#glaciers head canons

[ts-sides-head-canon]

My Headcanons Virgil edition

He's the shortest side imo, knows how to hand sew, genderfluid, enjoys listening to Epic the Musical (favorite saga? Thunder or Ocean.)

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; iii

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader previous next series masterlist

word count: 9.5k

summary:  Perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of wedding them, but Paul knows the feeling is more than mutual. 

warnings: canon-typical threats, violence, getting stabbed, etc. also smut - brief oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very brief dubcon (Feyd), unprotected PiV, rough-ish, outdoor sex, fantasizing, hair pulling. sharing food, discussion of alcohol (?), and religious trauma/defiance

notes: a bit of a long chapter for this one - with smut as well as some probably boring politics! sorry LOL but as always please please leave comments or feedback, i love hearing reader's thoughts and takeaways!! :) thanks for all the love on the story, i hope yall are enjoying it. new update on AO3 coming soon as well so keep your eyes peeled for that xx

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Concerns Rise Over Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on Planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over the potential for destabilization within the region. Situated on a crucial part of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's trade routes.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community - but there has been no comment by the Emperor at this time. 

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade Routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon. 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

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On the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountain - and in the springtime, when the snow thaws and the glacier pours its icy veins into the rivers that trickle through the woods, the ground becomes spongy with wild grass. 

You crane your head to take in the towering mountains in the distance; They dominate over your vision, the caps bald with white snow reflecting so sharply that you have to squint. Those distant mountains never lose their ice even in the warm months, unlike the one you walk now. 

your hand reaches back across the soft fabric of the dress that covers your body, the sunlight shy and spring-like upon your exposed skin. Your feet are bare; cold, the tips of your toes stained with the dirt of the earthy soil as you pull a weight of warmth behind you. 

The trees rustle, bushes smacking gently against your bare arms as you make your way to a small, secluded clearing - protected by tall trees laden with chiffon ribbons of green; there are candles upon an offering pyre, loomed only by the Pine that grows tall and thick, towering so high that it disappears in the clouds. 

You're at peace. 

The sheet that lies beneath the safety of the Pine's branches welcomes your body as you lie, the sky streaking as the sun shoots pink and orange overhead. 

A body lies next to you; your eyes closed, you feel hands run up the side of your arm, caressing your side. Heat follows; your arm raises goosebumps but they're soothed over when a mouth lands on yours. 

His lips are eager, passionate, calm. You sigh into the kiss, hands reaching to the chest of your husband to find him bare; Skin hot, willing - desiring. 

Your breath catches; Try as you might, you cannot bring your eyelids to open, even as his fingers sneak up your bare thigh, slipping gently under your skirt to graze along your heat. pleasure follows his hand as you keen under his touch. 

Swallowing a gasp with his lips, your husband's fingers slip agonizingly slow into you; tingling with anticipation and desire, you let out a short moan. Your fingers clutch his shoulders; muscles strain underneath your nails as a phantom tickle graces across your forehead - you're unsure if it's yours, or his. 

His forearm is strong, his other hand cupping your neck as he slowly moves his fingers, stirring arousal and pleasure from the deepest pits of your memory. You'd expect to smell fresh forest, perhaps lustful sweat; yet you instead inhale and nearly choke on the tinny air that surrounds you. There is a vague, hazy observation somewhere in your mind: he smells different here, on the ground of the Sacred Pine. Not like the fresh, sea-salty clean of Caladan's soaps. Any thoughts of confusion at the metallic scent wash away as his hot lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband slides his lithe body between your thighs.

His presence is warm, thick - eager from the scent of you, the taste of you, the feel of you. 

Your eyes flutter open just a moment when his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips. The Pine stands tall above you; upside-down, you stare curiously as it sways, licks of heat igniting the top of it from the sky. The streaks in the sky look bizarre; almost unnatural, and a vague sense of unease strikes you before washing away.

The sun is dipping below the ridged peaks in the distance, but in the evening light, you frown as you stare upwards. It almost looks as if the branches of the Pine are... on fire; Before you can think too hard on it, his lips soothe over yours, pressing his own hardness against your eager heat. Your eyes roll back as a moan leaves your lips; the sound is warbled, as if fallen through a lake.

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the ridges of his spine as you go, gasping at the length pressing against your aching core. 

A wind whistles through the trees. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly, "I love you."

The words barely a breath against his lips as you fight against a smile of bliss. His hand snakes up to tug at your hair, exposing your neck to him as you hum, your eyes still shut in bliss. Your vision is blurry as lips find your throat, biting down and making you gasp harshly. 

The chill breeze flutters over your bare core, goosebumps cascading over every curve and fold of your body. But the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell on your him becomes. In a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat - but his lips slide up to your ear, instead: 

"I know, pet."

A whisper - cold and sinister. A chill runs down your spine. Fear grips you tighter than a vice as you pull back in alarm, your heart pounding in your chest. 

Then it happens; a sharp pain punctures through you. 

With searing agony, you let out a blood-curdling scream, voice cracking as your eyes fly open. 

But as you look into your husband's eyes, you realize with horror that it's not Paul at all.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he pushes; but it isn't him, it's something else - your hand flies up to the pain between your ribs, gasping a choked breath as your grip covers his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

You look down in your terror.

In his hand, he holds your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles that surround you. With a coldness in his gaze, Feyd leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, his breath hot against you and making your skin crawl.

Blood slowly seeps over your body, covering your dress and soaking the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson. You cannot move, gasping in shock. 

"You're mine," he whispers, his voice possessive and malicious, his hand turning the blade deeper, smiling as you scream. "My wife." 

With a gasp, you jolt awake.

Your heart races as you struggle to catch your breath, the sensation of his touch still haunting you; a face hovers before you, and you lash out, fighting to get the body away from you. Your fist swings wildly from where you sit up, throwing as much power as you can in your blind haze. 

A hand catches your wrist mid-swing, effectively jerking you to the side as a gasp fills the room. For a moment, as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker - but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops. 

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle, but her brows are knit with worry.

"-My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze. "You were only dreaming."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the lingering tendrils of the nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread fills you instantly, regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace. "My god," You whisper, eyes filling with unwilling tears, "I-I'm sorry," you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to-"

Her expression softens and she gives your hand a gentle squeeze, offering you a reassuring smile, her voice is soft with compassion. "It's alright, my lady," she says, "You were frightened. Anyone would react the same way."

You know she's lying to be nice. Guilt gnaws at your insides as you realize the harm you could have caused, and you feel a lump form in your throat. "I wouldn't hurt you," you say firmly, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart. She blinks, noticing the absence that must linger in your stare. 

Hestia's smile remains unwavering as she shakes her head gently. "I know, my Lady," she says, her tone filled with understanding. "And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright."

The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan, but she, nor the other maids, ever said anything when they'd smoothed makeup over the bitemark on your neck, slipped a tunic over the jagged scar on your ribs, or pulled the mourning veil over your face. Each of them are soft in their own way - kind, loving, talkative, and loyal to their House; and Hestia is your favorite. You never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime. 

Even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, and she helps you dress, she doesn't ask about the dream. And you don't tell her. 

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had - yes, you've been dreaming of that place nearly every night since you arrived here; the mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing with the large tree. Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear; but never, not until now, had there been a man with you. 

Never had Paul nor Feyd-Rautha found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain to your side reminds you of that phantom knife stuck through your ribs, of the cold stare of the man you once thought you’d be with forever. You'd woken in fear from the nightmare, but the beginning of the dream had been... pleasant, extremely so - and it was because of... 

Paul, your mind reminds you, as you swallow the unease in your stomach.

No doubt in your mind, it is Sabberon in your dreams - you'd know those trees, that Pine, anywhere. But the sheet on the ground, the altar, the chiffon ribbons in the trees, the candles- it felt almost like a ritual. You've never seen nor heard of such a place in all your years. 

Dressing you is a solemn affair this morning. The worst moment of hesitation comes when Hestia holds up the necklace; it shines in the rays of sunlight, glistening with the precious stone that carves out the emblem of the Atreides hawk. Your jaw tightens when you back your head away from her slightly. 

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck - yet still, you wear it. Her eyes find yours, swimming; she can tell where your mind's gone so easily.

"You said he apologized?" She asks tentatively, and you huff a short laugh. "Yes. Only after I told on him to his parents, like a child. He probably hates me more, now." 

She gives you an incredulous look as she clasps the necklace over your neckline.

"He gifted you a family heirloom - my lady, look at it! This thing is older than the two of us combined." She is lighthearted, but it does not quell your distress. 

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently. "It's not as simple as that." You say with a shrug. Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor. For a minute, you see wild grass under them; a white sheet, blood seeping through it and onto your toes. Averting your gaze, you clear your throat. "I think he wants me to remember who holds the reins." 

A hand on your shoulder snaps you back into your own bedchambers and you swallow thickly. Her face holds nothing but honesty. "Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you as a part of House Atreides. He is not sinister, I promise, just slow to trust." 

You send her a look, "You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia." you say, not accusatory, but teasing.  

She, as expected, flushes red; you have to hide your smirk. "Nothing-nothing like that, my Lady." she insists, shaking her head. "My mother was the handmaiden to Lady Jessica. He is just a few years older than I - In some ways, though I am but a servant, Paul and I were reared almost as siblings." 

You nod gently, watching her face contort into something very warm, less embarrassed, "I've got no siblings of my own, but sometimes I think he is exactly what a brother should be." She shrugs. "Kind, thoughtful, always willing to lend an ear. Quite loyal, always standing up for what he believes is right, no matter the cost - and, if you'd believe it, he can be quite funny sometimes."

No matter the cost - like ruining a betrothal to a woman he thinks is a Harkonnen spy? You hide your grimace, knowing Hestia is only wishing to soothe your mind. Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

"I always seemed to fight with my siblings." Your voice is melancholy - the idea of having someone so close, so familiar, feels like a distant dream now. "But they were my favorite people in this entire universe." You smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you. She doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it. 

"Family, by blood or bond, is a precious thing." You reason, pulling up your trousers and slipping on your shoes. 

Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. "Indeed, my lady."

You eye your reflection in the mirror on the wall; You stare sullenly back at yourself- beautiful, yes - but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash. 

She claps, "Now, let's get you to this War Council." 

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Paul lets out a sharp sigh.

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain; Distracting him. The castle can become very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers - the air has a chill to it, sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

"Concentrate, Paul.” His mother’s voice is low but commanding, "Project your will."

He can’t bring himself to look up - his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him. Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently - flames flicker up the sides of his vision, though he pushes through - a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces the clouds. A sigh of his name in his ear, hands tugging the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; But as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his spine, a nagging suspicion of unease. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts crept into his mind.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room. “You’re distracted this morning, Paul." she states, her tone neutral. He bites back a sharp I know - instead he sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher. She follows, reaching for the glass he offers to her as she hums in thought. 

“Dreams?” She reads him so well. 

He pauses; Frankly, there is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans for him, and this alone is cause for hesitation. He remembers the sheer pain from that box all those years ago, just after he'd heard the Reverend Mother tell his own lady mother that there were two candidates - for what, he still doesn't know - and that Paul may one day be one of them. 

He isn't sure what it meant, but there is a very sick feeling in his stomach that perhaps these dreams have to do with it. 

"Yes." He acquiesces, knowing she would have seen straight through any lie he'd fabricate. "I've been having dreams," he admits reluctantly, gaze drifting to the floor. He knows how it is about to sound. "Vivid dreams...of Sabberon." 

To an untrained eye, no one would be able to read his mother's emotions. But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained; A flicker of concern passes through her. "Sabberon?" She echoes, her tone careful, the way it becomes when discussing matters of great import. "And what do you see in these dreams?"

Paul hesitates, the memory still fresh in his mind; in the beginning, it is always soft skin, toes imbued with the dirt. Soft whispers of his name from lips he has yet to truly see. 

And then there is your body, the skin of your thighs shaking as his lips move lower and lower. The gentleness of your sigh as he holds your hips down, the glint of a blade's hilt almost golden in the reddening sun. Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still conceals your face from his wanting gaze even in the dying light; Streaks of color in the sky, snow falling around you. The soft fabric bunching by your hips, lying down softly on a white sheet. Your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; Your own breath, warm and willing, upon his neck, hands moving lower towards his waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash- 

He swallows thickly, staring at his mother with hesitation, jaw clenching.

He clears his throat, "I always see..." He chooses carefully the truths he will forgive, "a white blanket covering the ground," he murmurs, his words heavy with uncertainty. "Above, there's a great pine tree burning. Visions of...knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they are missiles. And we are there together... she and I."

