#he does have a Gift for bending them to suit his needs

[deafsignifcantother]

alastor just being weird

♥ summary: alastor wanting you solely for the fact that you smell delightful so he starts searching your room ♥ relationships: alastor x [deaf] woman reader, deafness not a major point ♥ word count: 600 ♥ notes: reader wears makeup, she likes photography, she also doesn't really gaf about alastor being snoopy and weird LOLZ

Now that you're not in here, he can look around. He's welcomed himself into your empty room, eyes roaming everywhere except the attached bathroom, of course. He's immoral but not indecent. Where should he even start?

As the hotelier, it is his job to meet and make the guests comfortable. To be able to do that, he needs to know more about you, which is out of kindness and does not relate to how good you smell or how he would enjoy making you his next meal, most be mistaken.

Your dresser's drawers are a good start.

Just a standard assortment of socks and underwear, some salacious as any demon would have, neatly arranged. One pair of fishnets, a small collection of photos, a camera, a notebook. Do you always keep things like this? Or did you develop a new habit after the sudden move-in. He is hoping to find a clue as to who you are, and notebooks have saved him a lot of times before. He lightly picks it up and flips it open. Blank pages. Do you write in invisible ink? His claws finger through the pages one at a time before he bends them and watches them fly by. There's nothing.

He's wasting time. He places it back and lifts up the photos. The red sky above. One is a long shot of the pentagram with the Hazbin Hotel in the center.

In the next drawer there are no clothes, only a single makeup bag and accessories. Mismatched earrings, it seems you have a habit of losing one of every pair and then stashing them away—in case you find the other?

Alastor opens the drawer closest to the ground. Empty except for what he can only guess is a miscellaneous drawer. The brush smells like you from the multiple hair strands wrapped around it. His nose twitches; how delightful. He reaches for it slowly, brain rocking back and forth in his skull. But by the time he grips the handle, it's too late to stop. The bristles meet his nose, and he takes a whiff, savoring the pleasant fragrance that fills his lungs. He puts it back before he gets carried away.

Your room has a lovely and quite large wooden wardrobe. As he expected, when he opens it, there is space needing to be filled. His smile twitches at the soft gust of your smell; the scent assaults his hunger.

His index claw drags down a long sleeve, wrapping around the material and bringing it up to his nose. Even when clean, you've corrupted the cotton.

The moment the door opens, he fades into the shadows. He stands before the bathroom door as you step out in a robe, fresh out of the shower. It's the robe he gifted you, a welcome gift. He'll never tell you it's for capturing the soapy aroma of your wet body.

You look behind him, eyes flickering back. His smile tightens. Ah, he left the wardrobe's door open.

Alastor straightens his suit, shoulders a bit taut from embarrassment. He makes a show of brushing off his sleeves while you stand in the same place; the weight of your stare makes him sweat. "Well, my dear, I'm afraid I must be off, one can't even imagine the things I'm busied with!"

He looks up at you, his monocle hiding one of his eyes, his expression unreadable while he waits for a response. His wavery pupils match the small, excited shake of his hands. He doesn't leave immediately, curious him.

"And 'be off' you may," you walk past him, signing in simple pse to strengthen your point, not acknowledging him further. Your hand rests on the wooden frame, getting a small glance inside the wardrobe before closing it softly. By the time you turn around, Alastor is gone.

[ideas-ideasideasideas]

JayTim omegaverse AU where Tim presents as an omega when he’s stalking Batman and Jason-as-Robin. Jason finds him collapsed on a rooftop and tries to help him but the proximity triggers his own presentation as an alpha. From there things go to hell in a hand basket and they ride out their first heat/rut together. In the immediate aftermath, once they have both recovered enough presence of mind, they agree that this is no one’s fault but it doesn’t stop Jason from feeling guilty about taking advantage of Tim so he escorts Tim home (in the process finding out they’re neighbours) and asks if there’s anything that he can do for him to make up for whatever the hell just happened.

There’s a lot of trauma to unpack here for the both of them but Tim is barely a teenager and Jason has emotionally repressed Batman for a parental figure so they just mutually decide not to mention it ever again because if you pretend it never happened then it can’t hurt you right? (Wrong.) Anyway, Tim tells Jason that if he really wants to do something for him then maybe he can just not tell Batman that Tim was on a rooftop at night, pretty please? At which point Jason, horrified that a boy Tim’s age is running around on rooftops unsupervised in the most crime-ridden parts of Gotham at the most crime-infested time of the day, makes it his personal duty to figure out why Tim does this and also how he can convince him to NOT do this. What he did to Tim was wrong on so many levels but oh god, what if someone so much worse found Tim instead? He agrees to Tim’s request on the condition that Tim carries a beacon at all times during his nighttime extracurricular activities.

Jason brings the beacon over as soon as possible, which turns out to be the next day after school (as Robin of course), and the sight of Tim alone in a giant house compels him to stay for a while, and a while turns into the rest of the day. Tim shows off the photos he’s taken of Batman and the Robins, and Jason is reluctantly but appropriately impressed by Tim’s stealth.

A friendship grows between them.

And then Jason dies.

And Batman grows too reckless.

And Dick refuses to be Robin again.

And Tim becomes Robin—

Except he doesn’t. Not really. He wears Jason’s Robin suit for a very short time before random bouts of nausea take him off the field. But Batman is still beating the shit out of petty criminals and Tim is desperate to help, so he allows Alfred (bless him) to call him a discreet doctor to ensure that his illness is not due to anything he was exposed to while Batman-wrangling before he’s allowed back on the field. Tim just wants it over and done with quickly so he can get back out there and—

He’s not allowed to back on the field.

He’s holding a little black-and-white picture of a literal human growing inside him and he is absolutely benched until there is no longer a literal human growing inside him.

Doctor Thompkins lays out his options, is brutally honest about how his body (too young, too small) will handle a pregnancy (not well), and asks if there is anything he wants to tell her (if there’s anyone Batman needs to put in jail for touching him). Tim doesn’t have long to consider his options—he’s nearly too far along for most clinics to be comfortable performing an abortion (although, given his age, they might be sympathetic enough to bend the rules if Doctor Thompkins can’t perform the procedure for him).

He decides to keep it, a parting gift from his friend Robin to be cherished beyond his death. There is a difficult conversation with Bruce about the child’s father (no, you can’t arrest them, they’re already dead, no, I’m not defending a heinous rapist, it’s your goddamn son, Bruce, this is your grandchild). An unforeseen but extremely welcome consequence of this is that Batman starts pulling his punches, now that he has something to live for again. He looks only half-broken now and he offers Tim a room at the Wayne manor when he finally learns about Tim’s extremely absent parents.

(Tim worries about how to break the news to his parents until he no longer has to worry about it because his mother is dead and his father is in a coma and god he wanted to avoid having that conversation with them but this wasn’t how he wanted it to happen.)

Properly benched now for the foreseeable future, Tim picks up remote vigilante-wrangling instead (from Babs?) and makes headway in some cold cases. He pulls out of school to be homeschooled instead, keeps out of the public eye, and generally avoids leaving Wayne manor because a thirteen-year-old pregnant omega living alone with an adult alpha (and his butler) is a Very Bad Look even for Brucie Wayne and Tim would rather not be known as Bruce Wayne’s child bride thank you very much.

Life proceeds in this manner, the child is delivered by Caesarian with very little fanfare. It is, unfortunately, very difficult to hide the presence of a whole infant. The public settles on the theory that the child is Bruce’s illegitimate son from one of his many dalliances and Tim allows the misconception to propagate simply because no good can come out of him, all of fourteen, publicly claiming his child. But it still stings, just a little. He made this child, held him safe in his womb for eight months. He puts him to bed and nurses him and loves him so much but nobody outside the manor will see it.

Tim bursts back into society when he’s officially adopted by Bruce. He refused to register his son as Bruce’s (it takes some extremely deft work by Oracle to file the appropriate documents for Tim’s claim on his child to be legally valid without alerting the press) but he also understands that Bruce wants a legal connection to his grandchild, so he becomes his son’s dead father’s legally adopted brother. It’s a mess, but at least people who should be are allowed into hospital rooms. It’s not like it will matter, right? Jason’s dead, right?

Wrong.

Jason is very much not dead and very much bewildered by the presence of a baby Wayne that isn’t Damian and it completely derails his plans to exact revenge on Bruce for not killing the Joker. It fucking hurts to see that he’s been replaced by not one but TWO new children but at least they aren’t Robin. At least no one is Robin. At least one of them is Tim, his lonely friend who deserves a family. He returns to Gotham, heads to Crime Alley, becomes Red Hood, and buries himself in shooting out enough kneecaps to push Bruce and Batman from his mind. That was another life. He’s fucking furious at Bruce and his replacements but god the baby has the same curly hair that Jason did and Jason can’t help but think that Bruce might actually have missed him, at least a little.

But probably not enough to love Jason as he is now, full of anger and rage and impulse to hurt hurt hurt the people who hurt others. He channels it all into cleaning up the Alley, perhaps more aggressively than Batman would (should) have, but Batman doesn’t give enough of a shit about the Alley to know that what he’s doing isn’t enough and it’s up to Jason to get his hands downright filthy if he wants to make any changes around here.

Tim notices Red Hood, because of course he does. And it takes him no time at all to realise, oh, that’s Jason. That’s Jason.

[iskratempestmadness]

The characters of "Baki the Grappler" and places to kiss

Baki:

Jowls

This is already something like a ritual. You wake up and get a kiss on the cheek. You're going to work and he's going to kiss you on the cheek again. Guess what he does before going to bed... That's right, he'll kiss you on the cheek. It's just that Bucky likes to show his love that way, and consistency suits him. But why the cheeks? He doesn't fully understand it himself. It's just that when he looks at you, his gaze seems to be magnetized to your cheeks. It is also possible that he will sometimes bite your cheeks 😈

Hanayama :

Lips

Yes, it's simple. He just loves your lips. No reason at all. But he kisses you clearly more tenderly than shown in the spin-off. He likes it when you initiate kisses. That's why he asks you to kiss him when he buys you something or does any housework. It's SWEET, but sometimes it can get to the point of absurdity. Just as kissing is his way of showing love, so are gifts. (Yes, yes, yes, I remember writing about it, but it really seems to me that it is difficult for Hana to express herself in words)

Katsumi:

Neck

Ohhh, she beckons him. He likes your neck for several reasons. First, he LOVES your reaction, Sometimes his kisses are like tickling, so you always need to be ready, besides, he has no sense of proportion at all. Second, he just can't help but do it, it just seems so logical to him. Like he can do when you're hugging or when you're standing with your back to him, or when... Yes, this part of the body is always just convenient for him. The third is your scent, it also attracts him. (uh, I'm sorry, but in this case he looks like a dog just.... Uhhh... hell, I once read a fic in which the author compared him to a Labrador and this idea firmly entered my head. It's JUST THAT he REALLY LOOKS LIKE) Small bites to the neck are also possible (he is loving)

Jack:

The back of the head or forehead

Why two at once? It all depends on the time of day. At night, he prefers to kiss the back of the head (he is a big spoon, of course) during the day and the forehead. Why? It's easier for him to reach it. Like even if you're tall, he'll have to bend down to kiss you, so it's really closer. He also thinks that it's somehow more caring towards you, somehow cozy. The story is the same as with Bucky, it's a ritual. (Something like a blessing) AND YOU WON'T LEAVE FOR WORK UNTIL HE KISSES YOU ON THE FOREHEAD. YOU CAN'T BREAK THE RITUAL.

Retsu:

Hands

Firstly, he has always been, is and will be a gentleman for this very reason. It's just a cute gesture in which he can show respect for you and interest (it seems to me in all other cases he either just introduces himself to the girls or stretches out his hand to shake) Secondly, he also likes your reaction when he kisses the back of his hand. He likes to make you laugh that way. He also likes to kiss your knuckles and watch your embarrassment.

Shibukawa:

Back

In general, he likes any place where touching it can make you laugh. But he is drawn most often to his back. Especially to the shoulder blades. Especially before going to bed (yes, he is also a big spoon, but he also does not mind being small, he even likes the second option better) or suddenly give you a kiss on the shoulder blade while you are working around the house (if you have open clothes, of course). It is also convenient for him, as you may have noticed, he is small (it seems to me that he would not want a partner less than himself, although he is loyal to this in principle)

Chiharu:

Shoulders

He often buries himself in your shoulders when he hugs you and can't help but give them kisses. He's also attracted to your scent, which he thinks is concentrated in your shoulders. And of course he likes your reaction of surprise and embarrassment. With this bunch of factors, how can he hold back now? However, if you try to kiss him back, his confidence will collapse instantly and now he stands confused and worried.

(it doesn't seem like he's not used to showing feelings on your part)

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 22/22

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21

STORY 2 - Sequel

I can't believe it?? I made it, Ma!

Luci's General Suit inspired by this FANART on twt by @kajina_97

This is the COMIC that inspired me to write the whole thing because I wanted this ending so bad klajdklsa it's by @Sandranetta_13 on twt

Dk what tomorrow might entai. Might be the first chapter for the sequel?

Let me know what you guys think! Please, I'm very desperate.

I'm willing to do a Q&A regarding your thoughts. DMs and Asks are OPEN! <3

Will link the sequel here once posted

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

Everything was relatively normal the following week. His and Charlie's long overdue moment with no more miscommunication made Lucifer feel a whole lot better. He couldn't ask for a better daughter.

