#fresh plum wine

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. ��I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,��� he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

[nrvcntr]

My Lover is Like

hey remember how i said i'd write that fic about tav coming from a noble background and having a riddle that someone has to answer to date her and no one ever gets it right and then years later she tells gale and he knows immediately? anyway here it is

There are certain scents that bring back memories - warm grass on a summer’s day, fresh linens placed on a bed, and of course, the sickly sticky burn of a bottle of plum fizz, shared among friends. Astarion recoiled after he sniffed the open bottle, his nose scrunched in horror.

“You can’t be serious,” He said.

“You’re being dramatic. It isn’t that bad,” You replied.

You had found a crate full of bottles on your last trek and dragged it back to the campsite, anticipating a heroic welcome at your generous haul. It was nearing sunset and it seemed as good of a time as any to see what the contents of the crate were. Upon cracking the crate open, your eyes lit up at the sight of bottles on bottles of plum fizz. This had been the drink that defined your adolescence as a noble in Baldur’s Gate. It immediately brought back memories of revelry, singing songs next to bonfires, and a young Wyll Ravengard throwing up in the street. You pulled out a bottle and handed it to Astarion, who had reacted like a man who never knew the joys of noble debauchery.

“It smells like it could raise something from the dead and then kill it again,” He said, handing the bottle back to you.

“Look, we used to drink this all the time when we were kids. It’s like a rite of passage among children of nobility in Baldur’s Gate.”

Wyll, overhearing the conversation, came over to see what you were so impassioned about. At the sight of the bottle in your hand, he recoiled like someone had just smacked him upside the head.

“No. Get that thing away!” He shouted, shaking his hands.

“Oh, stop it. I remember you used to beg to play fizzy hands when we were younger,” You said.

“Fizzy hands.” Astarion said flatly, “What sort of braindead activity is fizzy hands?”

You raised your brow to Wyll, who explained that “fizzy hands” was the beloved drinking game of your youth, where a small magical seal was applied to two bottles of plum fizz, which an individual would hold. The seal wouldn’t break until both bottles were consumed.

“Fizzy hands leads to fizzy guts, which leads to…a fizzy mess, in the street. You couldn’t pay me to take a sip of that now.” Wyll said.

You looked around the campsite and gestured to Gale, who had been beginning the preparations for dinner so intently that he hadn’t noticed the failing case you were trying to make in favor of plum fizz.

“It’s nice to know that your taste in wine is nearly as bad as your taste in men,” Astarion mused, causing you to shoot him a farcefully menacing look. Your affections for Gale were no secret, and the two of you had shared an intimate moment in the Weave, but you were unsure of your current status, or even whether he really returned your feelings. You had begun to write it off as a passing fancy, something to daydream about during long days of traveling. Though, there was no hiding how much you enjoyed being around the man, your conversations often dragging well into the night after everyone else had fallen asleep. You had never met anyone else who seemed to understand you the way that Gale did, or whose company you enjoyed nearly half as much.

“You’re a man of taste, and you’re knowledgeable about wine. Can you settle a debate for us?” You asked Gale when he walked over.

“A glass of wine sounds delightful this evening. What’s the topic of debate?” He asked.

“Astarion and Wyll may not be as cultured as you and I. Just tell them about the fine properties of this blend,” You said, trying to communicate ‘please, say this tastes good’ in your expression as you poured a glass and handed it over.

Gale swirled the glass and his eyes widened at the scent. To his credit, he took an honest sip and racked his brain for something kind to say about it. “It has notes of…berry. And cinnamon. And…” He couldn’t do it. “Acid. It tastes like it would eat a hole through a table if you spilled some on it. Do the youth of Baldur’s Gate really ingest this willingly?” He asked.

You threw your hands up.

“Poor taste, the lot of you. It cannot be helped.”

After dinner, Astarion sauntered over to you, two glasses of plum fizz in hand.

“A drink together. Sort of a truce,” He said.

You were suspicious, but took the glass in hand. The spicy, bitter, sweet, and confusing concoction ran down your throat and made your stomach feel hot. Astarion’s glass was already empty, and he poured you both another. By the time you realized that Astarion had been pouring his drinks out to get you to continue drinking, you were drunk enough to begin telling stories of your youth in Baldur’s Gate.

“So, after Wyll threw up in the street -”

“Can you please stop talking about that. I have plenty of embarrassing stories I could tell at your expense, you know. Lock.” Wyll said pointedly.

“Lock?” Shadowheart asked.

You covered your face, feeling a burning sensation creep up your cheeks.

“What none of you realize is that our beloved companion here was once the most eligible bachelorette in Baldur’s Gate nobility. Her family was wealthy and she was beautiful, intelligent, and charming…”

“Whatever happened?” You asked, making yourself laugh.

“However, she never took a partner. Singles of all creeds, genders, and races tried, but no one could get through to her. So, she began to be known as ‘the lock of Baldur’s Gate’. And, what opens a lock but a key? And the key to her heart was to answer a riddle,” Wyll explained with a dramatic flourish.

“A riddle? How droll. That’s a little…presumptuous, don’t you think?” Astarion asked. You shrugged.

“Why a riddle?” Karlach asked.

“I didn’t want to end up with someone who was a complete dunce,” You joked. It was a half-truth, since the whole truth would have disrupted the mood of revelry among your companions.

“Well, do we get to hear it?” Shadowheart asked.

You leaned back and looked at the faces of your companions. Wyll shook his head, having heard this question lamented among the singles of Baldur’s Gate throughout his youth.

“What is loving Taglath like?” You asked, the question rolling off of your tongue like a well-rehearsed line.

“What a stupid question!” Astarion huffed, rolling his eyes. He had no idea what the answer could be.

“Oh, do you know the answer, then? Since it’s so stupid,” You said, unable to wipe the smirk off of your face. It always delighted you to stump someone with the riddle, and it delighted you even more to watch them struggle with it.

“What is loving like?” You repeated, prodding Astarion for the answer.

“Darling, loving you is like poison seeping through my veins,” Astarion said, pretending to be a romantic poet, his hand gripping his chest, “- and it kills me to be parted from you,” He added, taking your hand in his icy cold grasp.

“Very sweet, but no,” You responded.

Everyone laughed, getting a little chuckle out of Astarion’s foolishness.

“Oh come on, it’s not like any of you geniuses know the answer,” Astarion said, raising a brow to the group. He looked around at their curious faces and wonders aloud, “Do you?”

“Uh, I don’t remember my childhood. Much less silly poems,” Shadowheart said, but thought about it for a moment. “Is it like a rose? Something beautiful out of the dirt?”

You shook your head.

“Chk. This is a waste of time,” Lae’zel said..

“C’mon, Lae’zel, what do you think loving is like?” Wyll probed, the githyanki rolling her eyes at him.

Lae’zel replied, “Like a well-won battle, your enemies dead at your feet.” There is a pause before she asked, “Did I answer correctly?”

“No,” You replied.

Karlach wiped her hands on her pants, not waiting to be asked. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you ask me, solider,” She said, “But I’ll give it a try. Is it like a cool drink of water on a hot night?”

“That’s sweet, Karlach. It’s own little poem, even. But no,” You said.

“Well what’s the answer?” Astarion huffed, getting frustrated at this little display of ignorance.

“Salamander!” Wyll interjected, snapping his fingers like he cracked the code. This made everyone crack up, to his dismay. “No, because - I mean, uh - well, it’s better than corpses!” He insisted. This only made everyone laugh more.

In this revelry, no one even thought to glance at Gale, who had been watching the scene with a bemused little smile on his face.

There was a lull when the laughter died down, the silence of everyone taking a breath after a hearty laugh.

Through the silence, two words cut through the air like a knife directly to your heart.

“The Sun.”

You gasped (a reaction that, in retrospect, embarrassed you with how dramatic it was). You stared at the speaker, Gale’s dark eyes glinting in the firelight. You felt you must have looked ridiculous, your jaw agape.

In all of the years of telling the riddle, no one had ever known the answer. The key to your heart, you joked. But it had been more serious than you ever let on. As each suitor fumbled through wrong answers, it had only solidified your belief that true love would never be yours. That you would eventually have to settle for someone who couldn’t really understand you.

It was like time stopped, the visions of your companions becoming a blur as Gale came into focus.

Gale, meanwhile, appeared to be blissfully unaware that he had just broken your brain (what was left of it, at least).

“That’s…right. How did you know?” You choked out, hardly above a whisper.

“It’s a very clever riddle. See, most would probably assume that the riddle is about the works of Taglath, whom is renowned as an iconic romantic poet. His works adorn his lover with brilliant metaphors that have captured readers since their inception,” Gale explained to the group, lecturing his never-be students.

“That’s probably why Gef Deldus spent one summer immersed in Taglath’s works,” Wyll recalled, chuckling, “He told everyone that he had solved the riddle. He was convinced you would be his bride by the end of the season. What was his answer?” He asked.

“Love is like a poem,” You replied, still dumbfounded by Gale’s answer.

“The education in Baldur’s Gate leaves much to be desired,” Gale snarked, then continued, “What most people don’t know is that Taglath’s most prominent muse was another poet named Alanis. Unfortunately, most of her work has been lost to history. Almost no complete works remain, and only fragments have been collected for publication. But in her most complete work, she compares her lover to the Sun. It’s a gorgeous poem about loving someone who burns brightly and the fears associated with taking a lover of prominence. Loving despite fear,” He said.

You wondered how it was possible that your body felt like it was on fire but also like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on you. Did none of your companions notice that you were going insane? The realization rocked you like an earthquake.

Gale Dekarios was not a passing fancy, someone to think about kissing when the option presented itself. He was neither a daydream nor a wet dream to pass the time at different hours. He was not the greatest friend you had ever had, the person who you most looked forward to speaking to each morning after you woke and each night before you went to bed. The person who you spoke about nothing and everything with, played games with, or just enjoyed a comfortable silence with. He was not your traveling companion, nor even an ally who had risked his life for you as you had done for him. It was impossible for Gale to be any one of those things because he was all of them all at once and so much more.

Oh, fuck, you realized, your knees ready to give way.

You were in love with him.

The sound of your companions laughing and chattering together mixed together and sounded like ocean waves. If anyone turned to ask you anything you probably would have just stared at them blankly. You attempted to take a step toward Gale and the drinks you had earlier in the night went to your head, sending you tumbling forward and onto the ground.

“Looks like the plum fizz kicked in. ‘Key’, maybe you should take the ‘lock’ to bed,” Shadowheart said to Gale.

You thought that if you closed your eyes, maybe the ground would swallow you up and you would never have to look at Gale again. Instead, you felt him help you to your feet, allowing you to lean against him as he walked you to your tent. You were desperate to know what was going through his mind - did he realize the gravity that he answer had?

“Easy now,” Gale said, helping you down onto your bedroll. He treated you gently, helping you to unlace your boots and get settled in under the blanket. You were sick to your stomach at being doted on by him and kept quiet, trying to focus on anything but the way he looked at you. He left for a moment and came back to bring you some water.

“Is there anything you need?” He asked.

You were quiet for a moment, then spoke.

“Gale?”

“Yes?”

“After we had that moment in the Weave…you mentioned that we shouldn’t talk about it then, with the orb being unstable and everything going on,” You said, then allowed yourself to lean into your own intoxication, asking what was truly on your mind. “Was that really the reason? Because if you don’t see me that way, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings.” The words poured out of you too quickly for you to worry about sounding insecure. It was a lie, of course, that it wouldn’t hurt your feelings. Being rejected by Gale would be devastating.

Gale looked thoughtful, then recited the end of Alanis’s fragments of her poem about her lover.

“My lover is like the Sun, Brilliant and bright He eclipses me And yet I yearn

My lover is like the Sun Blinding and unyielding When he touches me I burn”

He placed his hand on your cheek, his gaze looking through you and into your soul. The two of you could say so much without a single word.

“Am I the Sun, or are you?” You asked.

Gale had loved the poem when he read it as a boy, and later thought of it often when he was with Mystra, trying to make sense of the reality of having a goddess for a lover. He had often wondered if he would ever have an identity outside of being Mystra’s chosen, or whether he would forever be tied to the Goddess. And if that was the case, why did the idea of it make him burn with jealousy?