"Lady Bourbon?" His mother repeats, her brow lifting. Paul nods, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. 

"I'm not sure why it's always the same dream," he admits, his voice barely audible. "Perhaps I've been reading about Sabberon too much."

He can't shake the feeling that there's something important waiting for him on Sabberon; It's true - you have become a frequent visitor in his dreams. Always there, always you - and somehow, he knows it's Sabberon. He sees it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it. 

Lady Jessica sets her unused glass of water down on the table. "Be cautious with your dreams, Paul. Listen to them, learn from them." she urges, words leaving no sense of comfort in his chest. "Dreams are  messages from the deep."

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Though it was but late morning, the Strategy Council found you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; The only solace in the room is your shortsword, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time. 

Nearly everybody you've met of importance is in attendance - the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery. War masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing. 

After the table is full, Duke Leto begins the discussion with a brief introduction - you have yet to meet a handful of these advisors, and in your own introduction you have to fight hard not to sound too sharp or calculating, your eyes skittering to observe the details of your listeners from behind the veil. Worse than this is the fight to stifle your yawn as the duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter. Now is not the time for your body and mind to punish you for the lack of sound sleep.

In an unfortunate glance beside the duke, you're startled - Paul, who sits beside his father, stares at the pendant hanging from your neck. A wash of chills fall down your spine. 

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it began the night he gave you the necklace. Cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around; nothing more would dare be said. 

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training, or he less prideful, perhaps it would not have gone on this long - but seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren't to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him. 

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as his father speaks beside him; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease.

Suddenly, green eyes flicker upwards to find your own; You're unsure how he does it each time, for you know your face is well concealed unless only a foot away from you. It shocks you to your core anyways, and images unwelcome fly into your mind's eye.

Curls that kiss your forehead as he tilts his head down; His hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh. 

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat. It's bad enough to dream of Feyd-Rautha, but now you're flushing like a child each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes - like some innocent maiden; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

There is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. With his dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, and that cool voice, anybody with eyes or ears can tell. But even just this innocent observation makes you fight the urge to rip off the necklace, to scream at him - I am not yours to keep like a pet!  But before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you, turning his attention to the matter at hand.

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same. 

Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

"Lady Bourbon?"

Your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the shockingly paternal stare of Duke Leto. In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul. He's concerned, it seems, as you snap out of your reverie, the embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you just from the Duke's left.

"Apologies, my Lord," you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention. "I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some...odd dreams," you admit reluctantly under his gaze, "they've been keeping me awake at night. Can you repeat yourself?"  

You do not miss the way that Lady Jessica's eyes flick to her son; His own gaze casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind. Whatever she is thinking, he clearly is avoiding - there is but little pause from the rest of the council, thankfully. Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you - the Duke orders a servant to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and you forget all about the look shared between Lady Jessica and Paul.

You're painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck. He leans forward, "My lady, you mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime. What do you know of their Spice exploits?" 

Your jaw ticks when eyes across the room fall to you, wishing to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your face. Sitting forward, you clear your throat. "I do not know much of their spice harvesting - and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand. I learned most of it through Feyd-Rautha."

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash; "He is vicious, but he has his own weaknesses that the other Harkonnens lack." You refuse to drop the duke's stare as the implications of your words settle into everyone's minds. "Spice is not their only source of power."

Eyes watch you, captivated. Feeling for once like you hold power over them, you continue. "They have large petroleum reserves - I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought. 

"From what I can piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild - not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught, but of course, who is to believe me?" You eye Paul at your words. He looks away, something like guilt on his face, as you continue. "-Which is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan. In case I know something." Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. "Am I right, my Lord?" You ask. The room is quiet as your information is absorbed. 

"Yes." He agrees, eyes filled with intrigue, "We were... concerned about any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared." 

You nod. "When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught." you say honestly, catching the guarding of several glances, "Not for some attachment to me, mind you. Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement, but the truth is simply that Harkonnens do not like when their toys are taken away from them." 

At the silence, you push forward, "Thufir Hawat has been tutoring me; I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture - fine wine and rice?" 

"Yes." Paul speaks up from beside his father. You nod, the chain along your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare for a moment. You wet your lips, "The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum with almost no externalities for himself. An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks - the market would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days."

A moment as the information is taken in. "This would disrupt our direct trade access from our system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild." Thufir adds. The duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

"What I fear," you clasp your hands, "Is the vacuum left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated." Your voice is cold, blunt; unemotional. "If Harkonnen boots hit ground there, they could take control of the planet's resources and exports. Harkonnen battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups there."  

"Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging." Says a woman a few seats from you, leaning to find your gaze.

You turn, nodding, "Yes, perhaps, but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges - they contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are valuable for industrial applications." You say, clearing your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council, "I've documented, to the best of my ability, what I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too." 

In the lull of the moment, you think back to those days ago - Feyd’s hand on your neck, his smile black - You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. "If that region is destabilized- or controlled by Harkonnens - we will lose our all our exports. Giving them access to the resources is bad enough, but an almost-monopoly on petroleum, spice, and the Space Trade Route?" His brows furrow and you fight the spark of intrigue that courses through you at his intelligence. 

You nod, finding his eyes once again. Gurney Halleck speaks from diagonal you. "We need to consider our options carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move, we must be ready to respond, but acting first could have larger consequences." 

Duke Leto nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "Halleck's right. The Referendum is quickly approaching - the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then," his eyes flicker to you, "-and your arraignment is set for the same congress. We'll have to wait." 

Dread fills you; The meeting ends with a sense of urgency - plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum, you are requested to record and attend them. Then you escape very narrowly by insisting to Duncan Idaho that you must rest today and postpone your weapons training, which he mercifully agrees with.

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch. Instead, you are asleep within minutes. 

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Your name calls to you. 

You respond with a slight hum as you thread hands through hair; foggily, birds chirp in the distance, the sun setting as streaks fly across the sky. Flakes falls gently around you, but it does not smell of snowfall; a bonfire must be lit nearby - you can hear the crackling, smell the heady cedar embers.  

Your hair is tugged in a surprising manner and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes when you bring your eyes back to the body before you. "That hurt." You say, no real malice in your voice. 

The sound of your words is floating, faint, as a hand grips your jaw, tilting it up. "I'm very sorry," he says, not even trying to cover the lie, "Let me ease the pain.” A whisper, gentle against your lips. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck; His hands are incredibly daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare for him and the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh as his fingers trace you. 

You feel nothing but arousal as he sinks lower, lips painting his way up your thighs, biting gently into the meat of your flesh; A swat to the top of his head and a short groan from him in response as you bite back a smile.

"Paul," you whisper, "come back to me." 

He listens, though he usually doesn't. His lips are replaced by his hips as he rolls them against your aching core; a gentle moan that echoes through the air. It is chilly, but his skin is warm. His lips are warm. 

"but I'm here, aren't I?" He asks, eyes staring into yours, "I'm always here." 

He slides into you with a groan, his fist thudding against the trunk of the tree behind your head. You let out a long whimper, arousal consuming you as your back arches.  Any semblance of chivalry is gone when he starts to move; A hand sneaking up from your hip, over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising, fingers wanting, to grip around the necklace that lies on your chest. 

A finger traces over the emblem - a hawk, blue and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest. 

Barely a moment before he's ripping with force; the necklace breaks and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare torso and onto the sheet below you.

Muttering something about needing you bare for him - you can't quite catch it for all you know is pleasure as he starts to roll his hips into you. His hand snakes up further once having freed your neck; wrapping around your throat. He is not gentle, he is not slow; because he is your husband, and he knows you like the back of his hand. A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck, your gasp of ecstasy swallowed by his tongue. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his - lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours. 

"I'm yours." 

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.   Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets. A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. 

"Bad dream again, my lady?" Hestia asks as she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow your and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment.

You'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks. "Yes." You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you. The sky is sunny - not a single raincloud - and suddenly your chambers feel heavy, tight. 

"I need some fresh air."  

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The midday sun casts a short shadow as Paul walks along the meadow.

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes strands away from his eyes. It's only a few hours until he should be back in the chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum, but he needs some fresh air. 

His mind is stuck high above him, recalling the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he's met; after this morning, there is nothing much else he has been able to think of. The growing bud of admiration sprouts in him, considering your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was - if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it's very lucky that House Atreides took you in. If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon; Harkonnen power in that region would be detrimental in a war. 

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come; a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. 

You are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things. Politics are often two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. 

For a moment, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree, the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon.

Paul sighs harshly. 

He's not sure if it was a smart decision to tell his mother about these dreams instead of his father; skepticism rolls over him in droves as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach. Paul loves his mother, but he is not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit - indeed, his entire existence is a product of their breeding program, and he is almost certain it is again why the Houses were ordered for you to be spared and betrothed to him. 

A small whisper in the back of his mind, the sickly voice of that Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them. 

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass and under a rock calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight. 

There is a small alcove - one of many below the cliffs which hold a number of tidepools small and large - on his path to the beach that catches his eye, just on the left. A soft smile grows on his weary lips. When he was younger, he often times used to play in these alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle, swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers. 

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation, and it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You're wearing the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet dipped into the shallow waters, back rigid as you turn to him. Even through the waves that lap against the rocks in this alcove, the silence that has lingered between you since Paul had gifted you the heirloom is thick and taunting him. 

With a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer. "I hadn't expected to find you here." His voice is carefully neutral, honest.

You stare from somewhere beyond the gauzy veil; your fingers twitch towards the blade on your hip. "Nor I, you," you reply coolly. The silence is uneasy; Paul, for his pride, does not wish to stay and endure this kind of agony, but he knows better. 

He doesn't ask if you mind if he joins you, because he knows that you would mind. He sits down anyway, leaving a wide berth of space between you. 

He can see you bristle, stiffening as he lowers himself to sit across from you - he supposes he can’t blame you.

You cradle your hand peculiarly as you look over the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into, discarding his shoes on his right. The pain is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red. 

“I assume you found the crabs.” He observes. There is a headdress of jewelry adorning your veil today that looks quite heavy when you move - the delicate metal pendants chime when you turn your head to look at him, a hint of surprise laced into your posture.

“I did.” You agree, showing him your blistered, irritated hand; He winces more for your sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam. Moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, his eyes searching for the stalky root that grows naturally just outside the reach of the water- with a quick tug, the plant nearest to him is ripped out.

“You can use this plant here.” He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it. Hesitantly, as if sensing a trap, you do; He nods. “Chew it.” 

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment - if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief. Skepticism.

”It soothes the itch and the pain. Chew it and spit it onto your palm.” He orders, losing patience. "It's not poisonous." He affirms, lifting a brow at you. I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth. 

He swears he hears a huff before the root disappears under your veil; he can just make out the shape of your teeth, biting down apprehensively on the stalk, before starting to chew. Your eyes flicker to him and he watches expectantly - from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste, but he remembers how unpleasant it can be. 

When you spit it out onto your palm, your eyes flicker up to stare at him, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Barely seen through your veil, he almost feels his face heat up; A trail of spit falls from your lips slowly and he is harshly reminded of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning. 

He urges the thought away, feeling a sense of panic, as if you could read his mind. So instead, Paul turns to watch the waves lap idly against his feet as you rub the mixture into your palm.

"How did you know to do that?" You ask, your voice curious. Your fingers not occupied with the paste push against the spongy moss; he's reminded of that first day, when you'd mentioned never seeing plants like it. 

Squinting against the sunshine as he looks out onto the beach, his left shoulder shrugs. "I used to get pinched a lot when I was a kid." 

You don't necessarily laugh, but there's an exhalation from your nose that makes his own lips curve slightly. When you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health. In the moment of silence, waves crashing very quietly within the cove and he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach. 

He must learn to live with you, he reminds himself. Be kind, earn trust. 

"Are you hungry?" He asks suddenly, clearing his throat. Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool when you shrug, "I slept through lunch today."

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you. He pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen - apples, crackers, some imported cheese, sparkling juice from the vineyards. 

"This was all for you?" You ask, incredulously. Paul bristles defensively, giving you a look, "I was hungry." 

There's something very foreign to him about what's happening; with a hard blink, he thinks back to the last week, when all he could see when he looked at you was red. The council meeting today left him with a few more questions than he'd expected - it could be true, what you said about your family and the Harkonnens. 

"If I may confess," Your voice is light as you look down sheepishly; Paul's attention falls to you. "The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways." 

