#her magical education was maybe not the best

[drysia]

So I'm putting actual effort into my replay now and looking at things. For my whole first run I had my head glammed to the giant realistic Crow head because...well, it'd be funny even though I had it turned off for cutscenes. Like, imagine, after the first quests in Treviso Rook is like, aw yeah, I can finally after a year dress like a Crow (and thus become Viago's best PR machine as she saves the world.) and that's what she chose.

I've head cannoned that this originally was my Rook's gear. It's what she wore during the whole Antaam fiasco that got her temporarily exiled so there was no way to deny it was one of the Crows that did it. Viago sold it after Rook left with Varric out of...I don't know anger? Annoyance (Maybe he always hated the damn thing, couldn't Rook wear a normal crow mask?)

Rook sees her favorite mask for sale and obviously buys it back. As I was buying it this time, though, I finally paid attention to the flavor text.

Now obviously this could just be something that's been made up, the stuff about the spirit. Some over the top lore Rook made up, or was made up about it by Viago to sell the ugly thing, or a brand new legend attached to it by the starry eyes fledglings that don't think Rook's actions warranted an exile, but they can't say that part out loud.

But what if there is a spirit hanging out in that feathery little headgear after all. Tossing and turning it in my brain, thinking about what kind of spirit could be hanging out there. Another reason for Spite to like Rook, she also has a spirit friend even if its quiet. Manfred having one of his first words be "Rook!" because another spirit already vouched for her when they met.

[gigantomachylesbian]

Guys. I did not know before now that writing could be painfully millennial in a full prose book but the pho*nix ke*per has proven me wrong and I have to complain about it in the tags

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Dreamers | Rhysand & Daughter!Reader

Summary: After Madja is away in business for two months, he has to find a healer to replace her in her absence, which happens to be you, his bastard daughter, and unbeknownst to him, Azriel’s mate.

Word Count: ~ 2.3k

Warnings: Angst, bad family relationship, mentions of prostitution, implied sex, but it ends happy don’t worry (PLATONIC BETWEEN RHYS AND READER)

A/N: This request was like perfectly matching up with my daydreams so thanks !! hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

Throughout all your years of education and schooling, there was one truth you knew without having to be told.

You were unwanted. A mistake.

You’d always known that and hadn’t cared much for the first few years of your life. Your mother had been a prostitute, and your father had accidentally knocked her up. Whether it had been a mistake, or your mother had purposefully not used a contraceptive just to have a tie to the High Lord was still in debate, but you didn’t care much anymore.

He had tried to raise you, probably not wanting you to grow up a whore like your mother, but been trapped Under the Mountain, leaving you alone, your only real ties to him were through Cassian, who didn’t seem to care that you were a bastard child or your circumstances.

He felt like more of a father, sometimes.

You’d gotten your apartment in Velaris, working as an herbalist, and something of a medic, using the mingled magic of your mother and father to heal people. Some would say the job didn’t match your sometimes uncaring and blunt, even bitter demeanor. But you didn’t care what they said, and you never had. It paid the bills, and let you live relatively comfortably in your little shop when not in the apartment.

You had heard the rumors of Feyre, the Cursebreaker who’d freed your father, and by extension all the other High Lords from Under the Mountain. You’d seen the female and your father together, walking the streets happy as could be together, openly proclaiming their love, not to mention their baby.

After he’d been liberated, you hadn’t tried to seek him out, and he hadn’t with you. It was for the best, probably. You wanted nothing to do with his perfect little happy family and Inner Circle, you didn’t belong there, and you had no desire to. You hadn’t needed a father to grow up, and you didn’t need one now.

However, Madja was away on business, leaving you as the only other healer in Velaris capable of giving checkups to their child. It was for that reason, you suspected, that he invited you to a “family” dinner as if he’d ever treated you like family.

“It’ll be alright.”

Your mate, Azriel, spoke to you as he got ready to escort you into the House of Wind, where they wanted to have dinner that night. You hadn’t bothered to dress up nice or fancy, only donning some loose pants and a shirt, clothes you would usually work in.

Azriel had been your mate for nearly three years, having secretly accepted the bond, and decided to keep the relationship private for now, to let things settle down for now, and now had stretched into one year after another, until you were both content to live in the shadows.

“You know how I feel about them.”

You replied, sighing before quickly composing yourself at the clear mix of emotions on his face. His urge to defend his family and to empathize with you warring with each other in his mind.

You stepped forward, settling into his arms as you felt the shadows wrap around you, the environment shifting as your eyes remained open, and then you were there, the door to the House of Wind standing right in front of you. It felt wrong, to come back here after completely cutting off contact, only to be used for your healing abilities and medical knowledge for a half-sibling you’d never met.

Glancing over at Azriel, he gave a little nod, and you opened the door, setting foot inside the home and immediately confronted with the scents of multiple people. You could recognize some, Mor, Rhys, Cassian, maybe Amren? Only Feyre, Rhys, and Cassian were seated at the table, waiting for you. You’d heard news that Mor was visiting her private estate, and Amren off god knows where.

Expression as ticked off and blunt as you were feeling, you walked in, taking a seat as a plate of food magically appeared in front of you.

Rhys’ gaze ran up and down you, noting your clothes, simple cheap ones to get the job done, the herbs caked under your long nails, the calluses on your hands from handling your mortar and pestle so often, the way you didn’t smile at him or any of his family, or the same impassive and slightly annoyed look on your face. Something briefly appeared in his gaze, before being gone just as easily. Good. You had enough to deal with without any family problems.

“Hello, Y/N, I’d like you to meet -“

He spoke, voice sounding as confident as usual, but with a hint of a crack, as if testing the waters as he gestured towards Feyre.

“Your mate and son. I’m well aware.”

Your voice wasn’t like his, not with the silver tongue he had, tone blunt and straightforward. You didn’t refer to them by name on purpose, to make it seem like you hadn’t even cared to follow the news about him and his life. Like you were better. Feyre cast a sympathetic glance at Rhys, one that made your temper flare.

He shouldn’t get to be comforted for his past mistakes coming to bite him in the ass.

Cassian remained silent, exchanging glances with Azriel across the table. This was bound to happen eventually, and the General didn’t try any of his usual tactics to lighten the mood.

Rhys swallowed, opening his mouth to speak, probably to try and soothe you or make you less openly hostile, but you interrupted him.

“What do you want?”

You asked, tone blunt and cold, detached almost if it weren’t for the anger you held against him. He tried to hide his wince but failed to do it completely. That made you feel a bit better, at least. A sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. His expression sobered into one of resigned seriousness.

“Our healer, Madja, will be away on business for two months. You’re the most qualified to take her place if you would.”

He said. Feyre seemed a bit uncomfortable with the thought of you being the personal healer for their family for two months, and you didn’t blame her, considering your demeanor and history, but it still pissed you off.

“How much will you pay?”

You asked blandly, making it clear that the job meant nothing to you to get closer to them at all. All that mattered was the pay. Your mind was already calculating the costs, advantages, and disadvantages of taking the deal. He stiffened slightly, another small victory.

He stated a price, it was high, ridiculously so, in fact, but you weren’t complaining. Money was money. Even if you got it from your half-family.

“Sure.”

You said simply, still not touching your dinner. The food was tantalizing, but the thought of sending a message even more so. You wouldn’t dine at this table, not like how you had done so many years ago. Though your throat was parched, you didn’t touch the glass of water.

“Is that all?”

You asked, your mint green eyes, the same shade as your mother’s, meeting his violet gaze. Pure indifference was all you were determined to give him. After he’d forgotten about you, too obsessed with his mate and new child, the replacements, to bother with you.

“I was hoping you’d stay for dinner.”

He said quietly, a hint of pleading in his gaze. You felt a pang in your chest at that but shoved it down as you got up from your seat, not tucking it in. They could look at the seat pushed out after you left, and think about you. It would hopefully plague his mind like he plagued yours.

“Keep hoping. See where it gets you.”

You said dryly, walking out of the kitchen, out of that goddamned sentient House that remembered you even now, how it knew your favorite food, just the way you knew your mother had cooked it so long ago, or the way you’d loved the water from that river out back, one you still visited now.

You heard the harsh scratching of a chair against the wooden floor and footsteps, and before you could winnow away, you found that you couldn’t move.

Not metaphorically or rhetorically, you literally could not move your own body, and that’s when you became all too aware of the presence in your mind when your barriers had slipped because of your irritation. Your father finally released you as he stood behind you, you whirled to look at him, seething.

“Stay out of my head.”

You hissed, shoving him away from you even as he gave you a begging gaze.

“Please, I’m sorry, let me try, just give me one chance to be your father, one?”

He begged, voice cracking with desperation you’d never seen before, and it would’ve weirded you out a little if you weren’t frozen in place, throat even dryer now as you tried to think of something to say.

Despite how you denied it and wanted to be cold and vengeful towards him, deep down, that wasn’t what you wanted. Maybe a relationship with him wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice to leave you behind, he’d been kidnapped Under the Mountain, and been so busy putting his Court back together and handling a war that he hadn’t even been able to think about you.

You swallowed, sighing and giving a resigned nod.

“Just..meet me for breakfast tomorrow, I guess. At my apartment. It’s down the block to the right of Rita’s, you’ll know it when you see it.”

As soon as you said it, he pulled you into a gentle hug, feeling you stiffening under his touch. You weren’t the most touchy person with strangers, or people you didn’t know very well at that.

Breakfast tomorrow. Great.

*********************************************************

Az had already been late when he’d arrived at your apartment for the moment, his tedious little schedule for the recent mission already thrown off because of the extra time he’d taken bending you over a counter. Just as he gave you a little kiss on the cheek, opening the door to head out, he ran face-first into Rhys, the only thing stopping the two from kissing being the subtle height advantage Azriel had over his High Lord.

“What -“

Rhys began, and Azriel was gone quicker than you’d ever seen his shadows transport him. You dragged your father in, closing the door behind you.

“He’s my mate and has been for three years, but anyways, breakfast.”

You blurted in a rushed tone as you tried to ignore the obvious thing that had just happened. Rhys ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed, seeming exasperated but not surprised.

“I thought so, Cassian said he’s been coming home smelling like you lately.”

He muttered under his breath as you slipped an oven mitt on, pulling a muffin sheet out of the oven and hissing as the oven brushed against your arm, leaving an angry little red spot. Your father’s eyebrows raised at that, and he walked over and turned your sink to a lukewarm temperature, grabbing you and easily moving you over to it to run the burn under it. Protective instincts were probably already kicking in for him, albeit a bit dusty and not used for anyone other than his new son.

He grabbed a roll of bandaging that was on your counter, from the other night when you’d also accidentally burned yourself while trying to open the oven with your bare feet, hands too busy. The oven-related incidents were getting a bit too often, now. Especially since Azriel threatened to throw the oven out if you didn’t stop getting hurt.

“Thanks.”

You managed to mumble as his slender fingers skillfully wrapped some of it around you, securing it easily. He gave a little nod, slipping an oven mitt on and dumping the muffins out, just shoving them all onto one plate he set on the small table with two chairs, one for you and Az.

He sat down, you sitting across from him, grabbing a muffin and unwrapping it, before just awkwardly eating in silence.

“So..”

You said, swallowing as you tried to think about how weird this conversation would be. He sighed, running his hands through his hair again. It seemed to be a nervous habit of his.

“I’m sorry, for not being there. There was just so much going on, with the war, Amarantha, not to mention Koschei…”

His voice trailed off at the mention of them.

“I..get it. You were busy with all that.”

“I still should’ve been there. You’re my daughter, and you grew up without a father because of me.”

You swallowed, trying to bite back the emotions that rose because of this conversation. He seemed to notice, violet eyes softening as his chair scooted a bit closer to yours, wanting to comfort you but unsure how to do so without further upsetting you. You suddenly felt bad for all your remarks and attitude earlier. He’d been trying, you hadn’t.

“We can start over if you want. Just father and daughter?”

You nodded, sniffling slightly. At that tiny sniffle, he couldn’t resist anymore, getting up and pulling you into his arms. This time, you didn’t stiffen, didn’t struggle, or try to pull away, you just cried into his chest in a way you usually only could do with Az. He held you close, hand soothingly rubbing your back.

“I think I’d like that.”

You managed to choke out as the tears dried up, and you looked up into his violet eyes, now noticing the golden flecks in them, like stars you could wish on.

Stars promising hope and a future of warmth and acceptance.

Tags:

@judeduartewannbe

[rayroseu]

Wait this is actually interesting, so from what the story implies, Wild Rose Castle is weaker than Black Scale Castle because it probably has no magical atmosphere that serves as its defense, there's probably fewer troops here, and the fact that its just on a clear meadow makes the terrain not suitable for defenses unlike Black Scale who is atop a mountain and covered in a Valley.

So I kinda think that Wild Rose Castle is a newly built castle in Briarland. After all, Meleanor was a kid only 200 years ago so Wild Briar is probably that age as well (or more), i think that age is young (compared to Black Scale which probably several centuries old?) thats why it has weaker defense facilities.

Maybe Wild Briar is older as Black Scale, but this game says this is Meleanor's castle so I assume she's the one who had built this.

But I have this HC that this castle is actually built because of Levan. For his diplomatic mission between humans. Building a castle in an easy terrain would make sense to make it easier for magicless humans to transport in. Because I don't really expect(?) Maleanor who is a military commander, which she probably has knowledge of strategies, to not see how disadvantegous this location is considering its close to humans

But I also think Wild Briar was built as like a refuge for the faes that live far away outside Dragon City(I wont call it dragonopolis lol)

Wild Rose being a few centuries old also kinda makes sense since the Silver Owls only recognize Meleanor as the only ruler in Briarland, they probably arent aware theres a queen named Maleficia because she's ancient(?) atleast I didnt caught any silver owls mentioning her iirc(?) They went to the mountains near Dragon city yes-- but like it was to pursue General Lilia and not to besiege Black Scale as well even they kinda had the potential to do so since they took down Maleanor and Silver Owls' is implied to be very greedy--

I actually think its more interesting to not summarize Maleanor's cause of death as just her overestimating her win against Knight of Dawn-- I actually think its because of several reasons such as:

"Wrong time" in working out the diplomatic relations between the conflict between humans and faes, Levan's plan to educate wasn't pointless effort, but I wish the story states as well what he did to counter the fact that the faes hates humans not because of a misunderstanding, but because of their mistreatment towards faes(the story literally implies rhe humans kills faes meanwhile we have yet to see a royal guard fae that killed humans the story only tells us they chased them away), Levan does this when its clear that the Silver Owls was getting hostile, like objectively speaking, this was kinda not the right time to communicate and Meleanor was the receiving end of the build up hostility of the Silver Owls

This is kinda countering my first point, but Meleanor's decisions was kinda weird too in the story lol, why send your best Generals to the enemy fortress.... 😭💥 But I actually think this is interesting as well, because its likely a reference to the wars in LiveAction Maleficent... I remember watching that movie especially Maleficent 2: Mistress of Evil and just wondering why the Moors never plans (and even if they do its very simple, just charge in and overpower the enemy with strength), they just charge in instead of treating it "like a chess" where you save your best pieces in dangerous situations and everyone has a role in dispelling the enemy. They also hold this belief that only the strong ones would guarantee their success and heavily relies on them. Meanwhile, Queen Ingrid used deception and control to subdue all the faeries. Like Meleanor/Faes vs Humans, the faes never thinks about what the human enemy plans, they rely on raw dodging it lol probably alluding to the fact that the faes have trouble thinking like a human.