However, the poem had taken on new meaning since he met you. He felt like the Sun, a ball of fire ready to explode in his chest at any moment. As badly as he wanted to hold you close, he knew that doing so would destroy you. Still, he wondered, might it be worth it to burn if he could have one moment of knowing what it was like to be yours entirely?

Or rather, were you the Sun? He was certainly transfixed by you, drawn to your brilliance. You, a mortal who dared to be more brilliant and enticing than his Goddess. Would following you lead him down the path to certain doom - or worse, would getting close to you lead you to your own demise? It was that thought that kept him up at night, wondering if he should escape in the night. To save you from himself, or at least get you as far away from the danger as possible.

Gale contemplated your question.

“I’m not sure,” He finally replied.

“I don’t know, either.”

You placed your hand on Gale’s, your gaze fixed on each other, searching for an answer in each other’s eyes. Neither of you could find it.

However, there was one thing that was clear to both of you: whether through flames of salvation or damnation, you would burn for each other.

[themodernwitchsguide]

altars for titans and protogenoi

This post more than any of the others is going to be mostly upg or spg. Hardly anyone in antiquity spent a lot of effort worshipping most of these deities, especially the protogenoi, so resources are limited. If you have suggestions or personal addendums, feel free to leave them in the comments. I made a lot of decisions based on what the herbs/crystals are usually associated with: for example, black tourmaline is associated with Nyx (the night) therefore Chaos (the embodiment of the primordial soup and basically the universe) has black tourmaline too.

Also, all the deities on this list can be honored with libation of wine, milk, honey, and oil; offerings of meat or desserts; and burning frankincense/myrrh.

Disclaimer: this is not all of the protogenoi or titans that exist, these are just the most recognizable ones that have the most lore attached. I used theoi.com to research all of these deities.

CHAOS: the first to emerge at creation, the protogenos of the space between heaven and earth, and the air

Colors: black, grey, purple for the concept of chaos Offerings: feathers, burning incense, cinnamon, anise, cardamom, clove, black pepper, representations of the four elements Crystals: obsidian, tourmaline, labradorite, lava rock, angelite, amethyst Animals: birds

PHANES/EROS (the elder): protogenos of procreation

Colors: red, pink for love/procreation. blue, green for nature and creation Offerings: heart shaped objects, eucalyptus, flowers, egg shells Crystals: rose quartz, rhodonite, rhodochrosite, malachite, azurite, garnet, desert rose selenite Animals: birds

NYX: protogenos of the night

Colors: black, dark blue, purple for association with the night, anything galaxy patterned Offerings: blackberries, blueberries, plum, dew (morning is fine but after sunset is best), dark feathers, dark chocolate, night-blooming flowers (like moonflower or wisteria), black tea/coffee, mugwort Crystals: obsidian, black tourmaline, labradorite, moonstone (especially black moonstone), selenite, lapis lazuli, amethyst, smokey quartz Animals: owl

also, she is associated with symbols of keys and veils/cloaks

EREBOS: protogenos of darkness

Colors: black for darkness Offerings: dark chocolate, black pepper, black salt, charcoal, asphodel Crystals: black tourmaline, obsidian, smokey quartz, lapis lazuli, azurite, red jasper Animals: moths

AETHER: protogenos of light and the heavens

Colors: yellow, orange, white for sunlight. blue for the sky Offerings: sunflowers, bee pollen, morning dew, fruit, feathers Crystals: honey/blue calcite, yellow/bumblebee jasper, angelite, celestite, milky quartz

HEMERA: protogenos of the day

Colors: blue for the sky, white for the heavens Offerings: chamomile, sage, lavender, basil Crystals: angelite, blue calcite, selenite, celestite, milky quartz, sapphire

GAEA: protogenos of the earth

Colors: blue, green, brown for the earth Offerings: flowers, wood, dirt, anything from nature, really. doing good deeds for the environment Crystals: unakite, jaspers (various), agates (various), lava rock, tiger's eye, bumblebee jasper, jade, nephrite, serpentine, amber Animals: serpents, bull, pig, bees

OURANOS: protogenos of the sky

Colors: blue, white, grey for the sky Offerings: rosemary, sage, mint, leaving your windows/curtains open Crystals: angelite, celestite, selenite, blue calcite, moonstone, sunstone, star jasper, blue lace agate Animals: birds

OCEANUS: protogenos of the ocean

Colors: blue and white for the ocean Offerings: shells, gull feathers, fish scales/bones, sea water, pearls, sand from the ocean Crystals: larimar, aquamarine, turquoise, lapis lazuli, azurite Animals: gulls, pelicans, fish

TETHYS: protogenos of fresh water

Colors: blue and green for fresh water Offerings: lake/pond/river water, fish scales/bones, cattails, sand from a fresh water beach Crystals: larimar, aquamarine, fluorite, amazonite, petoskey stone Animals: fresh water fish, dragonflies

THEMIS: protogenos of divine law and order

Colors: white, silver, gold for law Offerings: thyme, rosemary, anything resembling scales Crystals: pyrite, bloodstone, smokey quartz, obsidian, alexandrite, lapis lazuli Animals: owls

TARTARUS: protogenos of the depths

Colors: red and black for the underworld Offerings: sulfur, saltpeter, black salt, charcoal, deadly nightshade Crystals: jaspers (various), obsidian, black tourmaline, bloodstone, garnet/ruby, pyrite (contains a lot of sulfur) Animals: bats, black dogs

KRONOS: titan of time, harvest, and abundance

Colors: yellow, gold for his scythe. white, grey for the concept of time. green, brown for fertility Offerings: grain, bread, clocks/watches, vervain, poppy, nightshade, clove, allspice Crystals: jaspers (various), agates (various), labradorite, quartz (various), amethyst, honey calcite, serpentine, amber Animals: snakes

RHEA: titaness of motherhood, fertility, and generations (like of family)

Colors: red, pink for motherhood. green, brown for fertility Offerings: menstrual blood, milk, red clover, raspberry, allspice, clove, cinnamon Crystals: rose quartz, rhodonite, rhodochrosite, amethyst, pink opal, jade, nephrite, tiger's eye, cat's eye, amber Animals: lion

PHOEBE: titaness of bright intellect and prophecy

Colors: blue, white, and grey for intellect. purple for prophecy Offerings: sage, bay leaves, lavender, tests/quizzes/homework, yarrow Crystals: lapis lazuli, amethyst, labradorite, howlite, celestite, moonstone, selenite, celestite

LETO: titaness of motherhood, modesty, and womanly demure, protector of children

Colors: pink, red for motherhood. white for modesty Offerings: raspberry, allspice, clove, cinnamon, lavender, flowers, Crystals: moonstone, sunstone, selenite, rose quartz, carnelian, lepidolite, howlite Animals: wolf, rooster

also, she is associated with veiling

ASTERIA: titaness of falling stars, night time divination, and astrology

Colors: blue, black for the night. white/galaxy pattern for stars. purple for magic Offerings: star charts, feathers (especially quail), lavender Crystals: celestite, selenite, star jasper, amethyst, azurite, obsidian, black tourmaline, labradorite, jade Animals: quail

HELIOS: titan of the sun

Colors: yellow, orange, white for the sun Offerings: anything that refracts sunlight, sunflower, st john's wort, sage, cow pelt, chicken feathers Crystals: sunstone, yellow jasper, honey calcite, carnelian, citrine, milky quartz, celestite, angelite, amber Animals: cattle, sheep, white horses, rooster

SELENE: titaness of the moon

Colors: white, grey for the moon Offerings: yarrow, moon shaped objects/food, lavender, night-blooming flowers (like morning glories), nighttime dew Crystals: selenite, celestite, angelite, moonstone, labradorite, smokey quartz, howlite Animals: horses, oxen, mules

EOS: titaness of dawn

Colors: blue for the sky. white, yellow, orange, pink for colors of dawn Offerings: morning dew, morning glories, lavender, yarrow, sage Crystals: rose quartz, citrine, honey calcite, yellow jasper, milky quartz, moonstone, sunstone, selenite, celestite Animals: horses, cicadas

MNEMOSYNE: titaness of memory

Colors: red, yellow for memory Offerings: forget-me-nots, myrtle, rosemary, jasmine, Crystals: jade, amber, turquoise, fluorite, red/yellow jasper Animals: animals with good memory, like an elephant or raven

PROMETHEUS: titan of forethought, creator of mankind

Colors: red, orange for the fire of creation Offerings: fennel, burning things, charcoal Crystals: bloodstone, carnelian, citrine, amber, jaspers (various) Animals: eagle

divider by @vibeswithrenai

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

fairest city food culture

This is a supplementary post to continue off of this larger TWST food culture compilation post (as that one is getting super long as is). Here, I'll cover all the new food-related lore dropped about the Shaftlands and specifically about Fairest City, which features in the Tapis Rouge event.

Shaftlands

Macarons are one of the Shaftlands' signature sweets. Cream and raspberry, as well as lychee, are the popular flavors at the moment.

Macarons can be frozen so recipients can eat them fresh.

There are people who collect the stylish boxes that macarons come in.

According to Vil, mixing flavored syrups with carbonated liquids is common in the Shaftlands.

Stewed foods are the Shaftlands' specialty. This is because there are many stories about the Fairest Queen preparing many foods in a pot.

Apples are the most popular fruit in the Shaftlands. They are used for drinks, desserts, jams, and even savory meal items.

Fairest City

There are few food stands in Fairest City. This is because eating on the streets is seen as bad manners.

There is a strong cafe culture.

Fairest City is famous for its cuisine and sweets. Their sweets in particular are well developed due to the city's cafe culture.

Sweets with a pleasant appearance are popular. The most famous of patisseries make sweets which are like pieces of art.

Some sweets featured in famous patisseries include tarts, chocolate, mousse, macarons, brioche, roll cakes, financiers, mille-feuilles, and cakes shaped like apples with apple sauce inside, caramel apples, etc.

A specialty of Fairest City is "cream puff rings", which are cream puffs in ring shapes. They are meant to resemble wheels on rail cars, since Fairest City is located near mines. It is said that the cream puff rings (which is filled with a thick, high-calorie cream) were originally given to hard-working miners to restore their energy.

Luxury stores may offer amenities in addition to providing their services or helping customers shop. For example, staff may offer VIP clients drinks or chocolates.

Fairest City’s hotels have swanky restaurants built into them for guests to dine in. The fanciest of eating establishments are five star restaurants that have full sets of cutlery and napkins which you unfold and place in your lap.

Fancy dining establishments offer food à la carte (ordered by the plate) and prix fixe style (picking your courses from a predetermined selection).

There is a drink called “Diabolo Menthe” served in Fairest City. It is a spearmint flavored syrup mixed with a slightly carbonated liquid. Very refreshing! (This is most likely a reference to the potion that the Evil Queen drinks to transform into an old woman.)

Eric Venue, Vil’s famous movie star father, uses a five-star restaurant to cater buffets for his movie shoots for every 6 hours of work. They also have snacks and drinks on demand (“craft services”), which includes coffee, milk, tea, juice, chocolate, fruits, and pancakes and waffles. Lots of light foods!

Many dishes at high-class eateries are French. For example, hors d’oeuvres might include escargot (snails), foie gras de canard (duck foie gras), and terrine a la campagne (country-style terrine). Courses are also named in French (viande and poisson courses, etc.).

Some dishes served include boeuf bourguignon (a beef and red wine stew) filet mignon de porc aux pruneaux (a pork filet with dried plum; it is made with pig heart, bouillon, and sauce), and flounder poêlé (flounder with an herb sauce). The beef bourguignon is a favorite dish in the five-star hotel restaurant that caters for Eric Venue.

Pork, especially the heart, is prized meat in Fairest City. Many of its dishes are pork-based. There is a story about how the Fairest Queen needed a heart for one of her potions and had her huntsman hunt as a tribute to her; the filet mignon de porc aux pruneaux dish was born from this legend.

The restaurant that caters for Eric Venue has a specialty dessert called tart fine pomme. It is a thin tart with slices apples. The restaurant uses the highest quality of apples (from Harveston), which are grown in a special soil, for their dishes and drinks.

