe even a face mask.”

Azriel finally sighs, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders as he steps into the ring. “Are you two done?”

“Not even close,” Cassian says, his grin positively wicked. He gestures to Azriel’s face, circling him like a predator stalking its prey. “You know, I think I see my reflection in your cheekbones, Az. Do you polish those, too?”

“I hear there’s a new Illyrian skincare regimen,” Rhys adds, his tone mock-serious. “First, you take a mate who’s very detail-oriented. Then, you let her pin you to the bed with a toolkit every week.”

Cassian barks a laugh, clapping a hand to his chest. “Does she have one of those little mirrors too? The kind that shows every pore?”

Azriel exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he fixes them both with a cool stare. “You two are acting like children.”

“Children with flawless skin,” Rhys says smoothly, grinning.

Azriel takes a deliberate step toward Cassian, his wings spreading just slightly—a silent warning. “Keep talking, and we’ll see how flawless your face is after I plant it in the dirt.”

Cassian, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He just laughs again, his broad shoulders shaking as he squares off with Azriel. “Oh, come on, Az. We’re just appreciating the effort. You’re putting the rest of us to shame.”

“I don’t need to try to put you to shame,” Azriel deadpans, his tone as dry as the Illyrian steppes.

Rhys snickers, stepping into the ring with a casual wave of his hand. “All right, let’s not bruise Cassian’s ego too much, Az. You know how fragile it is.”

“Fragile?” Cassian scoffs, but before he can launch into a tirade, Azriel moves—swift and lethal, sweeping Cassian’s legs out from under him in a single, fluid motion.

Cassian hits the ground with a grunt, glaring up at Azriel as he props himself up on his elbows. “You’re in a mood today.”

“Maybe it’s the rosehip oil,” Azriel replies dryly, offering the faintest smirk before turning to face Rhys. “Your turn, High Lord.”

Rhys laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, I’m not about to mess with someone who just spent the night being pampered by his mate. You’re clearly in top form.”

Azriel doesn’t respond, but as the three of them settle into training, you can’t help but notice the slight upward twitch of his lips, barely there but unmistakable. Because as much as he complains about their teasing, a part of him doesn’t mind. After all, it’s not every day he gets to keep them on their toes—and he’s more than happy to remind them why he’s still the spymaster of the Night Court.

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #azriel spymaster #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel imagine #acotar fanfiction #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #az

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deikshen · 3 months ago

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Shen Qingqiu decides that in order to avoid becoming a human stick... He should just become a woman and take a wife plot!! There are HUNDREDS of wife plots in PIDW, and well, Shen Qingqiu can become a woman and fall into one, become Luo Binghe's wife after the regulatory papapa, and be forgotten in the harem. It's not a bad idea.

(Shang Qinghua keeps his comments to himself, extremely amused by Cucumber-bro's mental gymnastics. Heaven save him.)

So, Shen Qingqiu bites the bullet and gets himself a rare flower that transforms his body into a woman body, with tits and... bottoms. He makes it look like an accident, which, combined with the effect of Without-A-Cure, has no immediate solution. Mu Qingfang is jaded but not skeptical, so they just let it be. Shen Qingqiu is still Shen Qingqiu, Peak Lord and resting bitch face™, only now he must wear robes that do not squeeze his grown chest so much and a belt that fits tighter around his waist.

Shen Qingqiu still thinks of himself as a man, the other Peak Lords and disciples still refer to him as Shixiong and Shizun, as the immortal master that he is, and more than that there is not much to say. Shang Qinghua occasionally makes a comment about him having nice tits and earns a couple of fan blows to the head, but it's not really too different from before.

He hasn't decided yet what wife plot he will use. Maybe the flower that sex-pollen-poisons him but makes him irresistible to any demon around him? It would tempt Binghe's demonic side a bit, and secure him the papapa. Or the water from that spring that would make the typical fuck or die plot only solvable with the Heavenly Pillar? Shen Qingqiu believes that he has time to think about it further; after all, there are still years to The Moment, right?

The plague of Jinlan City and Luo Binghe's unexpected and early return throw him into absolute chaos. Fuck! He still has nothing ready! Not even a flower of pollen on him that would make Binghe spare his life!

Well, Shen Qingqiu will have to cope with only the experience of trashy romance novels, improvisation and his arduous desire to survive.

...

When Luo Binghe arrives at his room, demanding answers from the elusive Shizun who hasn't even shown himself to him... Shizun only has inner robes. There's... Blush on his cheeks? Wet lips and bitten? The tunics open at the subtle curve of... Breasts? A tiny waist - even tinier than before, Luo Binghe is confident he can hold his hands around it without any problems - and wide hips where the fabric of his inner tunics almost seems transparent. Luo Binghe falls silent, his brain boiling in five different temperatures.

"Binghe?" asks his Shizun, who somehow seems to have been... cursed with this form? He looks vulnerable, a sweet fawn with huge eyes, a blushed face, and a sweet half-open mouth. "Is it really you?"

His Shizun looks big eyes on the verge of tears. He approaches, not caring about the ill-fitting tunics, not caring that one of his shoulders slides, revealing white skin, a stretch of cleavage. And his Shizun holds his face, hands cold and almost trembling, as if he were seeing a dream come true in front of him.

Luo Binghe... wonders if Shizun ever dreamed of that. If his Shizun ever dreamed of seeing him come back to now react in that way. Because now tears are streaming down Shen Qingqiu's face, and he is holding Binghe's face so lovingly in his hands that Luo Binghe can only melt into his touch.

"Shizun," he says, because it's all he wants to say, it's all he can say. His anger is a chaos that spirals out in all directions, but how can he let it out there? In front of the vulnerable Shizun who cries for him? There must be an explanation, Luo Binghe tells himself. He needs to hear that.

But he also needs Shen Qingqiu not to cry.

"My Binghe" his Shen Qingqiu says, his own heart racing. Luo Binghe lets Shen Qingqiu move him, pulling him, wrapping him in a hug. Luo Binghe must lean down to be hugged tightly by his Shizun, but there... There is a stretch of white throat exposed. There is so much soft skin exposed in every direction. He can see the pronounced curve of his cleavage, but he can feel almost beneath his mouth the throbbing in his throat, the scent of his hair, the perfume of his skin...

And Shen Qingqiu squeezes him tighter, almost making him bend over him, holding him as if he never wants to let go. And Luo Binghe can feel every curve of his body pressed against him, he can lose himself in the scent of his skin, in the strong grip of his arms. His own body is awakening irrationally and embarrassingly, but if Shen Qingqiu notices it, he doesn't say anything...

No, in fact, Shen Qingqiu is getting closer to him?

Is Shizun poisoned? Or something? Some pollen? Some flower? What's going on?

"My sweet disciple," Shen Qingqiu says, and as much as Binghe wants to pull away to see his face, Shen Qingqiu holds him against him. Luo Binghe believes it is because, despite everything, his Shizun's face is still so thin... "This... This Shizun has missed his good boy Binghe so much..."

Luo Binghe feels his own rational brain shutting down. Oh well. He'll figure out what needs to be figured out later. His cock will be taking control of all the blood in his body now.

(When Shen Qingqiu is pushed against a wall and roughly kissed, he restrains himself from pumping a fist in the air in celebration. YEAH!!! HE DID IT!! HE'S GOING TO SURVIVE THAT AND WITHOUT BECOMING A HUMAN STICK!!)

...

(Papapa - about five to six rounds, Shen Qingqiu lost count at some point - later, Shen Qingqiu is not too sure that he will actually survive. His little blackened lotus has a lot to learn. Ah, where did he learn to be so rough? Those kisses seemed more like bites than kisses. Lots of teeth, lots of teeth. And his touch is rough and not gentle at all, and Shen Qingqiu is more in pain from his clumsy fingers than from the Heavenly Pillar. Did the demon jiejie in the Abyss they hadn't taught him anything? At this point in the plot Luo Binghe should know at least something on how to be a good lover!!

Or was Airplane's poor writing now reflecting on the Protagonist!? Oh, Shen Qingqiu hoped not, because otherwise Airplane was going to pay for it with his blood.

Ah well. Once a Shizun, always a Shizun. Shen Qingqiu is going to have to teach his cute Binghe a little about this too. And sleepy after a some orgasms, the truth is that he doesn't object at all.)

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exhausted-archivist · 5 months ago

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The Foods of Dragon Age: The Veilguard

This covers all the new foods mention in the game, unless noted otherwise, these foods are considered universal as they don't have a specific place of origin mentioned.

New Ingredients:

Alubia carilla - Antivan, aka blacked eyed peas

Antivan Lemon Thyme

Apricot

Cheese Curds

Chocolate, Dark

Clinging Morsel - a hearty fungus that is common in rural cuisine

Cow Heart

Cream, Heavy

Dragon's Bounty - known for its health benefits, it has tough green skin that opens and reveals dozens of tart arils.

Dragon Pepper - Rivain

Dragon Root

Dwarf Spice Collection - contains eight different spices.

Flax Seed

Figs, Purple

Ginger Root - a popular ingredient in Qunari cuisine

Gingerwort Truffle - common in the Anderfels and the Arlathan forest. When made into a tea it can have some magical side effects.

Green Cabbage

Horned Melon

Human Spice Collection - a collection with two spices

Kale

Lineseed

Mangos - Tevinter

Melon

Nocen Bass - a hearty denizen of the Nocen Sea

Nocen Shrimp

Olive Oil - Antivan

Pineapple - Tevinter and Rivain

Potatoes, New

Potatoes, Sweet

Pumpkin, Warty

Rialto Trout - a fish featured in both Antivan and Rivaini cuisine

Rivaini Pitaya - a colourful fruit with a sweet, delicate flavor. Though pitaya refers to dragonfruit family, the fruit doesn't look like dragonfruit.

River Salmon

Saffron

Sea Bass

Seere Peppers - Rivaini

Short-grain Rice - Antivan

Spearmint

Spicy Spice Collection - contains fourteen jars

Spring Onions

Striped Cod

Sugar, Brown

Sweetmelon

Tomatoes, Cherry

Vinegar, Dark

Vinegar, White

Walnut

Yam

New Foods:

Aged Antivan Cheese

Antaam Provisions

Antivan Dressing

Antivan Seafood Soup - uses sea bass, nocen shrimp, striped cod, squid, saffron, and salt

Apple Cake - Fereldan

Apple Cheesy Butter Noodles - Fereldan, a recipe made by Harding

Apple Dumplings - Fereldan

Apricot Liqueur

Armada Special - a Rivaini sandwich comprised of meat and cheese, it can have greens, pineapple, and more meat and cheese added. Or one can make it "Nevarran" meaning vegetarian.

Bran Cookies

Breaded Cheese Wands - Rivain, sticks of cheese breaded

Breadstick

Bronto Steak

Bug-cakes

Candied Sage Leaves - a popular Nevarran snack

Carta Fries - a Riviani dish, served as a side

Cheesy Toast

Chocolate Covered Strawberries

Churro - Antivan

Cider Porridge

Citrus Bagna Cauda - Antivan, a citrus sauce with anchovies

Coffee Ice - a frozen Minrathous treat, served with cream and toffee sauce on top. It is "like snow" but tastes of coffee

Cucumber sandwich

Dalish Seafood Soup

Deep Roads Crispers - a Rivaini dish

Demon-hair pasta

Eel Soup - Qun

Elderberry Pie - served in Ferelden and Tevinter

Elfroot Jelly

Fish Head Stew - Qun

Fish of the Day with Pear Slaw - Tevinter

Fish-fry

Free Marches Mash-up - a Rivaini dish

Fried Bread

Fried Bread with Herbs

Fried Leeks and Potatoes

Fried Peppers

Fry-bread - Tevinter

Gooseberry Pie

Gravy on Fish

Greens - salad

Greens with Antivan, Orlesian, or House Dressing

Griddle Cake

Grilled Fish Kebab

Grilled Halla - Dalish

Grilled Skewerd Squid

Grilled Treviso - Antivan, a fish named after the city

Grilled Treviso with Citrus Bagna Cauda

Hal's Fried Fish - Tevinter

Halla Cakes - Dalish

Ham and Herbs

Ham and Jam Slam - a Fereldan sandwich comprised of toast, butter, ham, and jam. Made by Harding.

