#immense lake mountains

[arolesbianism]

Working more on the local group of Synchronized Light and hoo boy. There's smth wrong with these guys.

[fishofthewoods]

I see a lot of people clowning on the people of Pelican Town for not repairing the community center themselves or clowning on Lewis for embezzling and. like. Those criticisms aren't entirely unfair. But I think instead of coming at it from a perspective of "why can't the townspeople do this" we should be asking "why and how can the farmer do this?"

Like. Think about it. The farmer arrives in Stardew Valley on the first day of spring. By the first day they're obviously different. By day five the spirits of the forest who haven't been seen by the townsfolk in years or generations are speaking to them. By the second week they've developed a rapport with the wizard that lives outside town.

In the spring they go foraging and find more than even Linus, who's spent so many years learning the ways of the valley. Maybe he knows, when he sees them walking back home. Maybe he looks at them and understands that they're different, chosen somehow.

In the summer they fish in the lakes and the ocean for hours on end, catching fish that even Willy's only ever heard of, fish that he thought were the stuff of legend. They pull up giants from the deep and mutated monstrosities from the sewers.

In the fall, their crops grow incredibly immense; pumpkins twice as tall as a person, big enough that someone could live inside. The farmer cuts it down with an axe without even batting an eye. Does Lewis wonder, when he checks the collection bin that night and finds it full to the brim with pumpkin flesh? What does he think? Does he even leave the money? Does he have the funds to pay the farmer millions of dollars for the massive amounts of wine they sell? Or is it someone--something--else entirely?

In the winter, the farmer delves into the mines. No one in Pelican Town has been down there in decades. No one in living memory has been to the bottom. The farmer gets there within the season. They return to the surface with stories of dwarven ruins and shadow people, stories they only tell to Vincent and Jas, whose retellings will be dismissed by the adults as flights of fancy. People walking by the entrance to the mines sometimes hear the farmer in there, speaking in a language no one can understand. Something speaks back.

The farmer speaks to the the wizard. They speak to the spirit of a bear inside a centuries-old stone. They speak to the shadow people and the dwarves, ancient enemies, and they try to mend the rift. They speak to the Junimos, ancient spirits of the forest and the river and the mountain. They taste the nectar of the stardrops and speak to the valley itself. They change Pelican Town, and they change the valley. Things are waking up.

And what does Evelyn think? She's the oldest person in the valley; she was here when the farmer's grandfather was young. (How old *is* she, anyway? She never seems to age. She doesn't remember the year she was born.) Does she see the farmer and think of their grandfather? Does she try to remember if he was like this too, strange and wild and given the gifts of the forest?

And does their grandfather haunt the valley? He haunts the farm, still there even after his death; his body died somewhere else, but his spirit could never stay away for long. Does Abigail, using her ouija board on a stormy night, almost drop the planchette when she realizes it's moving on its own? Does Shane, walking to work long before anyone else leaves their house, catch glimpses of a wispy figure floating through the town? Does the farmer know their grandfather came back to the place they both love so much?

Mr. Qi takes interest in the farmer. He's different, too; in a different way, maybe, but the principles are the same. They're both exceptional, and no matter what Qi says about it being hard work and dedication, they both know the truth: the world bends around the both of them, changing to fit their needs. Most people aren't visited by fairies or witches. Most people don't have meteorites crash in their yard. Most people couldn't chop down trees all day without a break or speak to bears and mice and frogs.

The farmer is different. The rules of the world don't work for them the way they work for everyone else. The farmer goes fishing and finds the stuff of fairy tales. The farmer goes mining and fights shadow beasts and flying snakes. The farmer looks at paths the townspeople walk every day and finds buried in the dirt relics of lost civilizations.

The farmer is a violent, irrepressible miracle, chosen by the valley and destined to return to it someday. Even if they'd never received the letter, they would've come home.

They always come home eventually.

[marxism-transgenderism]

Okay I started that last post as a joke but this is actually fascinating so the reason trade between Indigenous people and settlers up to the mid 19th century is nearly always called the fur trade is because that was the primary product settlers were buying to be processed and shipped back to Europe and later to prominent coastal cities. But according to historians of the lower Great Lakes specifically like Susan Sleeper-Smith, it should really be called the cloth trade if we're just going based on the largest quantity of product being shipped.

The idea that European traders were just plying Indigenous people with "useless beads and shells" (as they would disparaging describe wampum) and alcohol in exchange for mountains of furs is just not the reality. Indigenous traders at thus time did value and acquire those things, but collectively they were shipping thousands of tons of one of the most valued commodities settlers wanted and they used that power to get guns, iron cookware, silver and gold commodities, and colored textiles.