And lastly this point lol, poor choice of headquarters, the terrain is easy for humans to invade in, and the castle is still weak, also the fact that Wild Briar was alone in fighting several human nations was a factor as well because it couldnt get back up in time because it was too far away from Black Scale Castle, kinda adding Wild Briar was outnumbered too atp

[threepandas]

Bad End: Mama Mine

I woke, that first time, to the most beautiful child I had ever seen. Even through a fever that felt like it was cooking me from within, I could see she was different. It was honestly impossible not too. She looked cherubic. Angelic. Impossible, somehow. As though favored by the gods.

Even in worn, threadbare, patched then re-patched old clothes, so far from new as to have forgotten the name of it, she looked... like a dancer. Beautiful. A tiny painting brought to life. I couldn't understand, delirious as I was. I thought I was hallucinating. Worried her terribly.

She was just a small thing. Trying her best. Too care for her sick mother. She could barely reach the stove. Struggled to carry the buckets of water she needed, to cook and wipe my fevered sweat away. But she let nothing stop her. So determined to save me. Her little face so filled with love and worry, forever a step away from tears.

She was so afraid.

How could I do anything but love her back?

Disoriented or not. Lost and confused I may be. I had a child. Any plan I made? Would be for two. I had never really seen myself a mother, but cast into the role? I refused to abandon the child who loved and needed me. Who was innocent in all this.

Instead, as my fever broke, I held her close. Told her she had been so, so brave. Let her cry. Cuddled my little girl and gave myself a moment to just... breathe.

Then in the morning I got to work.

I appeared to be a single mother. A PEASANT single mother. Delightful. We had little to nothing to our name. I could try and fix that, I think. I knew a few crafts. But I had "forgotten" everything practical. Great. Luckily? I had a VERY observant little helper. Who remembered most of how everything was done.

I could context clues from there.

We made due.

Cleaned up the house, washed the linens, aired everything out. In bits and pieces, using half remembered wiki binges and crafting videos, I improved our little homestead somewhat. It wasn't by MUCH. I didn't have the skills. But it looked... nicer, I think. Homey.

We foraged. Sold hunted animals and things we had found. The occasional baked good. More then that? I tried to make time for my daughter. Keep her away from powerful eyes. The sort that might covet a pretty young thing. Taught her what I could.

Not just how to braid her beautiful hair, but that her beauty did not define her. That love was wonderful but not all there was to life. Too be wary of empty promises and watch for how the powerful treat those that they deem weaker then them. To lead with a smile but be prepared to throw her fist.

Also don't eat those mushrooms, honey, those are the poisonous ones.

I wish... Honestly? I wish I could have given my daughter a better childhood. Better education then the lessons scratched in dirt I was able. If I'd been able to REMEMBER. To recognize. Maybe I would have scrimped and saved more for third or forth hand textbooks, instead of the new hunting knife she so badly wanted.

But I didn't remember.

And as we were visiting town? PROPER town as opposed to our little settlement? I heard about wealthy, comparatively, family's having their children tested for... magic?

I faltered but adapted. Was it that much stranger then being transported into a new body and world? Magic it was then, I guess. Huh. We continued shopping. I bought my daughter a new sturdy pair of boots. Room to grow, would serve her well. She adored them. They had FLOWERS on them, mama! I couldn't help but laugh. Ah, my daughter is so cute!

Then I saw it.

As we passed the temple square. The only building in this whole town that could count as ostentatious. Some silk clad toddler broke from the pressing crowds, no doubt displeased with being crushed in on all sides. He wriggled free. Back from the steps and out into the road. Blind to the mortal peril he had just put himself in as the carriage of some wealthy To-Do raced carelessly down the street. Looking around, innocent, as only a toddler can as he wandered farther and farther from safety.

I dropped my shopping.

The world fuzzy and muffled, far away in my panic. Some Mother's instinct SCREAMING as I raced forward. Throwing a few people aside to reach the road. Then bolting. Distantly I heard my daughter scream, another scream as they finally notice, too late, their child was in mortal peril. But all I could see... was the little boy. Turning. Noticing. The big scary horses.

About to crush him to death.

Time felt slow.

I got there.

Then PAIN.

Far away, people were screaming. A child was crying. Small and terrified in my arms. Some arrogant voice was first demanding, then stuttering, then begging. A frantic voice, joined by others. Rich perfume. The... the child reaching for someone. Safe? Safe. I let go. Tried to smile. Ah... my daughters voice. Crying. Shhhh, shhhh. I'm sorry. It's okay. I'm sorry.

Ah... there... there was so much blood.....

Then there was LIGHT.

Like someone had cupped the sky itself and poured it directly onto me. Blue. So light and weightless and blue. The pain vanished as though erased. New agony and old aches alike. My eyes blinked open in suprise. And there? Tear stained and glowing? Was my daughter.

Like the sky itself had wrapped around her. Sunlight and blue sky and drifting clouds. Swirling like she was the world itself. Her eyes filled with tears when they connected with mine. With a choked cry, she through herself into my arms. Oh, baby. My poor baby. I wrapped my arms around her tight. Hugged her back for all I was worth.

"Your daughter?" A gentle voice asked.

I looked up. What HAD to be a noble woman sat, skirts ruined, in the dirt and blood at my head. Clutching desperately at the toddler I had saved. I could only nod. Understanding passed between us. Mother to mother.

Which is why, when a priest with covetous eyes came forward?

The noble women's smile turned cold.

She had changed her mind. She was, in fact, going to have her son tested by the temple closer to home. AND? She was going to be taking us with her. I agreed. Immediately and before anyone could try to seperate us. Daughter mine, darling, honey, Get In The Carriage. NOW.

We got out of there while the getting was still possible.

It was safe to assume, my new noble friend eventually said, that my daughter had magic. But what did that mean for us? Well, according to Nation Law? (Oh goodie. Laws I know nothing about.) She would have to attend the Royal Magica Academy.

What.

I knew that name. I KNEW that name! My jaw was surely on the floor, my daughter squeeking out flustered and rambling questions at my side. But... but all I could do? Was slowly turn to look at her. She was healthier then the game cover. Not as "that's not what real women look like!" Thin that... that in hindsight? Was probably prolonged food scarcity. Starvation.

She was taller too. Less... oh god, less "child like". That had to have been malnutrition. Stunted growth.

The way her hair shown, soft and healthy. The brightness to her skin and nails. Clarity to her eyes. Fullness to her cheeks. She was hardly even within sight of being a plump child, more muscle then anything, from a life of work and survival, but? She wasn't... waifish. I had made sure of that.

Even if it meant sacrificing my own meals to do so.

But I could SEE it. Could SEE the familiar features. The curling hair and doe like grey eyes. The generic princess character that I had been playing right before... before... God, I couldn't even remember the game's NAME. Just the plot. It had been mid at best. Magnificent art. Everyone raving there was some secret twist after the first play through.

So I grit my teeth a pushed through the generic. Tried to figure out what it was.

Never did get the chance. I died before the second play through and the twist everyone insisted made the game awesome. Now I wish I had caved and looked up spoilers. I tried to remember the mother. Did she die? What happens to my baby girl? Should I push her towards one man or another? Let her follow her heart?

It's a long, long night.

We stay in a guest room. Fancier then anything I've ever seen in this life. I keep my daughter calm. Help her avoid embarrassing herself. Tips for when in doubt. See, honey? It's a learning opportunity! No need to panic! Mama's certainly not, on the inside! She's very calm. Completely, utterly, definitely very ultra calm. Ha ha...

I think my soul had a panic attack.

Things moved very quickly after that. In the end, they had too, if I was to keep my daughter safe. The temple would want to train her. Her magic was apparently quite rare. Religiously significant. And being so lovely? She would make an EXCELLENT propaganda peice. A figurehead and puppet, forevermore in gilded chains.

Everything I feared for her.

No. That was NOT going to happen.

The Academy it was. Nobles and their games aside. The education would be unparalleled. She could probably even make friends. Possibly find love. I told her to Be CAREFUL. That is was a treacherous but beautiful place. Filled with powerful people used to getting their way. Do whatever she must to survive. Thrive. Be happy.

And remember, she is loved.

I...Returning home alone felt like ripping my heart out. I had thought I would have years, yet, before my daughter married and moved out. That I would have time to adjust. Get used to the idea, as my future son-in-law came around. Instead? I returned from a trip to emptiness. A life interrupted.

My daughters sewing, still resting, waiting for her, on the kitchen table.

I collapsed. Weeping. In the entryway.

My tiny home had never felt so vast and hollow.

Days passed. Then weeks. Finally, a letter arrived. Delivered by a very uncomfortable servant. The man checking more then once if I was TRUELY who he was supposed to deliver too. Clearly more then a little uncomfortable in the presence of such poverty. I did not care. I had a letter, thick with writing, from my daughter.

She was doing well.

MORE then well. My lessons had actually put her ahead of the curve in several classes, much to the shock and outrage of her peers. They had expected poverty to equal mental deficiency, it seems. And the library was quickly making up for any classes she was behind in. That's my girl!

She had made several friends that way. Quiet young ladies, willing to help her make sense of the complexities of history or magical theory. From nice, stable, neutral houses, too. No tea parties yet. Or boys. But I didn't care.

My baby had FRIENDS!

I sent a care package of her things back. Not indiscriminately, of course. But tools and notes, a few unfinished projects she had been working on to pass the time. Some snacks from home. They would likely still embarrass her somewhat, but... I did not want her to think I did not CARE. That I had tossed her towards that Academy and promptly forgotten her.

The servant, Geoffrey, and I got to see quite a lot of each other.

He got over the state of my house rather quickly. Instead, started bringing things he "just happened to have lying around" that would you look at THAT? I happened to need! Between letters on my daughter's meeting, then dramas, with pretty wealthy boys? Geoffrey helped me repair my roof. I mended his uniform. We shared new year's festivities together.

I even went to the actual festival, like I was some sort of lovely young thing.

As my daughter grew closer to graduation, the questions started. If I could go anywhere, where would it be? If I could do anything? What if I never had to work again? I wasn't a fool. Told her in no uncertain terms. If I EVER suspected she married for anything less then love and herself, I would disown her.

I did not sacrifice so that my daughter would SUFFER.

However... it seemed there was more then a few things my daughter had left from her letters. The next letter arrived in the hand of a man that wore Geoffrey's face, but even as I walked back towards my cabin from the forest... I knew.

That was not the man I had grown to love.

When the imposter turned, no doubt to lie, I RAN. Dropping my harvest of foraged wild greens. I had been planning to make a dish for him. One he was fond off. Perhaps my daughter's magic came from me, my line instead of her unknown father, or perhaps I had just enough to give it wings. To carry her to term.

Because...

I knew he was dead.

They pursued me. Of course they did. But this was a forest I had wandered for years. I lost them in the trees. Attacked them with rocks and stones. Destroyed my trails with rocks and rivers. Every hunter I crossed paths with an ally. Every hunting trap a peril I could lead them into. They were good.

I was better.

But more came.

Then more. And more. And MORE.

And I was not so good as to fend of a legion. I would not risk the village for some nobles scheme. I was dragged, bloody, bruised before some arrogant little sadist. A nasty little creature, like a porcelain doll filled with bile. What an utter waste of good fabric. I told her as much. Interrupt her sneering little monolog.

The backhand across the face barely hurt.

Toddlers had more muscle.

Unfortunate for this brat. My daughter had arrived in time to see that. And worse for this brat, she brought her friends and suitors. A veritable crowd of power and influence. The brat did not have the common sense to shut up while she was ahead. Even I, a peasant, could recognize royalty on sight. There were at least two of them before us.

MY daughter was not as merciful as the Cannon Protagonist had been.

It was a blood bath.

I tried to stay awake. Head wounds and all that. I... I had wanted to introduce Geoffrey to my daughter. Hinted at it, over my letters. I would... would never get the chance now... oh god. Geoff. Geoff, forgive me. Tears welled up. I could not stop them. Just as I could not stand. Just as I could not move...

I was... was rather useless... wasn't I?

Familiar yet no longer familiar arms threw themselves around me. Cradled me close to a softly perfumed chest, locks of hair I'd know anywhere, shielding me from the world.

"Mama..." my little girl said. Her voice the very picture of heartbreak. "I'm sorry. I... I was too late."

One of her suitors untied me. The knight, probably, from the calluses I felt. But all I could think about was, wrapping my daught in my arms. Together for the first time in years. And it had to be like THIS? Oh gods. Why was fate so cruel?

My little girl had grown so big.

This was a grown woman in my arms.

I just... I just wanted this terrible night to END. And as my daughters power slid over me? It did.

I woke up in a guest room. He dear friend Agatha had INSISTED. Geoffrey had worked for her family. It... it brought relief. To mourn with people who had known him. He had apparently spoken of me. Quite often. The sap.

It... it wasn't fair.

But when was life ever fair?

My daughter visisted. Now that i was finally closer. Her suitors dropped by, to pay their respects I think. Possibly win me over, as mother of their lady love. They were awkward little things. It was adorable. I was patient. Listened. Prodded them when then froze up, uncertain of what to talk about. Got them rambling about their hobbies. Really, it was no great difference then most shy kids.

The visited more. Stayed longer.

Brought gifts.

The gifts were expensive, elaborate, and wildly impractical. I was forced to gently explain why I, a peasant woman, could NOT accept their gift of fist size gemstones. It started with "I will be robbed" and ended with "they WILL be certain I stole these, no matter WHAT documentation you give me. I will die". They were very confused and alarmed. Much like puppies learning that suddenly treats were somehow illegal.

Agatha herself? Was a delight.

A very "mob" looking young lady with a sharp wit and an old man's sense of humor. Her personal maid was Geoffrey's niece. That neither held against me what had happened? Spoke of both of their maturity and grace. They WOULD however, never forgive the house that ordered the attack. I much agreed.

I considered, going back to the village, but...

The memories were too raw there.

I decided to follow my daughter, settle near wherever she decided to go. She seemed thrilled at the idea. Somehow, word spread. On the next visit, the future "head of the mage's tower" and man of entirely too many titles, Valtaan mentions an estate he owns near the Tower. How it lies empty. Would be the PERFECT place for a mother-in-law, you know... if he had one. Lovely gardens!

Oh, really?

Then, the Knight mentions how HE'S going to be stationed up North. In a Great Big Fortress with SO many rooms. Just... just SO MANY. Entirely too many, really. Honestly, he should bring more people! Like a wife! And... and a Mother-in-law! Really fill up the place, you know?

Mmmmhmmm.

The Prime Minister to be? Oh HE talks of TRAVEL. Ever considered traveling? The Embassies are LOVELY. So much to DO around them. Foreign lands, beautiful locals, silks and lovely little treats.

You don't say....

The Duke is blunt about it, at least.