Hazlenut Torte - Nevarran

Honey Cake with Figs - Tevinter

House Dressing - a Rivaini dressing

Isskap - a Qunari dish, that uses melons

Jam Pudding - Fereldan

Jam Tart - Fereldan

Jam, Apple

Jam, Cherry

Jam, Strawberry

Khachapuri - Tevinter, there is a three cheese variety

Lavender Cream - Antivan

Mince Pie

Mutton Stew - Fereldan

Mystery Stew

Nevarran Tomb Cheese

Non-Seafood Paella - Antivan

Noodles and Gravy

Nordbotten Cream - made of brined sheep's milk from Nordbotten

Orange Liqueur

Orlesian Dressing

Orlesian Sauce

Pasta Made of Peppers and Oil

Peanut Butter and Sausage Special - Tevinter

Pear Slaw - Tevinter

Peppered Steaks

Poached Crustaceans - Tevinter

Pork Dumplings - Fereldan

Pork Hand Pies with Fresh Herb Sauce - Tevinter

Potato Stew

Poutine

Rarebit - Nevarran

Raw Oysters on Ice with Lemon and Mint - Tevinter

Rhubarb Pie - Tevinter and Fereldan

Roasted Cabbage

Roasted Cabbage and Gravy

Roasted Chicken

Roasted Chicken Salad

Robust Loaf - a crusty, wholesome brown bread

Rolled Noodles

Salted Meat, Halla

Sauced Eels - Qunari

Sausage Sauced with Nut Butter Stuffed in a Bun - Tevinter

Savory Pie with Spinach - Tevinter

Scorpion Pasta - Tevinter

Scrambled Eggs

Scrambled Eggs and Gravy

Sea Monster Kebab - Rivaini

Seafood Paella

Seleny Ham - Antivan

Smoked Trout

Souffle

Spiced Fried Lentils - Tevinter

Spiced Porridge

Spit-Roasted Nug - Tevinter

Strawberry Tart

Street Meat

Sugar-biscuit Candy

Tarta de Limon - Antivan

Taste of Ferelden Bread and Cheese Spread

Tentacle Salad - Tevinter

The Divine's Hat - An Orlesian soft cheese molded to resemble the Divine's crown.

The Revered Mother's Knickers - Fereldan

Treviso Ham - Antivan

Turnip Stew - Fereldan

Vanilla and Nutmeg Tart

Venison Souffle

White Sauce

Wild Meat and Mushrooms - Dalish

Yam and Jam Slam - a Fereldan sandwich comprised of toast, butter, yam, and jam. Made by Harding.

Zeff's Fried Fish

New Drinks

Andoral's Breath - a type of coffee common in Treviso

Antivan Heritage Brandy

Antivan House Wine

Aromatic Coffee - Antivan

Assembly Ale - Dwarven

Cioccolata Calda - Antivan

Daisy Fun-Time Lemon Gin - Antivan, a juniper spirit flavoured with local flowers and fruit.

Dew of the Dales - Elven, Antivan. Spirits for the spirited, an elven elevation of the brewing arts only sold in Antiva.

Dock Town Homebrew - Tevinter

Dragon Piss Ale

Dwarven Stout - an Orzammar recipe, brewed by the dwarven Ambassadoria

Fire Brandy - used to flambé desserts

Ginger Tea

Gingerwort Truffle Tea

Grappling Hook - a white liqueur with hints of elderflower. Served with three coffee beans

Halla Milk

Kirkwall Select 9:36 - after the Kirkwall Rebellion, few barrels survived.

Lavender Tea

Lemon Gin - Antivan

Minrathous Red - hints of plum and spices

Minrathous White - a light and refreshing drink for humid Tevinter summers

Nevarran Red

Pomace Brandy - Antivan, brandy made from the pomace leftovers of wine making

Qun on the Rocks - Antivan, rum is matched with salt water and presumably seasonal fruit from Par Vollen.

Rivaini Moonshine - home-distilled Rivaini moonshine not for the faint of heart or stomach

Starkhaven Lager

Teven Lager - popular Dock Town amber brew

Vint-6 the common Red - thick and sweet, it is served by the sip. Tradition says that the more who partake, the greater the fortune

Vyrantium Brandy

#dragon age #foods of thedas #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age 4 #datv #da4 #anderfels #antiva #dalish #nevarra #rivain #tevinter #long post

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andypantsx3 · 1 year ago

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HOME, SAFE, YOURS : TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER

CONTENT & WARNINGS: pro hero au, gender neutral reader, established relationship, care-taking, aged-up characters, smut (reader gives shouto a shower handjob), 18+ minors please dni!

WORD COUNT: 2k

Shouto looks worn as he toes off his boots in the genkan.

It's not the first time your boyfriend has come home looking tired, and it's thankfully nothing like the bone-deep exhaustion that always pulls at him after a truly harrowing shift. But it's very clear Shouto has stretched himself today, judging by the slightly slower, more ginger way he's carrying himself.

Drawing closer, you can see dirt and ash scraped over his high cheekbones, and that much confirms your suspicions. Definitely a tough take down today, if he's looking this beat up.

"Hi Sho," you say, hurrying over to throw your arms around him, relieved to have him back in your hands. It's a little easier with the height the genkan step gives you, putting his broad shoulders in easier reach. "Tough day today?"

Shouto's arms come around you as he presses his face into your shoulder, breathing in deeply. He's cold, the chill from outside still lingering on his clothes, on his skin. He smells like ash and sweat.

"Hello, love," he says, his voice a low rumble you can feel against you. "It was... difficult."

You grip him tighter, holding him to you. "I'm glad you're safe."

His mouth is warm on the skin of your neck. "I am glad to come home to you."

A smile pulls at your mouth as you pet through his hair. It's soft and silky, but a little piecey—the after effect of having used phosphor, you know. You spend a couple moments absently running your fingers through the strands, clinging to as much of his shoulder as you can reach, reveling in the feeling of him back in your embrace, home safe where you like him best.

Shouto lets you hold him, face still pressed into the crook of your neck, the line of tension in his shoulders unwinding. His breath tickles your skin, slow and even. You cling just a little bit more tightly.

"Let's get some soup in you and get you in the shower, huh?" you say after you've stood like that for some minutes, your voice a little startling in the quiet of your apartment. You lightly tug on a hunk of his hair, inquiring.

Shouto doesn't move, just huffs softly into your shoulder.

You can't help but grin again, charmed by him as always, shifting so you can clutch his face in your hands and pull him up for a kiss instead. This time Shouto goes easily, his mouth following yours, his kiss soft and sweet and slow.

Shouto takes his time with you, so you do too, pouring your relief and your happiness to see him again into the kiss. His hands tighten on your back like he understands, hitching you up against him a bit more firmly.

"Soup time," you tell him when he finally lets your mouth go. Those heterochromatic eyes flutter open, and he frowns a little bit, leaning back in.

You smile into another kiss, laughing when his hands creep down your sides, charting a path to your thighs where you know he intends to pick you up once he's got you. Any other day and you'd let him take you against the wall right there in the genkan. But he's moving so slow you know it will be a struggle for him today, and you don't want him to strain himself any more than he already has.

There are other ways you can show your affection, today.

You quickly worm out of his embrace, dodging when he reaches out a long-fingered hand for you, frowning again. Fuck, he's so cute.

"Soup first," you order him, marching him into the kitchen.

A tiny pout purses his mouth but you're not to be deterred—you set him up at the table with a hot bowl of soup and several of last night's leftover sides; blanched spinach ohitashi and simmered squash. You plop an extra bowl of chicken and cucumber marinade directly in front of his soup as well—knowing full well he'll need the extra protein after a day like today.

As you hoped, the food quickly overtakes your boyfriend's focus. In your experience pro heroes need to intake an insane amount of calories, and even more on days they've utilized their quirks to the extreme. Shouto is no exception, his temperature quirk one of the most voracious energy burners of all, and very quickly the bowls in front of him begin to empty.

He looks even more exhausted when he finishes, and you wolf down your own bowl of soup, cutting him off as he attempts to clear the table.

"Go shower," you tell him, leaning down for a kiss even as you yank a bowl out of his long, elegant fingers.

Shouto looks up at you again, a microscopic downturn to his mouth that would be unreadable on anyone else, but on him counts as a pout. "You said after soup—"

"I'll join you when I'm done," you promise, your heart swelling with affection. It always pleases you that time with you seem to be his priority, even when he's clearly tired like this.

You laugh when this works like a charm, Shouto leaning in for another kiss before obeying. You hear the shower gutter and hiss on as you scrub the bowls in the sink, laying everything out to dry on the counter.

The bathroom is already hot and thick with steam when you let yourself in, and the mirror fogging. Shouto's left the curtain askew and your mouth dries out a little at the peeks of his body you can see—all that lean, sleek muscle glinting wetly in the light.

You step out of your clothes and slide in behind him, throwing an arm around his waist. His shoulders look especially broad in the small stall of your shower, taking up nearly the entire width, and you lean up to kiss in between them, letting your mouth linger.

"Hello, love," Shouto says, trying to turn to look at you. You hold him in place with your grip on his trim waist, reaching up to run a hand through the wet strands of his hair.

"Let me take care of you tonight," you say, pouring your insistence into your tone.

There's not much you can do to help Shouto with a job like pro heroics, particularly without a quirk of your own. But what you can do, what you like to do, is be there for him in the little ways—feeding him soup, washing his hair, taking the reigns when he's tired like this.

The contraction of Shouto's abdomen under your fingers as he sucks in a breath tells you he's understood your meaning. He shifts in your arms to face you, ducking in for a hard, wet kiss. Hot water spatters over your shoulder as he does so, pooling in the places where his skin meets yours.

You let him kiss you, slow and careful. Then you reach past him to uncap his shampoo, and rake it carefully through the strands of his hair, as Shouto obligingly keeps his head bent for you. You admire the way his long eyelashes flutter against his high cheekbones, the way his lovely mouth looks so soft and relaxed like this.

You take your time, moving slowly and carefully, before reaching for his conditioner. You slowly massage that in too, blinking against the water on your face when Shouto pulls you closer to him, pressing his face into your shoulder and huffing out another relaxed breath.

He could be asleep standing up by the time you move onto his his body wash, but he shivers as you run your hands over him. You love the feeling of him in your hands, all that slick, tight, dense muscle under your fingers.

He's so beautiful, so divinely-crafted. Sometimes you cannot believe Todoroki Shouto is yours to love and to care for.

His breath comes a little faster when your hands slide down his trim waist, as you work the suds into the V of his hips. "Love," he says, his voice low, rumbling.

"Turn around," you tell him, gently reaching up to move him as you do so.

You let your hands slide back in place, and then let them slip lower, taking Shouto into your hand. He's velvet soft in your fingers, but obligingly hard, thick and full—and even though you can't see him, you know just how pretty he looks in your palm. You press a kiss to his shoulder blade as he shudders, a powerful arm coming up to prop himself up against the shower wall.

You work him slowly at first, just as carefully as you'd pulled the shampoo through his hair. The flex of his abs against the palm of your other hand is transfixing, the shine and glint of the light over his muscles as he shifts in your fingers hypnotizing. Both of you linger in the moment, letting it stretch out long and hot and sweet, thick and slow like honey.

Shouto lets out a low groan when you thumb over the head of his cock, the arm he has pressed to the wall tensing. You do it again, reveling in the flex of his bicep, the roll of a powerful shoulder.

Shouto is the only person on earth as beautiful on the outside as he is on the inside, and you drink it all in, the sight of him, the beautiful sound of him as he utters your name, low and smooth and thick with feeling.

You keep pumping him like that, exactly how you know he likes, until he strains in your hands, that trim waist flexing as he can't help but rut into your grip.

One of your arms clutches him tighter against you as work him faster, and he lets out a soft moan, his fingers curling into a fist on the shower wall. It's only a minute or so more before he's arching into your hand, his hips bucking.

You tighten your fingers, thumbing over his head again, and that's all it takes. Shouto groans your name into the hiss of the shower spray, and comes all over your palm, every muscle in his body straining forwards.

He's so beautiful as he comes apart in your hands. His chest is heaving when you finally stop, and he shifts in your arms again, ducking his head to press an exhausted, satisfied kiss to your mouth.

"Thank you, love," he intones, those heterochromatic eyes settling on you, dark with pleasure. Pink stains his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and he looks flush with effort, exactly the way he does after he takes you apart in bed most nights.

You grin up at him, leaning up on your toes to press another kiss to his mouth. "I love you, Sho."

He murmurs his reply into your mouth, and you run your hands over him again, pulling through his wet locks.

"Now let's get you into bed," you tell him bossily, reaching past him to turn off the shower spray.

"What about you, love?" he asks, a little frown marring his perfect mouth. You kiss it off of him, then tug him out of the shower and wrap him in a fluffy towel, scrubbing it over his hair.

You'll get back in to take your own shower properly in the morning, you know, and once Shouto has slept things off, he will be eager to return the favor. For now though, you tell him you are satisfied just to be with him, to be near him, to take care of him.

You tell him you love him again, and pull him into bed, still damp and sweet and pliant with his release. You're satisfied as he melts into sleep, his exhaustion winning out.