Dressing himself in one of his battle suits, he felt like he could take on the world. Nothing says King of Hell like your best warrior outfit and a badass sword in full display.

Lucifer: Looking pretty dapper there, me.

Lucifer doesn't even bother to style his hair- it now flows animatedly like that of Lilith's.

Flowers were still being sent to him especially when he was first spotted roaming around the hotel after a week-ish long recovery. Charlie had the amazing idea of making a greenhouse or some sort of garden to put all the flowers and keep them alive as long as possible.

They got rid of any red ones after someone sent a buttload of them which then caused him to have a mini panic attack. Alastor is subtly trying to take that moment off his mind by leaving Marigolds everywhere. It's sweet but soon they're going to need a separate greenhouse for just the Marigolds. Where'd he even get these??

Finding his first Marigold of the day, in the bathroom of all places really Alastor??, he makes his way to the lobby. Everyone was there doing their own thing.

Husk and Angel are at the bar as usual, with the latter talking animatedly about something that puts an endearing expression on Husk's face. Nifty is putting on roach puppet shows for Alastor. The radio demon notices him and conveys his most 'help me' face but he just chuckled and gives him a thumbs up. The cyclops named Cherri is today's gift screener, grumbling about the pollen and the shitty taste some demons have.

Charlie and Vaggie were talking to a small group of demons by the entrance. As soon as his daughter sees him, she said something to the group then walked over to him.

Charlie: Good morning, dad!

Lucifer: You look busy.

Charlie: They're sinners who are asking about the hotel! I'm so happy that people are at least coming here to check it out. Did you have a good sleep?

Lucifer: Well, I don't feel like passing out today. So pretty good!

Charlie: That's great, dad!

Angel: Short king! Looking good in that fit!

Cherri: Yeah! Do a spin, hot stuff!

He blushes at the sudden attention. Everyone is looking at him in awe- maybe it was too much?

Alastor: Nonsense, dear.

Alastor appeared beside him in a flurry of shadows, seemingly reading his mind. He bends down at Lucifer's level to whisper in his ear. He plucked the Marigold Lucifer was holding, putting it behind the King's hair.

Alastor: I, for one, think you never looked so.. raveshing~

Damn him.

Lucifer: Shut up.

Lucifer hisses in response. Like, seriously? In front of his daughter? Thank Father, Charlie didn't hear that.

Charlie: Yeah! You look so cool. I don't think I've seen you wear that except for when there's a banquet.

Lucifer: Yeah, well, I wanted to look put together after everything.

Charlie softens at his words.

Alastor: No need for that, sire. I'm sure no one is foolish enough to comment negatively on what the King of Hell chooses to look like.

Lucifer: What does that make you then?

Alastor: Privileged, my King~

Lucifer rolls his eyes at the audacity but he can't help but smile. Man, he never thought he'd miss their constant banter.

Charlie: You look awesome, dad, okay? Al, please slow down with the Marigolds, Nifty's going crazy. Oh! Dad, right, Aunt Bel called said that the Sloth Ring is making incredible progress and that she'll visit again soon. I think Aunt Bee is planning a party with the other Sins and would like it to be held here in Pride! At the hotel! It would be so cool and of course if you're not ready I can tell them and maybe a little get together would be better. I'll even invite Sev! He gave flowers for you too and Vaggie was so jealous when I said he was my ex and thought the flowers were for me, she was so cute-

Lucifer tried, but he stopped listening halfway through his daughter's talk. It was a bit of an information overload but he kept a small, genuine smile on his face for her.

Then something caught his eye that made him stopped smiling altogether.

Charlie notices this causing her to stop talking.

Charlie: Dad?

He should answer but his eyes were locked on the wall behind Charlie. Plastered on the higher part of the lobby's wall was a glowing mark- gold wings with a dot on the center.

Lucifer turns around so fast to look outside the hotel's window. Heaven looks so out of place up there, sticking out like a sore thumb upon Hell's red skies.

A glint in the distance made him act. Without warning, he took off with such force that those inside the hotel were knocked down by the gust of his wings.

He breaks the window on his way out and pulls out Lightbringer. Lucifer brings the sword up and-

A powerful explosion lit up the sky. The sky split in two and fire appeared high and wide over Pride. At that moment, everyone became so hot that they couldn't bear it, as if their whole body was on fire. They wanted to rip their skin off just to get a sense of relief but then the sky shut closed. A strong thump was heard by every demon in the vicinity and then they were all thrown a few meters.

It felt like an eternity before Charlie and the others could get their bearings. Those that didn't get knocked out went outside, once there, they see Lucifer far up in the sky, holding up a flaming sword. The signature pentagram of the city has been fractured by whatever happened and demons all around were either hurt or unconscious.

Charlie: Dad!

Charlie calls out to her dad but he doesn't acknowledge her. His gaze never leaving Heaven, as if he's seeing something that no one else can.

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

A screen locked on Hell zooms out as the machine's voice rang out 'target disengaged'.

An angel looking similarly to Lucifer, except there's blue tints on the spots where Lucifer had reds, was looking down at Hell pulling back a large, golden gun. They blew the smoke residue and sighed.

Michael: Hello, Lucifer... Still causing trouble, I see.

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

it's done??

cliffhanger but don't worry, there's a sequel!

I spent 30 minutes looking for that comic that inspired this ending.

Did y'all catch that Lemmino reference? I'd have that description in my head rent free ever since I watched Grazed by the Apocalypse

Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! This was my first published baby and I'm so proud !

[pluviophiles]

umbrella academy season 4 ending - rewritten (PART 1)

since we were absolutely robbed this season, i felt the need to publish my own little version of the tua s4 ending. im sure it's riddled with plot holes, but it does give me a bit of satisfaction after watching whatever the tom fuckery happened in the last season.

warnings : tua s4 spoilers, wordbuilding, unpolished writing

... as luther, diego, allison, klaus, five, viktor, and lila are slowly engulfed by the monstrous blob, there is a blinding flash of gold. the scene cuts to black. [after a short pause] hard cut to BEN sitting on the subway - the very same scene we saw in s3 post-credits. it plays out the same way we've seen before, yet continues even after ben looks up from the book in hand. the train slowly comes to a stop, presumably having arrived at a station. cut to the subway door, which slowly opens. enter KLAUS, and then DAVE. the two of them converse, cheerily, hand-in-hand. klaus walks straight past ben, and the audience realizes that, in this timeline, the umbrella siblings are complete strangers. the two of them sit down several feet away from ben. as klaus reaches for dave, the audience can see a newly-inked tattoo on his forearm - a marigold. the camera pans back to ben, zoomed further in. now, the audience can see that, on the side of his glasses, there is a small, bedazzled marigold design. a flash of recognition can be seen in ben's eyes. he scrunches his eyebrows together, as if trying to piece together two foreign pieces of information. the camera pans again, revealing JENNIFER in the seat across from ben. JENNIFER ben… is everything alright? ben shakes his head slightly, unsure of himself. BEN it's nothing. [he clears his throat, and with more conviction, repeats, ] it's nothing. jennifer is clearly unconvinced, but decides to drop the subject for now. cut to the subway door once more, and the rest of the umbrellas file in, one-by-one. first, ALLISON, with CLAIRE and RAY. the three of them sit down in one far corner of the car; a happy family. as the light shifts, allison's necklace glints and shimmers. (design? a marigold.) then, DIEGO and LILA with their three kids. as they sit down, GRACE shyly pulls out a marigold flower, handing it to her parents. GRACE [incoherent] ...for you. diego takes it with a huge grin on his face and tucks it behind lila's ear. the latter bends down to plant a kiss on her daughter's forehead. after them came LUTHER. he was by his lonesome, but sat down near a beautiful woman - SLOANE. clumsily, he brushes up against her, and quickly offers awkward apologies. they fall into a comfortable conversation. the audience can see that here, he has a watch similar to the one reginald originally gifted him, with a marigold in its center. VIKTOR comes in, trailing behind SISSY and HARLAN. the two of them are now married, with matching stones set on their fingers. viktor is donning dark blue jean jacket, an embroidered marigold at the top. the last one to the party is FIVE. however, here, he is no longer a teenager. instead, he has gotten to live his life like the rest of his family, and is now at the ripe age of 35. he sits down with his partner, who the audience recognizes as DELORES. hazily, he wraps his arm around her. he's wearing a suit as per usual, with the addition of a marigold brooch. each of the seven siblings seem to be in their own bubbles, suggesting that they finally reached contentment. still, they are connected together by the marigold, even if it is no longer inside of them. in this timeline, the umbrellas were almost the opposite of dysfunctional. perhaps the problem was never them, but reginald. for, here, the seven of them flourished.

(PART 2 SOON TO COME)

[spaceless-vacuum]

Salutations! I was wondering if you are up to writing another Yandere Ganondorf. I previously read one you wrote, where Ganondorf tries to romance an heir to a small kingdom, and I was wondering if you are willing to write another with a similar plot. I quite like how the reader gives in to Ganondorf to save their people from ‘war’, but I would like to see how Ganon would react if he was denied. I would like to see the reader as cold and wary of Ganon’s attention and honesty and preferring to prepare for war instead of allowing Ganon the pleasure of their hand. Scared that they would be hurt if they fall to Ganondorf’s whims, even telling it to his face before abruptly leaving. It would be nice to see it! Thank you and have a pleasant day!

Ganondorf by nature is a very wise and cunning man. Every action he makes is carefully planned out and he is being heavy handed for a reason. He knows that this is the easiest way he can get what he wants from you. If he pushes the people above you, you'll have no choice but to bend the knee. Your refusal to bend not only makes him want you more because it makes you a tougher catch, but it also shows you're not simply willing to bend to him. That protective spark shows up and he both wants to take you away from the people who would withhold your freedom from you and give you to him; and he wants to help them push you further to him. He plays both sides of the field and will win either way. In his eyes it's all a matter of time. You have nowhere to run. If nothing else works he'll just run through your kingdom with an army but that is hardly any fun, and you need a reminder that he knows more than you do about this.

He gains a rush by being able to force others to bend to his power. It proves to him that he is above everyone and while he wants you to submit he also really enjoys it when you don't. Something about a defiant streak really just proves to him that he made a great choice in his darling.

Ganondorf isn't known for being a kind ruler or even a kind man to those who oppose him. He is willing to steal from anyone and will kill people for simple insults and it's clear he doesn't care for the lives of anyone in your kingdom. It wouldn't be hard to rally the people to your cause. You could even convince some senators as well, but by the time you speak to them you're going to realise that Ganondorf already has approached them. He's no stranger to the darker sides of people's hearts, he is a demon's rage reincarnated, they deal in sweet but evil packages, and he knows how to worm evil into people's hearts. He has spies in your walls and they are more than willing to help if the price is right.

They won't leave with their heads and if you suggest for it he will happily execute all those worthless worms who would dare sell you out. Anyone who stands by you is a threat- but anyone who sells you out is dead.

The whole time this is going on he's dancing around the topic of marriage and why he wants your hand. The way he dances around it to your face doesn't stop him from being heavy handed. You're blunt and not afraid of speaking your mind. He loves the way you're not afraid of him. You don't hide what you're thinking or how you feel just to appease him. It doesn't stop him from pulling you into his lap, sending you gifts, giving you clothes that are only suited for his homeland, requesting you come home with him, or even saying to your face what it is he wants to do with you once this game is over. He enjoys it more because you're willing to stand up to him and call him out on how his actions are inappropriate.

Ganondorf loves the chase and the thrill of the hunt and you darling, will make a magnificent prize once your kingdom is set to sorrow. Losing their ruling family will be such a loss. Especially once the kingdom's heir is taken from them. He doesn't want to hurt you but he does want you to come at least somewhat willingly. Even if that means war he will certainly do that. It would set him back a bit to do so but he's done more for less. 

The people of your country think you're so strong and kind hearted to stand up against him. You had to outmanoeuvre him without giving yourself up, which is hard to do against a man who is used to getting what he wants through both brute force and cunning.

Offering him a slap to the face, metaphorically and possible literally, was expected but he will make you pay for that. He enjoys a feisty prize but he can't stand to appear weaker and will have to teach you a lesson. probably by killing your people and blaming it all on you. He won't play fair and once he has you in his arms. Rubbing your loss in your face while talking about how this all could have been avoided if only you let him step on you to get what he wants.

He hates being bored so having a chase is good for him. He still showers you in gifts and takes you out to show you off but having to plan out ways to keep you by his side by force or manipulated compliance is such a threat to his ego. The goal is to one day have you as a loving spouse he can dote on but for now all of this political talk will keep him happy. For now. 

Being able to see you all warmed up to him after the years of backlash will warm his heart…just a little. Now he just has to convince you to let him start a family.

taglist: @monkeyking-and-liuer-mate

[vir-tanadahl]

Beyond the Veil

A rewrite. AU. The Gods are said to dwell above, but she has never laid eyes on them. Her mother, a high priest of Mythal, and her twin brother, a devoted hunter of Andruil, have never seen them either. The Gods don’t visit the weary, the starving, or the ill. But Isera does. If she were ever to meet a God who came to the bedside of the suffering, she might bend the knee. Until she meets a stranger… F!Lavellan x Fen'harel

[Ch1]

Chapter 1: Where the Gods Don't Dwell

Isera floated effortlessly in the middle of the lake, the cool water cradling her weight as she gazed at the vibrant night sky above. Colors rippled across the heavens like silk, the aurora’s glow casting faint reflections in the crystal-clear water around her. Beneath her, the immense form of the sea creature stirred, its haunting melody vibrating through the depths, a song only she could hear. The gods were said to dwell above, somewhere among the shimmering lights, but no matter how long she stared, she saw no sign of them.