I have a castle. I have SEVERAL castles. Estates. He is aware you are not motivated by that, but it does leave you with options for where you want to live should your daughter decide to marry him. And he DOES intend to marry my daughter. Second husband if not the first. Motivated, aren't we?

I politely infor both prince's, the SECOND they sit down, before they open their mouth, that I like them. I do. A lot in fact. But it's not going to happen. It'll be a cold day in hell the day I let my daughter marry into the royal family and they both know exactly why. They pause... consider it. Then nod.

They agree.

Wouldn't wish this life upon ANYONE who had a chance at something better.

My daughter graduates, with HONORS. There is much gnashing are rending of clothes from the elitist base. Ha! Get fucked. I STILL have no idea what the "twist" is in the plot or if I was being punked. Also not a single clue which, if any, of her suitors she's chosen. Could be all of um. I could care less so long as everyone consents and is aware of each other.

The graduation party is, naturally, grand. I'm in a dress one of the suitors likely bought for me. Somehow, I actually look like I belong. Instead of dancing and reveling, my munchkins hover. As though afraid to leave me alone at my first Big Girl Party. I laugh, trying to shoo them away. Go, go!

My daughter stubbornly shakes her head, leaning against me, her dress complimenting mine. Though I doubt I could be half as lovely.

"Noooo~ I refuse! I will be staying Right HERE, Mama!" Her voice is playful but... there's something strained. Desperate, that's never really gone away I think. Not since the accident. "What if someone tries to take you AWAY? You're too pretty! You gotta stay with US, mama!"

I laugh out loud, completely missing the interested looks that glance my way. Well to do gentleman, widowers and respected servants alike. Long time bachelor's, who's eyes linger a touch too long on the length of my neck, the curve of shoulder. The way it dips down, past my collarbones towards someplace... interesting.

My crowd of young protectors DO NOT miss the looks.

Bristle like angry cats. Eye venomous and society smiles sharp enough too cut glass. There is a murder to their expression. A command to Look Away.

While you still have EYES.

"No, Mama." My daughter insists when I try to tell her she's wrong. That I am far from desirable. "I'm not letting go. Not EVER. We're FAMILY. And that means? That means you're MINE."

[loriache]

honestly i'm kind of interested in the idea of laios in an arranged marriage. because obviously straight-up inherited monarchies are ...bad, to say the least! but it's what the characters are familiar with (even laios' father's extremely local, extremely minor leadership role is inherited, presumably through the male line). and it isn't just about what they think the best way to run melini is; in terms of ensuring that the other longed-lived nations respect melini's continued sovereignty, having it passed down in a manner that's close enough to their own ways for them to understand it and respect it is important. And it seems like most of the other nations have leadership through inheritance - thought that isn't confirmed for certain except with the elves.

Also, a marriage carries the potential to establish foreign allies - something melini is certainly lacking. A marriage could come with resources they'll badly need, treaties of mutual defence, money, legitimacy and political capital... not that these things can't be worked around, but if laios isn't strongly opposed, there are a lot of advantages! and i don't think he would be, because that's the framework for marriage (conferring practical advantages, building intracommunity relationships and providing a partner to do important work that he can't do) that he had grown up with. he isn't exactly a romantic and I doubt he's holding out for any sort of relationship of that nature.

Like, I don't think it's impossible that they would go with this path, because it's the most obvious and it carries a lot of advantages and it's what almost all the decision-making characters would consider normal and not objectionable. and it could be so interesting.

I think Laios would have major hangups if expected (i.e., by Marcille) to establish a genuine, romantic interest in a woman. Whether because of his sexual or romantic orientation, or just his own deep-seated trauma about rejection and being inherently disgusting and scary. And I think he'd hate the idea of having kids, too, and be very frightened of being like his father. But I don't think he'd refuse on that basis; he could cope with a marriage contract, with clearly laid-out expectations and responsibilities. And when it came to having a kid, I think he'd be reluctant to express that he doesn't want to do it, because he isn't naive and he understood when he agreed to be king it would carry responsibilities like this. It's clear from his nightmare that he already felt pressure from his parents to have children, probably magnified by the fact his father has got a position, responsibilities and wealth to pass on. Obviously he isn't a perfect martyr, so he might struggle when it comes to actually going through with it - but I don't think he'd actually, outright refuse. I think he might do it even though he doesn't want to, and I think that could be really messy in a way that appeals to me.

I don't know, there's something about negotiating these kinds of complicated situations that's interesting to me. and i love a platonic marriage. If they find a woman who has an interest in education, for example, and can work with marcille on setting up schools and universities. she'd ideally be politically savvy enough to be an able partner to laios: even though kabru can and would continue to do a lot of that, there are different spheres that a queen and a prime minister can work within!

how would their relationship work? maybe she finds laios' perspective on the world, and his frankness, unexpectedly liberating after an extremely controlled, cloistered upbringing. maybe she had a rebellious phase, has magic, or something else which makes her a relatively unpopular candidate for marriage - even as melini grows in power, i doubt that they'd be getting offers for the cream of the crop in terms of perceived value on the marriage market, because laios' relationship is a bit too ambivalent/monstrous for that, and melini too new. maybe she's a widow! an older woman, wouldn't that be cool - though they'd want her young enough that she could definitely still have kids.

certainly i think he'd be happy for her to pursue other relationships, though ideally in a manner that couldn't produce illegitimate kids. with other relationships in play, that's even more interesting. like, both kabru and toshiro have complicated emotions relating to infidelity. i think kabru would actually find it quite cathartic to be in the kind of high-status environment that rejected his mother for perceived infidelity, pursuing an affair that all parties consent to, though he'd likely be incredibly aware of the public image - since "image" is what he was rejected for. toshiro... i just really really love the way he'd feel about being the "other woman" in laios' marriage, considering his feelings about his father and maizuru. especially given how much closer he is to maizuru than his mother, being in her position...! his emotions would be so complex, it's incredibly tasty. i bet he'd make a bunch of assumptions about how laios' wife feels about it and be totally wrong, and that's so interesting. also, i think laios' wife should fuck marcille (she and falin have an open relationship).

[1bibypersecond]

I just don’t get how they built such a beautiful connection between Viktor and Sky (or HexcoreSky, whatever you want to call her) in Acts 1 and 2, only to destroy it all in Episode 8 with a super rushed goodbye, and then give us a Viktor without humanity for just one episode (or half, really). And then, his "best friend" suddenly accepts him as he is when Sky had done that all along?

Like, if they were going to do that, they should’ve just written Sky out way earlier and let us have this no-humanity Viktor on screen for way longer. And don’t even get me started on the fandom. They don’t get that it was Ekko who saved Viktor, not Jayce. Ekko was the one stepping out of Viktor’s equation, not Jayce. Plus, in Season 1, the mage that gave Jayce the rune design was based on Ryze, so that whole Viktor Doctor Strange time-travel vibe in Episode 9 just felt... so bland. I’m over the whole time-travel trope—it’s so overused that it’s boring. I always knew Ekko would be the one to do it because that’s his whole character, but Viktor? Ugh, it felt like they were trying to wrap everything up way too quickly in the last episode, so they just threw in time-rewinding to make it all fit. Honestly, I rolled my eyes so hard when Viktor started his speech to Jayce about the different timelines. I was like, "Oh no, here we go."

Honestly, I get why League of Legends fans didn’t like Viktor’s rework. Mechanical Herald Viktor was way more tied to the social inequality conflict between Zaun and Piltover, something I was really hoping they’d explore in more depth. The new Viktor is much more connected to the arcane and magic, which is fine—I like cult-leader Viktor—but it loses that important conflict we saw in Season 1.

We were all excited to see Viktor’s final evolution, which lasted… half an episode? Why? Like I said, they could’ve written Sky out way earlier, given that her ending was so lackluster, and spent more time exploring this emotionless being. Maybe he was just too OP and they couldn’t keep his superpowers on-screen for too long without completely wrecking the world. I get that. Machine Viktor could’ve lasted longer because he wasn’t tied to those arcane powers.

I get it, the show is called Arcane, but the conflict between Zaun and Piltover made it feel so much more relatable. As someone from Latin America, watching how northern hemisphere countries pollute my country, dump their waste here, and have companies that destroy our environment (it's not like we don't do it to ourselves but it's still a form of oppression)—it’s a form of first-world oppression that I saw reflected in Season 1 of Arcane. But Season 2? It felt so distant. Magic isn’t real in real life, and yet Season 1 balanced magic so well that it still resonated with issues like social, economic, educational, and environmental oppression. Season 2, though, started to drift away from that. Sure, at first, you see more of that Zaun/Piltover conflict, especially with Caitlyn and the oppressive martial law (because yes, that’s literally a dictatorship). But then Jayce swoops in like, “Hey, we’ve got a bigger enemy, let’s team up,” and boom—Marvel finale.

Anyway, these are just some fever-induced thoughts I’ve been having. My ideal ending? Viktor slowly becoming Singed, like they hinted in Season 1 with that “I understand now” line. Viktor as the Herald, tucked away in a corner of Zaun like Singed, secretly helping people—not driven by feelings or morality, but by a greater good: helping those in need. Meanwhile, his humanity (Sky) tries to find him somewhere deep in his mind, ultimately leading to the creation of Blitzcrank. That’s what I thought we were getting. Instead, we got astral destruction and a bromance. Oh well, it is what it is.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Could I get an Hc for how the M6 would react to an Mc that finds out they used to eat a lot of weird creatures and monsters.

I may be obsessed with delicious in dungeon, but like maybe Mc got to try dragon meat and realized that despite it being an 'exotic' food, it tastes familiar. Only gets more surprised. The more weirder foods they end up trying that rnd up tasting familiar.

The Arcana HCs: M6 when MC eats monsters

Julian

From a scholarly point of view, he's actually quite interested in learning more and documenting your finds as medical research

Who knows what medicinal properties these creatures might contain that have gone previously ignored? You could find some miraculous cure or random medicine if you keep snacking your way through the monstrous ecosystem!

Then again, he'd be lying if he said that practice was just as easy as theory. He's pretty well traveled himself, but some of the things you seem so eager to dig into are just ... so ... off-putting

He'll push through with most things but he will draw the line at anything resembling a plague beetle. He was force-fed one of those once and he never wants to experience that again

(he'd never try to keep you from making your own decisions, but to say that watching you eat things resembling plague beetles doesn't turn his stomach and make him anxious would be a lie)

Still one of the best researchers you could have helping you

He's got the background to understand physical nutrients and the importance of a diverse diet - and he's plenty dedicated to you

Asra

They are even more enthusiastic than you are

Sometimes you wish you knew what his limits were, because if things keep going at the rate that they are you might find out that he doesn't even have any

Faust is not helping either - she can and will help distract you if you've finally come across something you're hesitant to try so Asra can sneak a mouthful without being caught

On the plus side, they've tried so many different cuisines already that they have plenty of ideas when it comes to figuring out how to cook something new - and spice combinations you wouldn't dare dream of on your own

He also happens to have plenty of tried-and-true remedies for food poisoning as well (wonder why he learned all of those ...) and is more than happy to share with you if things go south

Absurdly creative with the whole cooking process in general

Keeps trying to incorporate magic. This does occasionally backfire when the beast being cooked is also magical by nature, and the two don't mix as intended

Nadia

She's politely unconvinced, but still mildly invested

Is she personally interested in trying all manner of unconventional dishes? Sure, if it's a well-established recipe from a trustworthy source and contributes to her cultural education

Your recipes, darling MC, do not cleanly fit into that category

She'll still try some, but only after you've been able to replicate the dish multiple times to the point that it's reliably delicious and safe to eat. Otherwise, she'll happily pass her portion to you

However, once you do find a creature that can be reliably cooked as part of a nutritious diet, she is all ears

Do you know what the state of Vesuvia is right now? Any new food source is a welcome food source, especially if it's a resource that isn't being tapped into otherwise. Tell her more about its properties

Will work with you and other nutritionists, chefs, and civil engineers to find a way to introduce it to the populace so they can take advantage of it

Who knows? Maybe if it's popular enough, it can be purposefully cultivated and turned into a major food export ...

Muriel

Not remotely surprised by your habits, for multiple reasons

For starters, he spent his teens living with Asra. In the woods. Who do you think came up with all those natural remedies for food poisoning??? Not the kid picking every mushroom they saw!

Second of all, he lives off of the land himself. The reason his grocery list is so short is because he's learned to find most of his sustenance in the woods around him. You're just doing the same

Third of all (and most importantly) - if it's food, it's food. It's that simple

Will eat anything you hand him as soon as he knows it won't poison him, no hesitation in sight and no further questions asked

His only concern about the whole thing is sustainability. He knows firsthand what happens when something throws the delicate balance of an ecosystem out of whack and he wants to make sure that doesn't happen on accident because you're new to it

Never really stops to appreciate any of the good flavors at first, but eventually develops a palette for the different spices

Insanely good at assessing what kind of nutrients it'll have

Portia

Being an excellent chef herself, she doesn't see much point in eating mostly monster food once the initial excitement has worn off. It was fun for several meals, but now she wants bread

This does not change her general fascination with monsters or magical beasts in general, though, or her overall interest in helping you on your special monster cuisine endeavors

Share the monster facts - all the monster facts

Will work with you on putting together notebooks full of information on monster behaviors, nutritional values, hunting and preparation methods, and ideal flavor profiles

Unrivaled at giving good cooking advice. The meat's good to eat, but too tough? Marinate it in something acidic

It's too spongy to be a starch, but too starchy to be a vegetable? Try roasting or grilling it plain and putting sauce on top

Knows all about how to maximize the "scraps" so that nothing edible goes wasted, and knows how to do it in a way that still tastes good and fills you up

Curious enough to try most of it, smart enough to avoid poisoning

Lucio

Okay, okay, so he'll admit it - he does get squeamish (just a little bit) at the thought of eating the monsters that tried to kill him earlier and he's not particularly fond of revisiting the "eat or be eaten" mentality that was instilled in him as a small child

That said, he is curious

And he very much enjoys all the hunting (and bounties!) involved

You're telling him that he gets to chase down a rare beast, enjoy the thrill of conquering it and the bragging rights that entails, get paid for disposing of it, and then get a free meal after he forgets about it for a couple hours? Sign him up!

Just, uh. Just don't remind him what exactly he's eating if it's from one of the grosser monsters. Devouring a deadly ancient boar? Awesome! Devouring a worm monster? ... yeah, don't ruin it

Has no issues with putting more resources into what you're trying to do. It means free food, bragging rights about killing and eating monsters, and dinner not getting dull and boring

Will not-so-subtly feed anything he doesn't like to Mercedes and Melchior when he thinks you can't see him

[summertimeroses]

just came across a fic where aithusia is still a dragon but is disguised? can shapeshift? into a human form (smol child) with merlin as her father and now i’m obsessed with the idea of this dynamic, so consider:

- dragonlords all have dragon forms. merlin has a dragon form

- dragons all have human forms. kilgharrah as a man, bitter and cryptic and scarred from the purge, angry for being chained. aithusia, a young child, bone-white hair flowing long over her shoulders. her arms bend wrongly at the joints and tiny, paper-thin scars cover her body, from her time with the sarrum of amata

- there’s a distinction between the magic of dragons and the magic of dragonlords. the markings of dragons are different. their eyes in human form are all amber-gold, something in their teeth not-quite human. dragonlords are the natural leaders of the dragons, often more powerful in certain magics, especially in human form.