Truthfully, there is nothing more you want in this life, you think, as you follow after him, slipping into slumber too. You want him like this always, relaxed in your embrace—home, safe, yours.

Happy New Year from me!! I wanted to give you one more Shouto before the year was out. Thank you guys so much for everything this year. I am continually grateful to be a part of this community, and I will work hard to learn more and give you my best in 2024!!

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shoto x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #shouto x reader #character: todoroki shouto #andie's writing

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 3 months ago

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Three - Oaths | Series Masterlist

Summary: Aemond plans his upcoming nuptials, and his intended is quickly discovering what they expect of her | Word Count: 5.7k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage, intimate examinations, mild threats

His fingertips were wrinkled from bathing for too long. Deep, pale and inset, as if his life blood had escaped him. His hair was still damp around his shoulders, turning the faint linen near-transparent as it clung to him. The looking glass stared back, reflecting a war-broken prince.

There was once only one ugly scar that graced his body. And now, a second had accompanied it, jagged, red and raw, stretching from his collarbone over his shoulder. He remembered how flesh had stretched, blood gushing forth, the stench of stagnant water and death held onto his riding leathers.

How had he made it home at all?

The memory was no clearer than the question.

With a somewhat withered sigh, he dipped his fingers into the pot that had been left by Maester Gerardys. An ointment, the stumbling old man had said, to ease both the chronic pain of his temples inflicted by his long held wound to his eye, and the searing, intense pain that ruptured through the muscles of his shoulder, down to his bicep.

The cream was cold, and smelled faintly of cucumbers, loosened with sweet oils. He wasn't sure whether the calming effect was due to the validity of the remedy or the temperature itself. Either way, he did not trust the man.

But Maester Orwyle was dead. As were many others. And they were left with traitors, those who preferred to see a woman on the Iron Throne, and failed.

He did not move as the chamber doors opened, the soft, measured steps already telling him who it was, he always knew. Aemond remained seated by the hearth, his eye fixed on the flames. The fire danced, shadows flickering across his features.

“Mother,” he greeted without turning, his voice steady, though there was an undertone of weariness. A voice tainted by the unending visions of blood and fire.

Alicent entered quietly, her green skirts whispering against the floor as she crossed the room. She paused beside him, her sharp, deep eyes studying her son. “You’ve met her, then,” she said, her tone neutral. “Lady Rosaleen.”

Aemond’s gaze did not waver from the fire. “I have.”

At least she'd had the decency to wait a few days before badgering him, he thought with distaste.

Alicent waited, expecting more, but when none came, she sighed softly and moved to sit across from him. “And? What do you think of her?”

There was a long silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Finally, Aemond leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the armrests, his eye hooded.

“She is sharp,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “Intelligent. Unafraid to speak plainly. Perhaps too plainly.”

Alicent did not seem pleased. At all pleased.

“Her and her blood shall soon learn the behaviours of court are not that of Raventree Hall. They shall have to adapt. As we all have.”

Aemond remained silent, allowing the amber glow to bathe his sore body. Not gracing his mother with the courtesy of a reply.

Alicent turned her ring, a gesture of annoyance perhaps. “She is suitable?”

He turned his head slightly, his eye finally meeting his mother’s. What looked back at him was a love of sorts, just the kind tainted by judgement. “Spare me the pretense that my opinion holds any weight,” he said sharply, his jaw strained.

The damned cream had done nothing yet. The pressure in his temples squeezed tight. Like two palms pressing on either side of his head.

But before his mother could reply, he added. “I will wed her. As instructed.”

Alicent seemed to study him, as she had her second son for many, many years. But she still failed to truly understand him. Her son was a lesson the Gods had sent her to learn, a test perhaps. One moment a softly spoken, albeit shadowed individual. The next, a man whose pride was so much shattered he would burn lands to ash just to feel powerful.

His father had never needed such things to feel important.

Was there some part of her that held this contempt, she often wondered? Are children so simple as being similar to merely one parent?

She did not push for the answer. For she would not like it.

The Dowager Queen stood finally, smoothing her skirts, looking towards the flames and then to her son once more. Her last child, her only blood in this world.

“I shall have the Maester examine her then. To ensure her health and virtue before the preparations.”

Aemond said nothing. Offering nothing. And when Alicent left, his chambers felt no less-stifling. If anything, the little respite his mother’s presence offered as of late, was simply replaced an empty hollowness that had burrowed into his soul the day he emerged, bloody and soaked, from God’s Eye Lake.

He had meant to come home. To Mother and Helaena. But he had been too late for them. One lost to despair, the other to grief.

Those echoes lingered much louder than Aemond would have liked to admit. And even now, barely wearing the title of Prince Regent was still a cloak that he wore too heavily on his shoulders. He was expected to steer a crumbling ship to paradise, to quell rebellions, to issue pardons, negotiate new alliances. A wedding should have been a simple matter. An alliance of sorts, but one woven into bodies and bedsheets, written in ink and blood.

This union felt like another battlefield. Albeit, one strewn with polite courtesies instead of corpses.

The crackle of the fire had Aemond transfixed. It reminded him of Harrenhal, of Vhagar’s fire. The phantom heat of dragonfire washed over him, a fear and powerfulness alike thrumming in his fingertips, throat tightening. The memories were always the same. The intrusive thoughts. He could still feel the screams splitting the air sometimes, if he truly listened closely enough.

A hard swallow lodged in his chest, half panic, half anger at the sudden recollection. He forced it down. Not here. Not now. Duty took root in his mind, his mother’s words, the council’s demands, and the weight of the Seven Kingdoms pressed down on him like a closed fist.

These days he spent more time in the Small Council chambers than in his own.

Outside, he could hear the low hum of bustling servants and distant chatter, but within these walls, all was pin-drop silent.He rubbed his temple, feeling a sharp twinge behind his brow. The nightmares, the tension, the endless demands of the crown, they all converged into a constant ache. But he refused to yield to it. Duty overrode pain. Or rather, duty was a type of pain.

The scratch of the nib of his quill certainly did not help matters.

A light knock on the door did not disturb him. At Aemond’s clipped command of “enter,” the door creaked open, and Tyland stepped inside with a courteous bow.

“My Prince,” Tyland greeted, his voice carrying its usual blend of deference and quiet authority. “I understand you wished to discuss the wedding arrangements.”

Aemond inclined his head, setting the quill aside. “Indeed,” he said, leaning back against the carved wooden chair. “Sit.”

Tyland slipped nearby on his usual seat, balancing a neat stack of financial ledgers and a leather-bound ledger on his lap. His calculating gaze swept the room before settling on Aemond. There was always an air of uncertainty about the way the Master of Coin regarded him, he thought. Since the war, he carried himself differently. Perhaps it was contempt, for sending his brother to his death at the Red Fork. But judging from the way he now held himself, as if he were finally the sibling in the light of the Keep, his clothes finer, his taste pickier, and his demands never-ending, Aemond thought that the Lord that sat before him was finally grateful to live the prestigious life he was always promised, untethered.

“I have asked for a thorough accounting of the expenditures related to the wedding. Including the necessary additions to Lady Rosaleen’s dowry—”

“Just so, My Prince,” Tyland cut in smoothly. He opened the ledger and traced a finger down a column of neatly written figures, several newly gleaming rings on his fingers. “Lady Rosaleen’s dowry has been negotiated with Lord Blackwood, of course. Owing to his illness, his maester and I have corresponded. We have settled on a sum that will reflect the union’s importance, but…” He paused, lifting his gaze. “It is not unsubstantial.”

At least the man got straight to the point, he thought. Albeit looking far too pleased with himself.

Aemond gave a curt nod. “Go on.”

Tyland cleared his throat. “We must also consider the costs of the ceremony itself, feasts, tourneys, gifts to foreign dignitaries who may attend, and the inevitable taxes and tariffs associated with festivities. We had planned a scaled-down version in light of the realm’s…recent hardships. But the lords of the small council believe a grander display of Targaryen generosity would reassure the kingdom that we are once again stable.”

“‘Generosity,’” Aemond repeated dryly, leaning back in his chair. “The coffers have been strained since the war. Do we have the means to finance this ‘reassurance’?”

“We can manage, My Prince, if we balance the expenditures properly. A modest feast, but with enough pageantry to signal renewal. We need not rival the lavishness of King Aegon’s coronation, for instance, merely something to show the lords that the realm is not entirely impoverished.”

Aemond considered this, his eye flicking down to the parchment on which he’d scratched a few notes. “And Lady Rosaleen’s personal requests? Has her retinue made any demands for special offerings, entertainments, or additions to the ceremony?”

“Thus far, no. They have been surprisingly reasonable. A few items of significance to her house, colours, perhaps a small number of Riverlands dishes served at the wedding feast, tokens of her heritage. Nothing excessive.”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. The last thing he needed was a tug-of-war over ostentatious displays. “Good. Then we proceed with a moderate ceremony that won’t beggar us.”

Tyland nodded, sliding a narrow scroll from beneath the ledger. “I have itemised potential costs, wine from the Arbor, spices from Dorne, entertainment. We could hire travelling mummers or a small troupe of singers, though the cost of a full tourney is significant.” He glanced up. “Is a tourney truly necessary?”

Aemond’s lips thinned. A tournament, once, that might have been a shining moment in a royal union. Now, it felt like a hollow spectacle. The realm still bled from the wounds of war, men’s purses were light, and their families hungry. Yet, to skimp on tradition might be seen as weakness or disinterest in forming a new road ahead.

“We cannot ignore custom, but we will keep it brief. A single day of jousting, perhaps, with fewer knights invited to compete. We do not need every lord from Dorne to the Neck presenting themselves. Only enough to give the ceremony weight.”

Tyland’s quill scratched over the parchment, noting the prince’s instructions. “A small but prestigious list of contestants, then. I’ll inform Ser Willis to organise the rosters accordingly.”

Aemond gave a curt nod, fingertips drumming against the desk. “What of the dowry? You said it is substantial. How substantial?”

Tyland eyed his notes. “The Blackwoods have pledged a sizable sum, in coin and goods, timber rights from certain forested lands near Raventree Hall, which could be valuable for shipbuilding or repairs to the castle towns damaged during the war. Additionally, some white stone mined near the Vale, shared claims, apparently, from an ancient marriage, and an annual donation of grain once their fields recover.”

Aemond’s jaw worked as he considered it. “Useful resources for rebuilding, in any case.”

“Indeed. Truth be told, it’s a better arrangement than some we’ve seen from houses equally wounded by the Dance. It suggests the Blackwoods see long-term benefit in this union.”

Which, of course, makes sense, Aemond thought. They had supported Rhaenyra at first, and switching allegiance when the tide turned had come at a cost. This was their chance to ensure they stood on the winning side for the future.

“Very well,” he said aloud. “Ensure the final details are recorded. Once the wedding is done, we can gauge how best to distribute these resources in ways that benefit both Crown and Riverlands.”

Tyland dipped his head, scratching more notes onto the paper. “I will see to it, My Prince.”

A pause followed, and Aemond noticed Tyland studying him carefully, as if evaluating whether or not to broach another matter. The Lannister coughed lightly. “And how do you find your future bride, if I may ask? The realm’s tongues are already wagging at the prospect of this…arrangement.”

“Let them wag,” he answered bluntly, “she is determined and intelligent. That is all.”

Tyland only nodded, a polite smile hovering on his lips. “Such traits may prove an asset, given the state of the Riverlands.”

“Precisely,” Aemond said, schooling his features into neutrality. “She will be of use in that regard.”

Tyland clicked his tongue in approval, setting the ledger aside. “I shall make the proper arrangements, then. If you have no other requirements—”

“That will be all,” Aemond cut in. He rose, inclining his head at Tyland. “Thank you, Lord Tyland.”

With a bow, Tyland gathered his notes and slipped out, leaving Aemond with a mild sense of relief. These formalities, discussing dowries, entertainments, budgets, were trifles, comparatively. They seemed superficial at face value, and yet even Aemond could not deny their significance in showing the crown’s unyielding resolve.

He moved to the window, gazing out at King’s Landing sprawled below. Somewhere beyond that hazy horizon stood Raventree Hall, a place he’d once considered an enemy seat. Now, it was to be bound to him by marriage, its fortunes entwined with his own. He could not help but think of her once more, Rosaleen, recalling the tension he had felt, and the strange current of fascination that had run beneath it. She wanted to ensure he understood the Riverlands’ scars, the result of his flames.

That would not be a simple matter. But not impossible.

He sighed as another knock signalled his next meeting. Likely Ser Willis to discuss the security of the wedding. So it begins again, the unending responsibilities of rule, weighed against the ghosts of a war that refused to fade. He would soon be bound to a woman who spoke to rebuilding and destruction in the same breath, and if she wanted to rebuild, like it or not, she would need to look past his transgressions.