Indeed the amount of textiles coming from all the European powers, but most of all from Britain where their manufacture was booming is incredible. Specific designs and colors were manufactured specifically to appeal to the fashion trends of Indigenous people in the lower Great Lakes all in the interest of getting better furs than their other colonial competitors got.

We have records of American raiders robbing Indigenous towns and looting intricately designed clothing adorned with hundered—sometimes over a thousand—pieces of silver and jewelry. Very clear examples of Indigenous people flaunting their fashion, connections, and immense wealth. Most often Indigenous women as they were the ones most active in trade with Europeans.

We just often have such an image of Indigenous societies during this time being devastated, poverty stricken, and peripheral to the big changes happening back in Europe. But when we take a look at the raw numbers of trade during this time, we see a prosperous, wealthy, and interconnected society. One that knew it's currently advantageous position in global trade and took advantage of that to gain more wealth. It's true that since 1492 they had been devastated by disease and colonial warfare, but the mere presence of guns, germs, and steel did not cause Indigenous poverty just by simply having one so called "advanced civilization" come into contact with a so called "primitive society."

Indigenous poverty was something created very specifically when all the other imperial competitors had fled the scene after the American revolution, leaving only this one genocidal entity left with a monopoly of colonial claims to this region to fight for decades to take away the wealth these Indigenous people had built on their land in the centuries prior, inch by bloody inch.

Btw I didn't feel like citing sources here but most all of this is taken from Susan Sleeper-Smith's book Indigenous Prosperity and American Conquest

[bullet-prooflove]

Sweet Dreams: Dean Winchester x Reader

Companion piece to:

You, Me & Tennessee - Dean always returns to Tennessee.

On The Mountain - Dean wishes he was back on the Mountain with you.

Six Pack (NSFW) - You realise the man waiting for you isn't Dean Winchester.

Memories (NSFW) - Michael invades your home whilst you're away.

Dean blames himself for putting you on Michael’s radar. He didn’t understand what he was doing at the time, the personal cost it would take. Michael’s faith in humanity had been waning and Dean was trying to prevent him from doing something drastic. He had been immensely dissatisfied by the answers he was receiving whilst questioning humans about their desires.

Love, a home, a family.

All of them were concepts the archangel couldn’t comprehend because he had never experienced them. The first blush of love, the comfort of a place you could always return to. Michael has never known any of the things that make the human condition worth living.

“I may as well just eradicate you all.” He had told Dean as they sat across from each other at a table of his making. “You’re nothing more than a disease.”

They had argued for hours after that. Dean fighting for humanity with everything he had, trying to convince Michael that they were all worth saving. He’s at the end of his tether when he finally comes up with the idea, why not let the archangel experience it for himself. So he hands him the memory, gives it to him like it’s a gift and everything that happens after that it’s entirely on him.

The memory that Dean gives Michael he thinks is an innocent one. It’s from the Fourth of July five years ago. The two of you are sitting on the beach by the lake, the waves crashing against the shoreline as you watch the fireworks erupt in the sky. He tilts his head to look at you and in that moment he feels that rush of emotion you hear about in romance movies.

That’s the night that he tells you that he loves you, that despite the months you’ve spent apart he hasn’t so much as looked at another woman.

“What happens after that?” Michael asks him and Dean, he snatches the memory back because everything else that happened afterwards is 18+ but Michael, he never let Dean keep his secrets. He tears it away from him and that’s when it starts. This obsession with you, this desire to feel everything that Dean feels when he’s with you.

Humanity is long forgotten because suddenly Michael has emotions. He has memories of a woman his body has loved but he certainly hasn’t. He wants to recapture that, to experience it from himself.

That’s why Micheal’s in your bed naked for the second night in a row, his face buried in your pillow as he dreams of you, his head in your lap, your fingers stroking through his hair.

It’s another one of Dean’s memories, one from the last time he was here.

Love Dean? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

“Sweet dreams.” You had whispered, your lips brushing over his temple and Micheal’s dreams…

They're just the sweetest.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[that-one-i-think]

MCD KATELYN HEADCANNONS

She cannot hold her alcohol. Two pints in and she is gone and will keep going. She is a very playful and goofy drunk, never violent except will insist that she and Garroth wrestle

She is the type of person to throw small children and catch them. Full running around with two children in her arms and with toss a child into a lake with no hesitation if she knows they can swim.

Aquired the name Katelyn the Fire Fist because during training she punched a man who was being an asshole so hard that his shirt hit a torch and he was lit on fire. Zane gave her similar powers wen she became a jury on nine member because he likes theming.

Was unnerved by Vylad as a child and is slightly afraid of them now as an adult. She just finds him incredibly unsettling, like a funky looking deer.