- in books of magical creatures and sorcery, dragons and dragonlords are put side by side, but categorised separately, for the difference in their appearance and abilities in magic. the sketches all show men with a beastly shadow, enormous and scaled and expressions set equally angry.

- the dragons are all kin, so culturally they all have a responsibility over the young. this counts doubly for dragonlords, protectors of the dragons. this makes merlin the natural guardian of aithusia.

- merlin, after rescuing her from the sarrum, returns to camelot with a tiny, fragile girl in his arms, bundled in rough blankets. the only explanation he gives is my daughter before he’s pushing past arthur to take her to gaius, get her injuries seen

- alternatively, merlin approaches arthur asking for time off to go retrieve his daughter, the same way he asked it for his mother. he’s pale and shaken but there’s a steel in his expression that arthur doesn’t know what to do with

- also, merlin sired a child. his manservant.

- there’s about a million different magic reveals in this. too many to list, but the ideas are exploding in my brain. arthur, clocking on to the fact that aithusia is so obviously a magical child. arthur, heartbroken that merlin didn’t trust him. arthur, initially scared of what he sees as a beast. arthur, in awe of the dragon form, realising the power merlin has.

- the angst of merlin trying to hide her magic in camelot when she’s such a powerful child. the angst of him bringing her to camelot and revealing her existence to arthur only to immediately make plans to send her away to someone trusted, maybe hunith, and arthur doesn’t understand what he means by ‘she’s not safe in camelot’ until he does.

- gwen being so gentle with her. arthur being scared to break her. leon picking her up and letting her curl into the crook of his neck as he carries her back from somewhere she’s wandered off to.

- all the knights being doting uncles (most especially gwaine)

- arthur learning of what the sarrum did to her and why, and rethinking his stance on magic. arthur thinking of all the magical children killed too young, first tortured or persecuted. thinks of all the fear and grief they did not deserve to carry.

- merlin educating arthur on magic after the reveal. taking him to lessons with aithusia to teach her control of her magic, the pair of them watching her fly free in her natural form in the woods for a while. her injuries are healing, slowly, with the help of gaius and merlin’s magic.

- mordred, despite merlin’s suspicions, working hard towards earning trust he isn’t sure how he lost, and starting with proving he can be trusted with aithusia. he is, admittedly, really good with her and she loves him, so merlin can’t completely begrudge it. it leads to conversations that change all their fates.

- aithusia’s first language being the tongue of the old religion. the language of spells. she knows not to speak to avoid getting caught (merrlin tried his best to explain) but once, she slipped up around arthur. all of them freezing, even though arthur knows. the guilt he feels at her terror.

- kilgharrah’s anger at camelot manifesting again somehow. an attack of some kind. arthur being confronted with the question of the magic ban repeal and how to balance keeping his people safe from magic and reparations for decades of the oppression of magic users.

the fic that fuelled this is called The Darkest Dawn by spacegirl7 and quite a lot of the above takes elements directly from the fic, so definitely go read and check it out, it’s so good. i have been thinking about it and its premise for days.

[zepskies]

Never Say Goodbye - Part 3

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (Rated M for eventual scenes – 18+)

Word Count: 4,500 Warnings: Language, fluff.

Part 3: Contact

As it turned out, your life started to get better after you missed that shift at the coffee shop.

Oh, you still got fired. But the experience of nearly getting splattered on the pavement by an oncoming truck gave you some unexpected clarity about your life.

Mainly, you needed to stop wasting it. You were tired of jobs that would pay your bills but not bring you closer to your career. And frivolous thoughts of coffee shop boys and…the hope of running into your soulmate.

Maybe one day, you could dare to hope, but from now on, you wouldn’t let it rule your thoughts. You wouldn’t hope too hard either.

It could save you from the disappointment of never hearing anyone’s thoughts but your own.

So you decided to check the University of South Dakota’s career board for jobs, and you discovered an opening in the history department! A research assistant for one of your favorite professors, who was writing their dissertation on the strange, superstitious, and sometimes down-right disgusting social practices of the Ancient Greeks (including bottling up the sweat of their best athletes, because they thought their musky body oils contained magical properties).

Since you were already majoring in history, you were a shoe-in for the job. And working directly with your professor gave you a great resource for future classes.

Four years later, you had earned your bachelor’s degree in History. You even decided to further your education when you were able to get a scholarship for graduate school.

Now you were just one semester away from finishing your master’s. You still worked in the history department, but you had been able to upgrade—to Executive Secretary to the Dean of Ancient Studies.

It sounded fancy, but really, you were a glorified slave. Or at least, your boss seemed to think so.

“I need you to cancel my meeting at two,” said Dr. Birch. She breezed into your tiny office without knocking, startling you from where you were hunched over your laptop.

“Good morning!” came your reflexive greeting, though it was a bit too loud and sharp. You internally winced at yourself and relaxed your posture, like a bird unruffling its feathers. “Cancel your meeting with Dr. Wells?”

Dr. Wells was a nice man, and an important one. He was the Head Dean of the entire History department. Technically, he was above Dr. Birch. It wasn’t a good look to blow him off, but you weren’t about to say so.

“Yes, I have an important lunch, and I already know it’s going to go overtime. Gary will understand,” she replied. She was looking at her phone rather than at you. For all she cared, you were just a calendar with hands.

Dr. Helen Birch was a brilliant woman. She’d published no less than five books, had won awards for her peer-reviewed articles, and she had been your academic advisor all through graduate school.

She could also rival Meryl Streep for “bitchy-ass boss” in The Devil Wears Prada.

“I also need you to grade the final exams for one of my classes,” she said. “Greek Studies this time.”

You held back a sigh. Again? I’ll never finish my own finals at this rate.

But what you said was, “Sure, I can do that. And I’ll email Dr. Wells to reschedule.”

“Yes, make sure it’s not on Thursday,” she said, brushing a finger through her thin blonde hair. “I have to leave early to get my roots touched up before I go away this weekend.”

“That’s fun,” you chatted while you revised Dr. Birch’s calendar on your computer (and sent an apology email to Dr. Wells). “Where to?”

“Oh, I have this tedious conference in Chicago. But then my boyfriend is taking me skiing in Breckenridge.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I simply can’t wait. This semester has been a drain on my psyche, and just terrible for my migraines.”

With the email sent, you took a little breath and gathered some courage as you got up from your desk and gathered a handful of papers you had stapled together. It was a rough draft of your thesis, which was only a bit worse for wear (including a suspect coffee stain that you didn’t remember accidentally putting there).

“Actually, I was going to ask you if you got my email about my thesis. I just wanted to go over some of the feedback you gave me on the draft,” you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

Dr. Birch raised a brow. “What of it?”

“Well.” You showed her the front page, which was covered in red ink. “Mainly the part where you crossed out the first three pages and commented, ‘Missing the point.’”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid I have nothing to add about that.”

Well, that didn’t exactly help you. The first three pages was your entire introduction to your thesis, “TV & Film: The Modern-Day Mythology of the Masses.”

You must’ve had a pitiful, lost look on your face, because Dr. Birch finally took pity on you. She sighed.

“You are a creative girl. I’ll give you that, but your degree is not in cinematography. You are a historian,” she said. “And while the ‘Well of Souls’ in Raiders of the Lost Ark may be based on a real historical place in Jerusalem, that does not mean Indiana Jones can, or should be described as a ‘religious experience.’”

My ten-year-old self would bed to differ, you wanted to retort, but you kept your mouth shut and lowered your eyes. Dr. Birch nodded to herself and was about to leave your office, until she stopped short and gave you her Amex card.

“Oh. And get me a coffee, would you, dear?”      

The moment your day ended and you were able to get into your car, you let out a long sigh of relief. While you waited for your car to warm up, you massaged your hand, aching from grading papers for Dr. Birch’s class.

You rubbed your hands together, this time to warm them as the frigid air draining from the car still bit into your skin. A shudder tingled through your body, and not in a pleasant way. Honest to God, I hate the winter.

On reflex, you toyed with the silver ring on your right hand—your mom’s ring. It usually comforted you, but today, remembering her made your heart heavy. Because today was the anniversary. 

You still remembered that snowy day when you were fourteen, could picture it so clearly, like a scene painted on glass.

With one last sigh, you fished out your phone to call your dad. It rang for a few seconds (it always took him an eternity to answer his phone, and it drove you crazy).

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad,” you said.

“Hey. Just got off work?”

“Yeah, I’m headed back to Sioux Falls. Want to meet at home and go together, or do you just want to meet me at the cemetery?”

The other line was silent for a moment. Longer than you would’ve liked.

“You’re coming, right?” you pressed.

“Look, I’m gonna have to work late tonight,” Jack said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Really?” Your voice was terse. “It’s one day a year, Dad. You can’t even manage that?”

“I told you I’m working a case.” He sounded annoyed. You didn’t care.

You were pissed.

“Whatever,” you dismissed. But then, you realized you weren’t willing to let it go just yet. “You know, I just find it interesting. On her birthday, Christmas, today, somehow you just can’t be bothered to visit your wife.”

“Hey, drop it, all right?” your dad snapped back.

“Sure. It’s none of my business, I guess.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm either.”

You silently fumed, but you weren’t willing to hang up the phone first. You didn’t want to look petty, and apparently, neither did he. You both could be stubborn like that, sitting in a tense stretch of silence instead of just…

Instead of just, I don’t know what, you could admit, if only to yourself. Eventually, his voice reached your ears.

“I’ll go when I can,” he said.

“Fine.”

And you really did hang up this time.

What should’ve been an hour drive back into your hometown took almost two with the traffic.

Oh yeah, you still lived at home with your dad. It wasn’t ideal, especially with a long-ass commute every day. But unfortunately, being a full-time student with a part-time job didn’t give you the budget to have your own life.   

At least you had your car—a dark blue Camaro your uncle had restored and gifted you for your twenty-first birthday. You didn’t talk to your Uncle Bobby as much as you would like. Between work and school and taking care of the house for you and your dad, you didn’t have much free time on your hands. You did see Bobby around town sometimes, and occasionally shared a beer with him when your demanding schedule allowed.

Your dad had never liked it, you hanging around your uncle. So you didn’t tell him.

That seemed to work out better for both of you.

In fact…

You reached for your phone again and found your uncle’s number.

“Stop badgering me, Rufus. I’m busy.”

Your lips curved into a grin. “Uncle Bobby?”

“Oh. Hi, darlin’. Sorry, thought you were some riff raff that keeps spammin’ me.”

“What did Rufus do now?” you asked.

“He knows,” Bobby said. The surly edge to his voice made you smile in amusement.

“What’re you doing later? Up for a beer?”

“Usually I’d take you up on that, but I’ve got some people coming in pretty soon.”

You scoffed. “You have people? What people?”

“You’re not the only number in my cell, you know,” he said dryly.

“What, you mean Rufus?” you teased.

“All right, now you’re just runnin’ up my minutes,” he said. “If you really want that beer, you’re welcome to swing by, if you want. I’ve got a stocked fridge full of cold ones.”

You laughed, then you considered his offer. Did you really want to go home and deal with your dad (whenever he bothered to come home)?

“Well, I’m going to the cemetery first, but I could maybe swing by after,” you replied.

“Right, that’s today, ain’t it?” Bobby said. “Give your mom my respects.”

A more genuine smile grew on your lips. “Thanks. Will do.”

You hung up with him just as you got to the cemetery. It was hard not to feel melancholy here, especially in the winter. All the graves were lightly dusted with snow, and it felt like the world came to a quiet stillness here.

You bundled up with your scarf and gloves as you braced yourself for the cold, stepping out of the car. On your way in, you heard the rumble of a car going by. It was loud enough to make you turn your head and see a flash of black speeding away.

You shook your head. People drive like maniacs nowadays.

You were about to continue on your way towards your mom’s grave, when you finally heard it.

Say goodbyeee…never say goodbye-y-aaayy. Holdin’ on we gotta try, holdin’ on to never sayyy goodbyeee.~

Someone was warbling a Bon Jovi song in your mind, and it certainly wasn’t you.

But you did come to a dead stop in your path. Your eyes widened as shock claimed your heart and your brain. Soon enough though, your heart warmed as you became aware of something new. It was like a low hum at first, reverberating inside your chest.

You and me and my old friends, hopin’ it would neeever end. Say goodbye—

The singing continued, but all you could focus on was the thrumming in your skull, the thread of connection you could sense and feel inexplicably. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt warmth trickling down your cold cheeks. Sniffling, you wiped your tears with the back of your hand and smiled tremulously.

You were finally feeling your soulmate.

Which meant, he was close by…and with that realization came an important question:

What the hell do I do now?

They were in South Dakota again.

Dean knew coming back here was…potentially dangerous. He hadn’t heard his soulmate’s thoughts in four years, since the last time he was in this state.

Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to come here. After the last hunt though, he could use some R&R at Bobby’s for a couple of days.

This time Dean had his brother with him, albeit the circumstances weren’t…great. Their dad was missing, and Sam had lost his girlfriend in the process of trying to find him.

Sometimes, Dean really regretted going to find his brother at Stanford. Part of him thought, if he hadn’t hooked Sam into coming with him to try and find John, maybe Jessica Moore would still be alive.

A more selfish part of him (one he wouldn’t name) was glad to have Sam with him. Dean was actually having fun hunting with him. And maybe, Dean was having to get to know him again too.

“You think Bobby will have any intel on Dad?” Sam asked from the passenger seat of the Impala. They were about five minutes away from Singer Salvage, the old man’s tow business (and his house).

“Doubt it,” Dean replied, changing the radio station once Bon Jovi turned to REO Speedwagon. He could get down with some pop rock from Jovi, but REO was pushing it.

“Then why are we here?” Sam turned to him with a frown. “We just ganked a poltergeist in our old house and…we saw Mom. You think we should be wasting time right now?”

Dean’s lips pursed. Leaving their old house behind in Lawrence, Kansas was exactly why he needed a minute before jumping into the next case. As much as he wanted to find John, Dean just…he needed a minute to breathe.

Revisiting those old (painful) memories wasn’t easy for him. He wasn’t sure that Sam completely got that.

“Bobby’s got a stack of lore books to Kingdom Come. Who knows, he might have a way to help us find Dad,” he said.

Sam shot him an unimpressed look. “And if he doesn’t?”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He got why Sam was so fired up. Really. The fact that the kid was having weird…premonition dreams about the near future was concerning. And he wanted to find the thing that killed Jess, that killed their mom, but this was clearly going to be a marathon. Not a sprint.

“In the meantime, we crack open a couple beers,” Dean said, “get one or two of free nights on actual beds, and then we’re on our way to the next gig. How’s that sound?”

Sam let out a sigh through his nose and faced the road ahead. They both knew he wasn’t happy. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him.

When they finally got to Bobby’s, the old man greeted them with a casual wave, beckoning them inside. He offered them the contents of his fridge—a few beers and a frozen lasagna defrosting in the fridge. Dean scoped it out while Sam dropped off his bag in the upstairs guest room.