Her mother spoke of them often, her voice reverent as she led ceremonies in Mythal’s name. Her brother hunted with the precision of Andruil’s chosen. They all followed, blindly reaching for something they’d never seen. And yet, they believed.

Isera didn’t.

They whispered her father’s name with awe, spoke of his control over the Fade as if it marked him divine. She’d never met him. Maybe that’s why they said he was different—godlike, even. The stories painted him as a bridge between worlds, but to her, he was just another absence, a shadow of a figure she couldn’t understand.

She drifted further, the water cool against her skin. I’ve'an'amelan, the People had called her. Blessed like him. Chosen. But the power that flowed through her felt like chains, not a gift. They expected her to kneel, to fall into line, to embrace the gods they cherished.

But Isera kept her gaze on the stars, her lips pressed into a firm line. Power or not, the gods weren’t hers to worship. She wasn’t meant to follow.

The world shifted before her eyes, sharper and more alive than it had ever been. The Veil above her rippled in vibrant hues, each wave of color more brilliant than the last. The song of magic was no longer a distant hum—it filled her ears now, a constant, pulsing melody that seemed to weave itself through the very air she breathed. She could feel it—feel the Veil move, as though it had a heartbeat that pulsed in time with the shimmering lights. Yet even as the power around her intensified, even as it tugged at her senses, she refused to bow to it.

Prayer was for those who needed something to believe in. Isera didn’t.

The spirits were never far, always lurking just out of sight, like shadows cast by the flickering light of the Veil. One, though, lingered longer than the rest, an unseen companion she’d grown accustomed to. It never spoke, never reached out, yet its presence was undeniable—a silent observer in her dreams, drifting at the edges of her consciousness. She had grown used to feeling it near, like a breath on the back of her neck, familiar yet elusive.

But today, the spirit was gone. The stillness in her mind was strange, almost unsettling. She searched for its familiar weight, the way she always felt it watching, waiting. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of the Veil and the distant, empty space where the spirit should have been.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the surface of the lake as she drifted. It wasn’t like the spirit to leave. And yet, just like the rest, it could disappear as easily as it had come.

Eventually, her mother stopped trying to drag her to the Temples. After her brother dutifully chose his god, falling into line with the faith that governed their family, the attempts to make Isera follow suit dwindled. Her mother no longer asked, and the pressure that once weighed so heavily on Isera’s shoulders seemed to lift. But the distance between them grew, unspoken yet palpable.

Of course, Isera still attended the holiday masses. It was the least she could do, a gesture to maintain the fragile peace with her mother. She could see the flicker of pride in her mother’s eyes when she stood there, silent and present. But beyond that, Isera couldn’t pretend. The rituals, the prayers—they weren’t for her. She couldn’t force herself to believe in something she never felt.

Instead, she found freedom elsewhere. She ran through the forests, her feet light on the soft earth, far from the expectations that clung to the temples like shadows. She spent hours hidden in the library, devouring books that had nothing to do with the gods, searching for answers that couldn’t be found in prayer. More often than not, she talked to the People—the slaves, the ones who lived on the edges of her mother’s world, their stories raw and real, not shaped by divine edicts.

The nobles whispered about her behind their jeweled hands, their eyes narrow as they watched her from a distance. Odd, rebellious, defiant. But none dared to challenge her. Her mother was the High Priest of Mythal, after all. Mythal, the Protector. The All-Mother. Goddess of love, justice, and vengeance.

And even the most powerful nobles knew better than to cross the daughter of Mythal’s chosen.

Isera knew exactly how to play the perfect child, the one everyone expected her to be. When questioned, she offered answers that were polished and polite, the kind that earned approving nods from the elders. She delivered the right words, said the right things. It wasn’t difficult—she knew the game well. What she didn’t answer, she let drift by, untouched, as though it had never been asked. Her smiles, soft and serene, mirrored the devotion around her, and her voice held the same reverence when she spoke.

The devoted, the truly faithful, would approach her afterward, their eyes gleaming with approval. They would tell her how she could rise even higher, be more devout, earn favor from the gods. Isera smiled, nodded, let their words roll over her like water. And when they were done, she would quietly slip away, the façade falling from her face like a discarded mask.

She could recite the creation stories as easily as breathing, the tales of Mythal taming Elgar’nan’s fury, their children shaping the world. She could speak of Falon’din and Dirthamen, guiding the People into uthenera, of June teaching them how to build, and Andruil teaching the way of the three trees. She knew how Sylaise brought fire and healing to the People, how June crafted with his hands what others could only imagine.

And then there was Fen’harel—the Dread Wolf. The trickster, the betrayer, the god who cared nothing for teaching. His stories were darker, more whispered than spoken aloud. Rebellion and betrayal were what the elders called him, a warning to those who might stray too far from the path.

Yet, Isera found herself lingering on his name. Not in worship, but in quiet curiosity. They feared him, but she wondered if there was more to his story than what was told. After all, rebellion had its own kind of power—one she understood far better than prayer.

Isera could sing the hymns to the gods, her voice soft with practiced ease, but it never truly soared. The words never took flight, held down by something deeper, something unspoken. Even as her lips moved with the melodies of praise, her heart remained quiet, untouched.

The sharp contrast of the cool water against the warm breeze stirred her from her thoughts. The stillness of the lake had always been her sanctuary, but the sun would rise soon. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp morning air before she let herself sink below the surface. The water enveloped her, a brief moment of silence, a respite from the noise of the world. It was only when her lungs burned for air that she broke free, swimming smoothly toward the shore.

The sky above had begun to lighten, and the early morning stillness clung to the air. As she stepped onto land, Isera murmured a spell, her skin tingling with warmth as the water evaporated from her body, leaving her dry and ready. She changed quickly, her movements practiced and efficient, and began the walk toward the fields.

The slaves would be rising soon. Their wounds would need tending—wounds that spoke more of cruelty than necessity. Her feet carried her through the familiar path, but her mind drifted, lingering on the faces she would see, the lives bound by shackles not of their making.

Upon reaching the fields, Isera scaled one of the trees at the edge, finding her usual perch on a high branch that overlooked the golden expanse. From here, she could see everything. The land belonged to a noble who worshipped Dirthamen, the God of Secrets and Knowledge. His devotion was twisted into cruelty, his slaves forced to bleed in his god's name. She had seen it countless times—the sharp crack of the whip, the slow seep of blood into the earth. All for the sake of devotion.

The first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, bathing the wheat fields in gold. Slowly, the slaves emerged from their quarters, moving in a tired line to begin their day’s labor. Scythes in hand, they set to work, cutting the plants with rhythmic strokes. Isera watched from her high vantage point, her eyes steady as she took in the scene below. She would descend soon to tend to them, but for now, she remained still, a silent observer.

In the growing light, the wheat swayed, golden and endless. Yet all Isera could see was the blood that stained the hands of those who harvested it.

From her perch, Isera’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the field, waiting for the inevitable. There was always someone who struggled, someone too slow or too weary to meet the unrelenting pace demanded of them. Her gaze settled on a woman as she faltered, crumbling to her knees, her scythe slipping from her grasp. Isera's heart clenched at the sight. She knew what would come if no one intervened.

Without hesitation, Isera moved. Her form dissolved into a swirl of white smoke, her body shifting into that of a sleek, pure white fennec. She darted across the field, her paws light against the earth as she raced toward the fallen slave.

Anise.

The woman had been here for as long as Isera could remember, a single mother of three daughters, trapped by the chains of servitude. As Isera neared, Anise hissed at her, a weak attempt to ward her off, fear and pain etched into every line of her face. But Isera wasn’t afraid. She weaved around Anise's outstretched hands with a dancer’s grace, her small fennec form a blur as she summoned the magic within her.

The soft glow of her healing spell washed over Anise's legs, mending the torn skin, soothing the wounds. Isera could feel the heat of the fresh lashes fade beneath her magic, the pain dissolving as she worked in silence.

Anise’s eyes widened as she realized what was happening. "Lady Isera!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "If he sees you here, he will kill you!" Her hands moved to shield Isera's small form, trying desperately to hide her, to protect her from the wrath of their master.

“Mythal curse him,” Anise muttered under her breath, anger and desperation bleeding into her words. “Fen’harel take him!”

Isera’s eyes flashed, her magic swirling just beneath her skin as she finished the spell. She lingered for only a moment, her white fur brushing against Anise’s hand in silent reassurance before stepping back, her form dissolving into smoke once more as she disappeared into the shadows.

She wouldn’t be seen, not today. But she would be back. And one day, they would not need to whisper curses under their breath.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

The children eagerly led Isera into a small, abandoned shack, their eyes wide with anticipation. With a simple gesture, Isera conjured food before them—warm bread, ripe fruit, and sweet cakes—and the children squealed in delight, their faces lighting up at the sudden feast. Her abilities, granted by being i've'an'amelan, were unlike those of ordinary mages. She could bring forth life, create sustenance, even shape buildings and landscapes both in the waking world and in her dreams. The power came naturally to her, a quiet hum in her veins.

The Order of the Keepers had tried, time and again, to recruit her into their fold, promising knowledge, power, and divine purpose. But to Isera, their promises were hollow. She called them a cult, hidden away from the world, claiming to work for the gods while neglecting the very People they were supposed to protect. She couldn’t see how isolation and ignorance pleased any god. Her path was different, quieter, more tangible. She helped where she could, in small ways, touching lives in ways that mattered.

As the children tore into the food, laughing and chatting with mouths full, a boy burst into the shack, his voice panicked. “Isera!” he cried, breathless and tearful. “You must come!” He pulled at her cloak, jumping up and down, tears streaming down his cheeks. “My mamae, my mamae!”

Isera's smile faded instantly, and she knelt down, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Stay here,” she murmured to the other children, her voice steady but filled with urgency. Then, she stood, following the boy as he bolted out of the shack, leading her toward his home.

The child ran ahead, his small feet kicking up dirt, his cries echoing in the empty streets. “My mamae, my mamae,” he repeated, his voice breaking with each breath. Isera quickened her pace, her heart pounding in time with the boy's frantic sobs, knowing that whatever awaited them was not good.

When she finally caught up, she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently, offering what little comfort she could as they neared his home. She only hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

Isera stepped into the dim shack, the air thick with the stench of sickness. Her sharp senses picked up the faint, sour smell of illness and desperation. The low light cast shadows along the walls, but her focus remained on the fragile figure lying on the thin mat in the corner. She could hear the woman's labored breathing, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Before the boy could follow, Isera knelt in front of him, gently blocking his path. “Da'len,” she whispered, her voice soft, a gentle balm against the panic in his eyes. “I will look after your mother, but I need you to stay out here. Can you do that for me?” Her hands enveloped his, small and trembling, and she ran her fingers through his tangled hair in a comforting gesture.

He nodded, tearful but determined, before Isera whispered a request for herbs. The boy turned and darted away, eager to help in any way he could.

Once he was gone, Isera stood and turned her attention back to the room. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and that’s when she noticed a figure already at the woman’s side—a hooded figure, bent over her, murmuring words she couldn’t quite catch.

The man’s hands glowed faintly as he attempted to heal her, but there was something different about his magic that she couldn’t quite describe. Isera remained quiet, watching from the shadows, her own instincts flaring to life. She took a step closer, her movements deliberate and silent, studying the way his magic moved through the air. It felt familiar, yet distant, as though it lacked the warmth and life she was accustomed to in her own healing.

Isera's eyes flicked over the room, taking in the small details—the herbs strung from the rafters, the scraps of food scavenged and rationed with care. The woman had been hungry, desperate, trying to survive on whatever she could find. It wasn’t hard to see the traces of her struggle.

The hooded figure cursed under his breath, frustration etched in every movement as he pulled back his hood. His sharp intake of breath signaled that he hadn’t realized she was there until now. He turned to face her, his eyes dark with exhaustion. His simple cotton clothes were stained with dirt, and an open healing bag lay beside him. Isera’s gaze lingered briefly on the dark, jagged jawbone necklace hanging against his beige shirt before meeting his eyes again.

“You should go,” he said, his voice low, weary. “There is a sickness here runs too deep to be cured.”

Isera didn’t flinch. She stood quietly for a moment, her face still obscured by the hood of her cloak, her eyes calm and unyielding. A soft hum escaped her, a noncommittal sound that hung in the air between them.

“I haven’t tried,” she replied simply, stepping forward with steady resolve, her gaze shifting from him to the woman on the mat. She could feel the faint traces of magic he had already tried, the flickers of hope that had withered before they could take root. But hope was not something she was quick to abandon.

The man stepped forward, blocking her path with a firm hand raised in caution. “It would be best if you did not,” he warned, his voice steady but tense. His proximity brought the earthy scent of moss and dirt to her senses, the smell of someone who had spent too long in the wild. His presence was unyielding, a wall between her and the dying woman.

Isera’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Step aside, please," she commanded, her tone calm yet unmistakably firm.