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 10: Want

Summary: Astarion finally leads Tav to a pretty, private clearing. ❤️‍🔥

Rating and Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content ❤️‍🔥. Kissing, Praise Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Unprotected Sex But No Pregnancy, Sexual Abuse and Recovery, Dissociation, Flashbacks. A/N: Please mind the tags! This will be a horny and hopeful story, but I also want to honor and explore Astarion’s sexual abuse and recovery journey. Full tag list on AO3. Read on AO3. Chapter 9. Read from the beginning. Tav was late. Astarion resisted the urge to pace and instead stayed in position, leaning against a thick oak tree. He had brought a spare bedroll with him, which he had fluffed and arranged nicely on the forest floor, alongside a fresh bottle of Ithbank he had stolen from their supplies. He had even brought the nice glass chalices he had “found.” He didn’t have any flowers or chocolates, but at least he had decent wine. Obviously, he had removed his shirt. Once Tav entered the clearing he would reveal himself, his lean body a vision in the soft moonlight, and begin the romantic monologue he had prepared. 

He was looking forward to it. He had used the same rote moves over and over again in the bars, the flop houses, the brothels. With strangers, it was better to stick to a safe script, even the repetitive one that had been trained into him. But this was a rare moment of theatricality he could plan. 

Crickets chirped. An owl hooted. A few fireflies flickered and danced across the clearing. It really was a lovely spot.

He had spent a long time thoroughly choreographing this encounter. It had to be perfect. Would Tav like it soft and romantic? That was always a safe bet. Or would she surprise him? Was Tav secretly a naughty little thing underneath her do-gooder veneer? Was she as bossy in bed as she was outside of it, or would she attend his every command? He wasn’t completely sure what Tav would like, but he had a few educated guesses. Most people liked the same kinds of things anyway.

Tav was a bard. Given their reputation, he assumed she would at least be competent. 

Finally, he hears new footsteps approach and Tav steps gingerly out of the darkness. She’s freshly bathed and dressed in a loose, flowing peasant blouse that sits low upon her shoulders, revealing her gorgeous collar bones. On cue, Astarion strides forward into a moonbeam, angling himself so that the light catches the hard planes of his chest, the hills and valleys of his abdominals. Tav is appropriately awestruck: she looks him up and down and up again, her pupils dilating with undisguised surprise and desire. 

“There you are. I’ve been waiting,” he purrs eagerly. He prowls towards her. “Waiting since the moment I laid eyes on you.” His voice is soft and low with promise. “Waiting,” He pauses for effect. “To have you.”

Tav’s lip quirks. “Really? From the moment you laid eyes on me?” She questions. “So, was it from the moment you saw me on the Nautiloid and thought I was a Mindflayer? Or was it when you threatened me at knifepoint?”

Astarion purses his lips. He had forgotten about all of that sordid business. He was just trying to say something alluring.

“The point of the matter is, I’ve been aching to have you,” he counters smoothly. 

“Well, you don’t have me yet,” Tav teases.

“Don’t I?” He softly calls her bluff. “You’re here! And I don’t think you want to talk.” He steps forward, bringing his hand up to her face. “I think you want to be known.” He brushes a few stray locks behind her ears. His fingers linger against her cheek. “To be tasted,” he whispers. 

“And what do you want?” Tav breathes, her eyes wide and glassy. What a question. He wants so many things. Power. Control. Vengeance. Freedom. Safety. But in this clearing, there’s only one right answer. 

“What do any of us want? Pleasure.” He holds her gaze, lowering his lashes in a sultry stare. “Yours.” His hands grab her waist. “Mine.” He pulls her body close. “Our collective ecstasy.” He studies Tav’s face, his eyes flickering back and forth across her features. She studies him back, her eyes boring into his own like she’s searching desperately for something. Suddenly, Astarion feels insecure. Why else would she be here if not for this?

“That is what you want, isn’t it?” He asks apprehensively. “To lose yourself in me.” 

It’s what they always want. In these moments Astarion is not himself. If he exists, he is a pair of pecs, a ripple of abs, talented fingers, a wet mouth, a hard cock, a tight and willing hole. He is merely a reflection of his partner’s desires. It doesn’t matter what he wants. 

Tav places a hand upon his own, leading it up to her mouth. She places a light kiss across the back of his knuckles.

“What I want is the chance to get to know a man who seems-" she turns his hand over. “Clever.” She kisses the palm of his hand, her soft lips lingering against the sensitive skin. “Witty.” She kisses his wrist. She ghosts her mouth up his arm, her warm breath trailing over his cool flesh. “Cunning.” She places a scorching kiss on his shoulder. “Ambitious.” She lays an open-mouthed kiss at the base of his neck and Astarion stifles an involuntary sigh. She moves upward, finally to his mouth.

“Fierce,” she declares. He instinctively leans in and captures her lips with his. She parts her lips for him and Astarion stops himself from groaning into her mouth. She kisses him back softly, her plush lips moving against his with a tender fervor that makes him feel dizzy. He forces himself to break the kiss, dropping his hands to the backs of her thighs and hoisting her up. Tav instinctively knows to jump as he lifts, wrapping her legs around him as he pivots smoothly to press her into the trunk of the nearby oak tree, pinning her there with the weight of his frame.

He kisses her again, basking in the passionate, sensual slide of her mouth as they embrace against the tree. It always felt wrong to allow himself to enjoy the tenderness of a kiss, knowing what awaited his partners. But this is a moment of his own. As he dips his tongue into her hot, wet mouth he finds that it is not enough. He wants more. More heat, more touch, more connection. Tav’s fingers thread through his curls and he shivers in both delight and dread. But her fingers stay soft, her grip stays kind and the longer she caresses him, the more he finds that he likes her attention. He squeezes her ass and Tav releases a breathy sigh into his mouth.

“Please,” she breathes. He buries his face into her neck, where he can’t help but smile against her skin.

“Please what, darling?” He teases, the smirk evident in his voice as he lays a kiss against her throat. Tav guides his face back up to hers. She pushes herself against him, clinging to his chest, and for a moment they are perfectly balanced upright. Then, Tav uses her weight to tip him backward and they tumble into the downy grass. They land in a playful tangle, Tav now seated atop him. She arches her neck in a sinful curve.

“Bite me,” she begs. “Please.” Her thighs clench around his waist. “Please, Astarion.”

Astarion surges forward, flipping them over. He was ready to forego this, but now that Tav has asked for his bite he has no qualms about giving it to her. He dives down to her neck, sinking his teeth greedily into her. Tav cries out, but her cry of pain quickly turns to pleasure as he takes his fill. As he drinks, he slots himself between her legs, settling his weight on top of her as she trembles under him. She’s perfect like this, pinned beneath him with his fangs in her throat. His neglected cock throbs for attention.

Too soon, Astarion rips himself away from her neck. As much as he loves this, he wants her alert. He needs her to feel everything he plans to do to her. He laps at her pretty wounds, swallowing every last drop. Tav bucks beneath him, seeking friction. He has mercy, grinding his hardness down against her. 

“As delicious as this is, there’s something else I want to taste,” He whispers in her ear. He moves lower, pulling the loose fabric of her top down beneath her perfect, round breasts. She isn’t wearing any kind of bra or stays, a delightful surprise. He lavishes each breast with nips and kisses, her nipples hardening under his touch. He takes one in his mouth, circling her nipple expertly with his tongue as he kneads the other. Her tits feel perfect in his hands, their softness a beckoning temptation. Tav quivers and sighs as he caresses her, petting his head in a way that he imagines is loving. He wonders what it would be like to bite her here. To lay his head against the pillow of her breast and hear her hypnotic heartbeat. But as beautiful as that thought is, her chest is only an apéritif. Tav groans when Astarion moves even further down her body.

Astarion smirks to himself as he descends. He is very, very good with his mouth. 

He unlaces her skirt, then hooks his fingers into her smallclothes, sliding them both completely off and depositing them somewhere irrelevant. He lays a kiss on her ankle, then her knee, then on the inside of her thigh, where a major artery throbs with precious blood. He wants to sink his teeth into it. Instead, he lays another kiss against her plush skin.

He leans forward between Tav’s splayed legs where her wet, pretty cunt glistens. He inhales deeply, openly enjoying the musk of her arousal. He looks up at her from between her legs and catches her staring, propped up on her elbows, as he knew she would be. Maintaining eye contact, he dips down and licks a slow, sensual line across her opening and up to her clit. Tav sighs, her freshly-kissed breasts heaving as she arches her perfect neck upwards. The bruise of his bite stares back at him as Astarion dips back down.

He begins with hot, heavy strokes of his tongue, savoring her taste. Her essence mixes with the lingering taste of blood still on his tongue and he moans at the heady combination. His cock twitches and a spurt of precum suddenly drips from his tips as he sucks and laps at her delicate folds. Gods, she's making such a mess of him.

He circles the delicate pearl of her clit, gradually increasing speed and suction as he works. Her hole clenches needily and he dips one, then another, elegant finger inside her, stroking her silken walls in time with the swirl of his tongue. She’s dripping with want, her channel slick and eager for him. The glide is practically effortless. He adds just a little bit of oomph behind his thrusts, jostling her hips as if he were fucking her with his cock and not his fingers. A small prelude of what is to come. She is going to take his cock so, so well.

“Astarion,” she pants. He moans against her in answer, a deep purr of approval. He crooks his fingers inside of her, massaging her relentlessly. He can feel her twitching, tightening around him. She’s almost there, he can feel it. She grinds against his face and he holds firm, providing her with the sweet friction she needs. 

“Astarion!” She clenches around his fingers, gasping as she comes in tight, rippling spasms. He rides her through it, never stopping his ministrations. Not until the sweet undulations of her cunt cease and Tav relaxes in a sweaty, spent puddle. His face is a lovely, sticky mess. He gives her one last sinful lick before moving back to nuzzle her inner thigh. She whines at the loss of his tongue and fingers but he peppers her body with apologetic kisses. She grabs a desperate, but still gentle, fistful of his curls, rubbing his scalp in smooth, soothing circles. Astarion shudders at this new, intimate pleasure. 

“Bite me. Please. Again,” Tav whimpers.

“How could I refuse you,” Astarion groans. He hooks one of her thighs over his shoulders, opening her up even more for him. He finally sinks his teeth into the artery in her thigh, relishing in the decadence of such an intimate bite. It’s perfect, exactly what he had wanted. He sucks hard and Tav jerks beneath him, her cunt gushing with renewed wetness. As he drinks, he snakes his hand back up to her clit, rubbing fast circles against her slick flesh. Tav cries out, whining as she quickly approaches a new peak. He releases her thigh, lapping at his bite needily. 

“So good, Tav,” he slurs huskily, both her blood and her cum dripping messily down his chin. “So good for me, my darling.” Tav shudders, looking up at him with open adoration in her eyes. “My favorite.” Her face scrunches up, her body pulled tight with pleasure. He holds her gaze. “You’re such a good girl,” he moans for her.

Tav comes for the second time, her back arching off the forest floor as her empty pussy spasms. She releases the sweetest moan as she orgasms again. When she’s finished she reaches for him, pulling him up her body and back to her mouth, where she kisses him with her own deep and fervent hunger.

“You’re perfect, Astarion,” she says, kissing his cheek, then his neck, then his shoulder. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs worshipfully. She reaches down to cup his aching cock, rubbing him through the fabric of his trousers. Astarion groans softly at the contact.

“Your turn,” she says with a playful smirk, and Astarion realizes that she intends to work her way down. Tav begins to flip their positions but Astarion holds firm, anchoring himself above her. He wants her. But that’s not the point of this.

“Not tonight, my love. Tonight, I want to positively ravish you,” he insists. Tav groans with thwarted longing, but still arches herself up against him to kiss his treacherous lips. 

“You sweet, sweet man,” she says, laying back down beneath him. He knows it isn’t true. Tav only has half of the story, by his own design. Astarion knows he isn’t sweet or kind in reality, but maybe he could be. For a night. For Tav.

“Let me show you just how sweet I can be,” he says, returning his fingers to her swollen pussy. He knows she’s already dripping for it, but he longs to feel the proof of her desire again. He did this to her. He lines himself up, teasing the tip of his cock against her drenched opening. He rubs himself languidly between her legs, coating his cock in her nectar as he continues to tease her.