“That for us?” Dean pointed to the lasagna with a grin. “Didn’t know we merited the red-carpet treatment.”

“’Cause it’s not just for you,” Bobby said dryly, then he hesitated. “...My niece might be swingin’ by later.”

Dean raised his brows in curiosity. “Didn’t know you had a niece.”

Or any family, for that matter. He knew the old man had a wife, once upon a time, but he assumed she’d passed away. No kids. Bobby had never talked about having an extended family. He didn’t have pictures on the walls, and the shelves only had books and locked boxes.

Bobby took a long sip of his beer after opening a bottle each for himself and Dean. He had one ready on the counter for Sam, who came into the kitchen looking tired. The kid hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few weeks, to say the least. Dean handed him the beer.

“I don’t see her much,” Bobby conceded.

“Why’s that?” Dean asked.

It took a moment for the other man to answer. Eventually, he was honest. “Well, she's grown. Going to school, got a job. But you could say I had a fallin’ out with her dad, a while back.”

“You have a brother?” Sam said.

“Brother-in-law,” Bobby corrected. He didn’t say anything more about it though. Sam and Dean shared a look that said they agreed: There’s something off there, but I’m not gonna pry.

“You still see her though?” Dean asked.

“Every now and then,” Bobby said, sipping at his beer again. “It’s a small town.”

That kind of pissed Dean off. Bobby was a good guy. He’d watched Sam and Dean a lot when they were kids, their dad on a hunt. He’d made sure they had decent food to eat, good movies to watch, and even played catch with Dean a time or two.

So what kind of assholes did Bobby have for family, that they couldn’t be bothered to check in on the old man every now and then? They must’ve been off living their lives, in their own little world. Must be nice.

Dean brought the bottle of Heineken to his lips, only to realize it was empty. Couldn’t have that, could we?

He went to the fridge and opened the cap, only to jump as the beer fizzed and leaked over his hands.

Damn it!

Bobby sighed. “And I just mopped the damn floor.”

“All right, Martha Stewart. Keep your slippers on,” Dean teased. “Sam, get me a paper towel.”

Bobby tried to get by him to get the mop, but beer was still dripping down Dean’s arm.

“Would you move to the sink, already?”

Sam finally cracked a small grin as Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. Jesus. You’d think Miss America was comin’ into town.”

Damn it.

You heard him again. And this time, you could hear his voice, so you knew the thought belonged to a him. The voice was pleasantly deep, and annoyed. You actually felt his irritation and were able to recognize that the emotion didn’t belong to you.

Excitement bubbled in your throat, almost making it hard to breathe as you drove your car down the road. You had been too worked up to go see your mom, and technically you were supposed to head to your Uncle Bobby’s house, but this was too important.

You needed to figure out how to talk to him—your soulmate.

So you pulled over on the side of the road, and even turned the radio off. Okay, now what?

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do. They taught about this subject in school, sure, but that had been years ago! You’d spent the past six years filling your head with college and work and learning how to be an adult.

Okay, just breathe. You calmed down a bit with some deep breaths, and you closed your eyes. When you first heard your soulmate’s singing in your head, you remembered feeling warmth spread through your body, emanating from your chest. Then in your mind, you’d noticed a…a thread, of what could only be described as energy.

You felt it now. You could almost visualize it with your eyes closed. In your imagination, it was bright and beckoning. You focused on it, and it grew brighter, thrumming and soft.

You thought of what you wanted to say, and you tried it—sending your thoughts and your will through the connection.

Having a rough day?

Dean was still wiping beer off the floor in Bobby’s kitchen when he heard your voice ring through his mind.

Having a rough day?

His entire body tensed, and he paused with a ball of wet paper towel in his hand. Sam had taken the mop from Bobby and was about to finish off the floor, until he noticed Dean blanking.

“Dean?” he asked.

It shook Dean out of his shock, enough for him to look up at his brother. “Hmm?”

“What’s up? You were staring off into space.”

Dean feigned innocence. “Nothing.”

Sam’s brow rose, but he didn’t press the issue and went back to mopping. Dean took the opportunity to toss the wet paper towel in the garbage.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” he said, and made his swift exit to the bathroom upstairs, so quickly that he didn’t see Bobby watching Dean curiously from the living room.

“Don’t use up all the hot water!” Sam called after him.

Once again, Dean found himself locking the bathroom door and staring at himself in the mirror. His green eyes were conflicted as he tried to calm down. Maybe his heart was starting to beat a tick faster. Maybe a trickle of nervous sweat was making its way down his spine. Maybe he didn’t know what the hell to do.

His dad’s warning was still clear as a bell in his mind.

“Unless you’re prepared to hang up your gun, and stop hunting, don’t open that door.”

Dean knew why John had said it, and even agreed with him…at least, logically he did. His life was complicated, and insane, and bloody. How could he put someone else through what he went through? What he still went through every day? It wasn’t right.

But his chest was aching. He rubbed at it absently.

He could feel your worry again, he realized. You were anxious, probably waiting for him to respond. Dean could feel you. Having a rough day? you’d asked him.

So as usual, he made an impulsive choice.

You could say that, he carefully replied. He remembered the way your voice sounded, smooth and pleasant in his mind, and he couldn’t help smiling a little. But not for long, I’m thinkin’.

Your relief hit him in a slow, but powerful wave. It almost made him feel guilty for taking so long to answer.

Well, it’s not every day you hear someone else in your head. Maybe you’re going crazy.

She was teasing him. You were teasing him.

It brought an incredulous smile to Dean’s face. You’re one to talk. Maybe you’re just talkin’ to yourself right now.

Hmm. I don’t usually warble to Bon Jovi, but maybe you’re right.  

A beat of surprise, another to remember what he and Sam had been listening to in the car earlier, and then embarrassment prickled at the back of his neck.

You heard that, huh? he asked wryly.

Maybe, you giggled. It was a cute sound, and it cut through some of his embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being put back a step by women. He was good at reading people’s body language, and usually it didn’t take him more than one look to figure out what a woman thought about him, and what they wanted to do with him.

So the fact that he couldn’t see you was a challenge. With that realization, a slow smile spread across his face. He was game for a challenge.

Well, I’m likin’ your voice so far, he said. Think I could get you to sing for me?

He felt you pause, a flutter of warmth through a tendril of shyness. I’ll leave the performing to you, Romeo.   

Come on, it’s only fair.

Who said life is fair?

Dean sobered a bit at that. Ain’t that the truth.

Hmm, so you were having a rough day.

Make it a week, he said.

Yeah, I know the feeling…I wasn’t having a good day today either.

Dean sensed your melancholy and didn’t like the feeling. Well, now you’re talkin’ to me. So it should be smooth sailin’ from now on.

He could feel you brighten at that. It made warmth bloom once again inside his chest, especially because he sensed you were smiling—a bit shy, but genuine.  

…What’s your name? he asked.

It took you a beat, but eventually you gave him your name. It wasn’t what he expected, but he liked it. Your name rolled through his thoughts, and he tested on his tongue.

What’s yours? you asked predictably. Somehow, Dean didn’t anticipate the follow-up.

Suddenly he realized exactly what he was doing: he was talking to you. (Something he’d told himself he wasn’t going to do.) Not to mention, he’d been locked in the bathroom for about ten minutes and hadn’t even showered yet. Pretty soon either Sam or Bobby was going to come knocking to see what the hell he was doing, so he might as well shower for real.

He answered you as he turned on the showerhead and started undressing. I’ll make a deal with you…if you can guess what I do for a living, I’ll come by and introduce myself in person.

Dean felt your shock, so he let you think as he stepped into the shower. Eventually you came back, annoyance coloring your emotions and your voice.

That’s stupid.

Dean smiled. Aw, come on. It’ll be fun.

For you!

Don’t you know, sometimes the best things in life come after some delayed gratification.

You paused for a moment, in which Dean didn’t know if you were in shock again, or just pissed. Maybe a combination of both.

Great, I got a comedian, you deadpanned. …You’re not a comedian, are you?

Sweetheart, I’m hilarious, Dean replied. But no. Good guess, though.

He sensed the equivalent of you rolling your eyes.

Just then, Sam knocked on the bathroom door.

“Hey, you better not use up all the hot water!”

“Twenty minutes of peace, Sammy. That’s all I ask,” Dean shot back. Sam made a sound of annoyance, but he went away, leaving Dean almost alone with his thoughts.

Look, I gotta go, he said regretfully. But I expect you to have some guesses cooked up by the time I get back from work.

You were still annoyed, but you begrudgingly agreed to his terms.

Fine. Just…don’t wander too far off. I can’t win the game if I can’t hear you.

Dean sensed your underlying worry, and your fear. You were afraid he was going to leave.

His heart softened. As a result, he ended up promising things he didn’t know if he meant.

Don’t worry. I’m not leaving town until you win, he said.

He felt your warm smile, along with your excitement.

Goodnight, sweetheart. We’ll talk soon.

Okay…goodnight.

He hung onto the feeling of your presence for a few seconds longer, before he let go of the connection. For now.

Dean caught himself smiling, but it quickly turned to a frown.

“Nobody should be waiting on men like us to come home bloody.”

When he once again remembered his dad’s warnings, that new warmth in his heart chilled, and it sunk like a stone. He leaned against the cool bathroom wall and pressed his forehead against the tile, while lukewarm water beat the side of his face and body.

Shit.

AN: Oh, Dean. What're we gonna do with you? lol

I hope you enjoyed Part 3! I promise they'll finally meet soon lol. What did you think of their first conversation?

To keep reading: Part 4

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[leiawritesstories]

The Princess & The Warrior

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 15: What if? and Day 30: Alternate Canon @rowaelinscourt

Ending Rowaelin Month with a little bit of a bang 🤭 What if...Rowan and Aelin's powers were swapped, giving Aelin ice and Rowan fire? And the alternate canon is that Rowan comes to Terrasen to train Aelin teehee

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: some swearing, sparring/fighting, big surprises ehehe

enjoy!!!!!

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

Dressed in her usual training uniform of fitted pants, loose belted tunic, and flexible-soled boots, Aelin tossed her braid over her shoulder and raised her arms above her head, loosening the muscles in her shoulders. She paced back and forth across the packed dirt ground of the training courtyard, trying her best not to spiral into self-doubt at the thought of this new phase of her training. 

A few weeks ago, her parents had informed her that they were in the process of bringing over a Fae tutor for her from Doranelle, where most of the immortal Fae lived. Queen Sellene Whitethorn, a longtime ally of Terrasen, was known for her dedication to training magic-wielders, and when Rhoe and Evalin had discovered that their daughter’s powers were far more vast than anticipated, their first thought had been to reach out to Doranelle. Aelin’s tutors from Rifthold, as educated as they were, only had experience training people with ordinary levels of magic. 

Not since Brannon Galathynius had there been a wielder of her caliber. 

And it terrified the shit out of her. 

Almost unconsciously, Aelin formed a razor-sharp blade of ice in her left hand, the exact same size and weight as the sword in her right hand but made of magic rather than steel. She went through the familiar motions of her warm-up movements, focusing on her breathing to feel the way that her body shifted and moved over the dirt. With the fluid swoops of her blades, she trailed a pattern of glittering snowflakes through the humid summer air. 

“Good form.” A male voice, calmly measured in a way that could only come from centuries of life experience, sounded from the far side of the courtyard. 

She turned around, dropping both swords to hang loosely at her sides, and waited as a Fae male a good seven inches taller than her with corded muscles lining the breadth of his shoulders tucked back his hood and strode—no, prowled—across the courtyard towards her. “You must be the new tutor.” 

His nostrils flared briefly, and his lips tightened into a flat line. “You can call me Rowan.” 

Her eyes widened slightly as she put together the details—the name, the green eyes and silver hair, the tattoos scrolling down half his face and the length of his arm, the handles of the hatchets strapped to his belt. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn, hmm? I wouldn’t have expected Queen Sellene to send one of her relatives all the way to Terrasen.” 

Rowan snorted softly. “Apparently, there’s a princess in Terrasen who can’t control the depth of her magic.” He ran a critical gaze up and down Aelin’s form. “That would be you, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.” 

“Just Aelin is fine.” 

“Whatever you say, princess.” Without further warning, Rowan launched a blade of blue flame at Aelin’s face. 

She whipped her ice sword out, just barely managing to deflect it. “What in the hells?!” 

Fire ignited around his left fist, a short dagger appearing in his right. “Welcome to training, princess. I thought you already had some.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. 

“Maybe I’m deliberately keeping my guard down.” She flicked her fingers, propelling a burst of tiny, sharp-edged ice crystals towards his smug face with a winter breeze. 

Bored, he cast a shield of orange flame, easily fending off her attack. “Maybe those idiot tutors of yours couldn’t teach you anything but crude basics.” 

“Hmm, I suppose modern training does seem crude to you in your old age.” Smirking, she coiled a wind around his left leg and tugged hard, throwing him off balance. 

Faster than she thought possible, faster than he had any right to be, he punched her. 

She’d barely even seen him move. 

“Asshole,” she snarled. She shook the blurriness from her eyes and hurled a fist at his thigh, engaging him in hand-to-hand combat. Rapidly melting her ice sword into a solid glove around her left hand, she kicked a knife out of her boot and swiped at Rowan, who batted off her attacks as if she were nothing more than an untrained recruit. His technique was precise and vicious and brutal, honed by centuries of training with the Fae legions of Doranelle, and Aelin felt her strength rapidly flagging as she strained to block his relentless jabs and punches and bursting bites of flame. 

“Shift, princess,” he ordered. “You have more strength and stamina as a Fae.” 

“If you’d give me a godsdamn minute, I could,” she panted. 

He shook his head and kicked the back of her knee. “In battle, you won’t have a godsdamn minute. You think an enemy is going to stop so you can fucking shift?” 

She swore angrily at him and whipped her knee up, hitting him squarely in the groin. He wheezed and doubled over, and she had just enough time to gather her depleted strength and shift into her Fae form. With her enhanced senses, she saw his knife slipping towards her, and she managed to deflect it just before the blade could nip at her skin. 

“Better,” he murmured, and he unleashed a furious barrage of punches that had her head spinning as she fought off the strikes that came from every angle. A coil of fire snaked up her leg, and she snuffed it with a breath of icy wind, only to find Rowan’s leg hooked behind her stabilizing leg, jerking in a twisting motion that sent her tumbling to the packed dirt. 

“That’s cheating,” she gasped, flinging a handful of dirt into his face. 

He hissed, and faster than she could see, he held the edge of his knife to her throat. “Yield.” 

As covertly as she could, she gathered a handful of snow above his head, and she grunted, straining to break free of his hold, as she dumped that snow down his back. 

He jerked at the shock of the cold, and the edge of the blade grazed her skin. Tiny pricks of blood welled up on the knife’s edge. “First blood is mine.” He withdrew the knife and stood up, holding out his tattooed hand to help her to her feet. She stood up reluctantly, brushing the dirt off of her clothes, and he went to wipe his knife on his tunic when he scented the blood on the blade. 

And he froze dead in his tracks. 

“No,” he whispered, shock bared on his face. “It can’t be.” 