Paul huffs a short laugh despite himself - a hint of a joke, from you? He has known many women in his life to wear veils, but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning - He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised. 

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And the moment the veil slides from your head, he's turning his head sharply away; What in the hell are you doing? His heart beats hard, despite himself. In his surprise, he cannot find words. 

"I don't mean to shock you." You say suddenly, and your voice seems very close. "Truth be told, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to wear these still." 

He stares down at the moss and dark rock that you sit upon; thoughts whirl in his head until you throw kindle to the fire. "You don't have to look away, my Lord. I'm still the same beast as before." 

He does look, after that. He stares at you - really you - no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks - the way your eyebrows move over the most expressive eyes he's ever seen. Your hair is much more beautiful like this - textured, uncovered, being blown gently by the sea breeze. He wonders if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair, unique as it likely was on a planet full of hairless beings. 

He schools himself. Normally, he'd be truthfully ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze - disfavored to him, but perceptive, knowing. The sound of a saw must be known by a tree, Dr. Yueh once told him. Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust having mingled with a new sense of dread, of regret. 

You are no beast to me, he should say, but he doesn't; he knows better than to lie. "Why did you take it off?" He asks instead, still slightly astonished. You blink; heavens, your lashes are long, they kiss your cheeks. 

"I can't eat with it on, and I'm quite hungry." you reason, reaching for some of the cheese between you. 

"I thought you wore them for seven months." He states, tilting his head, as you begin to eat, "The anthropologists in the video said-" 

"-Seven months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. "That's a very long time. It's only been three weeks and I'd already like to burn them." 

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly. "Forgive me, I am not well-versed in my own customs." Your voice is stony, a quick change from your previous cadence. His brows furrow. 

"My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions, from what I remember. I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young, and our family adopted their ways in replacement of the heritage religion. I was eighteen when I left Sabberon, but our castle was so full of visitors that we would often forgo the customs of my father's family." 

This is certainly not what Paul expected - why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly? Your voice is regretful and if he didn't know any better, your voice was wary when mentioning the Bene Gesserit. 

"I have a book," He clears his throat when you look at him, confused. "If you- if you want to read more about it." 

You fix him with a look, "A book?" 

"About your family's customs. We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are." He reasons. "If we are to marry, it should be honorable for both of us." 

It's as if his words send you into your own mind; your eyes become distant, he can see it clearly now that the veil is gone. You're deep in thought for a few moments, but he's unsure how to pull you from those cold depths of your own thoughts. "Oh." you say, voice once again that blank, cold tone - as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly. " I only saw the women of my family wear the veils once, when my sister died. I can't remember how long they wore them." 

This is a surprise to him, as his eyes find the necklace you wear around your neck. They shoot up to you just as quick, searching your face for any emotion. He finds none. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

"The veil was not your choice?" He breathes, surprised. You shake your head, "I just very recently found myself able to make choices for myself for the first time in many years," You gesture to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left, "taking it off is one of them. Feyd-Rautha did not wish for me to wear anything from my home, but I am making the choice for myself now." 

The reminder of your former home is almost jolting to Paul; when you arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A wolf, in sheep's clothing. 

Now, perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; Though you do not look a bit well-rested, there are healing wounds on your arms - wounds that make his stomach turn when he wonders how you got them - and you are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days. You walk with less wrath, more credence; You speak with your chambermaids freely, you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul's every day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice was strong, confident at the council this morning; as if born to take on such a role. He looks at you. You will make a good duchess one day. 

Your eyes are large - searching his face and it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. He lets you stare, taking in the silence and relishing secretly in its change in demeanor; no longer excruciating with the sentiment of shared disdain and mistrust. Something shifted this morning at the meeting: Mutual respect, or the roots to it. Understanding.

"May I ask you something?" He asks gently, looking at you seriously. 

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog. Fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels like it's swimming. Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles are rising. "Yes." 

He swallows, "Do you choose to wear that pendant?" 

You lick your lips in thought and he waits patiently. When you speak, it is careful, stoic. "Sometimes, we wear symbols not out of choice, but out of necessity."

This does not ease his conscience. 

You, shockingly, speak up again after a few minutes in which you and he both eat the food laid before you silently; it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression - or been mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table. 

"Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?" You ask, brow lifted. He shakes his head, shrugging with one shoulder as he follows your gaze to the bottle that lies unopened in his bag. The whiplash you've given him switching subjects has left him unable to jest back. 

Intending to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; he grasps the bottle, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. "It's sparkling tea." 

You hum, shrugging, "Shame. I've never tried wine." You say. Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth as a highborn? 

"Not even when you were young?" He asks, shocked. You shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is glossy even in the shade - Paul didn't expect it to be such a color, but suits you. "Never," you reply, "Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm in the winter. And..." You trail off, clearing your throat, "On Giedi Prime they favor a kind of liquor made from anise - you know, the spice?" You ask. He nods. "It's much too bitter and strong," you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness. "I tried not to drink it when I could."

Paul looks out to the ocean - clouds have started to roll in, and the air feels thicker. It'll rain this evening, then. "In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines," He explains, recalling the last trip with his father to the South. "They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged." 

You hum, looking out to the ocean as well, your eyes clouded with thought. 

The lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiable, and in minutes the food is nearly gone. Besides, he is well consumed with his own thoughts to give him the company you do not provide. 

Though as you continue on, clearly trying your hardest to remain amiable with him, a sense of regret bubbles in his chest. 

"I owe you an apology." He starts out of the blue, mouth dry. You jump slightly at his sudden voice, but he refuses to look at you as he continues, "I've been acting like a child." This causes a flicker of surprise through your features; in his peripheral, you turn to him.

"I didn't expect for it to happen like this." He lifts a corner of his mouth mirthlessly, emotionless as he stares out to the ocean- an understatement on his part, and surely in the eyes of you, but it's true.

Perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathed the idea of wedding them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual.

He's not usually one for so many words, but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. "I was furious with how things worked out, and I was shocked, but- that doesn't excuse how I've treated you."  You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown - his own shoulders are tense, his jaw tight as he runs a hand over his face. 

You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as they do.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon despite the sunny sky just outside the alcove.

In a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that makes your eyes snap to his immediately. "We didn't choose this path, but we can choose how we walk it together."

Your breathing is heavy with emotion, but he is not naive enough to believe it is tears - "Yes, we can." You finally say, your voice dispassionate, withdrawn. He looks out where your gaze hits the crashing waves, staring at the foamy white caps upon the ocean.

"I swear I won't disrespect you again." He says firmly. 

It's a beat before you decide to speak, during which you lift your feet from the water, curling them under you.

"Thank you." Your response is curt, eyes sullen, "But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul." He expected this much. "I've had my fill of broken vows." 

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, as if a dreary wind had snuck its way into the little alcove. Paul stares down at the rock, where another small crab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides. 

He knows you’re right, and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream; the same melancholy which enveloped you as you rise, preparing to walk back to the castle. 

You walk together sullenly, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go. By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops are falling on Paul's face and sticking to his lashes. 

You, likewise, duck from the rain, your hair pelted with water and sliding over your face like the tears you'd never dare give. 

But you don't put the veil back on. 

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follow @tremendumnotifs for updates.

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[kindaasrikal]

Here, have an alive 18 yr old Morro pulling gang signs with a 19 yr old de-aged Garmadon.

I don’t rlly have a scenario with this except it’s just two teenagers being menaces. Two teenagers who I believe are very similar, and bonded to create the most chaotic duo imaginable.

Because listen, Garmadon as a teenager was like Rodrick from Diary of the Wimpy Kid except just slightly more mature and traumatised. Morro is Morro, and as much as I head canon him as an introvert, he’s the type of introvert to cuss you out with only his stare.

I should be asleep rn, but im not

The Garmadon and Morro duo brain rot is STRONG PEOPLE

Do they have a duo name

Ill give them one myself

To keep in theme of the other duo names (Bruise, Lava, Glacier) we shall call the Garma Morro duo

THE TEMPEST DUO

i used chatgpt for thus ill be so fr, but like it means violent wind or smth and it links destruction and wind, if anyone has anything better pls share omg.

[frogletscribe]

Im back with more biodiversity rambling!!!

Went for a simpler style to doodle these guys out a little faster bc i have MANY thoughts always (warning this may or may not be coherent, i apologize in advance)

IMPOARTANT NOTE: the only thing even remotely canon here is the Forest and Reef Na'vi (debatable bc they are still my own interpretations), everything else is just my own musings and personal need for more variation among Na'vi.

In previous posts i think i mentioned the insane venn diagram that lives in my head of forever overlapping and endless combos of Na'vi yadayadayada, this is (LOOSLY) that.

SO, if you have seen my initial post (here) some of these guys might be familiar, but since then, i added Wetlands, Highlands, Glacier and Ash? people! And I have Thoughts ™️

Now I'm gonna hold off on Ash? people for the most part here, mostly because i am a creature that likes at least some level of "Canon Compliance" and we really won't know anything about them until the next film, so i have yet to form any solid headcanons. That being said, I do have a couple quick things:

The name 'Ash People' leads me to think that their generally building lives/evolving around volcanic areas, grey/darker skin tones from evolving around ash?

Thicker/rough skin (volcanic rocks are sharp!) and less fur/fluff on their tails.

Wetlands I imagine as clans that have evolved as a combo or River and Reef, but also Plains, as wetlands (at least as I understand them, i know that there's more to them than this but I am simplifying here) are effectively big wet fields.

I liked the idea of how if River Na'vi developed 'armor' due to swimming in constantly moving water with lots of rocks/fish/debree/etc, that Wetlands might be similar, but not quite on the same level.

Comparatively, Wetlands have no claws, and a thinner more paddle-like tail, more similar to Reef Na'vi.

Highlands I see as Plains Na'vi that evolved for colder biomes, so they keep the builds, maybe in general larger on average, closer coloring to Plains Na'vi and the longer tails, fur and claws of Mountain Na'vi.

Lastly Glacier Na'vi is the Mountain + Reef combo to create the giant spotted seal people of my dreams. I did not show it well here, but I think both Mountain and Glacier hold more fat in their bodies than other Na'vi, as well as Reef Na'vi being physically larger as well. That combo probably makes Glacier Na'vi massive (like 12-14 ft tall). Living in significantly colder climates, they need to be able to hold more heat in their bodies too, so they are physically much larger all around.

All of these are still just loose and I continue to be vague about a lot of it bc biodiversity and cultures that evolved around a given biome are two separate things to me. I like that these can be used as like umbrellas that the actual clan cultures can be born under, but not 'rules' or anything.

(I do have at least 1 (possibly 2) fan clan situations cooking in my noggin that i am slowly working on, but that's also something i want to be very conscientious about as I build it out.)

Anyways! Thanks for reading if you made it this far! Let me know your thoughts, I love talking about this sort of thing, hearing people's feedback and building off of it!!