 “Astarion, please,” Tav whines, grinding her hips against him to match his rhythm. A shiver runs up his spine at her wanton cries. He loves it when she begs for it, desperate for anything he will give her. He wants to push it, but he stops himself. He said he would be sweet. 

“Anything for my favorite,” he hums, easing himself inside of her with a shallow thrust. He works his way slowly inside of her, enjoying the way her body stretches to accommodate his girth. Tav mewls when he’s finally seated inside of her, and Astarion gives an experimental grind that makes her gasp in pleasure. 

When he feels her body relax around him he sets a firm, but steady, pace, humping into her with practiced abandon. His cock drags along her tight walls, spearing her core over and over. He angles himself up against the delicious spot inside her that he knows will make her see stars. He finds it easy to fall into this rhythm, to let his mind wander away while his partner writhes in ecstasy. To let his hand find their clit, toying with it perfunctorily as they languish beneath him. 

“Faster, please,” someone begs. 



“So polite,” He chuckles darkly, increasing his pace. Sweat begins to bead along his brow. A hand comes up to wipe it away, jolting him out of his reverie. Lips find his own, but it’s too much right now. He gives them a quick peck then straightens his spine, keeping his face far away from that tempting and forbidden throat. 

“Astarion,” a voice calls, breathless and keening. Fingers trace over his chest, running down his side, grasping at his hip. They begin to move across his back, dangerously close to it. He immediately laces those curious fingers in his own, pinning them above their head. He begins pounding in earnest, obfuscating with his body. 

He feels his partner shatter underneath him, their hole clenching and sucking around his length. Their pleasure ripples through him in tight, pleasing waves and he slows his hips to a gentle roll as they come down from their climax. Tav squeezes his hand in hers, turning her face to kiss his knuckles again. 
 “Come here,” she beckons, drawing him down to her chest with her other hand. Astarion obeys but turns his face away from her delectable neck. Any moment, He will interrupt-

“That was so good,” she says. “You’re so good.” She coaxes him further up her body, angling his face towards the crook of her neck. She allows him to hide there, unaware of the tempest that wells inside of him.

 “Please, take your pleasure, Astarion,” she urges, rubbing those diabolical circles into his scalp. “I want to feel you come,” she pleads. His hips twitch and he jerks inside of her, his body moving of its own accord. He has whispered words like those a thousand times, but Tav sounds so sincere when she says them.

It’s been so long, too long since this happened with another person. He doesn’t know if he can. But he wants to. Her arms cradle him as he moves against her, trying to lose himself in the way that he’s supposed to. That should be instinctual, that should be his by right. 

He buries his face in her neck, resisting the desire to bite down. He feels the warmth of her body, breathes in her comforting scent. This isn’t just anyone. It’s Tav. Tav. Tav, Tav, Tav, Tav, Tav-

He comes hard, releasing himself deeply inside of her. A moan tears itself from his throat as he is wracked with full-body contractions, pleasure coursing through him like lightning. He takes big, gasping, unnecessary gulps of air as he hurtles over this unexpected cliff. Tav holds him through it all, whispering kind, encouraging nothings. 

She turns to kiss him and he lets her, grounding himself in the push and pull of her lips. He opens his mouth to her, wanting to feel it all. Tav props them both up on their sides, brushing his sweaty curls out of his face. He can feel her smiling into the kiss and it makes him smile too, just a little. 

“You forgot handsome,” he says after a moment, breaking their kiss.

“What?” Tav asks blearily.

“Handsome. Funny, clever, cunning, ambitious, fierce, and handsome,” he explains, as if it were obvious. Tav snorts inelegantly, a cute puff of air tickling his face.

“And very, very handsome,” she concedes, settling against his chest.

They stay like that for a long time, silently luxuriating in each other’s arms. Astarion can’t remember the last time he trusted this peace. He’s waiting for it to be interrupted by the the click of a door handle, the muted tap of a staff against ugly carpet, and the red glow of his sire’s cruel eyes, freezing them both in place on one of the overstuffed, impersonal beds of the palace. 

Tav shifts in his arms and he resists the urge to hold her tighter. Her hand strokes his chest in a consistent, easy sweep that lulls them both into a deep, peaceful rest. 

~

Chapter 11: Fun

[prncssie]

ONE ⎯⎯ ★ m. list

you’d think when you’re all moved out of your childhood home and sitting on the cool wooden flooring of your own apartment, you’d feel all grown up. granted, you are grown up. however, there’s just something so different, so special and sacred, about enjoying a glass of cheap red wine and listening to the soft sounds of frank ocean, pinkpantheress, and other various artists humming from your red beats pill. this space is entirely yours. it’s your space, filled with the scent of toasted vanilla beans and marshmallows roasting over a fire.

it’s as neat and cluttered as you want it, polaroids of your old life plastered against the walls, floors freshly mopped, dishes cleaned and put away. the air practically buzzes with opportunity, with optimism and hope for the future. you can see it now, your name credited at the end of the newest blockbuster, only after successfully landing a lead role and hitting it off with your co-actors. you can taste it, your dream come true. sweet like syrup, dancing across your tongue with a honeyed sapor. it’s everything you could have asked for and here, in this new city, it’s just within reach. of course, first, you’d have to land a role.

still, that isn’t exactly you’re biggest focus right now. in just a couple hours, you’ll be starting your new job at the local diner. it isn’t something you’re nervous about perse, but there’s nothing particularly enjoyable about a fresh start. your new uniform hangs in your makeshift closet. the stone gray curtains are pulled back to reveal the crisp edges of the baby pink retro-style dress. it’s a cute, little thing. pinstripes from top to bottom, a flare skirt lined with soft tulle, a quaint white apron to match. you’d think it’s something you’d get out of the sexy costume section of spirit halloween. yet, it’s something you’ll be putting on for almost seven days out the week. it’s position in your closet symbolizes something to you. a glowing emblem of promise. it may not be the best item you own, or even the most practical but it means the most and that’s something that matters.

a single corner of your mouth twitches upwards. your brown eyes find themselves wandering towards the simplistic blinking clock on your desk. it’s 12:30. it’s late enough, you think, for you to crawl beneath the thousand count thread sheets stretched across your bed. you toss your head back, downing the rest of the savory wine in a couple of gulps. you practice your newfound freedom by leaving the glass right there on the coffee table and make your way towards your bed. your muscles strain and tremble after minutes of sitting in the same position for far too long. they sing their praises once you reach your plush mattress and bury yourself beneath the sheets. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ★

“oh my gosh, hello!” the sing-songy voice spouts from a gorgeous dark haired girl, tinted a shade of red resembling a plum. she looks sweet, sharp eyes, a cute round nose. she smells sweet, like a ripe apple spiced with cinnamon on a nice autumn day. she grins at you with glossed pink lips while shoving a notepad within her apron pocket. “you must be the new girl. welcome to bop and bite, darlin’. my name is cherry. braxton told me we’d be gettin’ a new hire today.”

her infectious glee is enough to bring a pleased look to the surface of your face. there’s a bit of a southern twang that weaves through her words. it makes you tilt your head in curiosity but you don’t ask. instead, you run your hands along the skirt of your pressed uniform and grin back. “oh, i’m ⭐︎. it’s so nice to meet you. are you going to be training me?”

“oh, no. mrs. glen’s gone’ be trainin’ you. she’s super sweet. a real sugar pie. there’s this whole seniority thing and she has really good scores so,” cherry turns away from you, facing her distorted  reflection in the mint green countertops. they’re shiny enough to strain your eyes, reflecting the bright yellow lighting directly into your face. she bends over the open space and, what you’d soon learn as classic cherry fashion, rakes her fingers through her hair with a black elastic held tight within her teeth. “don’t worry, honey. you’ll be in great hands.”

you watch her tie her hair back, looking over the countertops at the empty booths and unoccupied bar stools. perhaps you’ve gotten far too dressed up compared to everyone else but really, can you be blamed for that? you half-assed makeup routine usually consisted of a light layer of a light layer of concealer,  a smooth line of eyeliner on the lower lids, blush, highlight, all the works. you just thought, since it is your first day, why not leave a good impression with a sugared face and an even sugared smile. there’s a second, just one, where you wonder if you went a little overboard, but those thoughts are dissolved the moment cherry looks up at you, placing a soft hand on your forearm.

“you know, you’re as pretty as a peach. you’ll make some real good tips workin’ here, i think. they love a real doll face.” she squeezes your arm before turning and leaving you to your own devices.

you stand there for a moment, glancing around the colorful room. that’s the thing with new places. it’s fun, it’s cool, it’s a change of pace and exciting, but it ends there. you don’t have roots, not yet at least. it causes more breaks in your productivity then you’d like. it’s occupied with nothing but silence and conversation where you can. like any other person, you fill that silence by pulling your phone out of your pocket. the plastic case is cool against your hand and you tap the tempered glass to display your lock screen. it blurs and shifts upon the sight of your face and you’re welcome, unfortunately, by a text message. not one you’re looking forward to.

mom: When are you coming back home? This is a waste of time and you know it

you roll your eyes the moment the words register in your brain. it doesn’t come as a shock to you, not really. if you were going to be honest with yourself, you knew it was going to come soon. the arguments about your decision, their displeasure at your desire to pursue an acting career, them insisting you couldn’t afford to live on their own. of course, they’re right. you can’t. that’s why you’re pulling doubles at bop and bite in hopes of having enough for rent and spare time to make it to casting calls, even if it’s for another mundane background character.

you click your tongue against the tip of your mouth, deciding it’s better off not to respond back than informing her that you are, still, very serious about your commitment. even if it meant you had to live in a somewhat cramped studio apartment until you could afford something better — which will probably be never. at least, not any time in the future that you can see. your thumb swipes against the glass, clearing the message from your screen and hopefully, your brain.

you drop your phone back into your apron pocket by the time the presumed mrs. glen makes her appearance. she looks sweet, as cherry said. a smile, salt and pepper hair, seasoned wrinkles. she wears her uniform all the same, thin frilly socks and little heeled mary ones clicking against the hard floor tiles. her thin gold bracelets dangle as she keys herself in to the register. her hair is pulled tight, flipped ponytail swinging as she saunters.

mrs. glen glances at you, eyes scanning along your frame. you pique her interest. you and you’re . . . smallness. your small personality, the small amount of space you take up. perhaps it’s because you’re in an unfamiliar place but you don’t stand as bold as someone who would need to work here. “you move here from somewhere? ⭐︎, right? you have that newcomer thing about you.”

you are a bit more jittery than you realize or even care to admit. it’s embarrassing how you stumble to turn towards her, hands interlaced in front of your body and palms facing up. “oh, yes ma’am. i moved here from a small town. i actually just settled and everything yesterday.” your curls, tied back neatly in two, spring and bounce in place. you’ve taken great care to wash, detangle, moisturize, and stretch them to have the prettiest impression you possibly could.

“mm, i can tell,” it’s meant to be nothing, words just tossed out into the air but mrs. glen misses the slight twitch of your eyebrow, “anyway, you’ll be following me around today as my shadow. once you get the hang of it, you’ll be taking drink orders and making them. it’s a slow process. customers are picky; they want a particular service. we open in five minutes so stay close. yes?” this time, she faces you. her eyes, dark like sweetened chocolate chips, hold you where you are.

she’s stern, you can tell by the way she just stares at you, expectantly. cherry said she’s “a real sugar pie” but in this moment, you feel more like she’s firmer than a pine knot. “yes ma’am. i’ll be right beside you.”

[ruumirmir]

"Hey, hey- did you hear? Lord Regrator promoted someone as the new branch manager of our bank!"

"Don't tell me... it's him, isn't it?"

"But of course, I heard the harbinger is playing favorites now-"

.˚ *꒰ঌ There's a new Venator Dux in town ໒꒱* ˚.

Pantalone x Male!Reader | Part of the Loverboy series .༊·˚

𓆩♱�� Summary - When you feel the caress of a mask; an identity, Who do you become? Or, a profiling of Pantalone's loverboy. 𓆩♱𓆪 Author's note - Finished cooking Pantalone's Loverboy a little bit more with this character layout. While a good chunk of his aesthetic has been pinned down, I probably won't go further to draw any sort of outfit or character design for him. As of now, I'm keeping his finer details ambiguous enough to classify as a M!reader. @eluxcastar comrade wake up new Loverboy content just dropped.