Aelin seized the chance to slice the tip of her dagger across his fingertip, as his free hand was hanging loose, and the scent of his blood on her knife crashed into her with the force of a blizzard. 

Mate. 

This ancient, rude, insufferable male…was her mate. 

“Impossible,” she breathed, echoing his stunned silence. She was only twenty-four, and although she knew from her family’s Fae heritage that she would eventually Settle, she’d never given any thought to the idea that she might have a mate. Royalty married for prestige, not for any other reason. 

His face shuttered. “This changes nothing.” 

“Wrong.” She folded her arms across her chest, defiance blazing in her eyes. “This changes everything. I don’t care how terrified either of us are, you don’t get to use this as an excuse to leave.” 

“I wasn’t…” Rowan bit back his words. “It might not be the best idea for me to train you.” 

“Bullshit,” Aelin scoffed. “Queen Sellene clearly chose you for a reason. Certainly you can manage to teach me the control you think I lack without letting any of your damn territorial Fae instincts get in the way.” 

To her utter shock, his lips twitched upwards into something resembling a smirk. “What the hell would you know about ‘territorial Fae instincts,’ princess?” 

“I’m Fae too, you know.” Bitterness clogged her throat, the anguished screams of the one she couldn’t save echoing through her mind. “I can be incredibly protective.” 

He must have read the hollowness in her eyes. “All right. I’ll stay.” 

“Good, then you’re not a coward.” 

“One condition, though.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh?” 

He sighed, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath. “We cannot tell anyone.” 

“Why in the hells would I want to?” She tucked her knife back down the side of her boot. “You have been here for all of a day, and the last time I let someone into my heart, he died.” She whirled on her heel and left, her footfalls like thunderclaps in the suddenly silent courtyard. 