If she chose to or not, was another matter.

“My Prince. I apologise for the interruption.”

Aemond glanced up from behind his cluttered desk, quill rendered dumb in his grip, his jaw tightened at the sight of Larys Clubfoot, arriving unannounced. And unsummoned.

“You seldom visit without cause, Lord Larys. Make it quick.”

Though Larys inclined his head, it was unclear whether it was out of polite courtesy or annoyance at Aemond’s tone. “I wish to speak of Harrenhal, to repair the damage of the long-fought war–”

“If you’re fretting about your seat, be direct.”

If there was anything Lord Larys was, it was predictable about his prattling. For an age before the war, he had sat smug in every idle corner of the Keep, resisting the urge to grin ear to ear at having been appointed, though de facto, Lord of Harrenhal. A seat only given to him because all his kin before him had perished. As of late, he’d found himself in tenuous possession of that cursed fortress, granted by the crown, yes, but hardly secure. With the war’s end, lords of the Riverlands grumbled, complaints of blatant disregard for the ancient castle rattled through those scorched lands.

Those who thought certain houses were better for the seat.

Aemond, himself, had put Lord Simon Strong to the sword, had played his part in crumbling the walls, and had almost met his end. Perhaps Larys thought he would naturally feel entitled to reimburse the costs of those damages. Real or otherwise.

“The Riverlands remain unsettled, Your Grace–”

“I am in the business of remedying that.”

“Of course,” he acquiesced, his voice unnaturally uncertain, a quiver of cowardice lacing his voice, “but, now your intended bride has blood of that region, some might seize upon that connection, claiming the seat of Harrenhal should revert to a local house more aligned with—”

“You fear Lady Rosaleen’s ties to the Riverlands will undercut your claim.”

Larys saw it, the hint of a smirk in Aemond’s features. One that told him the Prince was more than happy to see him squirm.

“She is a Blackwood, of an old family, highly regarded in that region. It is not impossible that her union with the crown could inspire certain factions to press for new arrangements.”

“Then hold your seat with your own power,” Aemond snapped, “I am not in the habit of safeguarding every lord’s inheritance. Harrenhal was given to you by the crown. If you cannot hold it, that is your failing.”

Larys pressed his lips into a thin line, feathers thoroughly ruffled. “I meant no offence, Your Grace. Only that the realm whispers.”

“You want my reassurance, that I won’t hand Harrenhal over to House Blackwood or any other local lord. Fine. I see no point in transferring titles further. I have more pressing concerns than who holds that ruin. Provided you remain loyal, you may keep it.”

There was not but a few seconds Lord Larys felt truly calm and relieved before Aemond’s chair scraped against the stone floor, his form unbending to full height, arms folded behind his back.

“But hear me,” the prince continued, “loyalty is more than murmured pledges at council. Serve me well, and I shall not contest your seat. Fail me, or scurry about stirring trouble to safeguard your seat, and you will find no refuge, either behind Harrenhal’s bloody walls or anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. Are we clear?”

Larys leaned his weight on his cane as he bowed, “perfectly, Your Grace.”

“As for Lady Rosaleen,” he said, forcing a calmer tone, his fist forming to try and dispel the irritation coiling within, “she is a woman, yes, but she might offer insight on the Riverlands in time. My insight, Lord Larys. Mine to use, not yours.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I live only to serve.”

“Then serve,” Aemond said coldly, turning away to dismiss him, resisting that sweet, dark desire to kick the poor cunt’s cane from under him. “And one more thing…”

He had purposefully done so that Lord Larys had to make the effort to turn once again fully to meet his scrutinising gaze.

“Do not collude with my mother,” he warned, “I am well aware of the part you played when my brother yet lived. The quiet counsel, the scheming, to secure your own means of success. I will not tolerate any further plans hatched behind my back, not with the Dowager Queen, nor with anyone else who might seek to steer me. You will hold Harrenhal by my grace, and by that grace alone.”

Larys merely inclined his head once more, a flicker of apprehension flashing across his face before he made his swift, or as much as he could, exit.

The war may be over, but the ceaseless clawing of men’s ambitions, would never be over. Lords like Larys were not done scheming. He would have to remain vigilant, ensuring no opportunist tried to subvert his authority, or his upcoming marriage to Rosaleen.

He would let Harrenhal keep their ghosts for now. Perhaps in their dark, stone halls, bleeding red, some ghost of him of years passed wandered there too.

Rosaleen traced her finger over the piece of parchment on her writing desk. The surface bearing faint impressions of her neat, curved script. The one honed skill she had appreciated from her mother. The letter was one of several, penned over the last few days to her father, each carefully sealed with the black raven of House Blackwood. She had written of her safe arrival at the Red Keep, of the kindness of her new maidservant, and even of the sprawling view of King’s Landing from her tower window. But there was no mention of Prince Aemond, nor of the strange meeting they had shared.

She exhaled, cursing when she had smudged her name when the ink had not yet dried. She was little known for her patience. Truth be told, she had been wound tight since the first meeting with her betrothed, and some things were better left unwritten.

A light knock always preceded Lyla’s entrance. The girl cutsied shyly, her pale, fine cheeks flushed as if someone had pinched them. “Good morrow, my Lady,” she said, her voice so smooth she almost seemed older than her years. “I have bought the garments His Grace requested you try before the upcoming festivities.”

Festivities. She could have laughed.

She was so much fussed over here she felt as if she were a babe. Though Rosaleen had become accustomed to the rhythms of the Red Keep since her arrival, the surroundings still felt foreign. Every corner, every corridor, seemed almost alive with whispers. It was a world she was slowly beginning to navigate.

Lyla unlaced Rosaleen’s robe, eyeing up the crimson fabrics laid over a nearby chaise. The beginnings of her wedding attire.

“They’ve sent over fabrics from the royal seamstress,” Lyla remarked, “velvet and silks with golden thread. They said it’s to be embroidered with your house sigil, joined with the Targaryen dragon.”

She was sure Lyla caught the roll of her eyes in the reflection. Dragon this, dragon that, she thought. She could already imagine the talk, the Riverlands’ raven entwined with the dragon of House Targaryen, the union meant to symbolise the forging of peace. Yet the memory of war still lay across the Riverlands like a fresh scar.

“Quite the combination,” Rosaleen murmured, allowing Lyla to slip off her robe. The cool air of the chamber brushed her skin, and she crossed her arms lightly across her chest. “Does the Queen truly intend for that?”

Lyla swallowed, pressing her lips together nervously. Not wanting to overstep. “Yes, my Lady. She said it’s only fitting to display both lines united.”

Rosaleen gave a non-committal nod, though she barely believed it herself. She couldn’t help but wonder what Aemond would think of that. Would he care at all how the sigils were stitched, or was it merely another item on the long list of wedding formalities?

Lyla moved gracefully around Rosaleen, lifting the wedding skirt from the stand. “If I may say so, my Lady,” she ventured timidly, “the colour suits you. The deep reds, well, they match both your house and his. It’s quite pretty.”

“Anything to feel less like an ornament, the better. I suppose.”

Lyla pinned the skirt in place, testing the fit. Where to pull in, where to let out. As if the Lady of House Blackwood were just another puppet in the show the Realm called ‘the crown’.

“How do you feel about Prince Aemond?” she ventured another comment, a brief stint at bravery.

“I have grown accustomed to the idea,” she said carefully. “But weddings of this magnitude, they bring their own pressures. I’d be lying if I said I was immune to them.”

“It is only natural to feel nervous.”

Rosaleen cocked her head, her deep eyes focussed on her silhouette in the looking glass. Lyla was not wrong, the crimsons did suit her, but their hue felt so different. “I would not say ‘nervous’.”

“Then what say you, my Lady?” Lyla asked, sidling up to her to take in her figure, pulling a loose thread.

Rosaleen watched the slow inhale and exhale of her chest, as if she herself could draw courage from the woman staring back. Sometimes, when she had damp hair, pulled back away from her face, all she could see was her father in his younger years. The dark, brooding personality of a Blackwood, mercilessly confident. And yet, in herself, she merely saw his image, not his ambition.

“Restless.”

There were only so many shades of red Rosaleen could bear to scrutinise before she finally dismissed Lyla with a polite, though slightly exasperated, wave of her hand. Each scarlet bolt of fabric seemed indistinguishable from the last, daringly bold, but ultimately the same vivid hue she had worn all her life. Boldness was in her blood, stitched into the very threads of her heritage.

With so much hassling and prodding all in one morning, Rosaleen could barely stomach Aly’s incessant moaning. And the morning was such a nice one it would be a pity to waste such an opportunity. The gardens here were so different to those at home. Their scent as well. Rosemary and thyme, flowers of all exotic kinds lingered in the air, carried on the soft breeze that provided a momentary respite from the dull humidity.

Arianne walked beside her, fingers nervously twisting in front of her. Though her cousin usually radiated gentle warmth, she seemed troubled today, her bright eyes downcast. Rosaleen cast her a sidelong glance, waiting for Arianne to speak first. When she remained silent, Rosaleen nudged her gently with her elbow.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet, care to share your thoughts, sweet cousin?”

Arianne exhaled, her gaze flickering to a cluster of purple flowers before she responded. “I was just thinking. About marriage, and the future, I suppose.”

Rosaleen could have rolled her eyes at the mention of yet more marriage. But she let a teasing note enter her voice, hoping to lighten the mood. “I thought you were in no hurry.”

“I wasn’t. I am not, truly.” Arianne’s cheeks flushed, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “But seeing you, all the talk, the preparations, even though it’s hardly a love match, makes me wonder if it’s time I considered my own prospects.”

Rosaleen frowned, slowing her pace. “You’re hardly an old maid, Arianne. There’s no rush to marry if you don’t wish it.”

“I know,” she said, chewing her lip, “but ever since my brother was sent to ward, he has been restless. Eager to barter me away for some alliance or profit even. I can’t imagine he’ll show restraint when the next opportunity arises.”

Rosaleen clasped her hands, knowing very well how her Piper uncle could be when restless. “And what is it you want?”

“I am not sure,” she admitted. “I have always thought, one day, I would marry. It’s just the way of things, isn’t it? Daughters wed, they raise children, and they secure their house’s future. But the more I see of the court, the less certain I am that it’s what I truly desire,” she shook her head, a faint, apologetic laugh escaping her, “but I suppose that makes me sound selfish.”

“Gods forbid we sound selfish,” Rosaleen commented half-heartedly, “they expect us to take on these roles without question, and yet they never stop to wonder if it’s what we truly want. Or if we might be more useful doing something else.”

Arianne gave her a sad smile. “What else is there for me, though? I don’t have your spirit, Rosaleen. I don’t think I could stand to clash with Father as you might with yours. He frightens me, if I am honest.”

“Is your father not due to visit Court in the coming months? Surely he will not organise a match for you if he is not yet here. Your father is an eternally proud man, he would not offend his only daughter with a match lesser than he believes fit."

Arianne’s sweet face grimaced, as much as her features would allow, “it is not beyond my father to organise such things by raven. I myself have not seen him for the better part of a year.”

“Well,” Rosaleen said, looping her arm through Arianne’s and casting a thoughtful glance down the garden path, “when he does arrive, you won’t be lacking in allies. You have Aly and me, after all. Us ‘Blackwood bitches’ will see to it that he learns his place.”

Arianne giggled at the jest, the sound sweet against the stillness of the late afternoon. She fit her pace to match her cousin’s, her brighter, more delicate features standing in gentle contrast to Rosaleen’s dark ones. Ever since they were girls, they had walked this delicate line of opposites, Rosaleen bold and unafraid to spar with her parents, while Arianne, poor thing, had never found the courage to stand up to her own father’s venom. The loss of her mother at a young age had left her alone in Lord Piper’s domain, a place where kindness seemed rare.

Still, here, linked arm in arm, Arianne felt a flicker of warmth. No matter how opposite they were, Rosaleen’s unwavering confidence offered a refuge she so desperately needed, especially in a world where women were often told to be everything but themselves.

No stranger of a maester to Lady Rosaleen Blackwood would put his fingers anywhere near her. Especially not in her. And despite reassurances from Queen Alicent, Rosaleen, with the support of Aly, reiterated the importance that the examination to ensure her virtue, be performed by the maester she bought with her, Maester Carwyn.

All the same, he had known her since birth, it was no easy thing to lay back and allow him, however medical, to prod and poke at her most intimate areas.