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

ultimate ship confession lets go (well not really but here's what i think):

cleril: isn't in a great place right now, but it has potential to be good. i like them a little more platonically. people need to stop ignoring peril's character development omg.

glorybringer: i'm too tired to care at this point. this has been debated to death. 

blacier: it's kind of cute (well, the fandom version is; canon is more toxic and that's less of my thing. good for you if you like that though). no strong opinions.

jamapple: POSSIBLY ONE OF MY FAVORITE SHIPS 💖💖💖💖 they got their spotlight in OND BOOK and that's all they needed to win me over. the flashback to them snuggling in the hammock????? MY HEARTTTTT 💕💕💕💕���

mastermind x chameleon: i have seen this shipped maybe twice. and i can't get it out of my head. it's just so interesting to me.

winter x kinkajou: wait...... maybe? a part of me thinks they could be cute, but most of me says pass.

ripnami: somewhat has potential; is currently very boring and questionable. i'm not against tsunami having a love interest, but i'm loosing faith in riptide. riptide i KNOW you can become interesting please do literally anything before you bore me to death.

lunatail: they're adorable together!!! obsessed with them omg. people need to talk about them more (for my sake).

clearsight x sunstreak: no opinions; seems fine. i feel like most of the people who hate this ship hate it because they wanted clearsight and darkstalker to get together. which. 🤨

moonbli: it's just okay. a little cute, slightly bland. could get better as they develop their relationship.

quinter: i normally love these types of dynamics, but i'm not interested in quinter? no idea why. i guess like them more platonically.

sunnyflight: uhhh no. don't like this one. i think sunny kindly shutting starflight down and him being okay with that is very refreshing.

whiteout x thoughtful: i feel like people forget about them a lot..... and i can see why. i really think it's cute how they're both artists, but they just don't have much momentum.

glacier x boa: i find this one is more compelling than blacier. glacier crying when she heard boa's backstory... girl me too.

smolder x thorn: i started to appreciate this one so much more when i read smolder's section in the guidebook. that man was a sopping wet disaster. hope they're happy together. i really like them.

sunnyspeaker: seems very cute! no strong opinions. i'd feel a little bad for starflight lmao.

mangrove x orchid: 💖💖💖💖💖💖 I LOVE THEM AND I NEED TO KNOW HOW THEY'RE DOING.

anemone x tamarin: anemone SERIOUSLY needs a good influence, so i think tamarin would be good for her. i'm very curious and i want to see their relationship develop.

winterwatcher: ehhhhhh. i can see the vision, but the vision isn't for me.

scarlet x burn: no. love LOOSES 🔥🔥🔥 the only love for burn is BLOODSHED.

starspeaker: it's cute. that's it. idk. i used to not like them together, but now i think they're fine.

sunlow: 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖 THEMMMM!!!! the flashback to their first meeting had me giggling and kicking my feet.

darksight: no. their relationship was very interesting and complex and well written, but from a shipping standpoint??? no way in HELL.

kinkajou x moon: it's cute! no strong opinions. stuck between whether i would like them more as friends or lovers.

clearsight x listener: fun to entertain, but i like them better as friends. if clearsight stayed on pyrrhia, listener would've turned her into a wine mom and they would gossip.

lynxfall: no strong opinions. they're both gay as hell and seem right for each other, but i'm just not really interested. again, no idea why.

anemone x pike: i DO like the bodyguard trope... but anemone x tamarin has more potential in my eyes.

blicket: kind of a guilty pleasure for me....... YES it was rushed but they're really cute this each other. luna imagining that wedding tapestry of them...... melting my heart.

umber x qibli: sounds cute. i like the idea of umber crushing on qibli and then finding someone else though.

turtlejou: meh. has a little potential, but is mostly boring to me. i appreciate how kinkajou was honest with turtle about her feelings at the end.

blister x morrowseer: idk. if they were married i think they would try to poison kill each other 24/7.

carnelian x moon: ehhhh, not for me. i don't like it that much. maybe because carnelian is kind of an eh character to me (SORRYYY i know a lot of you guys are carnelian girlies).

fathom x indigo: glad they got a happy ending. wish we got to see them interact a liiiiiiiiitle more, but i like them.

pertle: no. they're besties and you can't change my mind.

snowfall x sky: thought about this one for a while...... but..... ehhhhhhhhhhhhh...... no.

coral x blister: no.

jambringer: again, very fun to entertain; i can see the vision. but i can't abandon the jamapple ship 😤

arcticslayer: probably one of the most realistic relationships in the book. very conflicted about them. i think they were more attracted to the ideas of each other. maybe.

ok i KNOW there's more ships but i'm cutting it off here because this is getting long. also i haven't read the winglets so idk what's going on over there.

if you're hurt by my opinions and want to rage over them, you're a baby. ship whatever you want (so long as it's not really really weird); i do NOT care.

.

[arcadekitten]

Head Canon: the “pure electrolyte” drink from bh tastes like glacier freeze Gatorade

i think it tastes like battery acid !!!!!!!!

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

I was rewatching Frozen 1 + 2 the other day, and the following question popped into my head: What if Elsa had not created an eternal winter when she ran away from the palace?

Alright, Elsa runs away after having displayed her powers but doesn't accidentally freeze the country in her flight.

Initially not much actually changed.

There's still grumblings of "witch" and "what the fuck?" from the people present, not helped since Elsa fled the scene with no explanation, and they're still sending out a search party for the queen. It's no longer as vital, the country isn't in a sudden winter because of her, but it's still pretty vital as she was just coronated and oh good god succession nonsense.

Not helping is that, like canon, Anna wants to go after her sister as she sees her running off as her fault for having prompted the ice outburst (but also that Elsa's being very unreasonable and needs to come back and calm down). Everyone wants Anna to stay and er maybe be queen instead (as Elsa was only just crowned so no one's attached) and also because they need someone in charge and can't lose both heirs in one day but as in canon, Anna won't hear of it.

"Hans, you're in charge", Anna says, and takes off. Hans hopes both Anna and Elsa die in the mountains but also wonders if he can be king without actually having married into the family yet. This is going fast even for him.

Anna's trek is still treacherous as she's hiking up a glacier, but she might not run into Kristoff. If she doesn't, she probably doesn't make it and has a terrible accident on the way. If she does, they probably make worse time without the sleigh.

Regardless, Anna and Elsa still have their confrontation but this time Elsa doesn't have her freak out about "oh my god I made it eternal winter outside". Anna may be thrown out normally, in which case she doesn't have to rush to get true love's kiss and probably camps out on the glacier until Elsa comes home already. If there's a fight then the rest of the movie happens accordingly except that there's no blizzard and no pretext of killing Elsa to stop the winter.

So...

Basically, the movie happens.

It's just not 'frozen'.

[prettypinkreverie]

WORSE !!

originally a ‘scara x reader’ short, but then I realized this can be seen with different characters. so yeah, head canon all you want 🤩.

“you still love him? even after all he's done?”

you pause. staring at the person before you with a curious, confused face. your mouth opens, releasing a small and quiet, “what do you mean?”

their grip on their fist tightens, along with a hard grit of their teeth. their eyes look over you. a dark yet pitiful and at the same time, resenting gaze. they snarl, “him! the villain! that bastard that ruined my life—our life! everyone's life! not only did he fucking destroy our home, he brainwashed you too!”

a pause once more. silence filling the place as the both of you stare in each other's eyes in a tune of quietness.

that is, until a chuckle breaks it. not one filled with humor, or joy, or any emotion considered by society to be positive. your eyes shift, a gaze filled with the hottest temperature of the desert mixed with cold of the artic. your menacing laughter is the burning heat of fire and the freezing chill of the glaciers, both at the same time.

a small smile—an evil one—crepts to your face. you whisper in a cold tone, quiet enough that only the two of you could hear, “villain? him?”

a laugh once more, it was if the person just said something utterly ridiculous.

“i'm the villain. the one pulling the strings, invading his mind with my sweet words, filling his thoughts of me with my touches—he doesn't even realize his reasoning and reality is all controlled by me…”

a step forward, the person's face turning pale. a surprise, a shock, a realization that the person they thought could help with their situation is the opposite.

a giggle. before another shift of your eyes comes—a stare that the person knows will be the last thing he sees before the nightmare of death, “if he's a villain to you, well then he opened up his heart to someone worse.”

based on this; specifically this comment right here:

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket smells nice. (headcanon whatever)

in my head, all the rockets i write for (and the ones i don't) have a scent. if you wanna make me real happy lmk your own rocket-smells-like headcanons or give me another rocket to dream up fragrances for. i'm happy to give any rocket (canonical or not) a bouquet

headcanons & imagines masterlist | main masterlist

"canon" rockets ~

eidos-rocket ~ i'm not technically writing for this guy (yet??) but i headcanon he smells like cedar & black pepper (he stole beard oil from some spartoi douche one time but it made his fur so healthy and glossy that he hasn't stopped using it), spiced caramel rum from mantlo's, iron, engine fuel, and gunpowder. burnt everbloom 'cause you know this guy smokes (i imagine it smells gingery).

universe-killer rocket ~ i don't write for this guy yet either, but i think about him way too often. burnt metal and high-iron-content meteorites. something like menthol ~ it activates your cold receptors, like you're breathing in the breeze right off a glacier. star anise & fennel. you'll be tempted to take a deep whiff of his fur but even if he decides not to kill you, you're probably still risking a lungful of toxic vibranium laser dust.

general mcu rocket ~ some kind of evergreen and foresty smell, petrichor maybe; something metallic like iron or copper, and something burnt and smoky. in the earlier years, he always smelled like some kind of cheap alcohol; in later years, a leatherlike smell from his armored-fiber uniform. i don't think this guy reads a lot of paper-books, but he definitely smells like 'em. (i use this as a template for a lot of "my" rockets)

general comics rocket (especially ewing) ~ angargal's limited batch of course (i suspect it smells like a combo of spiced bourbon and rich dark-caramel rum, once the overpowering scent of pure fuckin' alcohol has evaporated out). black-black-black coffee. dark chocolate. amber. vetiver. that burnt, gingery everbloom again.

skottie young's rocket ~ sweet almonds (see cicatrix-rocket's marzipan smell) and banana (from some kind of cousin to nitroglycerin). whatever he's using for jet fuel these days, which doubtless has a hefty dose of benzenes (sweet-smelling and actually intoxicating ~ though since we're talking about a sentient anthropomorphic raccoon i'm gonna go ahead and say the intergalactic space-faring community has figured out how to make 'em non-carcinogenic). you will get some sort of low-grade contact high if you huff his fur like you know you want to. probably also smells like some kind of alien hops, too (maybe acanti blubber ale if he's gotten any good contraband lately, though i imagine that smells like burnt tire).

"my" rockets ~

space pilot & sweatshirt girl ✩°｡⋆ rocket - campfires, strong coffee, and evergreen. amber and smoke. rich dark hot chocolate and yummy bourbon, when he's with you.

blackmail material ✩˚₊‧ ♡ rocket ~ sandalwood, oak, gunpowder. the undertones of some sort of alien citrus-fruit you've seen him eating (something between a plum and an orange), and what you think at first are mulling spices but later you realize it's just where your own Xandaran body oil has rubbed off onto his fur.

window across the galaxy *:･ﾟ✧ rocket ~ blue spruce, fallen leaves, oakmoss, ozone (or maybe that's just electricity). iron and copper, engine fuel.

florescence❀ rocket ~ campfires, wet stone, the peppery-resinous scent of the kind of machine grease he prefers (his own concoction). a faint hit of vanilla-mint-honeysuckle from groot's flowers, and the clove-like spices from your cider.

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ rocket ~ juniper, blackberry, and something like leather. a sharp and smoky scent, like laser-carved wood. on some occasions, a hint of yaro-root wine (which is basically a peachy hard cider, with a dangerously subtle alcohol flavor).

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ rocket ~ blue spruce, burnt wood, and a strong, rich, buttery-sweet marzipan from the broken-down components of his C4-adjacent explosives. petrichor, labdanum and camphor, and faint whiffs of engine fuel.

headcanons & imagines masterlist | main masterlist banners & dividers by @thecutestgrotto & @saradika-graphics ♡

[leiawritesstories]

A Visit to Orynth

Rowaelin Month, Day 24: How Rowan Knew "Fireheart"

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: canon has been edited because i said so, Maeve, royal politics, references to the blood oath and other canon fun

Enjoy!!

@rowaelinscourt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The prince first visited Orynth when he was a young male, barely twenty-four years old. His parents frequently traveled for diplomatic reasons, and they’d invited him to accompany them for the first time that year. We won’t ask you to do anything, they promised. Just come along and get a sense for what the world of politics is like. 

Prince Rowan Whitethorn had never been a fan of politics. He preferred steel to statecraft–give him a broadsword or a pair of hatchets any day. 

But he went to Orynth that spring, and for some reason that he couldn’t name, he felt oddly at home in the sprawling city with its unusual but somehow perfect blend of stone buildings and patches of greenspace like little meadows dotting the cobbled streets. 

He left most of the diplomacy and politicking to his parents, who spent most of their days holed up in council chambers with Queen Elena and King Brannon and their court. The first couple of days, he had to attend the sessions, and he paid as much attention as he could before resorting to drawing little battle diagrams on his note sheets. His father noticed, but said nothing, only muffled his knowing smile and quietly directed Rowan towards the training yard. So Rowan spent the rest of that visit with the palace guards, sparring and training and exchanging technique and tactical notes with the highly skilled military. 

That was the last time he visited Orynth for nearly three centuries. 

Upon his return to Doranelle, Rowan entered the legions, and he barely saw his home or his family for the next three hundred years. He rose swiftly through the ranks, ascending rapidly to the rank of captain before he was seventy-five years old. His queen took notice of his prowess, and he was inducted into the bloodsworn legions, an honor granted to precious few warriors. The decades he spent serving closely under the queen’s command honed him into a warrior of near-impossible capacity, and honed his heart into a block of ice, as impassive as the glaciers of the far north. 

~

Prince Rowan Whitethorn was three hundred and thirty years old the second time he visited Orynth. 

Erilea had been casually discussing their relations with Doranelle for the last century, and it had finally reached a point where the rulers of the Erilean kingdoms decided to host a summit and invite representatives from Wendlyn and Doranelle. Wendlyn, of course, sent a delegation of Ashryvers, who were relations of the royal family of Terrasen. Maeve called together her bloodsworn and chose two of them to accompany the five selected Fae delegates. 