And Rowan could only stare, shell-shocked, an unidentified emotion beginning to stir in his heart.

~~~

TAGS:

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[elvisslittleegypt]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄, 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐄𝐆𝐘𝐏𝐓

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 : Elvis Presley x FEM!Reader

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 : "Kiss me Little Egypt" follows Y/N, a bold and confident showgirl at the Moulin Rouge in 1950s Paris, known for her mesmerizing belly dancing. When Elvis Presley visits the city during his military service, he is captivated by her performance. As their worlds collide, a passionate and complicated romance unfolds, challenging both their independence and their desires, set against the backdrop of fame, judgment, and self-discovery.

You were born in a room barely big enough to fit a bed, let alone a future. Your mother brought you into the world without a doctor’s help, the city of Paris humming faintly outside the window. There was no father by her side—there hadn’t been since the day he learned she was pregnant and walked out the door. She never spoke of him, and you never asked. You learned early that some wounds were best left closed.

She named you Y/N, a simple, beautiful name she hoped would open doors for you that had always been shut for her. Your mother worked morning and night, scrubbing floors and stitching gowns for women who would never know her name. Every franc she earned, she put toward keeping you fed, clothed, and educated. She wanted you to have the kind of life she could only dream of.

But you had other dreams—dreams you never told her about until the day they spilled out into the open.

You were fifteen when it happened. The small apartment was hot, the air thick with the smell of fabric and sweat as your mother worked on a dress for a wealthy client. The radio played faintly in the background, and you, restless as ever, began to move. Your hips swayed to the rhythm, your stomach muscles contracting and releasing with a control you didn’t know you had. It wasn’t the kind of dancing you’d seen in the movies; it was something else, something entirely your own.

Your mother stopped what she was doing and stared at you, her hands still clutching the fabric. You thought she might scold you, tell you to stop wasting time. But instead, she laughed—a deep, tired laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“You move like Little Egypt,” she said, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

You didn’t know what she meant, not at first. The name sounded strange, almost silly. But later that night, as you sat cross-legged on the floor, she told you the story.

Little Egypt, she explained, was a woman who had become a legend. She was a dancer who had shocked and enchanted audiences at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Her movements were unlike anything people had ever seen—hips swaying, stomach undulating, arms weaving through the air like silk. Some called it scandalous, others called it mesmerizing, but everyone remembered it.

The real Little Egypt wasn’t just a dancer; she was a force. She made people stop and look, made them question what was beautiful, what was art, what was possible. No one knew her real name, and the mystery only added to her power.

Your mother had heard the story when she was a girl, and she never forgot it. When she saw you dance, she saw a piece of that same magic—a raw, undeniable talent that couldn’t be taught, only felt. From that day on, she called you Little Egypt, as though naming you after the legend would make you one, too.

At first, you thought it was just a nickname, something your mother said to make you smile. But as the years passed, the name began to feel like a challenge, a promise you were determined to keep. You danced every chance you got, even when no one was watching, even when it felt like the world refused to see you.

Because the real Little Egypt had once been unknown, too. She had once been just a woman with a dream, moving to the rhythm of something no one else could hear. And if she could become a legend, then maybe, just maybe, so could you.

But names alone didn’t make legends, and life in Paris wasn’t kind to girls like you. You grew up in the shadows of grandeur, surrounded by people who lived for art, beauty, and decadence—but only if they could afford it. You couldn’t. Your mother worked herself to the bone to provide you with an education, enough food to keep you growing, and clothes that made you look like you belonged in a better world.

Still, that better world never came. No matter how many nights your mother worked late, no matter how many times you told yourself you’d make her sacrifices worth it, the doors of opportunity stayed locked. And when you told her that you wanted to dance—not just for fun, but as your life’s calling—her tired face twisted with worry.

“People don’t respect dancers,” she warned you. “They’ll try to take from you, not give.”

But she didn’t stop you. She never once told you to quit. Maybe she saw the fire in your eyes, the same fire that had driven her to fight for a better life for you. Or maybe she simply didn’t have the strength to fight you on something that made you so undeniably happy.

At first, you danced in secret. You’d find quiet corners of the city to practice—empty alleys in Châtelet, abandoned courtyards at Art et Métiers, anywhere no one would bother you. Your movements were awkward at first, but you didn’t care. You felt alive in those moments, your body becoming a vessel for something bigger than yourself.

When you finally worked up the courage to perform for others, it wasn’t on a grand stage or in a glamorous cabaret. It was in small cafés and backroom gatherings in Belleville, places where the air was thick with smoke and the sound of clinking glasses. You didn’t have costumes or music at first, just your bare feet and the rhythm you carried inside you.

The audiences were small, and they weren’t always kind. You learned quickly that people didn’t see you for what you were. They saw a poor girl with bold movements, a girl trying too hard to stand out. They laughed, mocked you, dismissed you.

But you kept going.

Every insult, every rejection, every door slammed in your face—they only made you work harder. You spent hours perfecting your movements, studying the way your hips could sway, the way your stomach could ripple like water, the way your arms could tell a story all on their own. You experimented with costumes, sewing beads and coins onto scarves and skirts, anything to add that extra sparkle, that extra sound.

Your mother watched it all in quiet amazement. She still worried, but there was pride in her eyes when she called you Little Egypt. To her, you weren’t just a girl chasing a dream—you were creating something entirely your own.

By the time you were eighteen, your name had started to spread, though not as widely as you’d hoped. Small-time patrons and bar owners began to recognize you. They’d ask, “Is Little Egypt performing tonight?” and pay you just enough to keep you coming back. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

And then came the Moulin Rouge.

The grandest cabaret in Paris, its name was spoken with a mix of awe and envy. It was a place where only the best performed, where the lights were brighter, the costumes were finer, and the crowds were harder to please. You’d walked past it countless times, staring at the red windmill and imagining yourself on its stage. But you never dared to think it could actually happen.

Until one day, it did.

It wasn’t easy. You had to fight for every inch of ground, auditioning over and over again, proving yourself to people who thought you were too young, too inexperienced, too different. But eventually, your persistence paid off. The manager gave you a chance—a single performance to see if you could hold your own.

That night, as you stepped onto the stage for the first time, you felt the weight of every rejection, every doubt, every sacrifice your mother had made for you. The lights blinded you, the music filled your ears, and the crowd waited with bated breath.

And then you danced.

The moment your hips began to sway, the room changed. The murmurs stopped, the laughter quieted, and every eye was on you. You weren’t just a dancer anymore—you were Little Egypt, a force of nature, a girl who had carved her name into the heart of Paris with nothing but her will and her talent.

That night, you made them see you.

But deep down, you knew this was only the beginning.

By the time you turned twenty-one, your life looked nothing like it had when you were a little girl. The cramped apartment where you were born still stood, but you and your mother no longer lived there. You’d moved to a slightly larger place—still modest, but warm, comfortable. It had enough room for her sewing machine and your growing collection of costumes, and most importantly, it felt like home.

The money you earned from dancing wasn’t enough to make you rich, but it was enough to live. Enough to give your mother the rest she deserved after a lifetime of working for everyone but herself.

“You’ve done more for me than I could have ever imagined,” she told you one evening, as you returned home from a performance. Her hands, once worn from endless work, rested idly in her lap now. She no longer needed to sew dresses or scrub floors. You made sure of that.

At twenty-one, you were more than just Little Egypt. You were a name people whispered about in the streets of Paris, a performer who could command a room with nothing but the sway of your hips and the fire in your eyes. You were bold, confident, fearless. And that was what people couldn’t handle.

“They say you’re not acting like a proper girl,” your mother said one night, her voice quiet but firm. “That you’re... too much.”

You laughed bitterly. You’d heard the whispers yourself. She moves like a woman but behaves like a man. Too arrogant for her own good. A girl should know her place.

They said you were shameless for the way you danced, for the way you held your head high, for the way you refused to bow to anyone. They called you bold like it was an insult, as though your confidence was something to be ashamed of.

But you didn’t care. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Let them talk, you thought. Let them say whatever they want. None of it could change the fact that you were the one onstage, the one people paid to see, the one who had clawed her way out of the shadows and into the spotlight. They didn’t know what it had taken to get here.

They didn’t know how many nights you’d spent dancing in cramped spaces, your feet blistered and your body aching. They didn’t know about the insults you’d endured, the countless times people had dismissed you, laughed at you, told you you’d never make it.

But here you were. And they couldn’t take that away from you.

Still, the words stung sometimes. Late at night, when the city was quiet and the glow of the Moulin Rouge felt like a distant memory, you’d think about what they said. You’d wonder if they were right, if you were too bold, too much, too... different.

But then you’d remember your mother’s voice, the way she’d called you Little Egypt with so much pride in her eyes. You’d remember the story of the real Little Egypt, the woman who had captivated the world with her defiance, her strength, her refusal to conform.

And you’d remind yourself that being different wasn’t a flaw—it was your power.

So you held your head high. You danced harder, bolder, fiercer than ever before. You made them see you, even when they didn’t want to. You made them remember your name.

Because you weren’t just a girl anymore. You were Little Egypt. And no one could take that away from you.

The whispers about you grew louder with every performance. At first, it was just the regulars—the men who lingered at the Moulin Rouge, entranced by the way your body seemed to defy gravity, the way your movements pulled them into a world they didn’t understand but couldn’t look away from. Then came the others. Artists, writers, and curious strangers, all drawn by the rumors of Little Egypt, the girl who danced like a flame burning through the night.

People started paying more to see you. Men offered bribes to get the best seats, just so they could be close enough to feel the air shift as you moved. The Moulin Rouge capitalized on your growing fame, putting your name on posters and promising a performance like no other.

But fame came at a price.

The more popular you became, the more people started to talk. They weren’t all kind.

“She’s nothing but a harlot,” one woman sneered, loud enough for you to hear as you walked past her in the dressing room. “Dancing half-naked like that... it’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” another chimed in. “She’s shameless. No proper girl would parade herself like that.”

You ignored them, at least outwardly. You kept your head high and pretended their words didn’t sting, even though they echoed in your mind long after you left the room.

It was true, in a way. You weren’t like them. By the time you became a regular performer at the Moulin Rouge, you’d embraced the boldness that set you apart. You danced in costumes that were more daring, more provocative, more you.

Your signature look became a skirt modeled after Egyptian dancers—a cascade of shimmering fabric adorned with beads and coins that jingled with every step. But above your waist, there was nothing but bare skin. It wasn’t for shock value, though many assumed it was. To you, it was about freedom. Dancing like that made you feel powerful, untethered. It was an act of rebellion, a refusal to be boxed in by society’s expectations of what a woman should be.

The men in the audience adored it. They shouted your name, threw flowers at your feet, and begged for more. But the women... the women weren’t so kind.

“They think they’re better than you,” your mother said one night, after you confided in her about the insults. “Because they follow the rules, and you don’t. Because they’re jealous, Y/N. Don’t let them dim your light.”

Her words helped, but they didn’t make the whispers go away.

“Who does she think she is?” they’d say, their voices dripping with disdain. “Just because men like her doesn’t mean she’s worth anything.”

“She’s nothing without her body,” another would add. “The second someone younger comes along, she’ll be forgotten.”

But you refused to let them see you falter. You poured everything you had into your performances, perfecting every movement, every flick of your wrist, every sway of your hips. You weren’t just a dancer anymore—you were a force.

The Moulin Rouge started treating you like their star. You had the best time slots, the best costumes, and the best music to accompany your performances. You weren’t just a performer; you were an event.

But the more attention you drew, the lonelier it became. The other dancers at the cabaret started to avoid you. Some were jealous, others just didn’t want to be associated with you. The boldness that made you shine also made you a target.

And yet, you didn’t stop.

Because for every insult, there was a standing ovation. For every sneer, there was the sound of coins hitting the stage. For every jealous whisper, there was someone who saw you, really saw you, and understood that you weren’t just a girl who danced—you were a woman who lived on her own terms.

And that, you decided, was worth everything.

tell me if u wanna be tagged !

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Norsemen & Anglo-Saxons Chapter 2

A slightly shorter chapter...much more to come! Any Viking/Norse words were found on Google, so if it's incorrect please educate me!!

Summary: Princess Y/N has a secret that her parents are ashamed of.  A conquering Viking chief recognizes the gift she has.  Will they be able to bring peace between warring people, and maybe find love along the way?

Viking!Bucky Warnings: eventual smut, abuse, violence, animal attack, blood

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The morning sun shown on her face, waking her slowly.  She was no longer being held and she begrudgingly opened her eyes to the bright light.  She sat up and looked around.  No one was sleeping next to her, the men and Bucky had gone back to their rowing tasks or milling about the ship, passing out food and water to the others.  She stretched her arms and legs then rubbed her face.  The other ships were still next to theirs, never missing a beat.

“Ah, you’re up,” Bucky said, walking over to her.  He held out some bread, some kind of meat jerky, berries and a canteen to her.  “I know it’s not exactly a royal feast, but it’s the best we’ve got for now.”

“Thank you,” Y/N smiled at him as she took the offering.  Bucky sat next to her as she chewed on the meat first.  

“Did you sleep well?” Bucky ventured a conversation with her.

“I did, thank you.  I’m sorry if I woke you,” Y/N said sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Bucky smirked.  He held up his metal arm.  “It’s a bit strange, I know.”

Y/N watched his arm as it shifted when he moved.  “Do you mind me asking–”

“How I got it?  How it was made? What happened to my arm?” he flashed a lopsided smile at her.  “I lost my arm in a battle ten years ago.  The healers melted a special metal from swords given to us by a friendly country in Alkebulan called Wakanda.  They used it and some magic to create this,” he wiggled his metal fingers and flicked the arm with his flesh fingers, “and adhered it to my body.”

“That all sounds very painful,” Y/N said, looking concerned.

“It was,” Bucky said.  “But at least I have an arm back.  It still functions as a regular arm, but it’s nearly indestructible, stronger than my normal one. I could crush a man’s skull with just this,” he held his hand out to her.  She looked at it with a mix of wonder and horror.  The black plates and the gold inner workings glittered in the sunlight.  

“It is strangely beautiful,” Y/N said wistfully.  

“I think I’ll keep it,” he joked, nudging her shoulder.  Y/N snorted at him as she drank from the canteen.

The routine stayed about the same each day of the journey until the last day.  Y/N woke up suddenly that morning, her body wide awake.  Her eyes searched the horizon as she felt a strange pull coming from the direction they were heading.  

“What?  What is it?” Bucky stirred as she shot up out of the furs.  Y/N walked down the length of the boat, avoiding the oars and the men’s elbows and shoulders as she reached the other side.  She held onto the side of the bow with one hand, the other reaching out into thin air.  “What are you doing?” Bucky grunted as he followed her to the front.  He watched the green light glow from her hand, and as it grew, glowing green veins of light seeped through the ocean towards whatever was beyond the hazy horizon.

“Land ho!” one of the men called.

Y/N felt hot tears trail down her face as she laughed.  She could feel the power, the magic, flowing to her from the land beyond.  “You said you had magic at home,” she whispered as the veins seemed to rise up and lick around her fingers.

Bucky watched on in awe.  “I-I did.”

“I can feel it,” Y/N breathed as she closed her palm, the green disappearing.  “It’s…ancient.”  She turned to Bucky as a wide smile spread across her face.  “It feels like home.”

Bucky took her hands into his and raised them to his mouth, kissing each finger softly.  “Welcome home Drottning.”

The people met them at the shore, singing what sounded like victorious tunes and chants, helping to pull the ships in and unload the spoils.   Once she was escorted off the boat the people seemed to hush as they watched her walk along the rocky beach.  Bucky brought her over to a grassy knoll that had stones facing up in a circle, rising tall above them pointing towards the sky.  Markings were carved into the stones, and in the middle of the area was a ring of small white rocks.  Y/N could feel the energy around her, her fingertips glowing green and occasional sparkles falling from them and into the earth, making the grass sway with her as she walked.  

Standing near the circle was an older woman.  Her long white and gray hair was braided and styled intricately, a headdress made of bent twigs, feathers and an animal skull atop her head.  She wore a long, white linen dress that was layered with a sandy colored pelt held together with more bones and fabric.  She held a long staff in her hand.  Her face was covered in a kind of white makeup across her eyes and red splotches on her forehead and her chin.  Y/N had never seen anything like it before and ogled the woman as they approached.

“Modir,” Bucky greeted her, bowing his head and then making a motion with his hands like he was splashing his face and head with water.  The woman did the same back to him before walking up to him and holding his face in her hands for a moment.

“You bring us peace…and a gift,” the woman stated, looking towards Y/N.

“I believe so,” he smiled at her.  He then walked behind Y/N, pushing her forward towards the woman.  “Y/N, this is my mother, Winnifred Brynhilde Barnes.  She is our Volve, or seer.”

Y/N did as Bucky had and bowed her head, mimicking the motion with her hands.  “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  Winnifred studied her for a moment before cupping Y/N’s face in her hands.  Y/N stood still, recognizing the same piercing blue eyes of her son.

“Yes…” Winnifred’s hands shook as her eyes glazed over as she stared at Y/N.  “She is one of the lost daughters of Freya.”  Bucky and many of the people surrounding them gasped audibly.  “My child,” Winnifred’s eyes cleared as she gazed at Y/N.  “Your power is from Freya, the goddess of love, beauty, fertility, even war, death, wealth, and magic,” she smiled warmly at her.  “Through the years of war we lost those with your power to the English, during one of the many raids I suspect.  But you have survived, even into the royal family.  Your power could never grow there,” she explained, seeing the question in Y/N’s face, “because it was lost to them long ago.  You freed Thor who told us about the English witch, and James recognized the gift and brought you home to us.”  Y/N didn’t know why, but she felt a strong emotional reaction to Winnifred’s words.  “Come to the circle, my child, and claim your home.”  She led Y/N over to the circle of white rocks.  Winnifred stopped at the edge of the circle and gestured for Y/N to enter it.

Y/N stepped into the circle and stood in the middle of it.  She looked at Winnifred for instruction.  “Show us,” Winnifred encouraged her.  Y/N took a deep breath, unsure of what to do.  She glanced at Bucky standing behind his mother watching her.  He gave her his signature smirk and a nod of his head.  Y/N lifted her hands and looked down at them.  She flattened her fingers and let the power run through her.  It glowed in her palms and then did the same veiny pattern as it seemed to leak from her fingertips into the ground below.  Once the power hit the soil it pulsed like a heartbeat, and small purple flowers began springing up from the area around her feet.  Y/N’s eyes widened as she watched it.  She could feel the earth, feel the blades of grass, feel the trees swaying in the wind, could even hear the wind speaking to her in little whispers of delight.  She laughed and bent down and dug her fingers into the dirt.  A deep vibrating hum erupted from the ground beneath them.  It was winter in Danmark and yet as her power seeped into the earth the snow started melting around them, the leaves started sprouting on the trees and flowers popped up early.  The grass was greener and fuller, the wind warmer, and there was a groaning sound as rocks moved into their rightful places from where they’d fallen, the large stones around the circle that were starting to crumble suddenly being made whole again.  

The power even seeped into the surrounding people. The men who had been hurt in battle suddenly healed quickly and the ailments others had been suffering from for years lessened.  Bucky’s arm whirred as the power met him, the scarring along the area where it had been attached to his flesh mending better than the healers had been able to, and the heaviness of the arm seemed to lessen, the strain on his back disappearing and making him feel lighter than he had in years.  Winnifred’s aged back straightened right in front of him.  He watched in astonishment at the true power his new wife held.

Y/N was crying hard now as she felt the pulses of euphoria through her entire body.  Her parents had tried to dim her light, to squash her power, make her feel small and unwanted, like a tool, and yet she was so much more.  The acceptance from Bucky’s people, from him, from this new land, had her feeling like she was floating as she healed not just the earth and its people, but herself.

She pulled her fingers out of the earth and clutched her hands to her chest, the wind dying down as the power receded back into her hands.  She sobbed heavily at the pure freedom she felt.  Bucky walked towards her and kneeled in front of her.  He pulled her hands away and cleaned off her fingers with his coat, then did as he had done on the ship and brought them each to his mouth, kissing them fondly.  His eyes were teary as he smiled at her.  “My Drottning, my Asynja.”

Y/N gave him a puzzled look.  “My queen, my goddess,” he whispered.

Winnifred kneeled before her.  “Come, Drottning, we must bring you to the hof.”

**picture is A.I. from Pinterest, unknown original "artist" or "creator"**

@wintrsoldrluvr

[superawesome40]

Wayne Children Timeline Update

Okay, so I’ve hit a standstill on the timeline. I’ve got (most) significant not-hero-related details worked out (I think???) and I’m working on education/jobs right now, but there is SO MUCH from canon that I could pick from, and I’m honestly a bit overwhelmed. Anyone want to help me out?

Enjoy me spiraling into madness as I attempt to introduce the events that I’m probably going to include:

Dick

The Slade/Deathstroke story line, probably heavily warped to fit the storyline.

Talon/The Court of Owls. I love those funky dudes, but I admit I only really know them ‘cause of the rhyme.

Spyral? Maybe? Honestly I have NO IDEA what Spyral is at all, and I’ll need to investigate more.

I’m on the fence about including the whole Catalina Flores storyline. I’ve heard about it in passing, but I haven’t actually done any research into it yet. It’s a VERY sensitive topic, and I don’t want to mishandle anything, especially if I ever get around to writing stories set within this universe.

I think Dick being a cop at some point is really, really funny, so I might have him join the Bludhaven (Blüdhaven?) PD for a bit? So he can take them down from the inside or something. He quits after like. Two years.

Jason

The Catherine Todd/Sheila Haywood/Willis Todd… situation.

Whacking the scary man with a tire iron (was that one ever even a question? Of course I’m including it)