Carwyn muttered polite reassurances as he prepared his tools, Rosaleen lay rigid on her bed, the sheets fisted in her palms. She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, certain that every hint of her discomfort was on full display. It was one thing to be told there would be an examination for virtue, and another to lay here, half-disrobed, beneath the watchful eyes of those who presumed to judge her body in the name of politics. Even through the fine, cotton drapes that was supposed to hide her, embarrassment curled in her gut.

Had poor Princess Helaena once lay here as well, or did Queen Alicent spare her sweet daughter this torture.

Alysanne was at her side, her dark gaze full of protective fire as she pressed a reassuring hand to Rosaleen’s arm. “I’ll stay right here,” she whispered fiercely. “Unless there was a steamy lapse of morals I should know of.”

Rosaleen cast a playful glare. As if Aly herself could make jokes such as that about a lapse of morals.

She glanced briefly at Alicent, who stood by the open window with her hands folded neatly before her, her expression unreadable. The Dowager Queen had insisted on observing, citing ‘formalities’ and ‘the realm’s best interests.’ At least she wasn’t staring, Rosaleen thought with a small relief.

Carwyn performed such an examination, luckily with warm hands, a small reprieve from the disgust she felt at her body’s blatant protest of the touch. It was an impersonal procedure of curt nods and murmured sounds of approval. Alysanne’s hold on her arm tightened whenever the Maester moved too boldly, and for that small comfort, Rosaleen was grateful.

When it was over, the Maester cleared his throat, scribbling a note on a small parchment. “My lady is as chaste as one might hope,” he announced softly, nodding to Alicent. “All is in order for the wedding.”

Finally turning once Rosaleen lowered her skirts, Alicent cast a sidelong glance, “thank you, maester,” she said coolly, “you may go.”

Rosaleen gave Aly a grateful smile, watching as her Blackwood cousin disappeared behind the chamber door behind Maester Carwyn, leaving two queens, one of long past, and one of the future, alone together.

“You must forgive the unpleasantness of this moment,” Alicent began, sympathy ghosting over her features, “the ways of court are oftentimes barbaric, and the realm demands certainty.”

Rosaleen swallowed, keeping her expression as composed as she could manage. “I understand, Your Grace,” she replied, forcing a steadiness she didn’t feel. “Certainty is a precious thing, especially after so many uncertainties in the realm.”

A flicker of something, approval, or perhaps calculation, gleamed in Alicent’s eyes. “Indeed. You speak plainly, Lady Rosaleen, which I can appreciate. Though there is more to consider now that you will be joined to my son. Tell me, how do you find the Red Keep thus far?”

“It is grand,” she answered carefully, “and overwhelming, in equal measure. Though I suspect most new arrivals feel the same.”

Alicent gave a faint nod, her hands clasped tightly before her. “Overwhelming, yes. The court can be a labyrinth of hidden motives. Doubtless, you’ve already sensed that. But for all the chatter and spectacle, a prince’s bride is meant to stand at his side and help maintain order. Not to fan the flames of further imbalance.”

Her voice held a blunt edge, and Rosaleen recognised it as a warning. Stay in line. She lifted her chin fractionally. “I have no intention of causing imbalance, Your Grace.”

“Of course.” Alicent’s responding smile was thin. She paced a few steps away, letting her gaze drift over the tapestries on the wall. “Your role, first and foremost, is to be Aemond’s wife and to see to his line. Politics, while important, should remain secondary. For a time, at least. He needs heirs, Lady Rosaleen. The realm needs them. Do not let that slip from your mind.”

Rosaleen forced a polite smile, though the taste of it felt bitter. “I assure you, I haven’t forgotten.”

Alicent’s gaze lingered on her face, as though searching for any hint of rebellion. After a moment, she inclined her head, seemingly satisfied with what she found, or failed to find. “Good,” she said simply. “Then I hope we can avoid further unpleasantness.”

For a moment, Rosaleen regarded her. A mother who had been through so much, so young. Too young perhaps. Had someone in years passed given this same warning to her with King Viserys? It would not take two guesses to pinpoint whom. These words were too scripted, too neat, to simply be a spur of the moment conversation with her future daughter-in-law. These were the warnings of a woman who was forced to become one too soon. Familiar ones.

She felt a flutter of sympathy, before she recognised Queen Alicent did not intend to feel the same for her. How could she not, Rosaleen allowed herself to think. Was it not exhausting to endlessly toil in service to men, her own late-husband, and then to her own sons?

How must it feel, to have such power Alicent did have be snuffed out as if she had never felt it.

Would her future husband do the same to her?

“I shall leave you to rest,” Alicent added, her voice once again carrying that note of finality. “You’ll need your strength in the coming days. Let us both hope the realm finds peace in this union.”

Without waiting for Rosaleen’s reply, the Dowager Queen turned and swept to the door. Taking in a shaky breath, she let her fingers drift over her collar, keenly aware of the vulnerability she had just been forced to display, and the warning she’d been given. Yes, the realm demands certainty, she thought grimly. But at what cost to me?

Play the part. Bear the heirs. Keep your counsel mild.

Mild.

But she was a Blackwood. And the taste of the evening indignities rested bitterly on her tongue.

If she was to be Aemond's bride, his mother was going to have to trust her.

And yet around her lingered the ghosts, the tragedies of war. Scribblings had been meticulously painted over on the wooden panels surrounding her chambers. The erasure of Queen Helaena’s so-called ‘madness’. If Rosaleen looked close enough, traced the patterns indented with her fingertips, she could almost make out what had been there.

Was she truly mad? To experience what that poor girl had, what blood had been shed before her in the name of victory, who would not?

“My Lady,” Lyla interrupted her thoughts with a soft, careful voice. Wide eyes. She was nervous. “Prince Aemond wishes to see you.”

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 10 months ago

Note

Stardew valley bachelors (and krobus and the wizard) witnessing the farmer chug multiple jars of mayonnaise. Just really slinging it back.

Okay ngl I never did this till right now and I got everybody's reactions so this is based on the responses my farmer got after doing this

Spoilers: they've all known my farmer for about 7 years so it's nothing too shocking to them,,,but it's still highly questionable lmao

.....

Shane

"Umm..."

For years, him and Pam were beer addicts...and now comes along you, the new farmer who's a very...different kind of addict.

An addict to mayonnaise, that is.

For years, people have been judging him for his habit, so it seems fair that he should be allowed to judge you 100% for having the weirdest fucking habit in the valley.

He started opening up to you (in his 2 heart event) and you're just sitting next to him, drinking mayonnaise to wash out the beer he offered you.

Only after you two get closer does he decide "well shit, they're weird..but they're also one of the few who care about me,,,"

And he eventually lets go of it altogether.

But he'll still tease you about your mayo addiction from time to time.

"What're you gonna put in the potluck this year? Gold star mayo? Or did you already eat it on the way here?"

"Oh shut up."

"Heh heh."

Sam

"Gross!"

Considering it's one of his hated gifts, this shouldn't come as a surprise to you.

But the way you've absolutely freaked him out by drinking it in front of him (and subsequently making him miss his kickflip) was hilarious.

"That's what you get for skating on other people's property." You shook your head, smirking as you bring out another jar. "You think Jodi needs some for later? Or should I just drink it in front of her, too?"

"NO! Stop. Please don't do that." Sam hisses. "One, she might uninvite you from future family dinners. And two, she'll think it's one of those weird trends and blame me for it!"

"A trend..hm? Doesn't sound like a bad idea. This town could use one more tradition." You laugh, consuming the jar and not missing the look of horror on his face.

"A-And I thought Abigail eating rocks was nuts...you two would be great friends.."

Harvey

"Umm..."

While he's well aware of the many health benefits to mayonnaise, he wonders if you know that they're best as a condiment....not a beverage you can just sling back.

"But you told me to lay off the Joja Colas, doctor," you pointed out to him. "You're telling me those are a healthier alternative to this?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all." He huffs. "It's just..erm..I've never met someone who enjoyed mayonnaise by itself..it sounds-"

"Disgusting?"

"N-No! I didn't mean it like-"

"I'm kidding, Harvey." You laugh a little, amused by his nervousness. "You know any side effects to drinking large quantities of mayo?"

"..none in particular, but that doesn't mean you should-"

"Then if I start feeling anything different, I'll let you know. Thank you." With a wink, you pull out some dinosaur mayo and drink it on your way out of the clinic...with poor Harvey wondering wtf that was.

Regular mayo was fine, but that green icky-looking mayo...had him gravely concerned over what you were doing to your body.

Elliot

"Why?!"

You thought you were being subtle, drinking a little bit of mayo while hanging out at his beachside cabin.

But nope.

You've absolutely horrified this man. Traumatized, even.

It's almost as bad as the time you left a super cucumber on his doorstep, and the next day he sent you a letter demanding to know who made you play this "cruel prank" on him.

In reality, you thought it'd be a nice gift and he'd make something poetic out of a rare sea creature you fished up.

Apparently not and that's when you quickly learned it's a hated one.

"Oh don't be so dramatic," you shake your head. "It's easier to carry than some full course meal."

"But you could have any other food....why that?" Elliot asks, now genuinely curious about what goes on in your mind to think mayo is a suitable choice in food.

You have no explanation though other than "it's most convenient for me and I like the taste".

So he leaves it alone but....maybe it's better not to drink it around him without warning (or drink it when he's buzzed and he may not remember you doing that).

Sebastian

"Umm..."

And here he was, on Ginger Island, hoping to get a brief vacation away from the valley and all its weirdness.

Yet you came along to visit and check on your beach farmhouse--bringing tons of mayo jars with you.

You got thirsty while talking to Seb in the hot sun, and instinctively began chugging the first thing you opened out of your bag.

You don't even realize what you've done until he gives you the strangest look ever.

"Have you always liked drinking mayo...like that?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Um..not since moving into the valley and learning how to make it." You shrugged, smiling sheepishly as you brought out another jar. This time a green color.

"What's that one?"

"Oh! Dinosaur mayo. It's a lot thicker and kinda tastes like a kale drink-"

"I'm sorry, there's dinosaurs in the mines?"

Alex

"Umm..."

"What?" You shoot him a defensive look, cradling the half-empty jar like it's your baby. "You've eaten every raw egg I give you, and I never judge."

"But..that's a little different, isn't it?" He chuckles nervously. "Eggs are great for protein! Drinking straight mayo is...erm....are there any benefits..?"

"It's easy to make with all the eggs in my coop, and um..it keeps my energy up so I don't pass out."

It's an awkward explanation, considering you simply drink mayonnaise for the hell of it and didn't think too much about the "health benefits".

But Alex completely agrees with you, not making any further comments on it in the future.

Although how he's eaten dozen of raw eggs without getting some kind of salmonella poisoning is beyond both him and you.

Perhaps you're both a little bit strange, but he eventually came to accept that about himself.

Wizard

"Umm..."

From the moment you met him and obtained forest magic, Rasmodius knew there was something peculiar about you.

From gleefully retrieving ectoplasm and prismatic jelly for his studies to assisting him in getting the dark talisman back from his ex-wife's home, he's come to trust you as a potential apprentice.

So to drink mayonnaise while looking through his catalogue of expensive magical architecture had him....a bit confused.

"What?" You look at the man standing by the bubbling green pot, his eyebrow raised in question. "C'mon, surely this can't be the strangest thing you've seen."

"No, whatever keeps your spirit and energy nourished is fine and all. But..mayonnaise seems most unconventional. That's all I'm saying. Now I must focus.."

And that's all he says about the matter, not really caring too much.

You're grateful he didn't overreact.

Krobus

"........"

"You're not gonna say anything?"

"About what?"

"About..y'know..me drinking mayonnaise?"

"Why would I? You gift me void mayonnaise. I eat it and use it as a moisturizer all the time!"

Finally, somebody who finds your habit relatively normal---but the only downside is that somebody isn't human.

Makes you often question if you're really human yourself.

It never bothers Krobus whenever you need to sling back a jar of mayonnaise and pull out another one when you return from the mutant bug lair or hike through Cindersap Forest to reach the sewers.

He thinks it's just a normal thing humans do, but when you mention how it's very much not normal in your "culture"..he thinks THEY are weird for not accepting your tastes.

Welp, at least he supports your weird yet harmless habit.

You did try void mayo once and nearly keeled over, so you stick to regular/duck/dino mayo from thereon.