“I trust you will keep your Queen aware of the discussions,” she purred, a deceptively soft smile gracing her lips as she handed Rowan and Vaughan their notes for the talks. 

Rowan dipped his head in acquiescence. “Of course, Majesty.” 

Three weeks later, as he stepped off the ship and set foot into Terrasen for the second time in his life, he drew in a lungful of the crisp, clear mountain air, and found that its scent comforted a part of him that had been empty and aching since his parents passed away. 

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, occupying himself instead with the concerns of the discussions. Maeve had sent him–her legendary warrior-prince–for a reason, despite his lack of diplomatic skill, and he intended to prove that he could hold his own at a meeting full of human royalty. And if things went poorly, then he could fall back onto Vaugahn’s quiet, diplomatic tact. 

King Orlon Galathynius greeted the Doranelle contingent as they entered the council room on the first day of the summit. The human king was aging, but the lines around his eyes and the gray of his hair only strengthened his image as a capable, compassionate leader. According to what Rowan knew, Orlon had ruled Terrasen for nearly twenty years and showed no signs of abdicating soon, although his younger brother, Crown Prince Rhoe Galathynius, worked closely with the king. 

“Welcome to Terrasen,” King Orlon said warmly, clasping Rowan’s hand in a firm handshake that proved he retained his physical strength. “It’s an honor to welcome Doranelle back to our land.” 

“The honor is ours.” Rowan dipped his head in a bow to the king. He bowed lower for his own Queen, but the courtesy was still due. 

Inside the meeting chamber, a dark-haired, younger version of Orlon approached Rowan and Vaughan and exchanged greetings. “Rhoe Galathynius. Pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Prince Whitethorn, Lord Recorre.” 

“Please, leave off the title, Highness.” Rowan shook Rhoe’s hand, noting the insignias the human prince wore on his jacket–military rankings. “We’re all just delegates for peaceful relations, aren’t we?” 

“Indeed.” Rhoe smiled. “Let me show you to your seats; this room is rarely used, so it’s always a nightmare to navigate. I keep telling Orlon we need to use the throne room, but he–ah, Evalin!” A stately, golden-haired woman with the distinctive turquoise eyes of the Ashryver family and a slender silver circlet around her brow had walked up and laid her hand fondly on Rhoe’s arm. He tucked her arm into his with a soft, tender smile. “Vaughan, Rowan, allow me to introduce Princess Evalin Ashryver, my lovely and far more talented wife.” 

“Welcome back to Orynth,” Evalin smiled. “It’s been far too long since we hosted Queen Maeve’s people.” 

In that moment, Rowan knew two things with absolute certainty. First, Princess Evalin Ashryver knew that he and Vaugahn were bloodsworn–he didn’t know how she knew, but she did. And second, if her lineage (and her scent) were correct, she was a direct descendant of the Fae Queen Mab, Maeve’s sister, and therefore was most likely the Fae Queen of the West. 

Suddenly, he wondered if he’d been sent to Orynth to view Evalin with his own senses and bring knowledge of the Ashryver princess back to Maeve. 

The sonorous peal of the great brass gong tore Rowan away from his thoughts. 

“Ah, we’re about to start.” Rhoe dipped his head at Rowan and Vaughan. “It truly is an honor to host you in Orynth. Please, attend dinner with Evalin and I.” He flicked a half-grin at his wife. “We’d better get to our seats, Fireheart.” 

Fireheart. 

“You and your misleading nicknames,” Evalin teased as she and Rhoe walked off. Rowan’s Fae hearing picked up their conversation. “I don’t have the fire gift, my love, only the water. Fire is Brannon’s line’s gift.” 

“You have the fire in your heart, my love,” Rhoe returned. “And who knows? Perhaps someday the gift will manifest in one of our children, if we’re so blessed.” 

“It’s a slim chance.” Evalin’s whisper contained an ocean of sadness. 

“It’s still a chance, Fireheart.” Rhoe kissed his wife’s forehead. 

Rowan stopped listening then, overcome by what he’d just learned. The fire gift. It wasn’t a myth after all–the gift of fire magic laid dormant in the royal bloodline of Terrasen, and the intersection of the Ashryver and Galathynius lines with Rhoe and Evalin’s marriage just might be enough for the near-mythical gift of Brannon Galathynius’s fire to manifest again. 

Fireheart. So the prince’s affectionate name for his wife was more than just an endearment–it was a wish for their future. For their kingdom’s future. 

Fireheart. 

~

Rowan went to Orynth again ten years later, but this time, he went uninvited. He shifted into his hawk form when his small ship had docked in the harbor, and he remained in that form for the entirety of the next few days. He went to Orynth not to negotiate or pay a formal visit, but to linger on the parapets of the castle and pick up conversation. 

He went as a spy. 

On his last night in Orynth–a blustery, rainy night–Rowan perched on a window ledge and pressed his hawk body as close to the window glass as possible without making a terribly loud noise. He stretched his Fae senses down and out, into the dining room below his perch, and strained to hear the conversation taking place in the room. The royal family of Terrasen was hosting the royal family of Adarlan, and rumor had it that relations between Adarlan and every other Erilean kingdom were tense, if not outright hostile. 

Rowan couldn’t make out much of the conversation, but he heard enough. Bits and pieces of politely veiled threats, the sneer behind the king of Adarlan’s tone, the uncomfortable shifting of the staff and guards who stood at the edge of the room–it pointed towards looming conflict. He hopped off his perch and flew up to a window he knew was in Rhoe and Evalin’s chambers. Perhaps he’d hear something worthwhile from them. 

It wasn’t long before the prince and princess came wearily into their rooms, speaking in hushed tones about the poor signals from Adarlan. 

“I’m worried, Rhoe,” Evalin admitted. There was a soft clink as she laid her jewelry on top of the dressing table. “There’s something bigger than just Adarlan at play here.” 

“Something magical?” Rhoe asked. 

“It’s possible. I…I don’t think it’s purely magical, though. That ring of Adarlan’s…I can’t describe it, but I felt like it was looking at me, almost like it wanted to claim me.” 

Rowan gripped his perch with all the strength of his taloned feet, determined not to slip despite his shock. 

“Fireheart,” Rhoe breathed, coming over to embrace his wife, “are you certain? I trust your judgment–I have no way of detecting magic–but…” He took a deep, measured breath. “A wrong move from Adarlan could constitute war, and if there’s magic at play…” 

“It could end us all,” Evalin whispered. 

Rowan had heard enough. Quietly, he hopped off the window ledge and launched himself up into the wind and rain, his thoughts churning as rapidly as the storm. Adarlan. Magic. War. He hadn’t known what his Queen had wanted him to discover when she sent him to Orynth, but he’d bet his broadsword that it wasn’t rumors of magical war. 

Three weeks later, when his ship docked back in Doranelle, Lorcan delivered the news, and the information he’d heard while spying suddenly clicked into place. 

Adarlan had performed some kind of ritual that banished magic. The King of Adarlan had armies marching across Erilea to root out magic-users, and everywhere his army went, he claimed dominion. Melisande and Fenharrow had capitulated. Eyllwe seemed on the brink of collapsing. The Western Wastes and the Witchlands had separated. 

And the entire royal family of Terrasen was dead. 

~

Orynth was so different from the first time Rowan had set foot in the city, but the mountain breezes still smelled the same. The ancient and modern buildings and the winding cobblestone streets bore scars from the war, but new green life had begun to creep across the slashes and scuffs and scorch marks, blanketing the damage of war. The grand stone castle still crowned the city hill, but its doors were no longer barred. Instead, commoners and nobles and Fae–both full and partial–filtered in and out of the castle grounds, uniting the crown and the city. 

The continent was healing, and his wife had made it all possible. 

Speaking of…Aelin’s voice sounded in his mind. Is the castle really that bad, buzzard?

He grinned. I find my skills better suited to the physical act of rebuilding.

I know a physical act or two that could use your skills. 

I’m sure you do, Fireheart.

A surge of her love filled his mind. Where are you?

Near the western wall.

Solitary buzzard. He felt her bright laughter ripple through his blood, warming him through. I’ll be there in a moment.

And a few minutes later, she was there, her crown tipped sideways atop her messy hair. “Rowan.” 

“Fireheart.” He set the one last stone into place in the section of wall he was working on, turned, and pulled her against his chest, reveling in the trace of embers that always followed her. 

“You keep avoiding court when I need you,” Aelin teased. “Who else is going to scowl at the lords when they say something idiotic?” 

“I’m sure you can handle that,” he drawled. “You are the queen, Fireheart.” 

She chuckled and went quiet for a moment, gazing over the tumbled wall out into the evergreen hills. “I’ve been wondering, buzzard. Why ‘Fireheart?’ You can’t have known that’s what my parents called me when I was a child, even with all your centuries of knowledge.” Humor laced her last words. 

“Are you calling me old, love?” 

“Always.” She smirked. “Tell me, buzzard.” 

Rowan was silent for a long moment, working over the story, wondering how much he could say before someone inevitably interrupted the queen’s private time with her husband. “I met Rhoe and Evalin, once, many years ago. I remember Rhoe calling Evalin Fireheart.” 

Aelin stroked her thumb over the ruby of Rowan’s wedding band. “I never knew you met them.” I miss them, she murmured into his mind, muted grief shadowing her mind. 

“Just once.” Cupping his free hand under her chin, he tilted her face up and kissed her, soft and tender, a gesture of both love and comfort. “You are everything they dreamed Terrasen would be.” I’m entirely sure they’re smiling down on you from the afterlife, he added. 

“I love you,” she whispered. 

He touched his forehead to hers. “I love you too, Fireheart.”

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[nardo-headcanons]

I loved the Kumo head canons. I'd love to see your take on the Sand village or the Snow village ❤️❤️❤️

hey dear! I have done headcanons on Sunagakure already, you can find them here.

thank you to @naruto-scribblings-j for requesting.

Yukigakure Worldbuilding Headcanon

People and Culture

The people of the hidden snow village are a small, silent, yet very proud community. They are not the most hospitable and take a long time to warm up. Having to save on precious air as there is not a lot of oxygen in higher altitudes, hidden snow citizens prefer to use as little words as possible. However, this makes their friendship the more valuable. Once you're considered a friend, you are their family as well. Humor in the hidden snow village is another interesting issue, as it is a rather crude and dry one. However, don't let the cold, uninviting attitude of the hidden snow people scare you off, as they are rather inquisitive. Gossip spreads like a wildfire here. Another fun fact: Fridges and freezers are only used in spring, why waste electricity when you can let your food cool in your backyard? This has led to very creative ways of building fences to protect your dinner from any stray polar bear... or neighbor. The hidden snow people is not one to celebrate many things, except Winter's solstice, which is also celebrated as the impending return of Spring. This spring is an artificial one, as huge heat generators are turned on to melt away the snow and ice.

Clothing and Cosmetics

The hair, regardless of gender, is almost always grown out, often times worn open or at least framing the face, as an additional protection against the cold. Hidden snow people have rather thick and luscious hair, and compared to other ninja nations, the most hair follices on an individual basis, evolution's trick against te cold. Hair care is very important for them, and learning how to braid your hair is a standard practice once you're old enough to brush your own hair. Clothes are worn in thick layers and rarely dyed, richer families making the exception. The ankles and feet are often wrapped in thick fur as cold feet make your entire body feel cold.

Nature

Flora The entire country is covered in snow and glaciers, therefore only allowing for evolution's hardest soldiers. The main vegetation here are icy wastelands, some grasslands and tundra made up of various conifers. Native deciduous trees include birches and some willow species, and birch sap is often served as a drink in the Land of Snow. Another survivor from the village of snow are the lichens that cover the barren rocks, adding at least a little bit of color. There are also some moorlands that run through the country, but these are located outside the village and have hardly been explored.

One special flower that had made its way here is the dandelion, a flower with a high cultural status. Its bloom mirrors the change from short, buoyant spring to the icy, merciless winter. Its leaves are often harvested and can be eaten in salads or used in traditional medicine. (although this traditional medicine is only popular with hidden snow aunties nowadays)

Fauna

The Land of Snow was once densely populated by polar bears, but their numbers have dwindled since the Snow Village was founded, as they were often hunted for prestige. The most widespread mammals are reindeer and musk oxen, and the occasional lemming can be found in the dense ice deserts.