He frowned, clearly taken aback by her refusal to heed his caution. The air between them crackled with tension, his authority suddenly uncertain. He had expected her to back down, to trust his word and leave the shack. Instead, Isera’s gaze remained locked on him, unflinching.

“She is going to die,” he muttered, stepping aside with a resigned sigh. His words hung heavy in the air, but Isera barely acknowledged them as she dropped to her knees beside the woman, her focus sharp and unwavering.

Her fingers brushed the woman’s clammy skin—cold, yet slick with sweat. The rapid thrum of her heartbeat, barely steady, pulsed beneath Isera’s touch. Her shallow breaths were faint, barely enough to keep her tethered to life.

Without hesitation, Isera reached into her healing bag, pulling out a small vial filled with a deep amber liquid. Gently, she pressed the tip of the vial to the woman’s cracked lips, her voice soft and soothing as she whispered for her to drink.

The woman’s lips parted weakly, and the liquid slipped past her tongue. For a moment, there was nothing—just the same ragged breaths, the same fragile existence teetering on the edge. But then, the woman let out a long, slow sigh, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was less strained, more peaceful. Her body, once tight with pain, began to relax.

Isera stood smoothly, brushing the dust from her knees as she turned to leave the shack. Behind her, the stranger’s voice broke the silence. “You gave her something to relieve the pain then?” he asked, his tone uncertain.

She paused, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. He seemed out of place here, an unfamiliar presence in a village she knew well. His confusion was evident in the way his brows furrowed, but Isera met his question with a calm, steady reply.

“No,” she said evenly, her eyes flicking to the woman behind her. “I gave her the antidote to the poison fungi she ate.”

The man's eyes widened, his expression shifting from uncertainty to surprise as he glanced around the shack. His gaze finally landed on a small mushroom, half-crushed on the floor. Realization dawned on his face, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease as he took in the scene with fresh understanding.

Isera didn’t wait for further questions. She knew the signs of poison when she saw them, knew how to act swiftly, and in this case, the antidote had been the only thing that could save the woman. Unfortunately, incidents of accidental poisoning have been increasing recently, largely driven by limited access to food.

As Isera stepped out of the hut, another man rushed toward her, his eyes wide with desperation and relief. He stumbled to his knees before her, his voice trembling. “By the Gods, you came!” he cried, collapsing onto the ground, his hands reaching out as if to grasp some hope. “I prayed to all of them for weeks. No one answered. But finally—” his breath hitched, “Fen’harel must have sent you.”

Isera paused, her brow arching slightly as she regarded him. The weight of his words washed over her, but she shook her head, her tone even as she replied. “Faron, I visit the village weekly,” she said calmly, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. Her voice carried a gentle reminder that she had been there all along, quietly helping, not summoned by any god.

Faron looked up at her, confusion mingling with his gratitude, but Isera was already preparing to move on. She had more to do, another village to tend to, more people in need of her care. The prayers of the desperate were often cast to the gods, but she didn’t need divine guidance to know where her place was.

Without another word, she turned to leave, her cloak billowing softly in the breeze as she made her way toward the path that led to the next village.

Before she departs, one of the villagers starts to approach her. “My lady, you came early. You usually visit on Ghi'lan'vun'in, tomorrow,” another villager called out, their voice laced with awe. “He had to have sent you, my lady.” The murmur of agreement rippled through the small crowd, others nodding their heads and whispering their shared belief.

Isera exhaled softly, the weight of their reverence pressing down on her. They clung to their faith in the gods, their hope wrapped tightly in the belief that divine intervention had brought her early. She didn’t bother correcting them. For them, doubt was a luxury they couldn’t afford, something she could not take from them even if she wanted to.

As she moved toward the next villager, her eyes tracked the man from the hut, watching his slow, deliberate steps as he began to leave. A shadow of unease flickered in her mind. Lowering her voice, she leaned toward an elder who stood nearby. “Have you seen that man before?” she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the stranger.

The elder squinted, his brow furrowing as he looked up at the man. His weathered face showed no recognition as he shook his head. “Never in my life, my lady,” he replied softly, his tone tinged with suspicion.

Isera frowned as she quickened her pace, catching up to the stranger before he could fully leave the village. “Excuse me!” she called out, her voice carrying over the distance.

The man halted, turning slowly to face her. “Yes?” he asked, his expression calm and unreadable as she begins to walk in-step with him

"Who are you?" she demanded, her hand settling firmly on her hip as she fixed him with a steady gaze as she keeps pace. There was something off, something that tugged at her instincts, a familiarity she couldn't place.

He stops walking. "Just a traveler," he replied evenly, his face betraying nothing as they stared at each other, both sizing the other up. His presence felt strangely familiar, a subtle undercurrent that hummed in the space between them. Yet, his answers were frustratingly vague.

“Traveler from where?” she pressed, suspicion edging into her voice. It wasn’t common to see someone, especially a lone traveler, helping the poor with such intent. Most who did were part of larger organizations that only ventured out when there was social praise to be earned.

“A village in the North,” he answered, his gaze still locked with hers, his tone unwavering.

Isera’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing at the lack of detail in his response. "There are many villages in the North," she countered, her patience thinning. His evasiveness set her on edge, but there was something more—something just beneath the surface she couldn’t shake.

“There are,” he replies, his voice calm, offering nothing more. Isera’s scowl deepened as frustration flared in her chest if he won’t tell her what village he is from, he at least needs to have a basic understanding of the fauna and flora.

“You would have let her die,” she snapped, the weight of her words hanging between them. “If you're going to heal these people, you should at least know that the species of fungi varies between the northern and southern regions. What grows here is poisonous." Her tone was sharp, laced with the anger she felt bubbling inside her. Without waiting for a response, she brushed past him, the air thick with her simmering frustration.

She couldn’t shake the image of the woman lying helpless in that shack, her life on the edge, saved only because Isera had intervened. Had she not arrived, the stranger would have unknowingly administered a potion that would have eased the woman's pain—only to hasten her death. He had deemed the woman a lost cause before he had even truly assessed the situation, before he had taken the time to understand the land, the people, the delicate differences that could mean life or death.

The man lingered in place for a moment, his expression unreadable, before hurrying to catch up with her. “The villagers,” he said, his voice softer than before, more cautious. “They know you?” There was a quiet curiosity in his tone now, as if he was probing for something deeper, gauging whether she was someone he could trust.

Isera kept walking, her pace quickening as her thoughts churned. She couldn’t help but notice him out of the corner of her eye—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and those blue-gray eyes that sparkled with interest. Despite his plain clothing and dirt-covered appearance, there was something undeniably attractive about him. She noted the absence of vallaslin on his face, which meant he was no slave, and yet, he remained a mystery.

“You don’t know them,” she finally answered, her tone brisk as she increased her pace. She had never seen him before, and neither had the villagers. And if he planned to stay and help, as it seemed he might, he couldn’t afford to make the kinds of mistakes he had almost made today.

The villagers were a deeply superstitious people, and their faith was fragile. If too many died under his care, it wouldn’t take long for them to turn on her as well. They would see the deaths as a sign—that she had fallen out of favor with the gods. The whispers would begin, and soon they would ask her to leave. To them, her continued presence would bring more death, more suffering, and no amount of healing magic would convince them otherwise.

She knew how quickly fear and suspicion could grow, and she wasn’t about to let this stranger, with his careless assumptions, put everything she had worked for in jeopardy.

“You’re right. I don’t know them,” he admitted, matching her pace with ease. His voice was steady, but his eyes—blue-gray and full of curiosity—seemed to spark with questions he hadn’t yet voiced. “Why do you help them?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her, as if searching for something deeper beneath her sharp replies.

Isera’s jaw tightened, and she glanced away, her voice low. “No one else will.”

He nodded, as though her answer made perfect sense to him. “Yet they call to the Gods for help,” he remarked, his tone soft but probing. She could feel his eyes on her, watching closely, studying her every word.

Isera let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do you see any Gods here, stranger?” she asked, her voice hardening slightly. “I’ve traveled these parts for years, helping these people when no one else will. I have never seen any god come down from the heavens to tend to the sick or feed the hungry.” She stopped walking and turned to face him, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “Which begs the question—who are you?” she pressed again, her patience waning.

But the stranger didn’t answer. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he continued walking alongside her, silent. The mystery in his eyes only deepened, and the smirk suggested he knew more than he was letting on, as if he enjoyed her frustration.

“Do you find this amusing?” Isera asked, her voice sharper than before. She could feel her annoyance bubbling up, frustrated that her agitation seemed to bring him enjoyment.

“I find you quite amusing,” he replied with that same smirk, his head tilted slightly as he continued to watch her, eyes alight with mischief.

“Is that so?” Isera snorted, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, her lips curling in disdain. ’What an ass’, she thought, inwardly scoffing at him. He wasn’t the first man to respond to her anger with condescending amusement, and she doubted he would be the last. His words, though lightly spoken, only irritated her more.

“Yes,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by her reaction. “You care passionately for the People. Is that why the villagers trust you?” Isera shot him a cold glance, her patience wearing thin, shaking her head. “They trust me because I’ve been doing this since I was a child, and because I treat them with respect. Passion has nothing to do with it,” she replied, her tone brisk, though she couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of her eye, wary of his constant questions.

But then he dropped the words like a stone in a calm pond. “Is that why you help them escape?”

Her body went rigid. The world seemed to narrow, the weight of his accusation crashing down on her. Isera’s heart pounded in her ears as she slowly turned to face him fully, her expression carefully composed, though fear stirred just beneath the surface. How could he know?

It was true. For years, Isera had been quietly, methodically helping slaves escape, guiding them along a network of safe havens where one person would hand them off to the next, like passing a flame through the darkness. Each step of the way, someone else would take up the responsibility, leading them further from their chains, until they disappeared into places even she didn’t know. Once they left her care, their destination became a mystery, their future unwritten.

It was a crime punishable by death, a risk she’d always known, but hearing those words aloud from this stranger’s mouth was something else entirely. If anyone overheard, it would be enough to start an investigation, to ruin everything she’d built here.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re referring to,” Isera replied coolly, her voice regaining its usual composure. She had always been cautious, careful not to draw the wrong kind of attention from the nobles. The slaves, the villagers—they all kept their silence, a mutual understanding that what they did had to remain hidden. She couldn’t afford to let her panic show, not now.

The stranger hummed, unbothered by the shift in her tone, continuing to walk beside her as though they were discussing the weather. “Why do you think the villagers called for Fen’harel?” he asked, his voice casual, as if the question held no weight.

Isera shot him a glance, her confusion quickly turning to annoyance. “They pray to all the gods in times of stress,” she replied curtly, keeping her words sharp and to the point. “The man said—”

“If you want to know why the villagers called upon Fen’harel, I suggest you ask them yourself,” she interrupted, her patience thin. “I’m not a mind reader.” Her pace quickened, the conversation wearing on her nerves. She didn’t care to entertain his cryptic questions or his sudden interest in her world.

The man paused for a moment, and for a brief second, Isera thought she might have shaken him off. But then a grin spread across his face, as if her deflection amused him even more. He easily matched her pace again, unbothered by her attempts to put distance between them.

After a few moments of tense silence, Isera could still feel the stranger’s presence at her side, his occasional glances adding to her growing irritation. His smirk lingered, as if he were enjoying her discomfort.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you following me?” she asked, shooting him a sharp look. “It’s creepy.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m not following you. I’m simply walking in the same direction as you,” he said smoothly, pausing briefly before adding with a teasing tone, “As I recall, you chased after me first. Perhaps it’s you who’s following me.”

Isera scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I am making my way through the villages,” she replied curtly, her gaze fixed ahead as the outline of the next settlement began to rise over the horizon.

“So am I,” he countered, his tone light but still holding that hint of amusement.

Isera gave the stranger an incredulous look, her disbelief clear, but she quickly rolled her eyes and kept her silence. She would yield for now—if he wanted to follow her through the villages, so be it. It wasn’t worth the energy to argue further.

He walked beside her with an almost obnoxious spring in his step, humming a tune that grated on her already-thin patience. Isera resisted the urge to display her annoyance, keeping her face impassive as they entered the village. Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted.

The children spotted her first, their faces lighting up with excitement. Just like in the previous village, they rushed toward her, their small voices filled with laughter and delight. They tugged at her cloak and chattered all at once, eager for her attention.

Isera quickly pushed thoughts of the stranger from her mind as the excited children surrounded her, their infectious laughter and eager chatter pulling her into their world. She spent a few moments with them, smiling softly as she entertained their stories and antics, letting their joy lift the weight of her earlier frustrations.

But soon, she moved on, her focus shifting to the true reason she had come. The village elders—those too old and too ill to care for themselves—awaited her in their modest homes, their frail bodies unable to partake in the rites and offerings required for a peaceful passage into the deep sleep. It was a sacred tradition, one they could not afford, their poverty keeping them from the holy chambers they so longed to enter.

Isera knelt by their sides, one by one, refilling their medicine jars with herbs and potions to ease the pain in their aching joints. She worked quietly, her hands gentle as she massaged their gnarled fingers, listening as they recounted stories of the past. Their voices were soft and trembling, some still sharp with memories of days long gone, while others faltered as they struggled to remember their lives, their loved ones, or even her.