#clanask #sdv x reader #stardew valley x reader #sdv sam #sdv krobus #sdv shane #sdv alex #sdv wizard #sdv elliot #sdv harvey #sdv sebastian #headcanons

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exosalt · 1 year ago

Text

aot headcanons - skincare edition

Armin

Slightly on the dry side but v sensitive

Has a pretty simple routine - cleanser, toner, moisturiser, aftershave etc

His products are high end and high quality

Knows exactly what to use for specific skin issues

Religiously uses SPF

Eren

Combination skin but slightly on the oilier side

Doesn’t have a skincare routine

Uses 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on his face when he’s in the shower

Steals Armin’s and Mikasa’s skincare products

Uses them wrong

Refuses to use SPF in winter

Mikasa

Normal balanced skin

Literally only needs cleanser and SPF and that’s IT

Likes trying out new face masks and sheet masks

Physically has to hold Eren down and rub SPF on his face

Levi

Used to have balanced skin like Mikasa but it dried out because he kept using hand sanitizer on his face

Cleanses twice a day but with antibacterial soap

Skin stills looks good because ✨Ackergenes✨

Jean

Combination and slightly acne-prone

Needs encouragement to use proper skincare

Not too fussed about following a proper routine, always forgets in the evening

Thinks growing a beard will cover the sins

Sasha

Has an oily T-zone

Tiktok is her main source of skincare info

Tried homemade Pinterest face masks but ended up eating it

Has a post on her Instagram of herself and Connie with face masks on and cucumbers over their eyes

Connie

Combination skin but slightly acne prone

Doesn’t really use anything special unless it’s recommended to him

“What’s your skincare routine?” “Water” - thinks that’s a flex

Loves trying new face masks with Sasha

Historia

Dry, sensitive skin but no one can ever tell because she’s perfected her skincare

Has a full 12 step routine

Loves giving skincare recommendations

Convinces Ymir to do spa nights with her

Reiner

Tears

LMAO jk jk his skincare is pretty simple

Has mostly normal skin but stress causes him to break out

Still trying to find products which work for him

Bertholdt

Oily + sensitive skin

Constantly forgets to use SPF

Doesn’t really matter because he sweats off all the product anyway

Annie

Combination skin

Constant dark circles

Uses super simple drugstore products

Only really focused on keeping her skin clean

Started using SPF because Armin suggested it

Marco

Combination skin but has an oily forehead

Doesn’t have a proper routine

Only buys products that are half off 🙃

Low-key scared he’ll exfoliate a freckle off

(The freckles demand love)

Ymir

Really only uses water and it works out fine

Doesn’t understand the skincare hype

Will still try out whatever Historia recommends for her

Erwin

this set

Hange

Doesn’t have a skincare routine

Likes putting weird things on their face just to see what effect they’ll have

Like they’ll rub a whole lemon on their face just to see what it does

Enjoys popping pimples

Miche

Soap goes up his nose every single day and impairs his sense of smell for like an hour afterwards

Cries when this happens

Prefers to keep it simple

Floch

Doesn’t wash his face

Crusty ass bitch

s/o to @sehun-cakes for helping me with this 😂

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moonshinesonic-moonstarslight · 3 months ago

Text

Been working on Bittersweet , so have some notes!

Dark blue eyes for SQH instead of green. Storm allegories and ties to the North (Airplane original foreshadowing that never came up)

Dropping the character name and referring himself as 'Shen Yuan' instead is very purposeful. It is a bit longer for SQH to resort to calling himself his given name than Cucumber-bro.

Shen Yuan is heavily doped on pollen. Inhibitions gone, best friend in his arms, and the utter need to do what he has silently been wanting to do since he finally admitted to himself that yes the "scum traitor" is attractive (mind you not that he found Airplane attractive, it was just a fact of life) means that he most certainly doesn't have the clearest head right now. [Airplane. Airplane. Airplane. Airplane. Is his only thought right now.]

Airplane is silently cursing the System and trying his best to keep his head. Someone has to, given well... elopement plant. And he doesn't want to deal with the aftermath of "marrying" his friend. Is only faintly doused in the pollen (Shen Yuan brushed a tiny amount onto his face and all over his lips, blast himself for thinking up a "romantic" plant that leans heavily into kissing your spouse) so he's only a tad out of it. Doing his best to just go with the flow and keep the kisses far from each other's mouth. (Challenging Cucumber-bro helped some, but it is very awkward to fuck your friend without kisses. Especially when both of you are craving them.)

Note: they fail at the 'no kisses before blowing your load'. Shen Yuan ends up stealing a kiss just as he comes while making sure Airplane comes at the same time. (He's very proud about that until his head clears up a bit from the lust haze and he realizes what he has been doing and who his dick is currently in.)

Cue awkward conversation explaining just what the plant was. Why Shen Yuan doesn't have a single clue regarding this wife plot. And dealing with the fact they are well and truly married now. (With no way of breaking said marriage in the future either) All while still connected and aroused. They discuss as much as they can while they catch a breather then as much as possible while having a second round.

They end up having several rounds of sex (number pending) before the lust effects finally wear off. (Both of them now desperately want a bath. Rolling around the forest floor isn't the cleanest place to have marathon sex. Shen Yuan finds that he wants to bathe together and Airplane tells him sure but no bath sex. [There might be bath sex])

Both of them have naturally high libido (smut book combined with the fact it's the author of said world and Shen Yuan just has a high sex drive for those he loves), so they find out that they are often finding excuses or just some time to have a bit of "alone time" to indulge in their spouse. (The other Peak Lords have been making bets on if they are having sex or just spending time together during most of their getaways (the answer is usually 'both'))

Airplane is mildly freaking out about wanting sex with someone. He's been in this world so long that sex is just a fact of life. (He had been falling into smut scenarios for a very long time. He most certainly isn't one of the lucky ones in this world who avoided some of the more vicious porn sections. He even has a heavy hand with the tragedy side of this world too!) But he never actually sought out sex himself as he never felt the need to. So actually wanting to spread his legs and pull his husband close for a round or two is messing with his brain. (Cucumber is handling it a bit better surprisingly. But he is running on the logic of 'who wouldn't want to have sex with Shang Qinghua? No one of course!')

Might add more later. But here you go for now! ~(^^~)

#story writing #svsss #shen yuan #shang qinghua #airplane shooting towards the sky #bittersweet fantasies #cumplane

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sunderwight · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine how much Shen Yuan and Airplane would hate it if an actual PIDW fan transmigrated in too, though.

Like, one of the guys who genuinely loved the stallion novel harem-building aspects, the weird-yet-vanilla het sex, the willingness to throw the plot out of the door just to have yet another interchangeable woman throw herself at the hero. Someone who only ever had nice things to say in the comment section, who unironically referred to Airplane as a master storyteller, who bought some of the VIP chapters (if he liked the wife Bingge was destined to wed & bed), couldn't name any of the monsters or sex flowers or most of the male side characters, had a Xin Mo keychain and once commissioned fan art of Sha Hualing (favorite wife) looking sexy in a pin-up pose, and told Peerless Cucumber he was a weirdo who took things too seriously on more than one occasion.

I think he'd bother Airplane the most. Shen Yuan would be annoyed and tell him his taste was in his ass, but that's about it.

But Airplane? I think at first he'd be inclined to enjoy having an uncomplicated "fan" of his work turn up. This guy actually praises him! He has nothing but flattering things to say! It's like a dream come true! Except... well, Airplane himself is perfectly aware of the decisions he made in his writing and why (he sold out deliberately, not because he thought it would actually make for a better story -- say what you will about whether or not it's worth it, but the man knows what he's doing), and also I suspect kind of resents his own popular audience whenever he has to interact with them for more than minute.

After all, these were the patrons he had to appease and appeal to, the readers he had to worry about offending or alienating, the ones who were paying the bills but also would have vanished at the drop of a hat if he hadn't given them a steady supply of what they wanted. It's not the audience he actually desired, it's the one he decided not to offend in order to maximize profitability. Peerless Cucumber might be a pain in the ass, but he's a pain in the ass who picked up on the story that Airplane himself originally intended to tell, and wanted PIDW to actually be that. Which has gotta be kind of gratifying, in a roundabout way.

I think it would stress Airplane out to have someone approve of the things he himself didn't even approve of. Like on the one hand this guy seems to have only a good opinion of him, but on the other hand it's based entirely on a false impression and Airplane actually agrees way more with Cucumber's assessment of his writing, because he wrote it badly on purpose. Since the guy has a good opinion, that's something Airplane can potentially lose, and he'd be most likely to lose it by revealing the truth about his own creative intentions and his actual tastes and inclinations. A ticking time bomb of disapproval that could go off at any moment to who-knows-what effect.

He'd hate it. Eventually every time User No.3 came around he'd just be like:

[ID: A gif of Skeletor from Masters of the Universe gliding through a blue magical barrier and then reaching back to punch and shatter it. End ID]

#svsss #scum villain's self saving system #scum villain #airplane: finally a REAL fan #airplane five minutes later: hmm... don't like this #image ID provided by princess-of-purple-prose

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letmeapologise · 2 years ago

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hi!! can you write where the reader is pregnant and trent is feeling the pregnancy symptoms or maybe the reader doesn’t know she’s pregnant and finds out bc of trent having symptoms.

❝ 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐮 ❞

.ೃ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ! 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 ✰ ´ˎ˗

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⌇ 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ੈ✩‧₊˚

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⌇ 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

ೄྀ࿐ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⌇ 𝟏.𝟑𝐤 !

↳ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ೃ⁀➷ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐢𝐝𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐢'𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐜𝐥 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞. 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 !

TRENT USUALLY WOKE UP EARLIER THAN YOU, due to the nature of his job and the physicality it involved. However, these days you were getting up at horrendous times in the morning with inexplicable cravings, like now, in which your boyfriend had spotted you sitting on a counter in the kitchen shovelling cucumber and chocolate into your mouth. Trent grimaced at you, frowning, glaring at you and then at the cutting board to the right of you where you had seemingly been slicing the cucumber for you to eat at three in the morning.

“Why’re you up? And why are you eating cucumber and chocolate?” he yawned, stretching as he strolled up to you, kissing your forehead and dodging the concoction of food you had gathered. You looked up at him, pecking his lips as he wrapped his arms either side of you, effectively trapping you on the counter, legs dangling off the edge threatening to kick against his stomach. “Just got a random craving again,” you scoffed, looking down at the cutting board. “And it’s cucumber, chocolate, and salt,” you corrected him, smiling widely and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Why don’t you come back to bed ‘n’ eat it then?” he tilted his head at you, arm retracting back to rub comforting circles into the skin of your leg.

You shook your head. “Didn’t wanna wake you up,” he rolled his eyes and stepped back, the corner of his lips lifting up slightly, and shrugging. “Well, I’m up. So just come back to bed,” he tilted his head at you, grinning. You huffed, hopping off of the counter as Trent watched you, sprinkling more salt onto the thinly sliced cucumbers in the palm of your hand. He let out a laugh, rubbing his hand over his face in disbelief, chuckling softly. You then grabbed the chocolate and carried both upstairs, tailing behind Trent who was holding in bounds of laughter, clutching at his chest.

Once you got to bed, he had rolled over, legs splayed over yours under the covers, eyes flickering closed and open as he watched you eat the cucumber and chocolate, balancing one on top of the other like some kind of makeshift sandwich, laughing silently and twisting his head round up at you with a nonchalant expression, as if everything about this scenario was completely normal. You looked round at him with a smirk, the cucumber and chocolate rested neatly on the covers, Trent almost gagged at the sight of it again; running a hand over his face in disbelief once more, then rolled over to face the wall and tried to go to sleep without the thought of you and your incessant cravings.

A few hours later he woke up, kissing you on the cheek as he usually did when he left early, and made his way downstairs to make himself breakfast and a pre-training meal. The remainders of your night cravings scattered across the counter, with small helpings of cucumber and a chocolate wrapper just above it by the chopping board, as well as a salt condiment on top of it. He scoffed, laughing quietly to himself as he made his way out the door, binning the wrapper on his way out, and eating an energy bar.

He reached the training grounds after a twenty minute drive, headphones on, and grinning once Andy Robertson approached him. “You good, Robbo?” he nodded, smiling widely at his teammate and giving him a quick hug, ruffling his hair. “I’m good, thanks. You?” Trent nodded back, huffing as the memory of you came back to him, before he could say anything in return Robbo spoke up once more. “You look like you’ve got a bit of bags under your eyes, mate,” he commented, Trent shook his head, smiling. “It’s the missus,” Robbo raised his eyebrows, face tilted to the side in surprise before smirking at him, chuckling. “Why? You been getting some action recently?”

Trent rolled his eyes, slapping his teammate on the neck. “She keeps waking up in the night with these weird food cravings. Woke me up last night ‘n’ when I went downstairs she was chowing down on some cucumber ‘n’ chocolate,” he laughed, a downturned smile emerging on his face, then he scratched his chin. Roberton furrowed his brows at him, mouth half-agape. “Mine had that before we found out she was pregnant.”