➷ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Under the hierarchy of Regrator's ordinance, Fatuus above a certain level of authority don masks signifying their position. Ordinary agents working with classified business information must never run the risk of disclosing their identities after all. One such mask, dipped in a red of warning and adorned with a platinum wing on it's brow is the telltale identity of the bank's Venator Dux. Whether you stand against him in a negotiations meeting, or battle, he's no less intimidating without it.

➷ 𝐇𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

"Hydro represents faith, regardless of how misguided it maybe." "This vision is given to people who either have a strong dedication towards something, or have a desire to help or protect others." From wind to water; That day celestia's eye honed in on the fool falling past a shattered window, dragging down another with him. "How amusing..." they'd think, and brush past the reject to bestow heaven's blessing upon the far more pitiful one.

➷ 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱

Also called 'wine red' or 'black rose'. Like the lovely wines of plum occasionally imported from Liyue. Like blood to snow in the region colored head to toe in muted greys and blues.

➷ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐬

A flower that smells like fresh chocolate. They symbolize peace and tranquility. It is said that Chocolate Cosmos in particular mean “I love you more than anybody can.” Is it more obvious. He offers to pin it on the Harbinger's coat with a knowing grin. A frost-sensitive flower; It requires partial sun or full sun, and flowers from mid to late summer. It cant flourish naturally in a frost-bitten habitat and is artificially kept in greenhouses, only glimpsing the sun every few days through tinted windows. Pantalone barely needs to lift a finger to commission a set of cosmos flowers turned to jewelry for his Loverboy to wear.

➷ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐰𝐚𝐧

A Black Swan signifies an insight about yourself that changes your position from one of victim to victor. Black Swan is a graceful reminder to move from any position where you feel powerless and at the mercy of external forces; it is time to reclaim your personal power. A coin always has two sides however; The black swan theory states that, "It is an unpredictable event that is beyond what is normally expected of a situation and has potentially severe consequences."

➷ 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝

Equal parts strategic leader and hands-on agent, the Venator's blade is no less mightier than his pen. Come hell and high water, his feathered quill can enlarge thrice over to chase down it's targets with a mind of it's own, like a missile dart. You wouldn't fare better in close quarters either. The feather reinforced with hydro can sharpen it to the degree of splitting icebergs and necks alike. Why else do you think his ink occasionally flows in hues of red?

➷ 𝐈𝐜𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞

The steely frost seeping into his coat, A heady spice from the smoke warming the air, and the slow bittersweet aroma that doesn't hit you until after he's gone; an aftertaste.

➷ 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings Be your Valentino, just for you" "I'd like for you and I to go romancing Say the word, your wish is my command" "Ooh, love (there he goes again) Ooh, lover boy (he's my good old-fashioned lover boy, ooh) What're you doing tonight?"

➷ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲

"Faithfulness to something to which one is bound by pledge or duty.""In the shimmering expanse of ice and snow, I pledge my unwavering devotion and undying loyalty to the illustrious Tsaritza, sovereign of this frozen realm. As the frost bites deep and the chill of winter grips our souls, I stand firm in my resolve to serve her reign with pride and honor." "With every breath, I swear to defend her name, her realm, and her legacy, even if it means laying down my life upon the icy plains, for in her sovereignty lies the very essence of our existence. Today, I embrace the cold embrace of eternity, knowing that I have lived and died under the banner of our revered Tsaritza, with unwavering loyalty burning bright within my heart..." And he didn't mean a single word of it. He wondered when that would be the death of him.

[preciouslandmermaid]

of songbirds, swords, and spice (6)

pairing: Opla!Zoro x Opla!Sanji x Fem! Reader (no use of Y/N or L/N)

tw/cw: violence/blood/mentions of slavery/threats of violence against children/mentions/implications of past abuse note: haven't written them in forever so it all feels ooc but i literally wrote this nonstop for 2 hours so...im sorry if its delirious xoxo

🏴‍☠️ read on AO3 🏴‍☠️

(masterpost)

<- (previous chapter)

Your heart swelled as Nightingale port came into view and your grip tightened around the warm, wooden railing. Nothing tasted sweeter than the fresh, briny air of home. Home, you smiled to yourself, I never thought I’d have one of those after being on the run for nine years. Your settlement in Nightingale was almost at its fifth anniversary, and with Estella’s treasure in your hands, you allowed yourself the tentative hope you’d reach the tenth anniversary someday.

Luffy fell into place beside you and said, “I can’t wait to see what Sanji cooks to celebrate.”

Your lips twitched upward and the memory of the night before lingered like warm rice wine in your veins. Sanji, asking for your favorite dish, promising to find a way to make it, and asking if you’d ever dream of staying aboard the Going Merry. Could you? More importantly, did you want to? Nami’s thoughtful, empathetic expression in the pale moonlight, her hair pastel, her eyes glimmering. Zoro smirking and calling you out for your selfless actions within the cavern. Luffy’s bright and magnetic presence. Usopp, laughing and playing with the children.

Wait. What were you thinking? You couldn’t leave Estella. You promised yourself that you’d remain by her side. She needed you. You forced your cramping fingers to relax on the railing.

“Luffy?” You swallowed.

Luffy stood with his hands interlaced behind his neck. “Uh, yeah?”

“What if you don’t become King of the Pirates? What will you do?”

You glanced at him. His dark brows furrowed as sunlight dappled through the straw hat’s weave, creating a myriad of light-born freckles on his forehead.

“Keep trying,” he finally answered with a loose shrug.

The pragmatic in you couldn’t help it – you said, “What if you die?”

Would he seriously spend his entire life trying to become King of the Pirates? Would he die for his dream? His expression softened.

“That’s kind of a morbid thought, don’t you think? He smiled. “Anyway.” He gestured to the island. “We have a delivery to make!”

“I’m home!” You called, gently dropping Mimi onto the shiny floors, and watching her prance away toward one of the side rooms. At the continued silence, you glanced back at the Straw Hats in the entryway and yelled louder, “Grandma! We’re back!”

“Uh—” Usopp peered his head around the doorframe. “Maybe she stepped out?”

“Something’s off,” you said, a trickle of sweat slid down your spine. You heard the telltale creak of Zoro gripping the handle of his blade and Sanji fell into step behind you. The harsh, white daylight poured into the main foyer in a stark rectangle silhouetted by your shadows.

BAM! The front door slammed shut. Usopp released a quick, startled scream.

Estella’s wheelchair emerged from around the corner. Your eyes jerked from her tear-stained face to the man pushing her and your lungs threatened to capsize.

“No,” you said thickly.

A tall, late middle-aged man wore a thin, drooping mustache, and his narrow lips twisted into a smarmy, self-absorbed smirk. A golden wasp brooch was pinned to the lapel of his shiny, velvety plum suit. Your mouth thickened with saliva. No, no, no. Not you.

“Nine years,” he drawled. He narrowed an eye at you, as his other eye was covered by an eye patch.

The nearby shadows moved and his men, his enforcers – his goons – slowly encircled your group, glaring, their clubs and swords brandished. Your fingers twitched. Could you use your kusarigama in time? Could you reach Estella? You needed to save her.

Clover’s distraught voice came from the top of the stairs, “Big sister!” The unknown man who held Clover in his arms pressed a knife too close to her small throat.

A flare of protectiveness ignited in your heart. “Don’t you dare touch her,” you snarled. You knew this cretin – this piece of shit, scum at the bottom of the ocean – because he was the source of your torment as a child. He was your jailer and your cage. And you knew that he wasn’t above hurting children. Clover, little Aiden, Utakuro, Ann, and Badger were all in danger.

He was Victor Wasp – an entrepreneur of great renown in specific, vile circles.

Luffy raised his fists. “Let them go!”

“Picking on elderly women and children,” Sanji said and ‘tsked’ under his breath.

Zoro chimed in, “Pathetic.”

“Nine years,” Victor continued as if none of the Straw Hats had spoken. “I’ve spent searching for you. It’s time to come home, sweet plum.” His smile was cruel.

Fuck. What were you doing?! You weren’t powerless. You weren’t a scared little kid anymore. Your skull filled with Clover’s hiccuped cries from the staircase landing. You opened your mouth. You would scream. You would sing. You would do whatever was necessary to save them.

The barrel of a gun pressed into Estella’s temple.

“Mouth shut!” Victor snapped and your teeth clicked together.

Estella cried your name. “Run,” she pleaded, “go, please!”

“I’m not leaving you.” Your throat prickled.

“Let’s not make this so dramatic,” said Victor, “it’s time for you to come home. Come home and come quietly and I’ll let everyone in the town live.”

The floor swayed beneath your feet. The town? You had to have misheard him. You opened your mouth to ask, but Zoro beat you to it.

“What the hell are you yammering about?” he asked, his tone contemptuous.

“What?” Victor laughed. “Did you think I wasn’t planning this for weeks in advance?” He clicked his tongue twice and one of his enforcers, wearing an all-black suit like the rest, wiggled a stick of dynamite in his hand. You should’ve expected that Victor Wasp would have multiple backup plans. He’d watch the whole town burn before losing his merchandise. But he had lost you, you reminded yourself, nine years you’ve been free of him. You exhaled shakily through your nostrils. That freedom had been an illusion, though. Those moments of joy, of friendship and…You thought of Sanji helping you cook, his lithe body moving through the fragrant haze of steam,...and connection, they had all been temporary. A balm to delay the inevitable.

You swallowed with difficulty. He found me. He’ll take me back.

“She’s not coming with you,” Luffy shouted, “and we’re not going to let you blow the town up!”

The Straw Hats tensed around you – preparing themselves for an all-out battle. No. No. You weren’t going to let them get hurt or killed on account of your past mistakes. Nothing else mattered but the seven-year-old girl upstairs crying for her ‘big sister’ to save her.

You placed your hand on Luffy’s wrist. “Luffy, it’s my choice, right?”

“Huh?”

“If you make me stay,” you said, “if you make me fight alongside you, then you’re taking away my choice, and you’re no better than him.”

His dark brown eyes squinted in confusion, then were cleared by a sudden understanding. Your breath caught. His capability for quick empathy was honestly disconcerting.

“You sure? We could take him on just like we took out that spider-lady,” he said with an encouraging grin.

“What are you doing?” hissed Nami.

Usopp whispered, “She’s taking the diplomatic route!”

You nodded. “If it’s my life over theirs, then I’m choosing them. There’s no question.”

Luffy lowered his fists and the rest of his crew followed his lead, but they didn’t look happy. Except for Usopp, he looked relieved.

“Make it a clean break,” said Victor, “you know how I hate a mess and my boys can handle it.”

Between the lines, you understood what Victor was asking. He wanted you to use your devil fruit power to knock everyone out so that he, his team, and you could leave without any risk of interference. A foggy cloud of suspicion and confusion fell over the Straw Hats and they looked to you for guidance. You blinked back your tears. After this, whatever budding trust existed between you would be reduced to ash.

“Don’t fight him, Luffy,” you reminded him.

“How about me?” Zoro asked, one hand on the hilt of his sword, “Can I fight him?”

“No!” You removed Pandora's box from your bag. “I’m not letting anyone die for me.” You passed the box to Luffy, who still looked incredibly confused and concerned. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, for Estella, for Nightingale.”

Your melodic voice spilled from your lungs. An old song. It was a lullaby you used to sing during thunderstorms to help little Aiden fall asleep. Zoro clamped his hands over his ears, glaring at you, as the rest of the Straw Hats – except for Luffy being immune – collapsed to the floorboards like a sack of turnips. As you expected, Victor’s bodyguards remained standing, and you guessed they were prepared with earplugs like the staff at the ‘golden cupid’.

Zoro held your gaze. He didn’t know fuck-all about what was happening, but he knew trouble when he saw it, and that prick in the purple suit? That asshole was trouble. And worse of all, you were choosing to go with him. Didn’t you trust them? Didn’t you trust Luffy? What about him? He saved your life, didn’t he? Zoro’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Your song ended once you stood beside Estella, your eyes shone bright with unshed tears. Dammit!

“Make sure they stay put,” the asshole said with a lackadaisical wave of his hand.