Her heart ached as she listened to them, knowing that no magic could truly ease the suffering of forgetting. All she could do was offer comfort, a familiar presence, and a soothing touch in their final days. Isera remained patient, murmuring soft reassurances, promising that though the world seemed to slip from their grasp, she was still there, watching over them.

For a brief moment, the weight of her role seemed to lift as she lost herself in the simplicity of care. But in the back of her mind, the reality of their situation lingered. There was so much more she wished she could do—more than just temporary relief, more than just a few moments of peace.

Isera moved with purpose through the community garden, her hands gently brushing the leaves and stems of the plants she had helped the villagers cultivate. She had taught them how to grow hearty crops, resilient enough to thrive despite the harsh conditions they lived in. Now, she guided them, offering advice on how to spot early signs of disease, how to protect the plants from blight. It was a task she took seriously, one that filled her with a quiet sense of pride.

As she crouched down to inspect a particularly delicate sprout, she felt the stranger's presence beside her once again. Wordless, he simply stood there, watching her as she worked. When she looked up, she saw that he had a plant stem hanging loosely from between his lips, his eyes full of curiosity and amusement.

“The villagers are quite fond of you,” he declared, breaking the silence as his gaze remained fixed on her.

Isera paused, still holding a leaf between her fingers, her mind flashing with imagined whispers from the villagers. She could already hear the speculative questions they would ask—wondering if this man was her apprentice, or worse, if she was being courted by him. The thought made her inwardly cringe. She could already see the smirks and the teasing glances.

Isera sighed loudly, standing and brushing the dirt from her hands with a sharp clap. Without a glance back at the stranger, she strode past him, determined to ignore the weight of his lingering presence. But when she turned, intending to ask him once more why he continued to shadow her every move, he was gone.

She frowned, her eyes scanning the area. He had vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving no trace of his departure. For a moment, she felt an uneasy twinge, but quickly dismissed it. She had more pressing concerns than a mysterious man with a penchant for showing up uninvited.

With a shake of her head, Isera resumed her walk, heading back to the city. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the fields. Her mind returned to her usual worries—there were still medicines to prepare, people to see, and her endless tasks awaiting her.

A low, distant howling drifted through the air behind her, eerie yet familiar. The sound tugged at her, but she paid it no mind. It was likely just the wind, she told herself. Or perhaps a wolf, though she hadn’t heard any this close to the villages in some time. Either way, she didn’t slow her pace. There was nothing here for her now but the road ahead.

[theriddlettesblog]

Home Runner, a Team Fortress 2 fanfiction

Chapter 2

Six a.m. eventually rolls around and Scout’s dollar store alarm clock goes off. The man gets out of bed and puts the clothes he left on the floor the previous night back on and heads out to work.

Today, the teams are sent to Dustbowl to fight over the gravelled territory (which is inherently worthless in terms of generating income for either team’s company). History repeats itself as Scout spends the setup time before the match zoned out thinking to himself. He goes over his interactions from the start of yesterday’s match to late lastnight when Miss Pauling called him. He has indeed been acting differently lately, but he still doesn’t know why.

Up to the start and through the entire mission, Scout remains in a daze, everything he experiences feels surreal, like the dreams he doesn’t have anymore. The screaming and rocket jumping phase right through him, everything circling around his head, but he sees none of it. Without realization, Jeremy is standing right in the middle of the battlefield, doing nothing like a single tree planted in a forest that’s burning down. Much to everyone’s surprise, RED and BLU, nothing touches him, not a bullet, nor a rocket, nor a sticky bomb moves a single fiber on his shirt. The battle rages on for another two and half minutes and once again, RED is victorious. As soon as The Administrator declares the round over, the teams head back to their respective bases. Scout, still unaware of his surroundings, follows suit, grabs a single Bonk from the fridge, and heads home once again.

For the entire following week, each day's events perfectly mimic today’s: alarm goes off, Scout goes to work, match begins, Scout stands idle in battle but leaves unharmed, Scout goes home, Miss Pauling calls Scout, Scout says nothing, alarm goes off. He’s stuck in a rut and feels he can’t change anything about the hole he’s been dug into. However, on day eight, in a vain attempt to better his bitter feelings toward life, Scout doesn’t leave his room at all. He lays in bed, wide-eyed and staring at his motionless broken ceiling fan, three hours past when he should have shown up at work, headset buzzing nonstop. Unbeknownst to Scout, nobody from his team is calling him, Miss Pauling is the one pinging the head-mounted radio, cursing at herself and begging him to answer, but he’ll never hear any of it. Hours later, due to ceaseless calls, the batteries in the Bottle Cap die, leaving Scout in stiff indestructible silence.

Hours, or perhaps days, pass without Jeremy’s notice as he has no way to tell time in his darkened hovel of a room simply by staring at an unmoving air mover. He slips in and out of sleep without his own awareness for he does not maneuver in any way nor does he feel any more rested upon his numerous awakenings.

After however long it takes to break the stillness in the room, a knock is heard at Jeremy’s door. Shattering his conscious/unconscious trance, he gets out of his cot and walks to the closed doorway. Scout opens it but sees no one even when he checks down both directions of the hall. His tired bloodshot eyes drift to the floor and he spots a small package of two AA batteries. Scout bends down and picks up the tiny gift before shutting the door of which is in bad need of an oiling. Jeremy’s blank expressionless stare glazes over the batteries after he sits back down onto his place of mostly undisturbed rest. He thrusts his arm to toss the box onto the table in front of his yellow sweat-stained mattress but prevents himself from letting go when he sees his Bottle Cap’s headset. A moment of hesitation passes by before Scout removes the batteries in the radio and replaces them with the two he had just received. The single headphone immediately begins ringing so the tired sprinter answers.

“Hello?” Jeremy asks in an exhausted voice.

“Scout?” Miss Pauling asks in return.

“Yeah?” Jeremy confirms.

“Scout!” The woman replies, ecstatic at the fact that the runner is not deceased despite her worst suspicions. The man’s eyes light up but the ends of his mouth do not move. “God! Don’t scare me like that! Do you know what I’ve been through? I thought you were dead!” Pauling yells in a mostly happy tone.

“No, but I’ve gotten pretty close.” Scout responds, eyelids returning to their half-opened state.

The overly-jovial assistant almost entirely ignores that statement from Jeremy and goes on, “We need to talk, like, about a lot of things, Scout.”

A moment passes. “Okay,” The speedster lets out in a fatigued breath while putting on the headset as well as his glasses, getting ready for a long arduous conversation. He then continues, “yeah, what do you need to know, Miss Pauling?”

The young woman begins to compose herself as is audible to Scout through the sound of her shifting in her seat attempting to organize her thoughts into cohesive words, “First off,” she begins with a wary voice, “how are you feeling?” Jeremy is taken aback by this premiere question, expecting her to instead ask why he hadn’t been at work for however long nor said anything to her leading up to this call.

“Uh,” Scout pauses, trying to think of a believable answer akin to the kind of person Miss Pauling knows him as.

You know what? Screw it.

“Not good, really not good.” Scout answers, half-expecting the assistant on the other end of the call to shrug it off and tell him to buck up.

“Yeah, I kinda noticed, everyone has noticed, Scout. I just wanted you to be honest with me but more importantly, yourself.” The runner is stunned by the level of compassion coming from the same woman who was tasked to kill him for pressing a button three months prior. Still dumbfounded by this response, Jeremy remains silent, mouth open forming words, but releasing no sounds.

An entire minute of weighted silence goes by with Pauling eventually ending it, “Do you want to talk about any of it, Jeremy?” Scout’s astonishment intensifies at the sound of the only woman he respects more than his mother using his first name as if they were friends, which he so desperately hoped they were despite their recent lack of meaningful communication.

“I,” Scout begins to reply without a single notion moving through his mind but eventually, one pops in, “I don’t even know what it is.” He was being genuinely honest, he didn’t know what he was feeling and couldn’t much less talk about it. Without a second string of thoughts, Scout follows up, “Can you just, give me some time to think about all this? I need to figure out what’s goin’ on so I can, you know, talk about it. Tell The Administrator she can dock my pay and penalize me all she wants, it really doesn’t matter anymore.” Jeremy recognizes that no amount of money or hats would help him think this through, so why should he care if he gets paid or not?

“Sure, Scout. Take all the time you need, I’ll wait until you want to talk. I’ll also make sure Helen doesn’t send anyone to kill you. I know you said you’re good with any kind of penalty but I don’t think you meant death.” Pauling brings this up just to be certain that Scout does not actually want to die and this move ultimately puts him in a corner to give her a clear answer.

“Well, yeah, I really didn’t mean death,” Pauling breathes a silent breath of relief to the confirmation that the person she cares the most about wants to stay alive. “I meant she can cash out all my nicest hats if she wanted to.”

“Right, yeah, got it.” the woman replies, still calming down from the unpleasant thought of Scout being okay with dying. Scout releases a tired sigh and thanks Miss Pauling for the call then hangs up after she tells him things will be okay. The sprinter takes off his headset and places it gently down on the small table in front of him. He then lays back on his bed to begin to streamline the flood of numbing sensations that were flowing through his small body into words.

Another sigh escapes him, “Where to start?”

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

Previous

Masterlist

[notwarriorswiki]

Can we learn more about Heatherpaw and Breezepaw's relationship or just Heatherpaw in general? She's one of my favorite characters but I don't see her much on this blog :,D. How does she use her power? Is Breezepelt still an antagonist?

You're right Anon, I don't talk about her enough, especially compared to the other 12.

I write her with an adventurous and social spirit. She'll always put what's right ahead of the rules without question, unlike her brother Harespring who attempts to go about things in the most respectful manner. Heathertail is an act first ans ask questions later type of gal, a reflection of her power with how her mind seems to be moving at a mile a minute. She can't sit still, always needing to act and be doing something. She's very kind, though in her hastiness she can be overwhelming and fail to give others the space they need. She can be rather impatient, preferring to just go and get the job done rather than face a slow build up. This shines in her hunting where she has a terrible crouch and lacks stealth, yet her incredible speed makes up for this.

Her power though is that speed. Heathertail's gift from the stars is she can outrun anyone - cat or prey. She'll catch you no matter what. her tireless energy on the moor can leave even her fellow WindClan cats gasping for breath. While still a fast cat after losing her power post-Great Battle, Heathertail struggles to hunt for her clanmates as she can no longer rely on her sure-fire speed to net her the kill.

She's best friends with Breezepelt, who has had a crush on her since their days in the nursery. The two are very different, Breezepelt being more awkward and reserved while Heathertail always tries to push him out of his comfort zone. In efforts to impress her, he reluctantly agrees, which can often land the both of them in trouble.

Heathertail is close with her brothers Harespring and Kestrelflight. Harespring can be rather exasperated with her endless enthusiasm, but her optimism and tendency to bend the rules is an excellent compliment to his more strict and mindful personality. Heathertail and Kestrelflight both have very caring and kind souls, Kestrelflight often covering for her in situations. Kestrelflight can worry a bit about his sister as she can end up with injuries in her hastiness, leading to him having to patch her up and look out for her.

She initially insists on accompanying Kestrelpaw on the journey to find SkyClan because it "sounds like fun", a stark contrast to Harepaw who is worried about his brother journeying without him there, and with cats from other clans nonetheless. Heatherpaw and Harepaw stay in WindClan though, and await their brother's return. However, while Kestrelpaw and the others are away, that is when Sol and his group of rogues enter the Lake Territories.

Onestar, her father, at that point had been a leader who was difficult to work with - he was quick to fight, independent, and didn't cooperate with the other clans even when it may be beneficial. That is how Heatherpaw and Harepaw knew their father to be, as he had been this way ever since he succeeded Tallstar. Initially Onestar had been quick to try and drive out Sol's group, but rather suddenly changed his tune upon a fleeting interaction with the member known as Darktail. This doesn't go unnoticed by Harepaw and Heatherpaw though, even some of their clanmates questioning why Onestar was scared of these rogues now when he wasn't before. Onestar orders his clan to stay away from the group and cease their interactions with them, much to everyone's dismay. While confused, Harepaw does listen to his father and follows his orders. Heatherpaw on the other hand disagrees, and in her curiosity, she and Breezepaw sneak away to investigate the rogues for themselves.

Of course stealth isn't Heatherpaw's strong suit. While Breezepaw does his best to protect her, the two are taken prisoner and Breezepaw's ear is badly torn. Unable to speak with the other members while Jaypaw is absent due to not having his dream walking abilities available, Heatherpaw isn't sure what she can do. As Sol questions the two apprentices, Darktail takes interest in Heatherpaw upon learning who her father is. Sol believes they can use this to their advantage and the group decides to use Heatherpaw and Breezepaw as bait to lure out WindClan.

Harepaw still walks in the Dark Forest at this point, and begins to have doubts about his father upon seeing his hesitancy to rescue Heatherpaw and face Sol's group. This was so unlike the leader he admired so much and it had Harepaw questioning his leadership methods. In an act of desperation to save his sister, Harepaw confides in Lionpaw, Tigerpaw, and Minnowpaw, asking for their help. This is a pivotal moment for Harepaw as well as he is the most reluctant to work with other clans at this point due to his father's influence.

All the while in Sol's camp, Heatherpaw and Breezepaw are given food. Breezepaw is rather angry and ashamed of his own perceived uselessness, unwilling to talk to Heatherpaw. This gives her time to instead speak to the cat she was so curious about - Darktail. After all, what had he said that made her father turn tail and flee?