Birdlife includes corvids, gulls, albatrosses and the snow villagers' favorite bird: the puffin. These are strictly protected and are also very popular with children. In addition to these birds, loons, ptarmigans and owls also feel at home in the land of snow - sometimes even one or the other odd duck strays in. If you reach the hard-to-reach coastlines of the Land of Snow, you will often encounter seals and walruses. Around the coast, orcas also make the Arctic Ocean unsafe, which often does not suit the other native whale species (humpback whales, narwhals, belugas, sperm whales and blue whales). Fish in the Land of Snow include cod, shrimp, crab, halibut, redfish, char, turbot and salmon.

Domesticized animals

It's not uncommon for a hidden snow family to own their own sled dog as well as a herd of sheep, depending on where their home is located.

Food

Fish and Other Proteins You know how it goes. Once you go fishing, your dinner is secured. This is the case for the hidden snow village as well. However, unlike Kirigakure, fish is not as extremely accessible as in Kirigakure, since fishermen often have to travel a bit before stumbling upon any fish. Popular protein options are reindeer, lamb and seal meat, which often times is frozen (duh), or brined. Smoking meats is also very common, since spices are not widely accessible here (resulting in a few... questionable food preparation decisions that the locals have come up with over time.) Carbs Although the hidden snow diet is rather high in protein due to carbs not being very accessible, wheat, buckwheat and potatoes are the most common source of carbs. The hidden snow country offers a wide variety of breads. Funnily enough, rice is seen as an "exotic" luxury carb. Fruit The best berries are grown in the Land of snow (and in the iron realm, but that deserves its own post). Most beloved berries include wild strawberries, currants, sea buckthorn, raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries and mulberries. Aside from berries, the hidden snow village also offers crunchy pears, apples and cherries. The fruit in the hidden snow country are very high in vitamin c, causing a rather sour taste, but also preventing any scurvy outbreaks. Any citrus fruits are a rarity here and can only be grown in greenhouses, making them very expensive, and not very tasty, in all honesty.

Tradition vs Modernity Nowadays, most foods that used to be inaccessible are now grown in large greenhouses. Most hidden snow citizens are not opposed to GMO foods, and in fact, embrace it. Most of the GMO foods are first cultivated in the hidden snow village before making their way to the market. Many youngsters prefer the modern dishes over the traditional ones. Traditionally, the hidden snow citizen always tries to make the most out of the food that they have, resulting in dishes such as blood sausage, blood pudding, brain (double fried to protect from any nasty prions) and many gelatinous foods.

That's all, folks!

Feel free to use these for your OCs, headcanons, fics, etc but it would be nice to give me credit c:

[ts-sides-head-canon]

My Headcanons Patton Sanders Edition

He enjoys trying new foods (although is hesitant if Remus was the one to make anything). Terrible cook, but is pretty good at baking (needs all those second cookies). Overprotective to the point that he can be stifling. Always trying to cheer the others up, but is sometimes really bad at it. He likes more happy, peppy music, but sometimes listens to the sad stuff to feel better. Is not a huge fan of musicals imo, he doesn't dislike them? He's more neutral towards them. He and Janus always switch places between second shortest, imo.

[greatwyrmgold]

After Worm ended, Wildbow shared some Parahumans drafts. There are a lot of interesting details that changed, interesting details that stayed the same, and a few things that were just weird. One weird thing that's stuck in my head for nearly a decade is the Rhizome Epidemic.

Out of the snippets provided, the Rhizome Epidemic is only mentioned in the 2004 one, TELUTT (The Events Leading Up to That Thursday). The Epidemic is a bunch of fungus growing somewhere far north enough that it has glaciers. It is noted for sometimes being hostile and producing materials that make great superhero costumes. No seams, bulletproof, cut-resistant, fireproof, "reduces the force of ambient psychic effects," and sometimes transparent.

I could speculate on the origin of the Rhizome Epidemic, whether it's a half-baked Entity "superweapon" or a biotinker creation or some other power effect, but that's impossible to know and not all that interesting. Instead, I'm going to speculate about why Wildbow included it in 2004 and discarded it by 2011.

So, one of the things Wildbow was trying to do with Earth Bet was construct a world where all the standard superhero tropes made sense. Hence (for instance) the 3-4 obscenely powerful precogs, their disparate goals and indirect conflicts pushing the setting towards a superhero norm.

Obviously, Rhizome fabric is intended to help with this. It's the super-suit—nearly invulnerable to damage, good at protecting its wearer from harm, and none of the unpleasant visual clutter caused by real clothesmaking techniques. It even comes with a built-in justification for cleavage windows and the like. It's not a bulletproof suit with a hole cut out right over her heart, it's a bulletproof suit with transparent fabric over her heart!

So why was the Rhizome cut?

Normally, I would argue that the line between "deconstruction" and "reconstruction" isn't fuzzy so much as nonexistent. Both of them take a closer look at a genre's tropes, depicting what the author thinks is a more reasonable version of them. Deconstructions tend to say "This wouldn't work"; reconstructions tend to say "Here's how this could work," but the two are hardly incompatible...especially since genres tend to have multiple tropes to xeconstruct. There are plenty of stories which people could argue as being either de- or reconstructing something; they might outnumber examples which are unambiguously one or the other.

However, the distinction is the most straightforward way to explain the difference between canon Worm and the Rhizome. Worm leans towards deconstructive; it is focused on the ways its setting differs from the Platonic superhero setting more than the reasons why it has superheroes. By contrast, the Rhizome Epidemic is purely reconstructive. From what we saw in the TELUTT draft, it exists to explain why the best/richest capes have costumes that would fit in a Silver Age comic.

Again, reconstructive elements could exist within Worm without ruining its tone; this is obvious, because they exist. (Coil's plans, particularly his early jobs for the Undersiders, are an obvious example.) But the Rhizome Epidemic would still stand out, because it only justifies a trope—and a pretty inconsequential, aesthetic trope at that.

I can imagine a Worm where Rhizome fabrics were incorporated into the narrative weave. Perhaps the flashy four-color costumes are used as a contrast to the grim and gritty reality of the world, with the Epidemic being a disaster that those in power are letting happen because it's convenient for them.

But at the same time, a world where most notable capes have bulletproof costumes, where superheroines regularly flash their cleavage to the world, and where these things exist because of a super-material that only serves to facilitate fanciful costumes and plot armor, is a softer world than Earth Bet needs to be. Worm isn't grimdark (as I'd define the term), but the darkness is needed for the story we saw to come togehter.

[pokebreeder]

Arctic Squirtle live in groups in frigid environments, staying together for warmth and protection. Although they cannot fully withdraw their ice-coated heads into their shells, the ice provides sufficient protection.

Iceberg Wartortle hunt prey amid frigid waves and broken ice. They are able to burst from the surface with surprising speed, using the frozen spike on their heads to deal incredible damage.

Glacial Blastoise are lumbering, heavy Pokémon, but their ability to blast supercooled water from their canons that freezes solid on impact makes them more than competent battlers. Their glacier-like shells may appear cracked, but they boast impressive defenses. 

When mega evolved, Glacial Blastoise offensive abilities are greatly increased at the cost of nearly all of its mobility. The sheer cold it is capable of producing from its cannons is highly dangerous to all life.

While Gigantamaxed, Glacial Blastoise takes the form of a true glacier. It is capable of unleashing a torrent of freezing rain from the many cannons on its back, or enormous solidified chunks of ice- all while remaining an impervious behemoth.

Commission for @kamkong!

[kikiiswashere]

Children of Zaun - Chapter 25

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut

Chapter Summary: Vander is stressing the fuck out. Maybe a little giftie will calm his nerves. Katya dissociates like a champ.

CW: References to sexual assault, trauma responses, severe dissociation

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 5.8K

The weeks leading up to Snowdown were a complicated whirlwind for Vander.

One afternoon, Sevika had burst into the tavern, grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him to the back of the house. She hurriedly whispered about what had happened in the mines: that Silco and Katya had gotten into a fight with Kells. Kells severely injured Silco, and Katya had pushed Kells to his death. It seemed to be undecided whether that had been an accident.

Silco confirmed the events when Vander went to see him the next day. Enyd had tubed Vander, asking if he could come sit with her son while she was out.

Of course he would.

He was not at all prepared for what he saw when he arrived.

His Brother’s appearance made Vander’s stomach drop to his steel-toed boots. Vice-like fear and anger clamped down on his heart. His silver eyes flitted around Silco’s face. The bandage across his nose, the stitches in his lip, the angry bruises and welts that covered his face . . .

Vander hoped that Kells knew – where ever his retched soul had wandered off to – how lucky he was that he was already dead. Otherwise, Vander would’ve hunted him down. Would’ve used him as the body to break his gauntlets in on.

Silco peered up at his friend from his languid position on the couch. His eyes glacier blue slits between the purple swollen folds of their lids.

“Make sure he stays still and drinks water and eats. His food may need to be mashed up a bit. Keep the apartment dark,” Enyd said as she pulled her thick sweater on. She wrapped a scarf around her head, and drew it up over her nose.

Vander nodded, but struggled to take the information in. He hadn’t realized just how badly the fight had gone.

Once Enyd left, Vander rushed to Silco’s side. He fought not to take up his Brother’s long, elegant hands. Even under the calluses and near-permanent stains of dirt, anyone could see that those hands didn’t belong wielding a pick-axe. They belonged writing policies and demands for Zaun; they belonged in big important buildings, shaking other important hands.

Vander very much wanted to hold them.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he listened as Silco told him what had happened. The whole story – from his perspective. Vander’s stomach roiled nauseatingly at hearing what Kells had been caught doing to Katya. The curdle deepened as he watched Silco’s face contort under the swelling: barely restrained rage flickering beneath. Dangerous fire.

“A couple of the Children carried me to the clinic,” Silco explained, his usually smooth voice rough and nasally. “They said they would take care of the story. There’s been no fall-out?”

Vander shook his head. “Nothin’. An’ no one’s gonna say nothin’. Kells wazza cunt who got what he deserved.” A beat, and then he asked, “How’s Katya?”

Silco melted back into the couch. The gesture felt more defeated than relieved.

“She’s . . . She didn’t seem okay when I left the clinic yesterday. When she told me to leave.” Silco’s chin dipped, “I should’ve stayed with her.”

Vander’s gut twisted. “Well, yer mum’s with her now. She’ll be okay.”

When Silco didn’t say anything, when his expression remained distant and forlorn, Vander became fidgety and added, “Don’ worry ‘bout it, Sil. Kells is gone, n’ no one’s tryin’ to make a fuss about it. Here. Just lie back. I’ll make you a cuppa, yeah?”

In the days following, it really seemed like the whole thing would blow over. That this mild wrinkle within the Children’s ranks had already been ironed out. Until one evening, about a week after Kells’s death, a small group of three older teen boys approached Vander in the early hours of The Last Drop being open.

Their timing was purposeful; only a small handful of beleaguered and elderly Zaunites were peppered around the tavern. Men and women who didn’t want to be talked with or entertained. They only wanted the momentary peace a rocks glass or tankard could offer before they had to get home, go to bed, and live another day. It was a time during working hours Vander was more available.

It was a time there were fewer witnesses.

“We need to talk,” one had said. His upper lip quivered as he took in the man-mountain before him.

Vander’s eyes narrowed, and he peered over the group. His customers appeared at ease, so he jerked his head, instructing the young men to follow him. His instincts fizzed as they trailed behind. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up, his muscles coiled and braced.

Vander slid into one side of a shadowed booth. The others toddled in awkwardly with all the grace of new whumplings fighting for space in the nest, shoulders bumping and legs twisting together.

“What’dya need?” he asked once they were settled across from him.

His eyes cut from one face to the next. He recognized them as part of the gaggle that had orbited around Kells, but knew none by name.

“You heard about what happened in the mines a couple days ago,” the one on the right said. He was wiry with curly brown hair and pale skin. Dark green eyes blinked up at Vander under thick lashes.

Had his instincts not been priming his mind and body for some kind of fight, Vander would’ve thought him pretty.

“Aye. I have.”

“Well, what’re you gonna do about it?” The middle one demanded.

Vander’s nostrils lifted. This one had limp dark-blond hair, a pug nose, and too-round cheeks that were splotched angry-red.

“I wasn’ aware there was something to be done about it.”

“Silco killed Kells!” the one on the left hissed, his dark brown skin radiating vengeful heat. Black-brown eyes blistered beneath his thick, ebony hair.

Vander’s eyes flashed quick-silver. “He didn’.”

“He was going to if the medic he’s been eyeballin’ hadn’t’ve jumped in!” the middle one said, pig-nose flaring. “They probably planned it together.”