Someone grabbed Zoro’s arms and tried to pin them to his sides. He shouted his indignation and bodily shouldered the assailant away.

He shouted your name, running forward, because like hell he was going to let you just run off like that. He remembered what happened when Nami ‘ran off’. He wasn’t going to let it happen again. You might not be part of the crew, but you didn’t let go of Luffy’s hand, and that counted for something. He didn’t know what it counted for, he just knew it counted, and dammit—where the hell was he!? He spun in a half-circle. He thought he was following you.

“Zoro,” Luffy called to his back and Zoro skidded to a stop. His heart drummed inside his chest and pounded through his fingertips.

“Let her go,” he said.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded. “We can’t risk the whole town. She wouldn’t want that.” He gestured behind him to where Estella was asleep in her chair. “Estella wouldn’t want that.”

“An asshole like him was probably lying,” Zoro bit out.

He patted Zoro’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll track him down and bring her back.”

Zoro grumbled.

Sanji awoke with his face pressed into the carpet. He mumbled incoherently and dragged a hand through his hair. It was a restful, but confusing little nap. Hadn’t they all been moments away from a fight? The world blinked into focus as soft, whimpering cries surrounded him.

Crying for me? He wondered before lucidity grasped him and the memories rapidly filtered through. No, they’re crying for their songbird.

Estella wept, clutching the Pandora's box in her wrinkly, weathered hands. “I’ve gained one treasure and lost another,” she said.

Sanji slowly rose to his knees. Clover sat on the floor by Estella’s chair in Nami’s lap, with her long ebony hair neatly braided, though her face was red and sticky with snot and tears. Zoro leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowling straight ahead. He recalled his haze at the golden cupid after the beautiful voice swept all his worries away and carried him off into a sweet, honey-dipped melody. There was something different about you. Something strange. You sang and...everyone disappeared? Everyone, except for Zoro and Luffy, looked dazed and bleary-eyed.

“Madam Estella,” Sanji's voice was hoarse, “what happened?”

“Her voice is her greatest weapon,” she said, then looked at Luffy. “It doesn’t work on other devil fruit eaters.”

“She puts people to sleep with her voice,” Zoro guessed.

“Among other things,” Estella said, her voice high and wobbly with grief.

Nami asked, “Who was that guy with the wasp brooch?”

Unfortunately, Sanji could guess – perhaps not the man’s name, but his occupation. He spoke to you like you were his property and Sanji hated him instantly. A low-life scum who threatened women and children? Sanji wished he could’ve had the chance to kick his teeth in.

The older woman shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “He was our employer,” her tone was stiff, “never got paid for a single honest day’s work.”

“You were slaves.”

“Quick girl, aren’t you?” Estella glanced meaningfully at Nami’s tattoo. She sighed, smoothing her knobby fingers over the ivory box, and said, “We were slaves until she ate the fruit and we escaped together. I should have known Victor wouldn’t give up. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let us settle here…”

Luffy said, “It’s not your fault.”

“I will tell you our tale and you can be the judge of that, young pirate,” replied Estella.

“Victor was a man with a mean tongue and a meaner hand. He often complained of headaches, so all of his staff was commanded to be as silent as possible. You either memorized creaky floorboards or you were locked out of the house and kept in the doghouse for three nights.”

You stared up at the flags of Victor’s ship. It was a tacky design, of course, with his big hornet motif. One of his goons shoved you in the middle of your shoulder blades. You tossed a glare over your shoulder and bit into the damp gag in your mouth.

“I caught her in the study. Her face was covered in juice, and I knew at once what she had done.”

The floorboards creaked as you mounted the plank and you flinched with every groan of the great ship pulling against the ropes. The day started with hope and it would end in terror.

“She buried the box in the yard but came back to check to see if she missed anything. I yelled at her to get cleaned up before Mr. Wasp came home.”

Another one of Victor’s goons approached you, carrying a wooden pail, and you braced as the cold, sharp saltwater was dumped over your head. You blinked your eyes and glared at Victor through the blur of salty, barbed tears.

“And came home he did. The staff was questioned. He was meticulous about his things, you see. He kept a catalog of every pen, every bullet casing, and every spare berry. There was no escaping his scrutiny. He lined us all up.”

Your breath shuddered unevenly. Another bucket of water sluiced down your face and saturated your clothes. It was overkill, but it proved how nervous Victor was, and how he both despised and desired the power of your voice in equal measure.

“I lied for her. I said Victor’s son, Teddy, stole things from the study all the time to pay off his gambling debts. But, Victor didn’t believe me. He began to...to beat me in front of everyone. And my baby songbird, she opened her mouth, and screamed, and everything – everything shattered.”

Your legs kicked uselessly as they lifted you from beneath your armpits and carried you into the brig. You whipped your head back, intent on keeping Victor in your sights, and shouted muffled curses and profanities against the gag.

“Glass everywhere. Everyone screaming and clutching their ears. I couldn’t hear the words he said to her, but I saw the fear on her face, and I saw the hunger in his eyes and I knew – I knew that if I did nothing – I knew that – that – that he’d hurt her.”

BAM! Your shoulder and forehead sang with pain as they connected sharply with the wood. A flurry of stars danced in front of your vision. Your wet cheek pressed into the floor as you turned your head and peered through the iron bars at Victor’s feet. He crouched to meet your eyes.

“He is missing an eye because I took the nearest piece of glass – or pottery – or something else, I don’t know – and I struck him with it.”

Victor wordlessly lifted his eye patch to show you the scattered, mosaic scars that sealed his eyelid closed. A swell of bile surged in your throat at the memory of Estella’s bloody, slick fingers clinging to yours. He lowered the patch and stood upright, smiling.

Estella dabbed her eyes. “I took her hand and we’ve spent five years on the run, looking over our shoulders, until we found Nightingale. It was stupid for us to stay. I see that now. And now she’ll be punished for my folly.”

Sanji said quickly, “We have to save her.” He could read between the lines of Estella’s story. Victor wanted a return on his investment and wanted revenge for your actions nine years ago. There was no telling what he might do.

Zoro glared at him. “Calm down, cook. She’s not some damsel in distress waiting for a knight in shining armor.”

He glared back. “You’re not the knight in this scenario. Obviously.”

“We are going to save her,” Luffy said, stopping their argument before it began earnestly. “Tell us where they’re going and we’ll catch up to them.”

“Why?” Estella blinked.

“Because we’re pirates,” he replied simply. Her wrinkled face crumpled, deepening the lines around her mouth and eyes, before a fresh onslaught of sobs racked her frame. Sanji grabbed her soft, weathered hand.

He said, “Madam Estella, tell us everything you remember about Victor.” He gave her palm a gentle squeeze. “It’ll hopefully give us an advantage in the fight ahead.”

“We don’t need any advantages,” Zoro said, “if I stab him, he’ll bleed.”

“We haven’t seen him bleed yet,” said Usopp quietly.

[kingorqueenofnarnia]

Transcending Language Barriers

.

The Ball was in honour of Caspian.

Narnia had won, Miraz and Sopespian were dead, and Caspian had been coronated at dawn. Now was the time of revelry, of celebration, of dancing and music and good food and drinks.

Caspian was doing none of that.

He sat on his new throne, the golden Narnian crown atop his head both lighter and heavier than that of Telmar. He was clothed in traditional Narnian garments and a goblet of wine sat at his elbow, but he had not touched it in several minutes. No, Caspian was focused on something else entirely. Or rather, he was focused on someone else.

High King Peter looked, for lack of a better word, Magnificent.

His hair was longer than it had been when they first met, and was woven into several braids that reached the middle of his back, deep crimson ribbons among the glittering golden strands. His golden crown was further adorned with fresh roses the hue of spilled blood, and a ruby stud piercing glittered at his nose. Broad shoulders were draped in a fur-lined wool cloak, deep red and embroidered with gold thread like the rest of his Royal garb. It dragged on the floor behind him as he made his rounds, talking and laughing with Narnians, Telmarines and foreign delegations with an ease that spoke of years and years of experience.

It was now, after ten minutes of staring at Peter, that he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Seated on the throne beside him, Queen Susan was looking straight at him.

"You seem quite distracted, dear Caspian," she said quietly, but the low volume did absolutely nothing to hide the teasing edge to her voice. Caspian ducked his head. Susan's eyes, blue like her siblings but colder and more calculating, tracked the dark red flush that spilled down his cheeks with a mischievous gleam. When she finally met his gaze, there was a foreboding smirk on her plum painted lips. "See someone you like?"

Caspian choked on air. "Queen Susan—" he stammered, fervently cursing the burn in his cheeks in his mind, "what— I—"

"Oh, worry you not, love," she said, smooth voice dripping with amusement. "I think he's seen someone he likes, too."

"What—" Once more, Caspian felt a tap on his shoulder.

"May I have this dance, King Caspian?"

Peter stood in front of his throne with his hand held out, a golden signet ring on his little finger. Caspian stared up at him with wide eyes, taking in the expectant look in his sapphire blue eyes and the small, hopeful smile curling over his plump lips, and found himself unable to say anything other than, "of course, High King Peter."

He slipped his hand into Peter's, and suddenly he was pulled off his throne and down to the dance floor, Peter's fingers curling around his waist and pulling him close. Caspian swallowed, adjusted his feet, and nodded to the orchestra.

The music began.

Peter was, as he was with everything else, excellent at dancing. He moved smoothly, gracefully, with unerring and confident steps, and it was all Caspian could do to not to think of the way Peter's fingers dug into his waist in a firm, possessive grip and the way his eyes twinkled in the light of a thousand candles. Their started with a gentle waltz, letting the slow melody carry them around the dance floor in a wide arc, and Caspian felt the beginning of a smile curl over his lips: he loved to dance.

It was one of his first loves, aside from History and horseriding, and he sank into the familiar movements with a soft sigh, stepping further into Peter's space and gripping his shoulder tighter, ignoring the twinge of pain in his fresh callouses. Peter smelled of leather and roses— an odd combination, but Caspian took a deep breath nevertheless, revelling in the contrast of earthy and floral scents.

"You dance very well, Your Majesty," Peter murmured. Caspian pressed his lips together at the brush of hot air over his ear in an effort not to shiver, Peter's fingers at his waist feeling like a branding iron even through multiple layers of cloth.

"As do you, High King," he whispered back. Peter's fingers slipped lower, gripped tighter. Caspian swallowed down his gasp.

"Do you mind if we.. liven this up?" Peter asked, low timbre vibrating through the air between them and a soft smirk playing on his lips. Caspian nodded before he even realised what he was doing. "Excellent. I'm assuming you know the Telmarine Tango?"

Caspian did not even get the chance to nod; Peter's hand slid up to his mid back and dragged him forward into abrazo. Caspian straightened his spine and adjusted his stance— heels together and toes apart, fingers curling into Peter's calloused one.

Behind them, the orchestra changed the music.

Peter grinned. He slid his leg forward and across, and Caspian followed, pressing closer to Peter till their chests were flush together and their lips barely inches apart. He lifted his leg slowly, brushing along the length of Peter's calf with the tip of his toe before wrapping it around his thigh. Peter dragged him back, and Caspian went.

He surrendered to the music, arching his back and curling his legs and stepping and sliding in and out from between Peter's feet as easily as breathing. He did not even realise when his eyelids dropped to half mast, but Peter was staring at him with a burning gaze and Caspian felt it like a brand on his skin— hot and demanding and delicious.

Peter spun him around gently in a calesita. Caspian leaned further into the abrazo, so close that Peter's lips were a mere centimetre away from his, before sliding one leg back and dropping low, a slow smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. Peter pulled him back up, instigating a promenade across the dance floor. People cleared out of their way with surprised exclamations, and Caspian's smirk widened.

His blood pounded through his veins and he felt sweat trickle down his spine, but he gripped Peter tighter and dragged him closer, a giddy chuckle breaking out when Peter lifted him up with dizzying ease.

He kicked his leg out and landed on the floor, only for Peter to grab the back of his knee. Peter smirked, and suddenly Caspian was staring up at him with his spine bent backwards in a dip and Peter on one knee above him, lips brushing Caspian's and blue eyes glittering like jewels.