Darktail was surprisingly gentle with her, calmly asking her what her father was like and how he treated her. Heatherpaw spoke well of her father, as to her Onestar had always been a strong and loyal cat. It was at this though that Darktail would scoff, saying how his own mother told tales of a gentle and soft-spoken tom, a far cry from who Heatherpaw knew. Yet Heatherpaw recalled the stories her mother told - Whitetail recounting the once close friendship between Onestar and Firestar. Suddenly Darktail's words began to make sense, and Heathertail realized what he said was true. The pieces began to fall into place...

Lionpaw and Tigerpaw infiltrate Sol's camp together to try and get Heatherpaw out, but the WindClan she-cat refuses to leave - not without Onestar coming to get her himself. Stunned, Lionpaw and Tigerpaw are forced to leave or risk being captured themselves. They relay this back to Harepaw, who is shocked. The one who can really understand this rule following nature is Hollypaw, who Harepaw confides in. Heatherpaw has been a prisoner for some time now, and Onestar won't do anything. WindClan is eating itself alive and Harepaw is scared. Hollypaw, someone who too follows the code with diligence, puts herself in his shoes - imagining what she would do if one of her brothers was taken. There's a moment between the two of understanding, and the two agree to put the pressure on Onestar with the one cat who can light a fire under him - Firestar.

Once Firestar learns of this? Oh he's horrified. How Onestar could let one of his clanmates, his own daughter mind you, be taken prisoner as he fails to take action - he could never. Firestar puts Onestar on blast, the WindClan leader shocked since with his isolation he is questioning who told ThunderClan. Regardless, this challenge to his power is, unfortunately, what actually gets him to act.

Finally, Onestar enters Sol's camp. He expects a fight... and yet there isn't one. Darktail calmly escorts Heatherpaw and Breezepaw out, the two both downtrodden and broken. Heatherpaw knows the truth, and she looks at her father with anger and shame. She tells him to say it aloud - to tell her who Darktail's father is.

Seeing his daughter's earnest blue eyes, her pain, her sorrow - he tells her. He admits it aloud in the silence of the clearing.

That he is Darktail's father.

That takes place over the first portion of Po12 for Heatherpaw (would be like Book 2 content for her). I hope this gives some good Heathertail content :)

[densi-mber]

The Squid and Dagger Returns

“To the second grand opening of The Squid and Dagger. May it be her last,” Deeks toasted, raising his glass above his head. Kensi stood next to him, and surrounding him in a semi-circle were their former team. Eric and Nell had even made the flight in to celebrate the occasion.

“Amen!” Nell called out, whistling loudly. Deeks grinned at her enthusiasm. They all drank, Sam pausing to sniff his first.

“Hey, that’s actually really good,” Eric commented in surprise. He took another drink, as if to double check.

Still looking mistrustful, Sam took a tiny sip, and nodded in reluctant approval. “It’s not bad.”

“Why on earth would the beer taste bad?” Kilbride wondered, looking bemused and slightly out of place in his three-piece suit.

“You’ve never heard the saga of Deeks and Callen’s microbrew ventures?” Rountree asked in surprise.

“No. And I’m beginning to think that’s a good thing.”

“It involved a series of increasingly terrible beer,” Nell explained. “Squid being a memorable one.”

“No, no the seaweed and salmon was definitely the worst,” Sam said firmly. “The flavor is ingrained in my brain.”

“Three years with this team, and I still fail to understand any of you,” Kilbride commented, downing the rest of his beer. “Which means I need something stronger.” He wandered off to the bar, muttering to himself.

“Nice to know some things don’t change,” Kensi said dryly.

The rest of them gravitated towards each other, forming a small group as they sipped at their drinks. Nell had somehow acquired a large red drink with a cocktail umbrella.

“You know, contrary to popular belief, Callen and I are capable of crafting normal beer—remembered the orange and nectarine?” Deeks said, nodding to Kensi. “We just choose not to.”

“I still maintain that none of our stuff was that bad,” Callen insisted. He frowned, holding up his glass, tilting his head to examine the light amber liquid inside. “Though this is kind of bland.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” Sam said in exasperation. He gave Callen a slight shove towards the bar. “C’mon G, let’s go get you some more skunky beer.”

“Mmm, it almost feels like we never left,” Nell said, watching the two fondly bicker.

“It does. Especially with having the bar back,” Deeks agreed. “Speaking of which, I can’t thank you guys enough for helping buy it back.”

“It means a lot to us,” Kensi added, sliding her free arm through Deeks’.

“You’re welcome, but guys, I told you before, I literally would not be where I am without the money that you loaned me for years. Especially Deeks,” Eric replied. “I probably owe you about 10 bars at this point.”

“I think we’ll call it even with one.” She glances at Deeks and he nodded in agreement.

“We’ve got everything we need.”

“Ooh, speaking of needs,” Nell paused to take a healthy gulp of her drink, her Christmas themed had shifting precariously. “When do I get to see my nieces and nephews?”

“Well, I’m guessing the sitter already put the twins down for the night, but we’re free tomorrow. And I’m sure Rosa would love to see you when she’s done with classes,” Kensi replied.

“Awesome! That’ll give us time to get all their gifts together.” Eric nodded enthusiastically. “It’s amazing what they’re doing with kids toys these days.”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“He’s teasing, Deeks.” Nell rolled her eyes at Eric, lightly tapping his shoulder with the back of her hand. She giggled, adding in a couple pats lower down on his chest.

Beside him, Kensi hastily stifled a snort, and when Deeks glanced at her, she had her lips tightly pressed together.

“Oh, I love this song,” Nell announced, as the playlist running in the background switched to the next selection. “Mr. Beale, may I have this dance?” Bending at the waist, Nell waved her hand in an elaborate flourish.

“My lady awaits,” Eric said with a shrug as he let Nell tug him away.

“I missed this,” Kensi said wistfully.

“What, Callen and Sam arguing over beer and the Wonder Twins drunkenly dancing on our non-existent dance floor?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Kensi swayed into his side, wrapping both arms around his waist. “I’m glad we have this back.”

He watched Nell and Eric put on a two-person act to “Santa Baby”, giggling the entire time, and couldn’t help but agree.

***

A/N: Once again bringing back the Squid and Dagger as well as Callen and Deeks making beer of dubious quality.

[hermannsthumb]

hello! the summer prompt list looks so fun <3 what about pool floats and lemonade.. maybe someone's been coaxed to lounge by the pool... IN the pool.. an unheard of idea. and with a (plastic) cup of lemonade too.. how risky!

26. Pool  + 19. Lemonade

from the summer prompts meme here

it's still sad and vaguely cold here but i am fantasizing about not being sad and cold, so i'm sending the boys to somewhere random and warm and doing some summer fills i didn't get around to last year!

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

When Newt makes his way into his and Hermann’s shared hotel room, he's disappointed—but, tragically, not surprised, like, at all—to find Hermann shrouded in darkness and hunched over his laptop, tapping away wildly into what looks like his PPDC email. Shades and blackout curtains drawn in front of the two big windows, all lights but some tiny desk lamp switched off, Hermann himself bundled up in a sweater and his thick wool slacks like it's not ninety-fucking-degrees outside, all that shit. He's got the air conditioning blasting at least, but it's still enough to make Newt (flourishing happily in a pair of cut-off shorts and a tank top) wince. He sighs instead of greeting Hermann. "Dude," he says. "This is really pathetic."

He flips the overhead light on, half expecting Hermann to turn away and hiss at him like a vampire or something. No hissing, but he does scowl at Newt in a way that's probably even scarier. And also kind of funnier. For all of Hermann's posturing and stuffiness, sometimes he really does just look like a mean, puffed-up cat. "Go away," Hermann says.

"Nah," Newt says.

He tosses a brown paper shopping bag on Hermann's bed.

"It's a bathing suit," he says, before Hermann can poke his way inside. It's a hideous bathing suit, actually, but Newt was limited to the options the gift shop in the lobby offered, so it was either something floral and speedo-adjacent that Hermann wouldn't be caught dead in, or standard(/boring), baggy blue trunks with the hotel logo stamped across the left leg. He's actually kind of regretting not going for the floral ones, if not just to see if he could somehow coax Hermann into them. Hermann's skin above the small pale sliver just exposed by his pants hemline remains a tantalizing mystery to Newt. "I had to kind of guess the size, but I think it should fit okay."

"Bathing suit?" Hermann echoes suspiciously.

"It's nice out," Newt says. "There's a pool, you need a break, so we're going swimming." Newt spotted the pool the second their taxi dropped them off and has been fantasizing about it ever since. It's what got him through every minute of the week-long conference, every bitchy look Hermann tossed his way, every dumb question posed to him in the Q&A sessions. Compensation. Vengeance. They have twenty-four hours of downtime before they have to pack things back up and head back to the Shatterdome (which does technically have a pool, but it's indoors, rarely cleaned, and technically off-limits for anyone who's not a ranger, unless you're like Newt, who sneaks in to go swimming anyway), and Newt's going to enjoy himself.

Hermann pulls the blue trunks out of the bag, examines them skeptically, and drops them to the floor with more disgust than strictly necessary. He uses the end of his cane to push them even further away. Newt bends down with an eyeroll. “Don’t be a dick, man, those cost like, fifty bucks.” Official hotel merch or whatever. Okay, they actually cost closer to thirty-five, but Newt wants to make Hermann feel as guilty as possible. He picks up the trunks and kindly returns them to his ungrateful lab partner. “Look,” he says, “either you hang out with me outside for like, an hour, tops, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night, or I’m hanging out with you in here. It’s my room too, bro. Roomies.”

He's thinking movie night, pizza, chatting loudly with (at?) Hermann until he can get the guy to snap and probably attempt to smother Newt with a pillow. There’s a visible flash of dread behind Hermann’s eyes: it satisfies something deep within Newt’s soul. “You’re a despicable waste of space,” Hermann spits, but he slams his laptop shut, and angrily rips the bedspread off from around his body. The cuffs of his baggy wool slacks are rolled around his ankles and Newt catches a glimpse of sock garters. “Fine, you bastard. I’ll go for a swim with you if it makes you happy, and buys me a moment of peace tonight. You’re like—you’re like a bloody toddler sometimes, you know. You’re like—”

“Cool!” Newt says. Hermann gapes at him in wordless fury. “I’ll meet you in the hallway in ten.”

Hermann fidgets and tugs uncomfortably at the waistband of his little swim shorts the whole ride down in the elevator, and, lingering by the poolside, he does the drawstring back up twice while Newt kindly blows up a small, inflatable lounge chair he also bought for him at the gift shop for way too much money Hermann looks wrong like this somehow: out of his element of hunching over computer screens and breathing in chalk dust, swim trunks paired bizarrely with his little brown Oxfords (the only shoes he brought with them), glasses on a chain still bouncing against his chest. The pool is deserted except for them—their own private swim club. Probably because people are understandably kind of wary of bodies of water these days, even ones chlorinated and decently far from the Pacific. “It’s too hot,” Hermann gripes. He shields his eyes with his hand as he glares up at the sun. He smells almost nauseatingly like sunblock. He’s missing a sunhat, Newt thinks. One of those big, dumb, wide-brimmed ones that a movie starlet would wear in 1940-whatever. Or cat-eye sunglasses. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“You were ruining your posture in there,” Newt says. He hoists the lounge chair over his head easily and tosses it into the pool, where it hits the surface of the water with a satisfying splat. Hermann wrinkles his nose as no more than two droplets of water have the audacity to land on one of his skinny, hairless calves. Newt pats the lounge chair. “In twenty years, you’ll be like, 'man, I’m so glad my best friend in the whole world Newt was there to rescue me from a life of slouching and back pain, I should send him a gift basket.'”

“‘What was the name of that annoying fellow who used to make my every waking moment miserable?’” Hermann says. “‘I’m so thankful that I haven’t seen him in twenty years and will never have to, ever, again.’”

“Get in the pool, you drama queen,” Newt says.

Hermann delicately undoes each button of his crisp white button-down with one hand, and slips it from his shoulders one arm at a time. It’s strangely mesmerizing and even more strangely alluring, like Newt’s in the front row of the world’s stuffiest strip club, though Hermann is still wearing a loose undershirt beneath it. His arms are pasty and tinted a ghostly white with more sunblock. He has nice shoulders, unfortunately. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, easing himself out of his shoes, and hands both his shirt and cane to Newt as Newt offers him an arm.

He doesn’t look any less uncomfortable on the floatie once Newt helps him down onto it. More uncomfortable, in fact: one leg straight out in front, the other crooked half-under the water at a weird angle, slouching in worse on himself than he had been in bed as the floatie bobs and drifts with the rippling surface of the water. He squints up at the sun, scowling, and then squints over at Newt, still scowling. His knuckles are clenched tightly around the edges of the float’s pink vinyl. “I feel so relaxed,” he says, bitchily.

“I’m getting you a drink,” Newt says. “Stay right there.”

The small outdoor bar is thankfully open and manned despite the lack of poolgoers other than Newt and Hermann. Newt gets an overpriced cocktail with several skewers of pineapple in it for himself, and a modest spiked lemonade for Hermann, which he makes sure to stick the largest bendy straw he can find in the hopes of making Hermann scoff and roll his eyes. Hermann is still swaying awkwardly on his little pink throne when Newt finally kicks off his sandals and clothing and (flinching very slightly at the sudden chill on his skin) wades in to join him. Hermann greets him with an expression of mild horror. “What on Earth is that?” he says.