Vander shot up from his seat, knuckles hitting the table with a crack! as he braced his arms and loomed menacingly. The three young men collectively jumped, and hunkered back into the booth. The vinyl at their backs crackled as if in warning. Gone were their indignant expressions, replaced by utter shock and fear as they beheld the behemoth lording over them. Vander’s body and wrath blocked out the little light that reached into the booth’s alcove.

“Listen up,” he hissed, his voice all growl and warning grit. He bared his teeth at them and loomed closer. “Kells died ‘cause he made a stupid, evil decision” – it wasn’t his place to speak about Katya’s assault, so he kept it firmly tucked down his throat – “n’ he got what he deserved, frankly speakin’.” He leaned closer, broad shoulders hunching up threateningly like hackles on a beast, “This conversation is over. ‘N if I catch a whiff of any of ya tryin’ to rustle up more problems, you’ll be the first bodies I test my gauntlets on. Savvy?”

After a beat, all three reluctantly nodded and crawled out of the booth, scampering for the door.

Vander stalked back behind the bar rubbing his temples, mind spinning like a top.

It was one thing to fight with Topside. It was another for it to happen amongst the Children. The burgeoning rebellion wouldn’t withstand in-fighting. Zaun would bleed out, wouldn’t make it past its infancy, and be buried by Piltover again. The Children of Zaun needed to stick together, Brothers and Sisters arm-in-arm; an impenetrable wall of scrap metal, zeal, and will.

Then the threat he’d delivered to those three yellow-bellied malcontents . . .

“‘N if I catch a whiff of any of ya . . . .”

A wince creased Vander’s face. He didn’t suppose threatening Brothers and Sisters did anything for morale or loyalty. There was the chance that he had just made things worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He needed to keep his temper in check.

That was difficult when his Brother was concerned. Vander was protective of Silco, loyal to him – perhaps even more so than he was to Zaun. Although, Vander felt they were often one in the same. Yes, they had dreamed up the idea together, small and squatted behind minecarts, but Silco latched onto Zaun like it was air. Cleaner and purer than anything in Piltover. He had always led the charge from there on out. And Vander was at his side.

“Yer as loyal as a dog to ‘im, Van,” Benzo had said one night, long before the Children of Zaun.

He had said it with a certain amount of distaste that had Vander’s brow curling questioningly.

“He’s my best mate. ‘Course I am.”

Vander’s heart and shoulders softened at the memory. But immediately tensed again when he recalled what the blond teen had said.

“He was going to if the medic he’s eyeballin’ hadn’t’ve jumped in!”

Vander’s hand dropped heavy onto the bar top, gathering empty glasses and crumpled napkins. The comment had been innocuous, and utterly meaningless. The shithead had only meant to implicate Katya. But that little throw-away barb had slid under Vander’s ribs as if expertly laced.

“Oi! Vander!”

A customer in need of a refill pulled the barkeep from his head. Landed him right back into the moment like someone dropping a melon off Old Hungry. Grateful for the distraction, Vander went back to work.

Then time flew fast and the cold season fully settled over Piltover and Zaun, like a great, chilled blanket. The Lanes became smokier than normal, Zaunites reallocating what little funds they had to purchase wood and coal for their stoves. Less food, more heat; the pendulum of necessity ever swinging.

The Children kept meeting, kept preparing. A squad was set up to track Enforcer movements; where they had been, what their routes were, who they had spoken with and what answers they were given. Another group became designated runners for the supplies that pirates, independent merchants, and other morally grey characters smuggled in, and were paid with Airship coin.

Other members volunteered their homes and businesses to house the contraband: small armaments, scrap metal that would be smelted and repurposed, bottles of liquor too strong to drink but could be lit and chucked at Enforcers for when the time came.

However, the chill and impending holiday put a firm hold on both Piltover and the Undercity, stymying plans and regular schedules. On either side of the Pilt, families and businesses prepared for Snowdown, the holiday’s sentimental pull too strong for anyone or anything to fully deviate from it.

It went unspoken, but there was a sense in the Lanes – in Zaun – that this Snowdown was more poignant than those before. The holiday was about gathering, gratitude, and looking to the promise of the new year ahead.

The promise that this coming year would be the birth of their sovereign nation. Or, at least, the true beginning of the labor process.

This would also be the first Snowdown at The Last Drop Vander ran entirely alone. He’d more or less run it the year before, but the old proprietor – sick and dying – had been back in the living quarters, able to offer instructions and advice in that deep, throaty voice of his. Vander would take the wisdom with him back to the front and resume hosting duties.

But he was dead now.

The barkeep sighed as he cleared the taps for the busy night ahead, looking around at the bedecked tavern. The decorations were meager, but festive. Annie had festooned the pillars separating booths with garlands of colorful paper, dolloped the jukebox with a tangle of tinsel, and had put fresh candles on all the tables. Beckett suddenly appeared from the back; his strong, freckled arms loaded with extra stools.

Vander was grateful for the pair’s help. In the past weeks, Benzo had finally healed up enough to get back to his own business. Cairn stayed on to help at the pawnshop, instead of returning to The Drop. Benzo needed the extra pair of hands – his injury notwithstanding – and Cairn enjoyed the trade more than busing tables.

Vander certainly couldn’t blame him for that, and felt no ill-will toward the young man. Besides, now he had Annie to help. And while she was spacy, loud, and intense, she was good at her job and the customers loved her. Beckett was an added bonus; because where ever the dark bluenette went, he followed dutifully.

“Just put ‘em anywhere, Van?” Beckett asked, craning his head over the seats he carried.

“Yeah. Jus’ pepper ‘em ‘round the walls if ya would.”

As Beckett nodded and hauled the stools off, Annie burst through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, her thin arms laden with more candles. Great, fat pillars this time. Vander sighed, although the woeful sound did not impede the young woman’s trajectory toward the booths.

“Annie. I think we’ve enough candles.”

She began stacking them artfully on the booth tables. “Nuh-uh. Never. They create ambience.”

“Ambience and drunk people don’ mix,” Vander said, a hand rubbing at his forehead.

“It’ll be fiiiiiiiiine.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it, Van,” Beckett hushed as he carried the remaining stools over to the other side of the tavern.

Vander sighed, let it be, and continued prepping the bar’s stock.

A few hours later, The Last Drop was packed. Revelers young, old, and in-between stuffed the tavern to its gills. Most were members of the Children. Those that weren’t mingled with hope on their faces, intrigue glittering in their eyes like stars. The jukebox played on repeat, a long string of plucky, jovial tunes interspersed with the eager and happy chatter of the patrons. Ale and liquor flowed with abandon. Annie’s candles glowed and flickered invitingly. Vander had to admit that they did look beautiful. The soft, buttery glow of the flames brought a holy quality to the space. It inspired a bone-deep hope to flower in his chest.

Benzo and Cairn showed up about an hour after the bar opened for the night. The room burst into raucous cheers as Benzo threw up his meaty arms and greeted loudly, “BLESSED SNOWDOWN!”

Close behind the pair was Tolder and his brood, Sevika bringing up the end of the line. Once her younger siblings were inside, she whisked to the bar.

“Is Nasha here?”

“Haven’ seen her,” Vander answered filling a glass with caramel colored ale and handing it to a customer. “Bu’ she may be here n’ I haven’ noticed. Bit busy.”

“Yeah, just a bit,” she muttered, throwing her head around in search of the other girl. She smacked her palm against the bar top twice. “I’ll be back.”

Then she strode into the crowd, her head swiveling, eyes searching. A small smile crinkled the corners of Vander’s eyes as he watched her go. Then an empty tankard skittered across the bar and he fell back into work.

Sometime later, the crowd erupted again. Not as loud as when Benzo entered The Drop, but the swell of noise caused Vander to look up. His first full smile of the night spread across his face. Silco wove between tables, chairs, and customers, greeting people as he went with a small nod, or reserved wave.

“No Enyd?” Vander asked as Silco finally made it to the bar top.

His Brother’s lips thinned into a rueful, forced grin. He shook his head, dark hair fluttering about his face like curled shadows.

“No. She’s tired.”

The subtext of the message flicked at Vander’s heart with a mighty twang. Like it had been snapped with a rubber band.

She’s tired.

Her cough is especially bad. Has been bad. Is getting worse.

“What can I get ya?” Vander asked, hoping to distract Silco.

“Hmm? What?” Silco’s head – which had turned and was surveying the crowd – snapped back to Vander’s face. “Oh. Whisky. Please.”

Vander grinned and nodded. It was simple and quick, but preparing the two fingers of burnt amber liquor pleased him more than all the tankards of ale he had filled and refilled thus far. As he placed the glass in front of Silco, he was surprised to see a long, thin package on the counter between them.

“What’s this?”

“A Snowdown gift.”

Hot blush bloomed across Vander’s face. His heart swelled to the point of bursting. Then, honey-sweet hope once again dared to spread under his skin.

“Ya didn’ have to get me anything, Sil.”

Silco smirked and shrugged. “I wanted to.”

The blush on the back of Vander’s neck turned beet red as he sheepishly reached for the gift. It was wrapped in brown paper that had been crumpled and reused to the point of softness. Like thin suede.

Slowly, he peeled the wrapping away. A slender knife was settled in the worn curls and wrinkles of paper, its blade long with a gentle curve. There were a couple nicks in the metal that could be consider defects, but the worn appearance felt distinctly Zaun-ish to him. The handle was nearly half the length of the blade, wrapped in soft taupe-colored leather. The pommel was embossed with artful swoops.

Vander’s eyes roved over the knife, throat squeezing tight.

Then his gaze caught another detail: below the guard, on the first pleat of hide, the letter ‘V’ had been carved. The tightness gripping his throat intensified. Firelight wings beat and tickled his stomach to the point that Vander thought he might be sick with joy. Never before had he fought so hard to not reach for Silco, and draw him in close. To grab for his collar and pull him in for a kiss.

He refrained, though. Once again convincing himself that this wasn’t the time or place.

A small, love-hungry voice from deep inside cried out: “When will be the right time?!”

Not now.

Soon.

Hopefully.

Please.

Carefully tempering his expression in to one of bridled gratitude, Vander looked back up at Silco. His Brother eyed him with that smarmy, cocky half-grin and lifted eyebrow. Vander’s finger pads dug into the bar top to keep his hands from reaching out and grabbing for him. Everyday, it got harder and harder to do that.

Instead, he reached for the package and drew it closer.

“Ya didn’ hafta do that, Sil,” he murmured appreciatively.

“For when your fists get tired of beating Enforcers.”

An amused huff blew from Vander’s nose. “Thank you. I love it.”

Silco inclined his head, and lifted his glass to Vander. “Happy Snowdown, Brother. Next year may we be celebrating in a free nation.”

The weeks leading up to Snowdown were a heart-straining, soul-sickening series of days for Katya.

The third day after her assault, another gut-wrenching meltdown pulled her under. She couldn’t decide, in retrospect, if she had been grateful that Enyd was there, or if she wished she could’ve crumpled in private.

She had been standing at the kitchen sink, washing a cup. Enyd was gathering their lunch dishes from the table. Suddenly, Katya’s mind played an incredibly cruel prank on her: a phantom pressure at the crux of her thighs. Where Kells had groped her. She started with a gasp; eyes peeled wide. The cup fell from her hands as her legs buckled, and she tumbled to the cracked linoleum floor.

Blood rushed in her ears.

It kept her from hearing the wail that ripped from her throat.

At once, Enyd was at her side, drawing her close. Despite being so petite, she enveloped the young woman in a way only a mother could, all love and comfort. She spoke, lips and jaw moving against Katya’s temple, but the sound couldn’t penetrate the rush of blood in her ears. Nor the pummeling realization that ghostly sensation had brought her.

“I killed him. I killed him. I killed him – “

“Shhhh . . . Breathe, Katya. Breathe – “

“I killed . . . I killed him. I didn’t mean – “

A wail ripped itself from the base of Katya’s throat. She hadn’t meant to kill Kells; just to get him off of Silco. She didn’t know if her memory was playing tricks on her, but now the scene that played in her head contorted Kells’s face into one of abject fear as he tumbled over the turbine’s edge, limbs scrabbling for help.

But she hadn’t helped.

She had pushed.

Then watched.

Despite how vilely he had treated her, she had been unprepared to punish him with such finality. Dread and shame cemented in her arms and legs. The weight making it impossible to escape from the scenario playing over and over again in her head.

Sevika had said he had had no family. That there would be no trouble for her.

No trouble from the outside world, perhaps. But her insides roiled with it. Tentacles of humiliation slithering in her veins. Regret stabbing at her like claws.