"You minx," he rumbled, but Caspian did not get to reply; Peter leaned down and pressed their lips firmly together.

The kiss was– it was everything Caspian wanted. He closed his eyes and parted his lips, and Peter licked into his mouth with a frustratingly slow pace, gentle but demanding and all-consuming, like a fire spreading from Caspian's very heart all the way to his fingertips. Caspian dragged him down, down, down, till his back was pressed against the marble floor, and raised his hands to the back of Peter's head. His fingernails scrabbled over the High King's crown, and he flung it away with an impatient whimper, plunging his hands into the mass of intricate braids and tugging. Peter's lips were warm and insistent against his, his tongue dragging over the inside of Caspian's teeth in a maddening move, and Caspian was dizzy with want.

He only pried his lips off of Peter's when air became a necessity, and it was only then that he noticed the crowd. Whistles and cheers pierced the air, the music having stopped a long time ago, and the Telmarines and Narnians around them were clapping their hands and stomping their feet. Caspian flushed bright red and sat up properly, and came face to face with a still kneeling Peter.

His braids were askew, ribbons in disarray and crushed roses scattered between golden strands, lips swollen pink and curved up into a radiant smile.

"My King Caspian," he murmured amid the clamouring of the crowd, only for Caspian to hear, "you have my heart, if you wish it so."

And what could Caspian say? Nothing, except for: "and mine is yours, High King, if you should want it."

The smile that lit up Peter's face was brighter than the stars, the moon, nay, the sun, and Caspian had never been so sure of a choice in his life ever before.

[bunnywip]

𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 𝙏𝙊 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙎

— PURPLE

Mauve.

Violet.

Lilac.

Magenta.

Plum.

Royal.

Lavender.

Grape.

Periwinkle.

Sangria.

Jam.

Heather.

Noble.

Berry.

Mulberry.

Orchid.

Amethyst.

Wine.

— BLUE

Navy.

Sky.

Turquoise.

Indigo.

Slate.

Deep.

Prussian.

Teal.

Ocean.

Peacock.

Cyan.

Azure.

Artic.

Sapphire.

Diamond.

Royal.

Ultramarine.

Aqua.

— GREEN

Pistachio.

Juniper.

Grass.

Parakeet.

Leaf.

Pine.

Basil.

Herb.

Lime.

Sage.

Chartreuse.

Fern.

Olive.

Emerald.

Shamrock.

Seafoam.

Moss.

Pear.

Mint.

— YELLOW

Canary.

Gold.

Daffodil.

Seed.

Lemon.

Butter.

Yolk.

Mustard.

Corn.

Bumblebee.

Sunny.

Honey.

Amber.

Blonde.

Banana.

Medallion.

Dandelion.

Platinum.

Buttscotch.

Dandelion.

Sunflower.

Saffron.

Dijon.

Fire.

— ORANGE

Yam.

Marigold.

Rust.

Clay.

Spiced.

Tiger.

Ginger.

Sandstone.

Apricot.

Carrot.

Amber.

Bronze.

Honey.

— PINK

Blush.

Coral.

Rosewood.

Lemonade.

Marshmallow.

Hot.

Magenta.

Bubblegum.

Fuchsia.

Rose.

Salmon.

Roseate.

Glowing.

Reddened.

Sanguine.

Peach.

Strawberry.

Punch.

Watermelon.

Flamingo.

Berry.

Rouge.

— WHITE

Milky.

Alabaster.

Pearly.

Cotton

Chiffon.

Egg-shell.

Bridal.

Snowy.

Bright.

Porcelain.

Chalky.

Creamy.

Ivory.

Empty.

Frosted.

Pale.

Lace.

Salt.

Coconut.

Silvery.

Tooth.

Daisy.

Porcelain.

Achromatic.

Delicate.

Fresh.

Bone.

Innocent.

— BLACK

Ebony.

Sable.

Crow.

Charcoal.

Grease.

Raven.

Midnight.

Pitch.

Dusky.

Inky.

Solemn.

Onyx.

Soot.

Jet.

Leather.

Obsidian.

Murky.

Cloudy.

— RED

Cherry.

Jam.

Sanguine.

Apple.

Rose.

Ruby.

Burgundy.

Maroon.

Crimson.

Merlot.

Scarlet.

Wine.

Brick.

Berry.

Blood.

Sangria.

Candy.

Blush.

Evil.

Imperial.

Ferrari.

Raspberry.

Carmine.

Chilli.

[ripeteeth]

many-sentence sunday

I recently reread Good Omens and was suddenly reminded of how idiotic and delightful these two freaks are, and then this started to spill out:

The mime slowly felt his way around the invisible box; Crowley tried not to look at Aziraphale. He was always trying not to look at Aziraphale; by the time the angel laid a hand on his arm, he was a lost cause.

“Would you mind terribly?” His lower lip did the thing that Crowley hated. “You know how Above gets when we don’t keep our hands clean.”

Crowley raised a brow. Seemed a bit rich to borrow someone else’s hands to do your dirty work. Still, he’d never been able to deny the angel.

“It’s about free will,” Aziraphale had once told him somewhere in Valencia, nosing over a glass of Manzanilla. “They must have the potential to do evil, even up to the last moment.”

Crowley chewed on an almond, thinking. “But what if someone was threatening them? Gun at their head and all that. Not really fair to ask them to do the right thing and kill them if they don’t.”

Both thought of the martyrs they’d met throughout the years. Odd ducks, the lot; Aziraphale shuddered. ”Well, Evil is there to be thwarted, otherwise how would you have the Good? That’s its whole purpose.”

“Could just make them all Good, couldn’t you? The humans?”

Aziraphale paused. “Suppose it would be a lot easier,” he admitted. “But the Plan is-“

”Ineffable,” Crowley had groaned. “I get it.”

It was a conversation they’d had before. It cropped up every few centuries, like an ignored system update, but it was always the same. It would always be the same.

The mime popped out of existence.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale beamed. “Shall we order a bottle then? I had this exquisite Côte-Rotie just a few weeks ago.” A pause. “It reminded me of you.”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley said, and swallowed back the rest.

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Blue eyes matched the sky above; Crowley drowned in him, watching how Aziraphale took in the vineyard with a shining, swiveling look. Crowley packed that vision away to remember later, and dusted off another.

“1900. Just after the epidemic.” The insect phylloxera had arrived in 1863, creeping through the vines, sucking away the moisture until all that was left were dead leaves to sweep at the dirt. Nearly all of Europe’s vineyards had been destroyed; Crowley had awoken from his long nap in 1897 and, when he heard the news, nearly gone right back to sleep.

“Mmm. We had a bottle of the Beaucastel. Beautiful wine. Plums. Crushed blackberries. Fresh tobacco. You make yours mainly with Mourvèdre too, don’t you, Crowley?”

The tips of his ears were warm. “Wanna split the tartare?”

[exhausted-archivist]

Informal Thoughts on Universal Pantry Staples in Thedas

Yes, I'm thinking about food again. So, part of what I’m working on for the Thedosian food project I have is figuring out universal pantry staples for Thedas. I am largely working from canon, but I am also working from a watsonian perspective on what isn’t named canon. Which can be really hard because I have to look at BioWare and not try to explain why a tropical environment would not have an abundance of cherries, or how certain foods don't ship well even in modern terms and thus, no, Ferelden likely shouldn't have access to tomatoes. But hey, I'm working on the suspension of disbelief and trying to figure out how it could work in a world with magic, but where magic is feared and typically reserved for luxuries.

I also didn't include things that would spoil easy, such as: cherries, grapes, lemons, oranges, plums, tomatoes, ect. Essentially anything with a high water content that would spoil easy. But are also super common around Thedas. Mostly because when I think pantry, I think long term storage. I also tried to keep out dairy products and eggs. But there is a way to keep butter for prolonged periods of time, so it got in by a slim technicality.

A quick note: when entering the suggested or speculated portion of these listings, this is not accounting for all economic levels because to do so would mean next to nothing was universal.

Additionally, when it comes to spices, we know that the Avvar value "lowland" spices heavily and use them for special occasions. However, because they aren't staples I was hesitant to include them in these list but opted to do so for no other reason than an idea that if they can get to the Avvar, they are likely commonly available else where. So spices are marked with a *

The canonically stated staples

These are actually pretty sparse. They aren't typically directly called out, but these few are, and so they have their own little section. Outside of that, well it is mostly suggestion.

Barley (At times mentioned to be specifically Fereldan)

Elfroot

Grease

Lentils

Onions

Wheat

Some canonically suggested universal pantry staples due to their common appearance in recipes, use in abundance, use in hard times/as rations, and seen prolifically in-game:

Allspice*

Almonds

Apples

Basil (dried or fresh)

Bay Leaves*

Black Pepper* (Coarse and finely ground)

Butter (typically goat, but cows as well)

Cabbage

Carrots

Cheese

Chocolate

Cinnamon* (ground, whole stick, ect)

Cloves*

Cumin* (crushed, ground, grated, ect)

Dill Seeds*

Dried Beans

Dried Berries (currants, cranberries, raisins, ect.)

Dried Meat

Dried Peas

Fennel Seed*

Flour (typically wheat)

Garlic

Ginger

Ham

Honey

Jam

Leeks

Mace

Mint

Mustard Seed*

Nutmeg*

Oil (not specified)

Oregano (dried or fresh)

Parsley/Mild green herb

Pickled Vegetables

Potatoes

Salt (historically Orlesians in the highlands salted a dragon worth of meat on an annual basis)

Salted Meat

Squashes (Pumpkin and others)

Sugar (typically from sugar cane)

Thyme

Turnips

Vanilla

Vinegar

Wine (Most common seems to be red wine)

If you think I missed anything or have any recommendations or thoughts of your own, please do share! I would love to hear any thoughts on what you think would likely be staples in the pantries of Thedas. If you need to know what is available, you can check out this post I have listing all the flora currently mentioned in Thedas.

[allysdinos]

(sorry for my bad english, english is not my main language)

I had a headcanon about each batfamily member's perfumes...

Bruce Wayne: Zaad Santal Eau de Parfum Zaad Santal Eau de Parfum brings the warmth and sophistication of Sandalwood to enrich the routine of the man who does not give up an intense and elegant perfume. The result is a sophisticated masculine fragrance that contrasts the strength of wood with the freshness of spicy notes.

Dick grayson: Malbec Noir Deodorant Cologne Malbec Noir was inspired by the nightly ritual of harvesting Pinot Noir grapes. This Spicy Woody fragrance is striking and irresistible and was made for the modern man who wants a long-lasting perfume. It combines the seduction and mystery of nightlife, leaving an intriguing masculine trail that seduces and conquers.

Jason todd:Malbec Deodorant Cologne Malbec brings inspiration from the world of wine to men's perfumery. Wine alcohol, obtained through grape fermentation, is aged in French oak barrels, the same as those in which the best wines in the world rest. Made of fresh and woody notes with a base of Plum, Oak and Vanilla, Malbec Deodorant Cologne represents masculinity in a unique way.

Tim drake:It smells a lot like coffee. Coffee Man Duo Deodorant Cologne For charming and modern men, Coffee Man Duo is ideal. It has a Woody Fougère fragrance that mixes freshness and mystery, one that stands out and is not forgotten. Its top notes are fresh, but soon find the woody heart and strength of the Café au Cream Accord. Its amber notes flirt with Patchouli, accentuated with a Leather note, bringing a unique and extremely seductive perfume.

Damian wayne: Egeo Blue Deodorant Cologne Egeo Blue is an oriental woody fragrance for men, young and exuding sensuality. In its composition it has warm and velvety notes such as Black Pepper. The notes of Malt with Cardamom and Woods are denser and show a striking personality. The combination results in a delicious and addictive fragrance.

[earl-grey-teacake]

I'm a dif anon but I am also so so super invested in your Victorian au! So I want to ask about the color/materials/scents associated w each family!

If any of the details are spoilery, totally leave it out :)

Ahhh! Thank you for asking!

I have broken it down by family and the current people of each house.

Please enjoy my ramblings about fabrics and perfumes!

Color: colors of the houses, usually seen on their emblem. These colors follow each character to signal from what family they are from.