“It’s some sort of piña colada, dude, I don’t know,” Newt says. "It's good though."

“Not that,” Hermann says. He looks down pointedly at Newt’s waist. “Where did you find that thing? It’s absolutely hideous.”

Newt couldn’t get the floral speedo-thing for Hermann, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t absolutely get it for himself, even if it maybe, like, fits very badly, and he’ll probably toss it out the second they get back to the Shatterdome. He loves it. He loves it even more now that he knows Hermann hates it, and models it for him happily. “I think it’s funny,” he says, and hands over the lemonade. (Hermann's eyes widen in momentary mild scandal at the prospect of drinking in a public pool—the bar is there for a reason, man!—and then takes it anyway.) “Here, seriously, drink this, relax. We’re not on the clock. You can like, not be miserable for once. Isn’t it nice to not be miserable?”

Hermann looks kinda miserable.

“When’s the last time you went swimming?” Newt tries again.

“In the summer of my twelfth birthday,” Hermann says, solemnly. “We went on holiday to the coast. That was before—” He gestures at his left hip, where his undershirt has bunched up and his trunks have ridden down just enough for Newt to catch a glimpse of puckered scar tissue. “—so I was actually a decently strong swimmer then.”

“See? That sounds—”

“But I nearly drowned, of course, when my brother pushed me off some rocks,” Hermann continues. “He’d meant it as a prank; I suspect he didn’t realize how strong the current was, or how deep the spot beneath the rocks was. It was a bit frightening, really. My sister had to go in after me. We never went on holiday again.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Okay.”

Hermann gives him a weird, half-smile. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” Newt says again, not entirely sure which part Hermann’s kidding about, and whether or not he should laugh. He gives an equally weird chuckle and takes a long sip of his drink to avoid thinking of something else to say as Hermann does the same with his own. Newt’s adjusted enough to the water temperature that it actually feels good now, especially with the hot sun beating down on them overhead. He shuts his eyes and curls his knees up until he’s no longer touching the bottom of the pool, letting his body go loose, relaxed. He feels Hermann reach out and snatch a skewer of fruit from his glass.

“Yours looks much better than mine,” Hermann says through a mouthful of pineapple. “Let’s swap.”

“Bathing suits?” Newt says.

He cracks an eye open enough to watch Hermann make a face at him, but he passes over his fruity drink anyway, accepting the spiked lemonade in its place. Hermann sticks his straw in Newt’s drink and drains it quickly. Between that and Newt’s extremely thoughtful(/expensive) trip to the gift shop for them both, he kind of feels like Hermann’s getting more out of this little adventure than him. Whatever, though, it’s fun seeing Hermann shed some layers. Of the metaphorical emotional sense. It’s fun seeing him shed some physical layers too, but those are strictly unprofessional thoughts for Newt to be entertaining about his stuffy co-worker. He’ll say this though—it’s great finding out Hermann’s limbs exist beyond the constraints of sweatervests and oversized pants. It's even better finding out he's kind of hot, in a bony, gangly sort of way.

Hermann polishes off the remaining few pieces of pineapple and sets the empty glass on the edge of the pool. He grazes one hand across the surface of the water, dipping his arm in up to the elbow, and smiles lazily at Newt. Newt feels a little funny, a little too warm—like maybe his few sips of booze have gone to his head already or he’s been out in the sun too long. Then Hermann flicks water at his face. “Dick,” Newt says, but he grins as (Hermann giving a half-hearted grunt of protest) he uses a dry part of Hermann’s undershirt to wipe off his glasses.

“I could go for another drink,” Hermann says. “If you wouldn't mind, that is, Newton."

"Ugh, fine."

[silversiren1101]

33 for hellpair :)

Hello Bees!! Of course :3 You chose a fun one!

Questions here!

33 - What kind of presents do they get each other? Do they only do it on special occasions?

Minovae

As Mino travels a lot for her diplomatic work post-Crusade, she likes to get Regill local goods from the various places she goes that are things she knows he uses: paper-goods, quills, inks, sometimes a unique regional weapon as he keeps a vested interest in weaponry (especially if it's complicated or requires a lot of skill to master), medicines or potions, etc. Anything he might personally use or anything he wants to be aware of to better stock the Citadel and their knights or to better keep tabs on the capabilities of their potential allies or enemies. Some of it falls into 'luxury'/'pleasure' goods - like the inks and paper goods - while some is more business related. Regardless, she herself sees it as a gift to bring home from her travels!

She also brings him back coffee grounds or beans if they're available wherever she has to go, as coffee is his one singular vice. She herself loves to visit cafes and restaurants where she goes, and she's not shy about asking the owners if she can purchase some of their raw coffee product to bring back for him so they can 'share' over it, since he wasn't there to (and also doesn't really much enjoy going to such places - he does for her sake).

Lastly, she keeps an eye out on her travels for unique books suiting his interests: philosophical treatises, deconstructions of law and ethics, strategy and war manuals, etc. Especially if they're from beyond the Inner Sea Region, she'll make sure to grab it to bring home to him as he has an insatiable curiosity for such things. Reading how other cultures and nations formulate their own law and govern themselves is a personal interest of his - even if he actively disagrees with what he reads. He's also invested in how our cultures conduct war and what fighting techniques they've developed, whether to build his own repertoire or to devise countermeasures should he ever come to battle with another that wields them.

AND! ALMOST FORGOT!

Strategy games! Mino can only suffer playing so much chess with him! Any strategy game she finds they've never played before she will pick up without question to give them something new to do when they have a rare moment they can actually do such things, lol.

She's pretty much always looking out for things to get him that she knows he actively uses or appreciates.

Regill

Not a conscious gift-giver in the day-to-day really so much as he just seeks out or purchases things he knows she would like or needs or could use. He doesn't actively see it as a gift or nice thing to do so much as just... something he does. It's not a big or grand gesture, but a casual "here, use this" or "this should help with that problem you mentioned." Armor polish, replacement grips for her weapons, comfortable and practical travel gear or tools, etc.

The biggest gifts have been during the tail end of the Crusade right after she'd finished recovering from her soul shattering upon returning from the Abyss and Ssila'meshnik's "inheritance." Her armor had been ruined with no chance of repair, and he'd worked with Garms to secure the materials and artisans needed to forge her a new set... with some extra additions. Prohibitively expensive but with so many worries about her health going forward, knowing they were going up against actual Demon Lords for real from then on and she needed a shield to withstand them, he used all of his personal funds and called in every favor he could to secure her an orichalcum shield (it's roughly 100,000 GP in 1e terms -> 14K in 2e). Even still, pretty much everyone chipped in where they could to cover both that shield and her new adamantine full-plate once his plans were discovered; a shield made out of time-bending metal that would repair itself and 'undo' damage instantly? An easy purchase for their recovering Commander, exorbitant price or no (and Regill's pride or no, too).

Beyond all that, his usual gifts when he actually is giving a gift are for special occasions: their anniversary and her birthday and such. She likes dark liquors, which he'll order in a high-quality reserve bottle for them to share in private. Other gifts he might think of would be luxury brushes and grooming tools for her feathers and scales, high quality strings and wax and oil for her instruments, an extra warm and soft scarf and gloves for when winter comes or she has to travel some place cold :)

[natasha-in-space]

Eyyyyyy it's mc-and-elise's mod here on main! Came to say one thing: Soft Vanderwood is always best Vanderwood.

Gimme soft agent being domestic with his two adopted brothers/sons and living in peace, please Cheritz-

"Woah that sure is one huge snowfall! Guess we can expect a white Christmas this year around. Yoosung will be thrilled." Saeyoung let out a low whistle, shielding his eyes from the pouring snow and overlooking the perimeter of their newly made front porch, now being completely covered in deep snowdrifts.

"Well, you have your work cut out for you. No basement can save you from cleaning now. Good luck clearing all that snow off your porch if you want to go out." Vanderwood's voice sounded dry, although they couldn't hide a sly grin stretching the corners of their lips. While the older twin was enthusiastically looking over the snowy view, practically bending over the railing in the process, Saeran and the former agent stood a few feet away, hidden safely from the raging snowfall by a sturdy roof. Vanderwood crossed their arms over their chest, leaning on a nearby wall with their hip. "-And before you start nagging: no, I won't be doing that for you. Don't even try."

A wounded whine followed suit, as Saeyoung clutched at his chest in a fake display of hurt. "Ms. Vanderwood, why do you have to be so harsh!? Can't you just appreciate the beauty of winter right before our eyes? Besides, I know you love cleaning! I might even lend you one of my babies as a Christmas gift..."

"-Stop trying to bribe them to do your dirty work for you, you idiot." Saeran suddenly spoke up, his red locks peeking out from under a knitted hat carelessly thrown over his head. He looked quite uncomfortable in the multiple layers of thick clothing put on him, and yet, that's the first time he actively spoke out loud ever since they came out here. His mint gaze narrowed with clear irritation plastered over his face.

Quite obviously, this was about something entirely different, rather than the whole argument about clearing the snow.

Still, the way the younger twin puffed out his reddened cheeks under the safe cover of a soft scarf was just too adorable to ignore, which is why a series of quiet chucking followed, much to Saeran's further annoyance.

"Jeez, Saeyoung, are you trying to make a living cocoon out of your brother or something? There's clearly more than two layers of clothing under that coat." Vanderwood mused, only now taking notice of the boy's uncomfortable situation.

Suddenly, Saeyoung stumbled over his words, clearly feeling somewhat embarrassed by his former partner's remarks, which was quite uncharacteristic of him. "W-well, it's important to stay warm during this kind of weather! I'd hate for you to get sick, so you need to make sure you have enough protection against the cold, you know? And I know that your immune system is not that strong, so..."

He scratched at the back of his neck, only now realizing just how silly his own words sounded when being spoken out loud.

Ugh, if only you were here, this wouldn't have happened in the first place... You were always there to make sure that he wouldn't get too overbearing with his brother. But, since you were busy helping Jaehee with the opening of her new cafe at the moment, he was stuck dealing with his closest family all by himself. Which was definitely a good thing! However, he couldn't help but feel like he just screwed up.

Like he always does.

Before he could say anything to apologize, though, the older twin was interrupted by the exasperated sigh coming from Vanderwood. They merely rolled their eyes at his perplexed reaction, suddenly coming up to him to slightly flick him on the forehead. Not expecting something like that from his former partner whatsoever, Saeyoung stumbled back a bit, letting out an awkward: 'uh-', before quickly regaining his balance once more.

They raised a brow quizzically. "I know that look. Stop overanalyzing everything inside your own head and relax. Nothing horrible happened. You just wanted to protect your family in a pretty ridiculous way. It happens in every family. But, you know that Saeran is more resistable to cold temperature than it may seem at first glance. There's no need for you to try and make these decisions for him. Just trust him, even if that's scary the first few times around. Sure, it'll suck if he'll get sick, but then you'll both learn a lesson. Ease up on yourself."

Saeyoung blinked, not sure how to even respond to such a sentiment coming from Vanderwood of all people. All he could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open, like a fish out of water.

Seemingly satisfied with his response, the former agent instead turned to the younger twin this time. "And Saeran?"

The other Choi kept quiet, although his gaze was focused firmly on Vanderwood, letting them know that he was, in fact, paying close attention. Saeran was always way less talkative than his brother, which they quickly learned and adapted to accordingly.

"You could say something earlier, instead of just glaring daggers at him throughout the whole process and hoping that he would get it. This one here is horrible when it comes to hints like that. Believe me, I know. Yeah, he may be a bit too much to handle sometimes, but I'm pretty sure he would back off without putting up a fight, if you'd just tell him that you'll be fine on your own. Even twins sometimes have to deal with stupid misunderstandings like these, and you two still have a long road ahead of you."

Saeran's eyes widened slightly as he listened, before he quickly averted his gaze to the side and borrowed his visibly blushing face into the fabric of his scarf. Still, he did respond with nod and a quiet: "Okay."

"...Wow. You're like our parent or something." Saeyoung muttered, feeling somewhat dumbfounded and touched all at the same time with this whole situation.

This time, it was Vanderwood's turn to blush and choke as they turned their full attention to the older twin again.

"Say something so ridiculous like that again, and I will personally push you into a snowdrift!"

"Oh, a family snowball fight! Ms. Vanderwood you're a genius~! I'll make sure to write that down into my bucket list!"

"-Can you two stop playing house between yourselves and help me get this damn scarf off me already?"

This was the first winter they all spent outside of the bunker. And while some mishaps still occurred from time to time, they'll always be there to help each other out, whenever it was needed.

While Vanderwood would never admit this out loud, spending this year's Christmas by these brother's side was the sole reason they caught themselves smiling at the end of each new day.

[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 49

Taglist:@mercedesdecorazon @stargaryenx

Gif by @alicenthightowerdaily

“Fiery one, isn’t she?” Cole has the audacity to jape as Aemond chooses the third option.

Aemma doesn’t escape on Silver nor is Aemma forced to accept Aegon as king, she just stays locked in their rooms.

She doesn’t like it, neither does his mother, but Aemond needs time to find a better way to resolve this.