League bodyguard for baby Damian (I’m pretty sure this one is fanon, but it’s my AU, I do what I want!!!)

Heads in a duffle bag

Titans Tower attack.

I’ve heard something about magic fire swords maybe, but I’m not sure.

This is making me realize I know… very little about what Jason got up to after his revival.

Cass

Huh. I don’t really have anything to put here? I know next to nothing about Cass outside of her involvement in the Batfam. Send help.

No like actually. What does she do? I love her character, but this post is making me realize that I don’t actually KNOW them.

Tim

Stalker baby stalker baby stalker baby stalker baby

Joker Jr.! I dunno, I really like the idea of JJ being like a completely different entity who lies dormant in Tim’s head and pops up from time to time? It inspired a story where Tim has several versions of himself living up in his head. I invented an entire disorder for it: Fragmented Personality Disorder. Probably won’t be a thing in this AU, but either way. JJ is DEFINITELY happening.

Young Justice is morally gray at best and they try very hard to pretend like they aren’t. (Young Justice is actually the only comics I’ve read, and I’ve only read up to like. Issue # 6 so far. I love my little dudes so much.)

Off topic, but will someone explain coffee Tim vs. energy drink Tim? Can’t he just combine the two with an ass load of sugar and call it a day?

Spleen.

Highest kill count. Don’t care if it’s canon. He has the highest kill count, he’s not sorry, and he WILL do it again.

I don’t know why the idea of Conner, Cassie, Tim, and Bart running around space completely unsupervised is so funny to me, but it is. Is it canon? Don’t ask me, I have no idea. Is it in this AU? Absolutely.

Again. What does he get up to? Robin era, Red Robin era, anywhere? Anything significant happen? At all???

Duke

Uhhhhhhhh.

I know about his parents. That’s definitely happening.

We Are Robin? What is We Are Robin? Is it pre-Batfam? Post-Batfam?

Wait was he Signal before or after he was a Bat?

Is he a Bat?

I COULD do my research. Or I could do the lazy thing and make you all do it for me :)

Damian

This is the little bastard that dragged me kicking and screaming into the DCU. This is all his fault.

Fun fact! I hated anything and everything to do with DC purely because I was introduced to Marvel first. I thought it was dumb, and poorly written, and a cheap knock off of Marvel. This was back when I only knew about like, Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman. I didn’t even know that the Flash was DC at this point. Then I found out about Damian and… well, it all spiraled from there.

So anyways, let’s see.

Killed by the Heretic? Yup.

Metal spine? Absolutely.

Dick Grayson’s Robin? Without a doubt.

Hmmm what else…

What happened in Super Sons?

Uh

What did he get up to with the Titans (?) That was a thing, right?

Wasn’t there a murder island story arc? Maybe? And he died for like, a minute but then he came back?

Also Damian and Tim attempt to murder each other as a ✨bonding activity✨

Bruce

Don’t even get me started on freaking Bruce. I dread the day I finally get up the courage to start looking into Bruce.

So yeah. Send help? Suggest your favorite fight/monster/comic for me to research? Please, I’m begging you. Doesn’t matter the universe, or the era, or whether it’s pre-Crisis or Earth 1 or whatever other million ways there are to break them down (I still have to look into those, too.), anything you think should be on the timeline, let me know and I’ll look into it.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Vigil 2/6

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Urban Fantasy/Magical Realism!AU (prolly more urban fantasy than magical realism tbh, but I use those pretty interchangeably)

Read on AO3 (current chapter)

Read on AO3 (from beginning)

Yes, there's more chapters now. No, I'm not actually surprised. No, I don't wanna talk about it. You guys know me and worldbuilding :-/

I DO however, want to talk about the AMAZING, INCREDIBLE, BEAUTIFUL cover art that @nephilimeq made for this story. Like...I am again screaming, crying, throwing up that someone made something like this for something I wrote. EEEEEEEEEEEEE

God, people are so talented.

Magic was a rare gift.

Even the most generous studies estimated that only something like ten percent of the human population had the potential to harness it, and to be able to use it effectively took years and years of study and apprenticeship. Many found the process so arduous, the physical and mental discipline that casting required so exhausting, that they abandoned their studies before they could be fully licensed and recognized. A fully trained and licensed wizard could basically write their own ticket in life, with few exceptions. Wizards were forbidden from seeking public office or holding inherited titles, of course. Military service was strictly regulated—although the demand in special forces was high—and government contracting was even more so. That required major political connections, and honestly no small amount of personal wealth…neither of which Tommy Kinard had ever had (or been interested in).

He’d been recruited by the Army straight of high school and signed on for the free schooling and guaranteed apprenticeship. He’d probably have been satisfied to stay in the Army, make a life out of it, but seven years in a bad batch of intelligence on the position of a sand dragon nesting ground had resulted in a medical discharge and three long, thin scars that ran from his collar bone to his upper thigh and still ached when it rained. He’d had vague notions of going the public service route after his discharge—firefighting, maybe, or nursing. Some of his old mentors had encouraged him to go into education, take on apprentices of his own.

Then his mother had gotten sick.

Their relationship was rocky, at best. He never doubted she loved him—but growing up in the family and home she’d chosen for them had not been easy. He knew all the statistics, now. Understood how hard it was for a woman to leave an abusive partner, especially women like his mother, who had given up her own education and career for the whims of a man who had never, ever deserved her devotion. Looking back, he could even point to times when she had almost gotten up the courage to do it, almost gotten them both out of the house where Tommy had always felt like he had to hide the biggest parts of himself, always felt like there was a sword hanging over the back of his neck, waiting to fall like his father’s heavy fists on his body. Almost. Still.

She loved him. He loved her. And she was sick.

Sal had been the one to convince him to start offering his services in the private sector. A licensed wizard could make a good living in the corporate world. A good enough living that it didn’t matter if his dad’s insurance was shit and he’d drank away most of what little savings they’d managed to amass anyway. A good enough living to pay for all the treatments, hospital stays, home aides, and nursing without even blinking. A good enough living to make sure her last few years were as comfortable as they could be with cancer ravaging her body.

He'd stuck with it after she finally died, having spent a few years by that point developing his reputation and professional network. Ironically, now he did have the political connections and personal wealth necessary to get his name considered for government work and contracts. He considered it, briefly, but ultimately decided to keep on as he was—as a freelance wizard, he could pick and choose the people and corporations he worked with, and his skill and power had earned him enough of a reputation that he had no fear of not being able to find a new contract if he chose to leave a position.

After all, it wasn’t like a wizard needed to fear being blacklisted. Someone else would always be happy to pay him for his skills.

Up until he’d crossed paths with the Buckley family, though, he’d never considered contracting his services exclusively.

There was nothing particularly noteworthy or endearing about Buckley Industries to Tommy. As far as he could tell, they weren’t a particularly foul corporation. They did a lot of good charity work for cancer research—especially pediatric cancer—and sponsored multiple programs that assisted low income families with getting sick children treatment. But he wasn’t naïve and they were a generational entity with offices on four continents and a valuation in the billions. He’d worked for them off and on during his mother’s illness, but it wasn’t until nearly five years after she’d died that he’d signed an exclusivity contract and the gnarliest NDA he’d ever encountered.

He'd done it mostly because the money they were offering was literally too good to pass up; at the end of his contract he’d never have to work a day in his life again if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t even have to nominally worry about finding another job. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t any other motivation, though.

“Why’s’t s’damn cold in here?” Evan mumbled without opening his eyes. He pushed his face further into the pillow and then groped towards Tommy blindly, reaching under the pile of blankets that covered them and patting up and down Tommy’s body until he could curl his hand possessively over Tommy’s bare hip.

Tommy chuckled, reaching over to run his hand through Evan’s morning-messy curls. “I think your exact words were, ‘quit fucking with the fireplace and get over here so you can fuck me’. Or was I imagining that?”

“Lies and slander,” Evan shot back, finally blinking his eyes open. Tommy didn’t think he would ever get tired of staring into those clear blue eyes, watching the way they immediately softened and sparkled as soon as Evan caught sight of him. Even when there was less than a foot of space between them, even when there had been considerably less than a foot of space between them only a few short hours ago…Evan always looked so damn happy to see him.

Even before they’d gotten together, Evan had always looked so damn happy to see him. He remembered telling himself that he had to be careful; that he shouldn’t let himself get too used to it. That it would be easy to become addicted to that look, that light. He hadn’t taken his own advice.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He closed the distance between them, sliding his hand down from Evan’s hair to cup his cheek as he kissed him. Evan’s fingers tightened on his hip, but after a moment he pulled back.

“Okay no, but seriously, why is it so fucking cold in here?” he asked petulantly, giving a dramatic shiver despite the blankets still covering them. He let out a small groan as he hitched himself into a sitting position on the bed, goosebumps instantly breaking out on his skin when the air hit him. “Oh for—babe, I’m telling you, your tower hates me.”

Frowning, Tommy sat up as well. “Evan, don’t be ridi—oh.”

Most of the eastern wall of his bedroom was taken up by a huge set of windows, spelled to look as though they’d been set with leaded glass and wrought iron. Tommy loved the way the early morning sunlight sparkled through them, casting bursts of rainbows all over the room when the angle was just right. A pair of French-style doors in the center opened up onto the wide balcony that he and Evan usually ate on whenever they stayed here, and he’d left the doors standing open last night to let the cool night breeze in. Last night the weather outside had been the ripe, wet warmth of late summer, the air heavy with the scent of thousands of flowers and fruit trees that grew wild on the grounds.

Now it was clearly the dead of winter outside. The balcony was buried in snow, and quite a bit had drifted in through the open doors, already starting to melt on the plush carpets that covered the floors.

“Yeah, oh,” Evan repeated, wrapping himself back up in the blankets with a mulish expression.

“The tower doesn’t hate you,” Tommy said, shivering a little himself now that it really registered how fucking cold it was in the room. “It just…forgets you’re not magic.” He scooted a closer to Evan, tugging at the corner of the blankets until Evan let go his deathgrip on them and he was able to pull some of them back around himself.

“See, if it was just things like forgetting to make sure there’s, you know, light switches and faucet handles whenever I stay here, I’d believe it,” Evan groused, nonetheless not resisting when Tommy slid his arm around him and pulled him closer.

He kissed Evan’s temple and pulled them both back down onto the mattress. He was about to pull the blankets back up over their heads when he hesitated, sitting back up a moment. Pointing at the large stone fireplace on the wall opposite the windows, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a roaring fire sprung up over the logs he’d laid out the night before, but left unlit when Evan became impatient. Then he shot a significant look over at the doors to the balcony, tilting an eyebrow up expectantly.

The doors creaked shut with a distinctly guilty air. Tommy shook his head and flopped back down on the bed, pulling Evan close again. “The tower doesn’t hate you,” he said for the third time.

“Do you know how much laundry I’ve lost here? Or how many times brand new hallways have just randomly appeared when I’m leaving? Half the time it doesn’t even manifest enough furniture for me to sit on.” Evan shot a mutinous glare at the ceiling, and snuggled closer still, throwing a leg over Tommy’s and tangling their fingers together.

“I’ll talk to it,” Tommy promised. Then he sighed. “What time do we have to get back to LA?” he asked, going back to carding his free hand through Evan’s hair, delighting in the way the slightly rough curls caught around his fingers.

“We’re already in LA,” Evan muttered, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s chest. “Right?”

“Thought the metaphysical shit gave you a headache,” Tommy said teasingly.

Evan shrugged one shoulder. “Only when Albert starts getting all technical. I like listening to you explain things.” He tilted his head so he could peer up into Tommy’s eyes. “I’d listen to you talk about anything.”

Distantly, Tommy wondered if his love had any idea how casually he wielded the power to absolutely crack Tommy open right down to the core. “Good to know,” he said softly. “But I still need a time we have to be out of here.”

Evan’s face was always an open book. Every emotion he felt flickered across his handsome face, bare for all to see. Whenever he was talking about his parents, though, those expressions became…muted. Colder. Harder to parse out. He twisted out of Tommy’s arms to lie on his back, though he didn’t move back onto his side of the bed. Idly, he reached up with one hand to scratch at the skin of his opposite wrist, right over the pulsepoint.

“They’re expecting me at dinner,” he said finally. “They said Danny and Maddie were gonna be there, too, so Dad’ll probably ask you to portal Danny over sometime today.” If such a thing were possible, his face went stonier. “Jonah’s gonna be there, too.”

Tommy pressed his lips together, a dull sort of ache pulsing through him. “We knew it was coming,” he said, his voice soft and careful. Evan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose.

“I still hate it.” He glared down at the skin of his wrist, raking his nails over it again harshly.

“Hey. Hey, don’t,” Tommy said, reaching over to take Evan’s hand and drawing it close to him. He leaned up to kiss the patch of reddened skin. His lips tingled where they touched Evan’s skin, the faint, staticky pulse of magic.

None of Philip and Margaret Buckley’s children had any magical potential.

All three of them felt like magic.

Neither fact was particularly noteworthy or even all that unusual, especially in the societal circle they’d been born into. The ability to harness magic was incredibly rare. It was also not unusual that people born into the wealth and privilege that the Buckleys enjoyed would be drenched in magic. Protective runes, luck spells, little charms and blessings to enhance health, recovery time, reflexes—there were dozens, hundreds, thousands of ways that people who had enough money and access to a wizard could improve their lives. Tommy had not been shocked that the Buckley siblings had magic woven into their bodies.

No, the shock had come later, the first night he and Evan had fallen into bed together and he had the time to really explore the body that had been haunting his fantasies for longer than he cared to admit.

After he’d signed the aforementioned gnarliest NDA he’d ever seen, of course.

He didn’t think it had started as a curse, was the thing. Without knowing the wizard who had first laid it—their magical signature, the shape of their power—he couldn’t read very much in the structure of the spell that was wrapped around Evan’s wrist, right over where the throb of his pulse could be felt. It was a line of dark amber magic that always glowed faintly to Tommy’s senses. The spell was old—several generations old, at least—and decorated Maddie and Daniel Buckley’s wrists as well. A binding.

Probably meant to ensure family loyalty once. Tommy was not naïve. And Buckley Industries was a very wealthy corporation now, but he knew it had started over a hundred years ago as a family-owned investment firm. Such spells were not malicious by nature, but it was easy to turn them that way. It might have been meant to inspire loyalty once…and Tommy thought Philip and Margaret had probably convinced themselves that was all they’d intended when they had bound their children to it, one by one. Daniel, Maddie, and Evan were all very loyal to their parents and the company that they would someday inherit.

They had no choice. Not really.

The binding didn’t grant absolute control. They could still make their own decisions and choices. They could argue and rebel and talk back (and to hear Maddie and Daniel tell it, Evan had made doing all three at once into an Olympic sport when he was young). They just…couldn’t make a decision or choice that would hurt the family. Unfortunately, as the current patriarch, Philip Buckley was the arbiter of what could and could not hurt the family. To his credit, Tommy didn’t believe the man had any ill intentions towards Daniel, Maddie, or Evan. He believed that Philip believed that every time he forced his children to go along with a decision he and Margaret made for them, it was for their own good.

Roads to hell were always paved with the best of intentions.

He pressed his lips to Evan’s wrist again, before drawing him back into the circle of his arms. The spell was too old and set for Tommy to try and unbind it unless it was a matter of life and death for Evan or one of his siblings. Doing so could cause more harm than good, and he wasn’t willing to risk altering the spell in a way that would make Evan even more vulnerable. Once Daniel formally took over the company, the binding would pass to him, and Tommy knew the very first thing he’d do was release Evan and Maddie from it. That was still years away—but the promise kept all three of the siblings going.

In the meantime, though, Evan was still subject to his parents’ whims. One whim in particular, that they had both been dreading.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, though the words rang hollow in the face of what was likely to be happening tonight. “Whatever happens, you’ll still have me Evan. I love you.”

Evan swallowed harshly, closing his eyes and giving a shaky nod. “I know. I love you, too.” He looked over at Tommy, and attempted a smile. “I just wish…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I just wish we could stay here. Forever. Even if your tower hates me.”

Tommy’s heart ached with how much he wanted that. The two of them, here, safe, far away from Evan’s parents’ endless demands of him. Far away from any decision more complicated than what they wanted to have for dinner and whether they wanted to go to Maddie and Howie’s place for Christmas or host everyone here. Evan was wrong…the tower loved him. He was the favorite of anyone else Tommy had ever brought here, and it was constantly trying to find little ways to keep him here longer, nudge him closer to Tommy.

Though Tommy did probably need to have a talk with it about its methods. Tommy certainly wasn’t going to complain when the only available seat in the library for Evan was Tommy’s lap, or when the only thing he had available to wear was Tommy’s clothes, or when it was so cold in the room the only thing that made sense was to stay wrapped around each other in bed. Naked. For warmth, of course.

But yeah, his home needed to learn some subtlety. Especially if it was going to be the only place left where he and Evan could be together.

He sighed, drawing Evan closer still. He kissed him softly, running his hand down the curve of his neck and spine, splaying his hand out over the small of Evan’s back. “Well, nothing I can do about forever at the moment…but we do have at least a couple hours before we have to look presentable. Think we can find something to pass the time?”

Evan huffed a laugh and then rolled to his knees to straddle Tommy’s hips, the blankets slipping down off his shoulders. “I can probably come up with some ideas,” he said with a smirk.

Later. He could worry about what was looming on the horizon later. Right now, he had Evan here, in his arms, right he belonged. Right now, that was all that mattered.

He had no idea how much he would come to regret putting off his concerns for later.

[lhuxlux]

You know what? I absolutely LOVE the way Fionna & Cake (the show) told us how important Simon Petrikov (the one we know) was. Let's check out the most important universes. As expected, there will be spoilers:

Farmworld is pretty obvious itself. Simon was able to prevent the bomb that would have brought the Lich, which is pretty impressive itself, but that didn't stop the Lich forever and Simon wasn't able to take care of Marceline or even contact Hunson Abadeer. Because of this, Marceline dedicated her whole life (literal centuries) to guard the crown knowing it was too dangerous. Eventually, she dies after Farmworld Finn accidentally activates the bomb. Simon's sacrifice was noble, but it only delayed something that was inevitable and Marceline didn't have the best life guarding her friend and father figure's corpse for centuries due to the crown

Simon doesn't have the purpose of sacrificing his own life in order to save Marceline and other people. Becoming Ice King again for Fionna and Cake was a way to abandon and sacrifice the life he regained thanks to Betty. No one has such purpose, it was just Farmworld Simon's choice and we can see the consequences of his absence even years after those events occurred and our boy Prismo had to fix things a bit

After that, the show presents us Winterworld and a version of Simon that managed to "conquer" the crown and seemed like the perfect outcome for everyone involved: Simon keeping his sanity without facing the consequences of not only using the crown but also being a magic user again to bring magic back to Fionna's world. Thing is MMS (Magic, Madness, and Sadness) applies to all magic users and it is unavoidable, all of them will show different degrees of those three characteristics. Winter King is no exception, he is still mad despite projecting most of his madness on PB. We can see this because he made an ice version of Marceline despite saying it would be unethical to do the same with Betty

Simon cannot be a magic user because otherwise he won't be the Simon we know (Remember the Tiny Manticore mentioning how Betty changed as well after becoming a magic user?). He knew this every time he needed to use the crown in order to protect Marceline and survive. He acknowledged it was the only way to do it despite knowing the long-term effects and being aware he also hurt Marcy. Simon was no coward, he probably was scared and knew no one could save him from the crown's madness, and still tried to be himself when he could

Probably the reason why Winter King lost his Marceline was because he wanted to have the crown's power to survive without facing the consequences of using it, maybe he overused the crown itself until Simon was completely gone, making him unable or too dangerous to take care of Marcy. Winter king lived in a bubble in which he thought he was completely sane (which is not even possible if you are a magic user) and everything, including himself, was perfect. He wants to believe he's Simon but that's not the case, Simon is far gone and deep down he knows it when he took the name "Winter King" and decided to make his kingdom instead of using his own name and trying to live as Simon Petrikov, not some king

And, of course... Vampworld

The perfect answer to the question "How important is our Simon Petrikov?"

A world in which Marceline was never raised by Simon, and Hunson was absent or didn't mind that his daughter was raised by the Vampire King. Marcy didn't become a vampire hunter and didn't help humans survive. This is because she was educated in a different way since she was very little, and keep in mind that Marceline was already thinking she was a monster because she couldn't comprehend why her mother couldn't be with her anymore. Vampire King just encouraged her to behave like an actual monster

Simon cared about Marcy and her education, seeing her as a scared little girl living in the end of the world, not a monster despite knowing she was different. Again, he admitted he was Marceline's father figure and raised her as his own. This is why Simon is scared and maybe even a bit sad when he watches Marcy acting in such a cruel way, and that's why he loses his shit and calls the Vampire King a bad dad, he couldn't stand seeing someone else encourage that behavior on Marceline

Simon's education wasn't the best, he had his own struggles due to the crown, but he did his best and that made a difference on Marceline's life, he even bothered to contact Hunson so she wouldn't be all by herself. It was a pity he didn't know that Hunson himself wasn't that good as a father but leaving Marcy all by herself would have been cruel

And yet, Simon himself couldn't see this despite living it. He was still trying to save Fionna's universe by becoming Ice King again. Why? He thought his purpose was to help others by sacrificing himself, that's what he learned with Marceline when he took care of her, this made him think that Simon Petrikov didn't matter, only Ice King because he's able to make Fionna's world magic again and could stop Scarab, fueling his identity loss

Most people cannot realize how important they are, even if they didn't lose their identity. Sometimes it is too hard to know how important we actually are or we tend to forget and re-learn it, and this is something the show remarks despite Simon helped Fionna save her universe. He didn't need Ice King, but that doesn't mean it is over and he learnt his lesson

It is a longer process because there are ideas or thoughts about ourselves that are hard to abandon or not to pay attention to in order to avoid repeating the same mistakes