Fabric/trim: When I am describing their clothing, it will likely be in the following fabrics unless stated otherwise. Also, provides insight into the social status

Jewelry: Extension of the house colors but also symbolizes power. All the alphas wear lapel pins in the house's stone and metal setting. The omegas have some sort of jewelry in the stone and metal.

Scent: Alphas tend to have stronger, sharper scents while betas have neutral scents (think clean linen; sweet and powdery. Byredo Blanche) and omegas have floral, sweet scents.

Duchy of Mercedes/Earldom of Williams-House of Hamilton

Colors: Blue, Silver, Black

Fabric/trim: Silk, primarily silk taffeta; white lace; garlands of leaves and flower buds; ribbons

Jewelry: Sapphires set in silver

Secondary gender and scent

Lewis Hamilton (Alpha): smells of amber, vanilla, cinnamon and wood. It's warm and strong, the kind of scent you remember for a while and exudes power. Inspired from Grand Soir by Maison Francis Kurkdijan.

Nico Hamilton (Omega): citrus, musky, with a softness from the floral. It smells bright, refreshing, but there is a warmth to it from the musk. Inspired by Petit Matin by Maison Francis Kurkdijan. (The perfume Grand Soir and Petit Matin were released together. Grand Soir to represent the nightlife and Petit Matin representing the gentle morning.)

George Hamilton (Alpha): smells cold and refreshing. Citrus, sea salt and sandalwood. It is reminiscent of a cool mountain stream. Inspired by Silver Mountain Water by Creed and Aqua Universalis by Maison Francis Kurkdijan.

Alex Hamilton (Omega): Floral scent of magnolia, rose, and jasmine with a slight sweetness of apple and peaches tempered by the slight scent of cedarwood. It's youthful without being childish, delicate, sweet, and fresh all at the same time. Inspired by my favorite perfume Love in White for Summer by Creed.

Lia Hamilton (Alpha): Citrus, sea salt, sandalwood, lightened with fruity blackcurrant. It has the citrus-sea salt freshness from her father and the woody warmth from her grandfather but made unique by the sweetness of the blackcurrant. Inspired by Millesime Imperial by Creed.

Logan Hamilton (Omega): Fruity and floral- greengage plum, apple, rose, bergamot, Virginia cedarwood and sandalwood. It is fresh and floral and just exudes romantic, youthful love. Inspired by Acqua Fiorentina by Creed.

Earldom of Mclaren-House of Piastri

Colors: Black, papaya

Fabric/trim: twilled wool, serge, and brocade with leaves and wine

Jewelry: Topaz set in gold

Secondary gender and scent

Oscar Piastri (Alpha): Citrus, icy cold, fresh and herbal. It is a combination of icy, winter air; the sharpness of lemon, and the earthy scent of tea. It is harsh and sharp in the way it is both warm and cold. Inspired by Aqua media by Maison Francis Kurkdijan and Ofresia by Diptyque.

Duchy of Sainz- House of Norris-Sainz

Colors: crimson, maroon, black

Fabric: silk, satin, velvet, crystal beads, tassels

Jewelry: Ruby set in gold

Secondary Gender and scent

Lando Norris-Sainz (Alpha): musky amber with notes of vanilla, coriander and nutmeg. It is warm, spicy, floral and sweet but not overpowering. It settles like a sleeping dragon or the calm before the storm, there is a sharpness beneath calm, sweetness of the vanilla and nutmeg. Gentle Fluidity Gold by Maison Francis Kurkdijan.

Carlos Norris-Sainz (Omega): a deviation from the gentle scents of most omegas. It is strong, woody, spicy and sweet all at the some time. It smells like a fiery demise that you willingly accept because it is that captivating. Inspired by Baccarat Rouge 540 by Maison Francis Kurkdijan.

Feel free to send in asks or comment if you have any questions. If you want you share your perfume or your thoughts on the perfumes I have chosen feel free to.

[dasbrummli]

Types of People: Humans I love(d).

The Little Sister: Flared pants and platform Doc Martens. Delicate gold earrings, perfect skin and bright eyes. Flat white coffee or matcha latte. Bagels. Techno music and poetic folk songs. Paris. Polaroids. Quick witted and humorous. Dachshund. Shabby sweatpants and runway fashion. Floppy ears. Massages. Banana bread.

The Little Brother: Street smarts. Perfect driving. Anything but resentful. Stained sweatshirt and Burberry Trenchcoat. Photography. Basketball. Chill. Humorous. Infuriating but so so lovable. Teacher. Surprisingly insightful. Advisor. Confident and cocky. Beer and Barbecue sauce. Coffee mugs. South Africa. Spontaneity. Arrogant.

The Father: Golden morning light. Expensive camera equipment and cheap gas station coffee. Model trains. Thick wool sweaters. Cologne and scratchy cheek kisses. Blankets of snow. Hares. Holly Cole and The Boss. Hilarious. Anything but an experimental eater. Spaghetti Bolognese and Stollen. Vibrant forest. Red wine and milk chocolate. The Musician.

The Mother: Crime novels. Warm soft hugs. Silent laughter, red cheeks, tears in eyes. Surprises. Book smarts. Perseverance. Organised and focused. Strong black tea and dark seedy bread. Elephant whisperer. Insomnia. Open mindedness and indignation. So supportive. Manners. Nice porcelain. Hydrangeas and roses. Plum jam. Perfect pedicures.

The Older Sister: Long walks. Control freak. Forests. Fantasy worlds. Diving head first into a swimming pool. Daydreaming. Curly hair. Pretentiousness. Everyday magic. Books. Tiny handwriting. Long wool coats. Mind all over the place. Excitement. Cold hands and warm sweaters. Hopeless romantic. Owls. Greek mythology. Trivia. Ink. Details. Cappuccino with cinnamon and cocoa.

The Musician: Delicate fingers plucking at Cello Strings. White chocolate. Knitting. Sarcasm, emotionally distant. Squirrels. Autumn walks, rain, graveyards. Audiobooks. Norway. Engineering, technical drawings, ballpoint pens. Morbid curiosity.

The Fighter: Clean and crisp white sheets. Determined. Cold brew coffee. Fragrant white Hyacinths blooming on a windowsill. Toned shoulders. Emotional intelligence. Brutal honesty. Philosophical books. Lab coats. Excellent listener. Pep talks and feminism. Triathlon. Anything to achieve your goals. Knowing smirks. Moscow mules. Reading not for pleasure but learning (or the pleasure of learning?)

The Scientist: Obscure inside jokes. Freckles. Dancer. Questionable cook, decent baker. Physics. The Smartest. Elegant movements. Thrifted knitted jumpers. Multicoloured nail polish. Poetry. Eccentric. Debating society. Entire page covered in the tiniest notes. Funky coffee mugs. Books picked off the street.

The Scout: Strong moral compass. Scouts honour. Massive Fantasy novels. Guffawing. Tie dye T-shirts and shining blue eyes. Ships. Camping. Adventure. Overwhelmingly talkative, but not in a bad way. Carefree. Trinkets and bonfires. Dunes and seafoam. Orange.

The Travel Companion: Political. Volunteering. Singing flatly but passionately. French patisserie. Colourful felt. Opinionated. Exuding coolness on the dancefloor. Dark green. Finland, pine forests and smoked salmon. Tents. Virology. Hypochondriac. Experimental cooking. Mushrooms. Aromatic black tea.

The Oldest Friend: Books over books over books. Deep talks. Old friends. Yoga. Peppermint tea. Sky blue. Memories. Therapy. Snowboarding. Pixie cut. Relaxation, taking it easy. Veganism. Dog person. Gender Studies. Runner. Coming back stronger and gentler than ever. Gift exchange. Solo holidays. Empathy.

The Exchange Student: Fast talking, Aussie accent. Oversized sweatshirts. Oat milk. Glowing skin. Sea foam. Pearls and silver. Fresh tulips. Warm summer days. Sunny side up eggs, drizzled with golden honey. Pool balls clicking. Hot chocolate. Belgian beer. Dog person. Silver rings, one on each finger. Tan lines.

The Designer: Linocut. Wide pants, black turtleneck. Oat milk. Creativity. Graphic design. Nose ring. Mullet. Enjoying and celebrating the beautiful things in life. Analogue photography. Coffee is a science. Patient. An artist. Berlin. Tortoiseshell glasses.

The Certified Badass: Bouldering. Fine line tattoos and silver ear piercings, too many to count. Black velvet. Remote island. Catto content. Road trips, lush forests, sea waves. Platinum hair. Strong. Blue eyes, white liner. Island. Thick knitwear and combat boots. Tarnished silver jewellery. Dune grass.

[blood-orange-juice]

What are your favourite kinds of tea and how would you rank them?

(you can't ask me about tea and not get hit with a wall of text. so... enjoy)

I don't really rank teas, I think tea should be picked for the occasion, depending on the season, company, scenery, food pairing (if there's any), the quality and type of water available, etc. There isn't really a single best option.

Also good teas are a lot like wine, it matters a lot who made it and how. A simple variety that is processed with proper care and is fresh will be better than a low-grade or old tea of a fine variety.

That said, if I had to pick favorites...

Wu Yi oolongs. You just can't beat that flavour profile, the mix of flowers, roasted nuts and what they call "cliff melody" (basically Wu Yi mountains terroir). They are complex, versatile (some teas can be ruined by water that's too hard or to soft, with these guys it just draws out a different part of the flavour spectrum) and pair with anything. Proper tea ceremony? Perfect. Something to serve to guests with mild blue cheese and some nuts? Even better, cheese enhances the flower aspects, it's honestly better than any wine pairing. Casual cup that goes together with vegetables roasted with herbs (yes, I sometimes drink tea with my dinner)? Great as well.

My favorites would probably be Wu Yi Shui Xian (daffodil, a bit of dried plum and a bit of gentle smoke), Roi Gui (eglantine and cinnamon, roasted notes, a bit of malt) and Da Hong Pao (this one is tricky, the versions of DHP you can get your hands on without being a government official are all blends, so technically it can mean anything, but most versions keep a lovely balance of smoke, sweetness, currant flowers and metallic notes). Bei Dou if I can find it (bisquit, oak, orchid, smoke, a bit of minerality).

Jin Jun Mei. My autumn favorite, the *prettiest* tea in the universe when done right, with notes of malt, rye bread, and wild strawberies, usually still very good when done wrong (chocolate, rose, physalis plants, orchid...).

Dong Ding oolong, one that I would use for introducing someone to fine teas. Freshly cut grass, wild honey, a touch of caramel and what I can only describe as a feeling of cold wind from a lake. Delicate and ridiculously pretty.

Hei Cha, "true" black teas that are more fermented than even pu-erh. Teas of bordelines dwellers and northern barbarians and I am one, after all. "Korla Pear" Hua Zhuan is my latest favorite. Wood and pear notes, one can't really describe it. Lu Bao if you live in a dry climate and let it sit on a shelf for a couple of years is also very good (wet autumn leaves, ink, charcoal and snowdrop flowers). Don't ever drink it fresh, it's awful and bitter and has a note of rotten vegetables. If you can forget it on a shelf for twenty years it's a transcendent experience and I can't recommend it enough.

Anything white, really. White teas are a very special art. They are pretty much tea herbarium. They are made with next to no processing and mostly are just gently dried in the sun, so you get the purest interpretation of the leaf itself. This leads to... experiments. There are the classics, like Bai Mu Dan with its notes of peony, wormwood and plant milk. There's the experience of drinking teas gathered before Ching Ming (if the year is good), the first tea of the year with its gentle minerality that's a bit like the scent of thawing snow.

There are insane things like letting them age for years like you would shen pu-erhs (Yin Zhen is honestly better in this version, if you ask me), I can't really describe that scent, it's wildflowers and autumn leaves both and something that feels like a mix of wormwood fluff and dried strawberries.

There are leaves that would normally be used for pu-erhs processed as white teas and these tend to have lovely cantaloupe and honey flavour. Honestly, the fun part about white teas is often not just the taste but how punk are the things teamakers do with the leaf and the fact you can taste nuances that would be otherwise overshadowed by the processing technology.

Chinese yellow teas. I actually don't remember names, I used to pick them by scent. Some have a "flowers and ink" scent that is very precious to me.

I think that's about it. I can't choose a single favorite between these.