“Katya. Katya. Look at me.”

With more force than the mother probably wanted to use, Enyd gripped Katya’s jaw between her fingers, jerking her head to the side so their eyes could connect. Spit, snot, and tears dripped over Enyd’s strong hold.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Katya. It was an accident. None of it was your fault. Do you hear me?”

Katya sniffled and trembled between the claw-grip. Her lips blubbered, an attempt to insist Enyd was wrong on the tip of her sob-thickened tongue.

Whip-fast, Enyd’s hand curled around the back of Katya’s head and tucked the young woman in closer.

“I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it. It’s not your fault. None of it.”

Katya did not know how long they stayed, curled up on the floor. She didn’t remember moving, but when her conscious mind turned back on, she found herself back on the couch, blanket tucked around her. Enyd sat at the far end, a sewing project in her lap.

Katya’s insides felt like sludge. Her throat burning from having been screamed raw. She turned her head against the couch cushion, eyes falling onto the accordion-style laundry rack Enyd had hauled with her that day. It was broken – one side’s legs having to be placed very carefully, as the bracing brackets had broken off – but it worked. Just like Enyd had promised.

She closed her eyes. At some point the couch shifted as Enyd rose. Then there was the soft press of lips to her temple, a loving murmur in her ear. When next Katya opened her eyes, Enyd was gone.

She went back to work the next day. Unwilling to keep eating up Enyd’s time. Hoping that the monotonous tasks of the clinic would dull the edges of the past few days.

Will pestered her when she appeared. Asked if she was okay. What had happened. Said that he was going to put in a formal complaint against Silco.

“Don’t do that,” Katya snapped harshly. “He didn’t do anything. It wasn’t him. I will be fine. Leave it.”

Will’s shoulders slumped, but he made the wise choice to not argue with her further.

As he wrapped his ratty coat around him, he said, “I finished stocking the supplies. I didn’t know why you had put some off to the side, but I put them with the rest of the inventory. Hope that’s okay.”

Katya stilled.

Right. Before she had gone to Fissure 27 – she swallowed down the bile gathering at the base of her throat – she had put a few items aside to stock for the Children and Enyd. She’d forgotten about it.

“Yes. That is fine. Thank you, Will.”

As that first day back slogged along, Katya kept looking at the clinic door. She didn’t know if she was wishing Silco would step through, or not. Part of her hoped he was still home.

She saw him next when she dropped off a bottle of medicine for Enyd.

Her heart made a home in her throat as she approached their apartment. The same mighty war raged within her as she knocked on the door: she craved to see Silco, then inexplicable shame would swoop in and fell that desire.

She shouldn’t expect his company, his companionship. She couldn’t pay the cost. Didn’t deserve it. Regardless of how much she may want it.

Agonizing relief sluiced over her bones when Enyd answered.

“Medicine,” Katya whispered by way of greeting. Reaching into her coat, she produced the larger bottle of decongestant. “Use the dropper from the smaller bottle. You could start taking an extra dose in the morning right now, since the cold weather makes your symptoms worse – “

“Katya,” Enyd crooned, taking the bottle and bringing a hand up to the young woman’s cheek. There was a pause, and she said, “Why don’t you come in?”

Katya shook her head, taking a step back. She flashed what she hoped was a grateful, but apologetic, smile.

“I cannot, unfortunately. I’m on my way to pick up Viktor – “

“Mum? Who’s at the door?”

Katya choked as her heart beat wildly in her throat. Her muscles tensed as they tried to decide whether bolting or freezing was the best option.

Then Silco appeared behind Enyd’s shoulder. He looked better than he had on her exam table. Bruising and swelling still puffed and discolored his eyelids and cheekbones, but it had since gone down. The bandage on his nose was gone, but the stitching on his lip stayed in place.

Katya’s throat wound tight. She was so happy, so relieved to see him. His presence a soothing balm to her scraped up heart and psyche. Yet, her boots remained rooted.

“Kat,” Silco said in a tone that danced between relief and excitement.

“I was just dropping off medicine for Enyd. I can’t stay. I need to pick up Viktor,” she robotically repeated.

The thick soles of her shoes shuffled against the floorboards, preparing her exit. Despite her leg’s attempts to walk away, her head and shoulders stayed facing the doorway. Her eyes glued to Silco’s.

She wanted to stay.

Wanted to talk with him.

Wanted to be with him.

Wanted him.

But she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. For reasons her trauma-addled brain couldn’t supply. Despite their lack of discernible motives, those thoughts won out.

“I need to go,” she said, and finally allowed her legs to carry her away. “See you both later.”

Like most of her movements of late, Katya didn’t remember getting to Piltover. The weight of the rucksack in her hand was the only thing that pulled her back online for a moment. She blinked. Her eyes fell on the worn canvas handle in her palm. She blinked, and then her eyes looked over and found Viktor. He looked back, open worry and confusion covering his face.

“What is wrong?” Viktor whispered to her when they took their seat in the conveyor car.

Katya pulled her lips into a reassuring smile. “Nothing. I am just tired. Long week, and I think I’m coming down with a small cold.”

The weekend past. On Monday, Katya took Viktor back to school.

The week past, too. A sludgy slog of colors and events that bled one into the next. Silco tried visiting Katya in the clinic, but she busied herself when he did. He stood dutifully near her during the Children’s meeting. His arms wrapped tight across his chest; fingers firmly tucked underneath his biceps.

Perhaps he was cross with her.

He should be, she figured.

Katya didn’t recall the meeting. Something about new supplies and updates on Enforcer activity.

She was, however, aware of the glances shot her way. The bitter, suspicious glares of Kells’s group of peers. Vander’s empathetic stare. He added a nod to it when she finally glanced in his direction.

Unwilling to linger, she slipped out just before the meeting ended; her bootheels a quick, snappy tap on the cobblestones.

“Kat.”

She froze, shoulders pitched up to her ears. This wasn’t the dream, but that call sparked the memory of it. Silco had called her then. Silco called for her now.

Slowly, Katya spun around, forcibly lowering her shoulders as she went. He wasn’t smiling like he had been in the dream. His face – which had become clearer in the passing days – was etched in an expression of deep concern.

In the dream, he had joyfully approached her. Now, he cautiously stepped forward. Like she was a wounded animal he didn’t want to spook.

She saw in his eyes that he wanted to say something.

“Can I walk you home?”

Yes. Yes, please.

“No, thank you. I can manage.” She gave him the same grin she’d given her brother, and turned on her heel.

“Kat.”

She stopped again. An unseen fist squeezing at her heart.

In the dream, the second time he had called, he’d come close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. Now, Katya turned and watched him take a couple more steps.

“It is fine, Silco. Really.”

His footsteps stopped, the toes of his boots awkwardly scraping against the street. She heard the gulp he took, watched the way his hands flexed.

“Alright then. Get home safe.”

“Of course.”

Her legs carried her away. Something inside her wailed and begged to go back. It was promptly swallowed up by that beast that couldn’t stand the risk.

The weekend arrived, and Viktor came home. It past, and he went back to school.

Silco stood on Katya’s periphery all week. He would still stop by the clinic to check on her. He stood by her during meetings. But said very little, and Katya became acutely aware of how much she loved his voice.

Another weekend.

Another week.

Now, Katya sat on her couch. Her blanket cocooned her, as it had these past weeks. A great, fluffy shell that wrapped around her shoulders and haloed her head. The apartment’s light was dim. The air was quiet – save for the occasional clanks and hisses of the radiator. Despite it being the eve of Snowdown, she heard no celebrating outside her windows or door. There never was this deep in the Sump.

This year, the holiday had fallen in the middle of the week. Viktor was across the river. No doubt as lonely as she was.

She knew The Last Drop hosted a gathering for the holiday. It had for years. Even when her Papa had been a boy. Anyone who traipsed through the door was invited. She knew the Children would be there: Sevika and her siblings, Nasha, Benzo, Cairn, Annie, Beckett. Silco.

A vicious ache clanged through her. A yawning, angry emptiness that begged to be addressed.

But like when Silco had come after her that night to walk her home, the yearning was quickly gnashed between the pointed teeth of that same oily beast. Powerful, but slippery. Like it didn’t want to be looked at too closely. It simply wanted to swoop in, gobble up ridiculous things like desire, and retreat back to the shadows with little examination.

Just as the beast was about to recoil back into the vacuous recesses of Katya’s chest cavity, the yearning gave a mad thrash between its jaws. A powerful snap that threatened to crack the teeth that held it.

Katya’s heart swelled and lurched at the sensation. Sitting up straighter, she put a hand to her chest and pressed, as if that would dissuade any further tantruming from within.

The yearning jerked again, alive and insistent against the hold of its captor.

‘Go,’ it seemed to say as it attempted to pull itself from the serrated mouth that held it. ‘Go.’

A watery gasp blew from Katya’s mouth, and one of her feet dropped from the couch onto the floor. The movement, while not purposeful, finally caused the shadowy monster to scramble for a better hold. It braced itself against the cage of her ribs.

‘Don’t go,’ it hissed through a clenched jaw. ‘Don’t go.’

Katya blinked. Her shoulders dropped, as did her other foot.

Fear. That was the desire-eating thing. She knew it well. It had dictated most of her life until recently. Had kept her in-line until recently. Since her time with the Children – of feeling like she belonged to something, of feeling like she wanted something more – it had been skirted to the sidelines. Present, but not commanding. Kells, and what he had done to her had pushed it back onto the field, its stamina and intensity renewed from the break it had received.

Katya scooted to the edge of the couch, blanket dropping from her shoulders and gathering at her hips like soft folds of cumulus clouds.

That isn’t what she wanted. To let her desires decay and blow away in the wind. To let fear, Piltover, or anything else stomp out the inherent, wild value she had just begun to believe in.

The silvery slip of Desire caught in Fear’s jaws wriggled and thrashed excitedly. Fear strained, its claws losing purchase on her rib bones.

She wanted, she decided. She wanted to believe in her value, her worthiness.

Desire surged forward, most of its amorphous body slipping from Fear’s too-rigid teeth.

She wanted to trust in Zaun’s ability to pull itself out of the proverbial hole Piltover had made it dig for itself.

Desire whipped and twisted. Fear’s bite began to tire and give.

Katya stood and the blanket drooped to the floor. She wanted the same for herself.

With a final snap of its slender body, Desire broke free and gushed forward; just like how Katya’s feet strode for the door. Fear whimpered, empty jaws chattering, as it recoiled back.

Katya shoved her feet into her boots, grabbed her coat from its peg, and burst out the door.

Her legs moved so swiftly that it felt like she was gliding, flying through the Sump and up into the Entresol. She wove around Snowdown revelers and underneath twinkling chem-bulbs single-mindedly, quick and swift as a canary.

It didn’t take long for The Last Drop to erupt in front of her, all merriment, togetherness, and neon green lights. Her heart thundered, and Desire serpentined inside her belly. Fists squeezing in her coat pockets, Katya surged forward.

As she anticipated, The Drop was packed, the patrons – Children and others alike – wonderfully happy in each other’s company. A few people raised glasses to her as she stepped inside, and she offered them careful smiles.

Over in a booth decorated with a ridiculous number of candles, Sevika beamed at her, and threw an arm up in greeting. Nasha was slung over her lap, preventing her from getting up. She gave Katya her own wave, and returned her attention back to twirling Sevika’s hair between her fingers.

Katya craned her head over the crowd as she shuffled closer toward the bar. Vander’s massive form flitted behind the countertop with grace that belied his stature. His face was ruddy with happiness as he addressed his customers.

Her eyes traveled down the long bar.

Looking.

Searching.

Her heart stuttered at the sight of Silco. Desire sang a song she’d never heard before.

He held a drink in his hand, his gaze cool and aloof as it traveled around the tavern. Then, like a homing missile, his eyes finally found hers.

Blue met gold.

Notes: AHHHHH!!!!!! Guys. Guys. THINGS are gonna happen in the next chapter. This slow burn is gonna pay off! EEEEE! I hope you enjoyed this piney-pining chapter!

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear yout thoughts in the comments or reblogs ❤️

Coming Up Next: Katya asks Silco to show her Zaun again.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

[0-scorch-the-earth-0]

Okay Ninjago fandom. I’m coming back after like. YEARS. And all the Glacier fanart has Zane being taller than Cole. It used to be we all thought Zane was shorter. SO: if you were to read a fic that had Zane being shorter, would you be confused? Or would you be like, “yeah that makes sense” ?

Side note, it’s a very interesting experience to leave a fandom and come back years later and notice which widely accepted head canons have changed.