Trent glared at him, mouth half-agape, eyes darting around until he almost gave a delayed flinch at his words, head shooting back as if offended. “Shut up, don’t joke like that.” Robertson shook his head, waving his arms about, a sort of pleading in his eyes. “No, I’m being serious,” he exclaimed, Trent ran a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. Robbo gestured towards a room in the training grounds, looking around at Trent and the security outside the building.

“Come ‘ere, lad,” Trent followed him into the room, closing the door behind him. “What else have you noticed weird about her recently?” Trent hummed in thought, looking up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Dunno, been up more in the night like I said.” Robbo sat down, clasping his hands together, Trent did the same but his leg was rocking back and forth, fidgeting about. Andy ran a hand through his hair, and then resting on the bridge of his nose while he thought out loud.

“Doing what?” Trent shrugged, half-pouting, chuckling as if everything his friend was saying was some kind of joke. “Eating, pissing, dunno. Stuff you usually do at night.” Robertson wet his lips, watching the door and then at Trent. “That’s another symptom, pissin’ more. Has she been complaining about any pain?” Trent scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but that could just be her period, right?” Robbo shrugged. “Listen, should I text her, what if it’s a surprise or sum’?” Robbo laughed, waving his hand about at Trent. “Worst kept surprise ever then, then again you’re a bit thick,” he nudged Trent, chuckling to himself. “Dunno how you haven’t added it together like this before, lad.”

Trent just shrugged, then pulled his phone out, as he did so Virgil walked in through the door, jabbing a thumb in a backwards direction towards the pitch. “Boss wants you out there,” he looked between the two players, Trent giving him a pensive look with your messages with him pulled up, and then glanced at Robbo who was looking at him chirpily. “Trent’s missus is pregnant!” he basically shouted. Trent leaned back in his seat, mumbling profanities under his breath as he watched Virgil look at him with a mixture of shock and awe. “Fuckin’ hell, Robbo. Surprised the whole country doesn’t know now, you don’t even know for sure either. Dunno if she does!” his tongue poked in the side of his cheek, biting down on his lips before he wet them and leaned forward with his head in his hands.

“Do you want me to tell the boss sum’?” Virg inquired, eyes still widened, processing what was going on; and how he was going to keep up a secret like this if the answer was no. Trent shook his head. Virgil looked down and nodded, biting down on his lip and letting out a much needed breath of air. He looked back down at his phone, a notification bringing him to his senses, it was from you – an attachment – he clicked on it, Virgil now debating whether or not to leave the room and go back to training, while Andy tried to peek over and read your messages.

The screen came up, a photo of five positive pregnancy tests all lined up next to each other.

୨୧ @𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 ୨୧

#✰ letmeapologise ´ˎ˗#✰ letmeapologise works ´ˎ˗#imagines #writing #f/o imagines #football #football imagine #liverpool #trent alexander arnold x reader #trent alexander imagines #trent aa #trent x reader #trent alexander arnold #taa

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starboishifting · 3 months ago

Text

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅ || food in my waiting room! (possibly a wip)

🍽 everything is vegan; i'm not even vegan here, but i'm having some personal issues with the meat industry because i've been watching andy's instagram stories and it's fucking up my head :/

🍽 gluten is not a thing; i put this in my lil universal script thing because my ex is celiac, but i still want to keep it because gluten really doesn't do anything good for anyone, but nothing tastes gluten free

🍽 food doesn't spoil

🍽 pretty much all food comes in cute star shapes/packages, and the packages are never harmful to the environment

🍽 food all tastes the way it did when i was a kid; push pops taste like good cardboard and not this new age plastic crap, fruity pebbles and froot loops taste different, fast food places taste the way they used to, etc.

🍽 foods that taste good don't cause sensory issues; tomatoes, cucumbers, etc.

🍽 seasonal/regional flavors are available year-round and globally

🍽 i know how to use chopsticks (i do not here lmao)

🍽 unlimited supply of shitty fast-food sides; Arby's mac'n'cheese bites, Burger King onion rings, BWW deep fried pickles, etc

🍽 there's always a supply of fresh breads, cookies, and brownies in my oven or pantry

🍽 my fridge is always stocked with my favorite foods and drinks; coffees, fruits, take-away, etc.

🍽 my favorite restaurant that i moved away from in this reality is just down the street from where i live and i can go as much as i want

🍽 all food is free

🍽 i can eat as much as i want without getting sick or bloated

🍽 the chocolate factories from 'wonka' exist and are an hour drive from my house, but there are no unwanted/unsavory side effects to the candies or treats

🍽 i never have to wait in line for my food

#star boi's drs ⋆｡°✩#reality shifting #shifting community #shiftblr #shifting realities #shifting blog #shifters #shifter #loablr #loa tumblr #desired reality

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glimmervoi · 1 year ago

Text

A SEALED FATE: EMERALDS AND BLOOD - VIII The Part Where It All Begins

masterlist

e&b masterlist

WARNINGS: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE/BLOOD. Please do not read if this is something that you do not wish to see.

As you sat at the large dining table in the servants' kitchen, flanked by Alice and Rae, the ache in your body persisted. While putting on your uniform that morning, you couldn't help but notice the myriad of bruises painting your skin.

Alice had delivered a satchel of herbs from the castle's healer, promising relief from the discomfort. However their effect was hardly strong enough for the pain that you were in, leaving you grimacing with every movement. It made the simple act of eating a challenge, thanks to the tension in your muscles.

You spooned the porridge into your mouth slowly, praying you'd manage to consume it all before you were due in the supply room. The prospect of facing Sanria's wrath for being late loomed over you like a dark cloud.

"We'll pace ourselves today," Rae assured you, her soothing touch on your back providing a momentary comfort. "After we're done with the north wing, you can take a few hours to rest. I'll handle things here, and I will make sure that Sanria has no reason to harass you.”

You offered Rae a thankful smile before directing your attention to Alice. She was reading a piece of parchment, a faint smile gracing her lips. "What's that?" you asked, seeking a distraction from the persistent ache in your body.

Alice glanced up at you, before carefully folding the parchment and setting it aside. Taking a spoonful of her own porridge, she replied, "It's a letter from my family." There was warmth in her eyes, tinged with a hint of longing as she gazed at the neatly folded parchment.

"A good one, by the looks of it," you remarked, eating another mouthful of your breakfast. Rae let out a happy hum from your other side, her grin widening as she took a hearty gulp of water.

"Indeed," Rae chimed in, her gaze fixed on Alice with admiration. "Alice's family is truly remarkable. They often send her fresh vegetables, such as cucumbers and tomatoes. They’re quite popular.”

Alice nodded in agreement, finishing her porridge. "Yes, they're known for their exceptional crops," she confirmed. "But winter poses challenges, especially this year. I'm uncertain if we'll have any surplus to rely on this year. And, I highly doubt they’ll be sending me fish…”

The thought of receiving a package of old fish made you instinctively wrinkle your nose. Growing up in Greenriver, you'd grown accustomed to consuming a variety of questionable foods, but thankfully the experience of eating rotten fish had yet to catch you.

"What about your family?" Alice inquired, her empty bowl pushed aside as she leaned forward. Her gaze was fixed on you with curiosity. You paused, contemplating her question with a furrowed brow.

"Well..." you began slowly, setting your spoon down. Memories stirred, swirls of images from your childhood beginning to swarm your mind. Your father had been absent from your life, and your mother had passed away when you were just a child. With no siblings and no spouse, you found yourself understanding the reality that you didn't truly have a family anymore.

"My mother was a remarkable woman," you said, a gentle smile on your lips. "She was intelligent and strong, always working tirelessly to provide for us. Despite the absence of a man to hunt or offer protection, she managed to keep us not just alive, but thriving. Well, as much as we could thrive in such a poor village."

Rae's comforting hand once again ran down your back, her expression sympathetic. As you delved deeper into memories of your mother, a wave of emotion washed over you. Her passing, shrouded in the mystery of an illness you couldn't understand, had left a painful mark on you. You recalled her final moments, her cold touch against your cheek as she whispered words in a language you couldn't comprehend.

You shook off the memories that now threatened to consume you, resuming your conversation. "She made sure I learned how to read and write," you continued. "Even if it meant sacrificing what little coin we had on books from the rare traveling merchants that passed through our village."

"What a valuable gift she gave you," Alice remarked, leaning forward with genuine interest. "The ability to read is priceless, particularly in our circumstances. Your mother sounds like she was a wise woman."

"She truly was," you said with a nod, fondness in your voice. "I have no doubt she's watching over me." Glancing around, you added with a hint of humor, "And probably scolding Iseul for her behavior last night."

Both Rae and Alice laughed. "What about your father?" Rae asked curiously, leaning in slightly.

You shrugged as you pushed a stray strand of hair from your face. "I'm honestly not sure," you admitted. "My mother never spoke of him, and I never had the chance to meet him. I stopped asking about him when I was about six; it seemed pointless as my mother never provided any answers."

"Interesting," Alice remarked, a strange note to her voice. Before you could ask what she meant, she rose from her seat. "Well, it's time for me to make my way to the southern wing. I'd rather not be the next target for Iseul," she quipped, casting a sympathetic glance in your direction.

You offered her a strained smile in response, bidding her farewell as she rinsed her bowl and exited the kitchen. As Rae stood and stretched, a loud groan escaped her lips.

"We should get started soon, too," Rae suggested, gesturing towards your half-full bowl of porridge. "Finish up quickly, and then we can head to the northern wing."

You sighed softly, acknowledging her with a nod. Another day of labor was waiting for you, which was made more challenging by the bruises on your body. Frowning, you took another bite of your food, grateful for the temporary distraction it offered from the unsettling events of last night with Hoseok. Pretending as though it hadn't occurred seemed to be the most effective coping mechanism this morning, so you resolved to maintain that facade until you were confronted with it by someone else.

When you entered the supply room with Rae at your side, the usual sight of Sanria standing at the center with her parchment in hand was gone. Instead, you were greeted by a different figure – a blonde woman who radiated warmth and kindness.

Isabella's smile welcomed you, her blue eyes sparkling. Despite her position as a service maid, she wore the same blue uniform as yours. The unexpected sight caused you and Rae to pause in surprise.

"Good morning," Isabella greeted, smiling. "How are you feeling?" Her question seemed directed primarily at you, prompting you to offer a feeble smile in return. "Ready to work," you replied, mustering an attempt at cheerfulness. Isabella chuckled softly, though a hint of concern lingered in her expression.

"If you don't mind me asking, Isabella..." Rae interjected, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Where is Sanria? Is she unwell?" she inquired. Isabella's gaze shifted to her parchment, pausing. Eventually, she raised her eyes to meet Rae's.

You were interested in Isabella's response. Though you harbored no particular fondness for the old maid, you still found yourself wondering about her well-being, if only out of basic human concern.

"Don't worry about it. Just think of today as a... relaxing day," Isabella reassured, her smile seemingly forced. "You won't have to worry about me looming over your shoulder, so enjoy it."

Surprise flickered across you, sensing that something was amiss. Had your actions from last night truly resulted in such dire consequences for Sanria? Could she have been reprimanded or even dismissed? You shook your head, marking the thought as unlikely. Surely, Sanria's absence was merely due to illness – a common occurrence during this time of the year.

You mulled over it, reasoning that if Sanria had truly been replaced, Rae would have likely been informed. After all, she would have been the natural replacement for the position. Even if she declined the promotion, she wouldn't have felt the need to ask about the whereabouts of her head maid.

"Will you two be working in the north wing today?" Isabella asked, reaching for a smaller piece of parchment from the nearby table. Rae nodded, accepting the parchment handed to her by the blonde maid. "Everything should be tidied up from the party last night before the guests awaken. By the time you're finished, it should be time for lunch."

You both murmured in acknowledgment, and Isabella, seemingly satisfied, gracefully made her way past you. Just as she reached the doorway, she paused and glanced back at you. "Try to take it easy today, alright?" she advised before disappearing through the threshold, leaving you and Rae alone.

"Yes, ma'am," Rae replied, humor lacing her tone as she saluted the now-empty space where Isabella had stood. You turned to Rae, a bemused expression crossing your features.

"Sanria, missing a day of work?" Rae exclaimed incredulously, handing you the parchment. "Who's going to threaten us with beatings and dungeon sentences today?" Her eyes widened with mock horror as she looked at you. Despite the ache in your ribs, you couldn't help but let out a light laugh at her joke.

"Still, I wonder why I wasn't informed of her absence," Rae mumbled under her breath, busying herself with filling a cart with the necessary items. "I feel like Isabella is hiding something from me."

You shrugged, scanning the neatly written list provided by Isabella. "I don't think she would do such a thing... but I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

Rae nodded in agreement, letting out a sigh. "You're right. Let's just see how this unfolds," she muttered, before straightening up. "Now come on. We're the first ones at the north wing today, so let's get a head start on our tasks."