“You are a fucking coward, Aemond Targaryen!” Aemma shouts as she throws things at the door.

“I like her fire.” Aemond answered as they follow behind his mother.

Should Aemma bend the knee, she will be given Driftmark as Laenor’s only child. She will sit on the Driftwood Throne; she will remain Princess Aemma Velaryon and both husband and wife will pretend they are fine with that.

But Rhaenyra will win the war anyways, so his mother’s promise to ‘give you what you are owed’ will come true in the way she refuses to accept.

They will rule jointly, he as king and her as queen, just as his father decreed before his untimely demise.

If only his mother could accept that.

“Out of all the ladies you could choose from, you just had to choose her.” His mother grumbled as they heard another thing being smashed to pieces.

“I didn’t want a lady, mother.” He tried not to smirk. “I wanted a queen.”

“Careful, son, one may think you seek to usurp your brother.” His mother warned.

What is another usurper in this family?

----

The moment she is completely alone, she tries for the secret passageways they used to explore as children with the help of the rat catchers.

There is one problem, she is no longer the three- and ten-year-old girl nor the willowy five- and ten-year-old one either.

“I’m sorry, your highness, but even if you could fit through it, you wouldn’t be able to get past the guard.” One of the new maids said showing her the narrow tunnel leading to the Dragonpit.

Willa had been an unlikely ally; her father was a rat catcher and had taught her all the way in and out of the Red Keep.

Maegor had killed the masons who built them, tried to cover them up once he knew his reign was over and one and eighty years after his death, the hazardous half-covered tunnel was too small for a heavily pregnant girl.

“My thanks, do you know a way for me to get to the docks?” she asked, and the girl lead her to it.

“The closest I can get you is to the River Row, Princess.” the Handmaiden whispered and took her by the hand.

“I will make sure you are rewarded, Willa.” Aemma said as he led her through the walkway leading out to the street that runs by the Blackwater Rush.

Once they appear inside the cellars of a small Sept, Aemma changes her tune.

“Thank you, Willa, you may go now.” The Master of Whisperers said as the girl curtsied and left. “The Queen Mother expected this to happen, and I, her most leal servant, was the one best suited to help her.

If I were you, I would bend the knee and be done with it, the Driftwood Throne is a good consolation gift, almost as good as Harrenhal.” Larys Clubfoot counseled as his mute guardsmen escorted them to a litter waiting outside.

She couldn’t run, couldn’t summon Silver with by whistling like father used to do with Seasmoke, Aemma couldn’t use her knife on the fucker without being killed first.

Fuck.

“The moment my mother wins the war, I will be sure to cut off your clubfoot before you are fed to Silverwing, Lord Strong.” The princess said as she gave up and shoved every instinct telling her to kill the bastard right now.

“Have it cut before you take my head, if you can find it in your gentle heart to be merciful, your highness.” He smiled as if they were friends.

“Let me go and I might simply cut it off and let you live.” She proposed.

He chuckled as his litter bearers returned them to the Red Keep. “You jest, Silver Queen, but I am afraid nothing you have will be able to entice me away from King Aegon and his lady mother.”

“Do you fuck Alicent?” Aemma asked wondering if that was the price the queen paid for his loyalty.

“Such crass words for a Scion of Old Valyria.” He tutted her like a child and answered her question, “I do not fuck the Queen, no, our arrangement is not one of that nature, your highness.”

Not fucking, alludes to it not being sexual in nature, but the words he used left it ambiguous.

Would Alicent be the type to use loopholes?

Although, if Alicent was doing non-penetrative sexual acts ---something Aemma had exploited during her short, short courtship and still enjoys doing--- she was wasting it on this fucker.

Cole was nearly forty and still half the women she knows would like to know him carnally, if Alicent was half-cuckolding her late husband, Cole would have been the more sensible choice.

If you ask Aemma that is.

“I will take that answer for now, Lord Strong.” The Princess will eventually find out, maybe after she alludes enough with vague threats to her lovely goodmother.

Even if she never gets the answer, she will get under Alicent’s skin which is a victory in itself.

“I may be persuaded to look the other way and let you escape if you answer my question truthfully.” Larys returned to the negotiation at hand.

Aemma could suspect what he wanted to know, but he is the last person who could know her secret.

Otto and Alicent were on the list, but this man in front of her was the most dangerous of all.

Balerion above, she was never getting out of this fucking place.

“I like being the center of attention and have faked an infirmity to get it.” The Princess of Dragonstone lies, it doesn’t matter if it’s convincing, the Master of Whisperers will see through it.

----

Aemee is eating assorted berries from a plate balanced atop her belly when he returns.

She is wearing only her shift, her feet are propped up to keep them from swelling again, and her lips are an adorable shade of purple from the mostly blackberry and mulberry plate.

The rooms have been tidied up, but the damage was extensive.

Her blood runs hot as dragon fire, and Aemond was too Targaryen to not find it arousing, but not once was he the object of her ire.

“Coward.” She greets him and Aemond fights the urge to yell at her for trusting the wrong person again.

What if Willa had been paid by someone who wanted her dead?

Her delightfully shaped head could have been on a spike instead of propped up by fine pillows.

“If am a coward for wanting to keep you and our babe safe, then you are a bloody idiot, Aemee.” He retorts enjoying her scowl because they know he’s right. “The moment a person shows you a hint of goodness, false as it may be, you believe them. I don’t know who to blame for that, your mother or your grandmother.”

She responds by throwing a decorative pillow she embroidered herself at him. “Fuck you.”

“Why, you did that last night, Ābrazȳrys.” He rolled his eye at her childishness. If she wanted to be immature about this, he could too.

“Helaena says Aegon will kill her. Her mercy wasted on a person without it.” Aemma tries her best not to cry, but whatever control she had has deteriorated into nothingness by now.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized for Aegon’s future atrocities. Aemond thinks he will spend the rest of his existence asking her to forgive him for the hell his family will put her through. “Aegon has no honor, and I doubt he will gain some in battle, anyone else would spare Rhaenys had it been them.”

He loves his brother, but if he had left instead of hiding in a sept, they would all have been better for it.

Easier to say Viserys wanted Aemma and him to rule than to say Aegon.

“Would your family care if the two of us miss the feast tonight?” his wife softened as she accepted his apology.

As much as he would like to join her in her earned laziness, he can’t. Duty demanded he be there to toast to his brother.

It would be dull without her, she was lively, her pettiness and wit made him hate events like that less and Aemond can’t use her as an excuse to leave if she is not there.

“Very much. If you went, we could use the babe as an excuse to leave early.” He suggested and then amended it to sweeten the deal. “After you have ruined a so called good dinner with a bad toast.”

[damienthepious]

I’ll bite! Commentary on the newest hb3 chapter, specifically the section from Arum’s POV? I am absolutely dying over this fic

oh wonderful thank you

[Arum refuses to think of this particular task as a distraction. He is busy, he is important, he is Lord of the Swamp, and he does not indulge in distractions.]

put a header on this section that is just "Arum lies to himself about something entirely unimportant while being PAINFULLY domestic". Maybe i was being self-indulgent, writing this bit. that seems fair.

[(He does not need to keep his mind entirely busy to avoid obsessing-)]

he is having a LOT of trouble thinking of.. things besides Damien. Which honestly. he didn't think through this tactic of distraction very well. he's over here like better make a present for damien's girlfriend! this is normal!!! this won't make me think of him a lot!!!

[However… he knew exactly what he wanted to do right away, for his gift in return to Damien's other- Damien's real romantic pursuit, and he is impatient to put it together. In honesty, it is very simple. The perfect task at which to bend his efforts while he waits for another project to grow enough for the next stage.]

The back-and-forth dynamic that Arum and Rilla are accidentally developing without meeting is......... interesting, to me. Arum has a habit of doing nice things and refusing to acknowledge them as such, and that's kinda spiraling out in this chapter in particular. Also, he's driving himself crazy a little comparing his own "arrangement" with Damien to his capital R Relationship with Rilla. It's a little bit of self-torment, really.

[The little lavender is acclimating well, taking to the encouragement of the Keep's magic with minimal strain, blooming at their prompting easily.]

Magic means you don't have to wait an actual appropriate amount of time before your flowers bloom :)

[(Of course, he could use his own lavender, other plants, for his gift, but there's something about… no, he wants to use the plant that she sent, for this.)]

lmaooooo the lizard is charmed. Or maybe he just thinks it has a pleasing circularity to it. Like how she sent him lavender particularly suited to flavoring drinks after he sent her a flavored drink. He's playing back in kind, which is something he has a habit of in general.

[Simple syrups live up to their name, of course, even when delicately flavored, and he's done simmering the concoction with plenty of time to spare. He candies the leftover sprigs, while he's at it. May as well. They look… pretty, like that. Sweetness frost-dusted over the already delicate white of the flowers.]

Arum appreciates beauty. he's impatient about a lot of things, but... i think he has an appreciation for aesthetics. also someone commented that this was his LEAST troubling coping mechanism and it made me laugh so hard and i can't stop thinking about it. they were RIGHT but also oh my god.

[He slips one into the bottle for the syrup on a whim, pleased by the way it looks when he pours the syrup down over it, like a thing preserved in ice.]

also dear god i wanna make some lavender sugar so bad after writing all this. some fuckin candies or something. lavender frosting. christ.

[He could stop there, of course. But-

(Eyes almost golden in the sunrise-)

(He is not distracting himself he is not-)]

I love arum and damien independently obsessing about seeing each other in sunlight for the first time. Also Arum finding something NEW to lie to himself about!!! he's telling himself the truth about Being In Love, so he needs SOMETHING to cling to with his big beefy denial muscles......

[(Will Damien laugh at the offering, this time? Will his eyes light, again? Can Arum amuse him with this, delight him, impress him? Impress his new mate?)

(Laughable. Idiot creature.)]

He still wants so badly for Damien to just... like him. not even love him, he's too hopeless about it for that, but just... to LIKE him. to have SOME affection for him. and he's so bitter towards himself about that desire. and the fact that it's bleeding over to this other human he hasn't met yet?? he's even MORE embarrassed about THAT.

[He shakes his head. He sighs.

He checks his storeroom, drumming his claws off his scales as he considers his options.]

The look of a lizard Definitely Not Distracting Himself. Also maybe! maybe i am delighted by arum acting domestic in any capacity!!! and that's FINE. Checking the cupboards....

[The Keep will help with whatever he decides, he knows. He can already feel it hovering, gently joyful at the idea of a more playful collaboration than they have had the opportunity for, lately.

He pulls out a pan he hasn't used in quite some time, and he pretends not to laugh at the unsubtle chime of song from above.

Well. At least this pointless endeavor will make his Keep happy, if nothing else.]

also legit any excuse in the world for Arum to hang out and bond with his Keep. THey love each other so fucking much and. Augh. The Keep is so worried about him.

also also. uhm preview for the next chapter because it is SUPPOSED to cut back to Rilla and Damien's day here, buuuuut the scene was getting too long for me to finish for the day so it got pushed to the next chap. so that's what to expect! :) More kissies! and other stuff :) :)

[itokunii-a]

(( Happy sinday, friends! Have some nsft headcanons under the cut~ ))

Val is very sensitive and touch-starved ( his wings especially ), so any touch will get some sort of reaction and noise out of him. His partner might need to put their hand over his mouth so that no one else will hear him, which -for him- is quite attractive. Which, very secretly, is also a thrill for him: the risk of getting caught. Even though he would die from embarrassment if someone did. Break him with dirty talk. Switch leaning towards bottom.

Loves exploring his partner’s body: the way they move, the way they bend their limbs as they adjust him into a new position. I can definitely see him being into ropes/silk, both on himself and his partner. No need to worry about him, he is very, concerningly flexible; move him in any position of your heart’s desire. Slightly sadistic. Bottom.

Would anyone be surprised that a vampire has a biting kink? He has to trust his partner a lot to even consider getting into bed with them and biting is an even more complex topic. But if they offer themselves to him and assure him that they want it, he cannot help but let the more beast-like side of him come out. Switches between gentle and relentless in his pace. Tons of praise. Switch leaning towards top.

Very gentle and sweet, Erik definitely loves covering his partner’s body in kisses. Also, perhaps obviously, he loves sex in nature: he might emerge from a tree behind his partner and slowly snake his arms around their body to touch them. A tease; will keep on fingering his partner until they have come multiple times. His body does not make noise but they can certainly feel the cool air of his breath against their neck. Top.

Hilda likes having fun while having sex: she can get quite rough because of her strength and is hardly fazed by anything. If you want to make her blush and gasp, you have to be soft with her. She doesn’t expect anything loving, so that is an easy way to break her composure. Most likely to be spotted behind the alleyway of her bar. Switch.

Lloyd claims he likes to seperate his relationships from his work but, truth is, if his partner would send him naughty pictures while he is at work, he would lose his mind. Big fan of lingerie on any gender ( which he would also buy for his partner, as a gift ). Loves being marked, but only where his suit would cover it. Also mirror sex, he loves seeing every angle. Switch.

Caleb can and will lift his partner both on and against every surface. He sometimes forgets his own strength and gets lost in the moment, so he would not even warn his partner before he puts them on his shoulders and pins them against a wall. Also not only the king of bandits but also the king of oral! Will eat his partner out/suck them off until they have to drag him up by his hair or whine. Service top.