As soon as you stepped into the main hall of the northern wing, your jaw dropped in astonishment. The sight before you was nothing short of shocking. You had expected a certain level of tidiness from nobles, but you found yourself sorely mistaken.

Nobles often projected an air of superiority, as if they were inherently cleaner and more refined than those of a lower status. Yet, the reality before you shattered that illusion entirely. Glasses of various emptiness cluttered every available flat surface. Some held remnants of red and white liquids, undoubtedly wine, their thick scent permeating the air. However, among them lay glasses containing liquids clearly not meant for drinking.

Amidst the chaos, plenty of glasses had been carelessly spilled and shattered, leaving stains scattered across the ground. Glass shards glinted menacingly, prompting a silent thanks from you for the sturdy shoes provided to you. Despite the protective footwear, you remained cautious, gingerly navigating your way around the hazardous debris.

Pearls lay strewn across the floor, becoming unwelcome obstacles as they caught under the wheels of your cart. Rae emitted an annoyed huff as she attempted to kick them out of the way, clearing a path as best she could.

A torn curtain hung from the window. Furniture was haphazardly pushed around, obstructing your path. More stains adorned the upholstery, and you wrinkled your nose in disdain, suspecting that not all of them were the result of spilled wine.

As you traveled further into the hallway your gaze swept over the messy scene before you, causing you to groan softly. If this was merely one segment of the wing, you could only imagine the state of the rest. Clearly, you had your work cut out for you.

Your attention was drawn to a particularly large wine stain, its presence unignorable. Initially appearing as a small trail, the stain gradually expanded into streaks against the carpet as you followed its path. Spatters of wine adorned the walls as you drew nearer to the final bedroom.

A fleeting thought crossed your mind as you surveyed the scene. Could it be that a Lady had engaged in a heated altercation with a bottle of wine in hand? Or perhaps she had clumsily spilled an excessive amount and resorted to... unconventional means of cleaning it up? The absurdity of the thought left you confused as you simply stared.

Coming to a halt in front of the final bedroom door, any semblance of amusement faded as the gravity of the situation became apparent. Smeared red stains marred the surface of the large wooden doors, while dried crimson puddles seeped ominously from beneath the threshold. It was abundantly clear that this scene was far from the result of an innocent spill.

With anxiety gnawing at your nerves, you hesitated with your hand over the door knob, uncertain of the horrors that lay beyond. Your heart raced erratically, and beads of sweat formed on your brow.

Observing your sudden change in demeanor, Rae stepped closer, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke about a messy couple and their expensive red wine. However, her words trailed off abruptly, realization washing over her features in a wave of dread.

"B-blood?" you murmured, the word barely escaping your lips as your eyes widened in horror. "Is it blood? Should we call for a guard? Someone might have been killed." Rae shook her head frantically.

"No, we can't raise the alarm yet!" Rae's voice trembled with fear, mirroring the panic in her wide eyes. Despite her own apprehension, she was attempting to maintain a level head, and you were grateful for it. Two panicked maids would only escalate the situation.

"We need to assess the situation first," she insisted, her brow furrowing as she stared at the ominous door. "What if it's simply an extraordinarily bad wine spill? We could land ourselves in serious trouble if we disrupt the guests by sounding a false alarm."

Your instincts screamed that this wasn't merely a spilled drink. The color was too ominous, too reminiscent of something far more sinister than old wine. Yet, fatigue and lingering unease from the previous night clouded your judgment. Could it be that your mind was playing tricks on you?

Taking a steadying breath, you reluctantly nodded in agreement. "Alright. Let's investigate before we involve the guards," you said. Rae seemed hesitant to approach the door herself, so you stepped forward.

Each step over the hardened stain beneath your feet sent a shiver down your spine, the quiet crunching noise amplifying the dread in your stomach. Suppressing a nervous gulp, you approached the door and knocked gently. Your breath caught in your throat as you strained to hear any response from within.

The stained door remained painfully silent, offering no indication of what lay beyond. Casting a desperate glance at Rae, you found her gesturing for you to try again. Frowning, you reluctantly turned back to the door and knocked once more, this time with more urgency.

Still met with silence, your body quivered with apprehension and a whimper escaped your lips. Fear gripped you tightly, your instincts urging you to flee, to turn away from whatever darkness lurked on the other side of the door.

But you knew you couldn't. You had to confront whatever lay beyond. You couldn’t just leave it. Drawing what courage you could muster, you exchanged one last glance with Rae, seeking solace in her unwavering presence, before finally pushing open the heavy doors.

The sight in front of you was utterly horrifying, causing your legs to give out from underneath you.

Blood was splattered across every surface and the sickening stench of iron and death mingled with it, saturating the air. Amidst the red, a blonde woman was motionless on the bed.

She lay on her back atop the grand bed, her head tilted over the edge and her wide blue eyes fixed blankly upon yours. Her blush-colored gown lay in tatters, revealing the gaping hole in the center of her chest.

You retched, the contents of your breakfast emptying from your stomach violently. You could hear Rae's horrified screams echoing behind you. Heavy footsteps thundered away from the room, the sound fading as your gasps and gags filled the air.

The room lay in disarray, a chaotic jumble of blood and gore. It resembled the aftermath of a frenzy, as if some untamed beast had stormed through, wreaking havoc in its wake. Once a serene pastel pink, the walls now bore the crimson stains of spilled blood.

What horrified you the most, however, was the sight of her own heart nestled in her bloodied hand. It was a jarring sight, as if she had taken it out herself. Yet, you couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that this was precisely what the murderer wanted it to appear like.

Your mind struggled to understand the sheer cruelty of the scene before you. You couldn't fathom why someone would commit such a gruesome act. As thoughts raced through your mind, a troubling possibility surfaced – Taehyung. Had she somehow angered him? Could he have been capable of such brutality?

The notion sent a chill down your spine, but you found yourself questioning whether he could truly be capable of such an atrocity.

Footsteps approached once more, and strong hands lifted you from the grisly scene. Moments later, you found yourself deposited unceremoniously in the disheveled hallway, alongside Rae. Together, you watched in silence as guards flooded into the room, some recoiling in horror and others rushing out to empty their stomachs into a nearby vase.

The commotion drew the attention of the guests, who emerged from their rooms with questions on their lips, only to be swiftly silenced and ushered back into their chambers by a stern-faced higher-ranking guard.

"Come with me, ladies," a gruff voice commanded, belonging to a younger guard who gestured towards a nearby door. You scrambled to your feet, your body trembling uncontrollably as you followed him down the hall. Clutching your arms tightly around your chest, you attempted to quell the unsettling tremors that coursed through you.

Rae shuffled along behind you, her faint sniffling betraying the tears she was attempting to hold back. You, however, remained too stunned to allow your own tears to fall. Shock held you in its grip, rendering you speechless.

As the guard swung open the door, revealing a room reminiscent of the tea room you had cleaned on your first day at the castle, he gestured toward the large table at its center which was surrounded by large chairs. Taking a seat, you flinched as he slammed the door shut behind you.

"Tell me everything that happened," he commanded, settling into the chair opposite you. Rae opened her mouth, but no words emerged, her voice lost in the grip of shock and fear.

With a sickening realization of the gravity of the situation, you understood how dire things looked for both you and Rae. A Lady brutally murdered, discovered by you both – it painted a damning picture. It was important to clear the air immediately; now was not the time to let shock and horror render you mute.

Clearing your throat to steady your voice, you began to recount the events. "Well... we arrived at the wing to clean before the guests awoke. I noticed red liquid on the curtains and walls, initially thinking it was wine. But as we approached the door, we realized the liquid was... smeared," you explained, pushing the image of the woman's dead eyes from your mind. "We hesitated, uncertain if it was truly blood. Then, we knocked, and upon receiving no response, I entered... and saw..." Your voice trailed off, the memory too ghastly to put into words.

The guard's expression remained stoic, unmoved by the horror etched on your face. "So, you didn't witness anyone entering or leaving?" he inquired. You shook your head.

“When we entered the wing, it was deserted. There was nobody there,” you confirmed, meeting the guard's intense stare head-on, hoping to convey the sincerity of your words.

“Sir,” Rae interjected, her voice steadying slightly as she regained some composure, “we swear we didn’t see anyone, nor did we have any involvement. We were simply here to clean up the aftermath of last night's events.”

Sensing the guard's lingering skepticism, Rae pressed on, her voice tinged with urgency. “If it were fresh blood, it would still be wet, wouldn’t it?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the guard in search of any hint of acknowledgment or understanding.

His expression softened as Rae's words sunk in. "When we arrived, the blood was already dried and caked into the rugs. I rushed to get you as soon as we saw it," she elaborated, her voice firm.

The guard's demeanor shifted, his initial disbelief giving way to understanding. "You're right. I'll inform my commander. Stay here," he instructed before rising from his seat and exiting the room. As the door clicked shut behind him, a wave of relief washed over you.

"Rae, you're so smart," you murmured gratefully, offering her a small smile. She attempted to return the gesture, though her expression betrayed a hint of discomfort. You felt a twinge of gratitude that you had been the one to open the door; at least Rae hadn't been directly confronted with the grisly scene.

"Who do you think did it?" Rae's voice was barely a whisper, heavy with disbelief. "They'd have to be completely deranged to commit such a brutal act..."

Shrugging, you frowned in contemplation. "I'm not sure. But I do recognize the woman," you murmured, your gaze fixed on the table in front of you.

Rae's head whipped around to face you, her eyes wide with shock. "How?!" she whispered urgently. You recounted how the woman had rudely declined a drink from you the previous night, the memory still fresh in your mind.

"Perhaps... She had said something disrespectful? Maybe to a prince?" Rae's voice was barely audible, laden with uncertainty. "If she treated you with such rudeness for no apparent reason, then it's not unthinkable that she might have mistreated someone important as well."

You shook your head slowly, pondering her words. "I considered Taehyung... but would he really resort to such brutality?" you whispered back, your voice laced with doubt. "Besides, most nobles are rude towards servants. She ought to have known better than to provoke the royal family."

Before your conversation could continue, the door creaked open once more. Instead of the guard from earlier, Namjoon entered the room, his presence sending a wave of apprehension through you both. Rising hastily, you and Rae bowed deeply, your hearts sinking as you awaited his words.

"Please, sit," Namjoon's deep voice broke the tense silence, accompanied by a tight yet amiable smile. You and Rae complied, settling back into your chairs with rigid posture as he joined you, producing a folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket. You couldn't help but wonder if he recognized you from the previous encounter when he had requested tea.

"The two of you seem to have found yourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time," Namjoon began, his gaze firm yet not unkind. It reminded you of the way an older brother or father might look at you when you'd done something wrong. "However, the guard who was just questioning you mentioned that you raised some valid points. You arrived when the blood was already dry and hardened, correct?" he inquired, his eyes scanning your faces for confirmation. You nodded eagerly, a desperate desire to prove your innocence evident in your expression. "And you didn't witness anyone entering or leaving the wing."

Namjoon continued to ask a few more questions, his imposing presence amplifying your growing anxiety with each passing moment. Once satisfied with your responses, he released a heavy sigh.

"The atrocity of this crime surpasses any blame that could be placed on a few maids," he declared solemnly. "I choose to believe you in this matter. We will pursue the perpetrator diligently. In the meantime, I will instruct your head maid to assign you to the southern wing instead."

With a decisive fold of his parchment, Namjoon concluded his statement. "You may return to your chambers now. I can only imagine how traumatizing this must have been for you, so I will grant you the day to rest. However, I expect you back in working order tomorrow," he stated firmly.

As he rose from his seat, you followed suit, bowing respectfully and expressing your gratitude. Sensing his gaze lingering on you as he granted you permission to depart, you did your best to ignore it. The last thing you needed was to draw the attention of another prince.

You hurried back to your chambers, Rae close behind. The room greeted you with emptiness as you burst through the door. Finally feeling safe enough to let go, you collapsed into Rae's arms. Almost instantly, you felt her trembling against you as she buried her face into your shoulder.

The two of you stood there, clinging to each other, and allowed the tears to flow freely. Tears for the tragic loss of life, tears for the near accusation hanging over you, and tears for the overwhelming stress of life within the castle walls.

In the midst of your tears, you found yourself offering up a silent prayer, perhaps the millionth time that day, that things would somehow turn out for the best. You couldn't shake the feeling that things were only going to get worse, the regret creeping into your thoughts over your decision to come to the palace. For once, you didn't push the regret away; instead, you allowed it to settle within you, acknowledging the weight of your circumstances.

#bts #yandere bts #yandere bts fic #bts fic #emeralds and blood #yandere hoseok #yandere jimin #yandere jin #yandere jungkook #yandere namjoon

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