Cannot fire a bow to save her life, she has a tendency to snap it in half because of her immense grip strength.

Mountain climbed as a child with her dad and brothers, it is how she got so strong in the first place.

She actually comes from a family of lumberjacks but was notced by an O'Khasis guard when she apprehended a bandit after he stole from her brother. She was then enlisted with the encouragement of her dad because he wanted her to have an education. It did result in her having to send them away to protect them from Zane.

Has a small idea of where her family is as there is rumor of a small band of blue haired lumberjacks living in the outskirts of Hyria's forest but she is too afraid to see them again as she blames herself for them having to leave.

She is built like Olympian Ilona Maher except slightly taller as 6' and 210 pounds. Gotta love my beefy women.

She wants kids but does not want to ever give birth. Deeply and understandably terrified of childbirth so if she ever descides to have kids she is going to walk around with Aphmau and wait for an orphan to appear.

Nekoette is her favorite out of the guards at the academy and does not sway any of the rumors that Nekoette is actually her cat bastard child. She, Dante, and Nana find them too hilarious to stop them and Nicole and Dimitri are getting in on it to but claiming that Dimitri is actually her and Nicoles child, and Katelyn had kids with Nana and Nicole.

[myosotisa]

Hmmm you know, I’m always down for that you’re in a new relationship, just been recently going out, and it’s that first time with a new partner. Can be awkward, can be fluffy, who knows? The world is your oyster. 😏🩷 also love you immensely

your brain is so big and i chose to make it funny. love you so much Luna!!!

3rd Times the Charm

ǁ summary: The 2 times you and Steve tried to have sex for the first time and the 1 time it actually happened.

ǁ tags: mentions of blood and injury (not graphic), mention of needles/stitches, fem!reader

ǁ word count: 1.5k

The first time you and Steve tried to ‘consummate’ your relationship did not go as intended. You’d planned it in advance – a nice dinner followed by a romantic and cheesy walk in the park. The ending was set for your place because you had a bigger bed and your roommate was supposed to be gone.

Key word: supposed to be.

The two of you had gotten distracted in the hallway. Steve had one hand on your hip, the other on your jaw, and was pressing you flat against the wall with his body as he sucked your lower lip into his mouth just to watch it pop back into place again. You both knew what the plan was and the anticipation to finally fuck your boyfriend of 3 months had been building the entire night.

If the denim erection pressing into your hip was any indicator, then Steve was just as excited as you were.

After some careful coaxing both by your breathless murmurs and your fingers twisting in his hair, you were able to convince him to let you go long enough for you to get your keys out and unlock the door. Although, you really only got halfway through doing so before he was pressing up against you from behind, wide palms settled on either hip, and his mouth teasing at the skin on the side of your neck.

The two of you stumbled into the apartment together, his arms wrapped tight around you as he used his foot to kick the door closed. It only took another scarce few moments before he had you pressed against another wall, this time with your back still to his front, and his hands wandering from the fronts of your upper thighs all the way up to cupping them under your tits. Each graze of his warm palms lit you aflame, forehead pressed to the drywall as you closed your eyes and tried to regain some composure despite Steve intentionally trying to drive you into a frenzy.

That was when the two of you heard the first sob.

As it turns out, the one night you and Steve had planned to have sex for the first time ended up being the very same night your roommate got dumped. The two of you peeked around the corner into the living room, fully disheveled and panting, to the sight of her curled into a ball on the couch. She was completely inconsolable and the moment she saw you, she was begging for a hug and someone to talk to.

There was nothing you could do to weasel your way out of this situation to go try to hook up – not when she was crying face down in your lap with Kelly Clarkson playing on the loudspeaker. And Steve, absolute god tier boyfriend that he is, ran his fingers through your hair to settle it, pressed a kiss to your temple, and shared an understanding smile with you before asking your roommate what kind of ice cream she wanted from the convenience store on the corner. He returned no more than 15 minutes later with a spread fit for a heartbroken young adult and with multiple RedBox DVDs that the 3 of you watched into the night before you all fell asleep on the couch in a mountain of blankets and pillows.

The second time you and Steve tried to “consummate” your relationship went even worse. The idea of ‘Sex sent me to the ER’ is all fun and games until it happens to you.

It was very spur of the moment at a party – one of your mutual friends had planned this huge celebration at their parents fancy lake house. The two of you had gotten suited and lotioned up, drove the hour out of town to the property, and spent the entire afternoon roasting in the sun on jet skis and getting thrown off inner tubes behind a speedboat.

You’d had your eyes on Steve for hours and you were completely unapologetic about it. He was wearing a pair of navy swim trunks, a white linen shirt that was fully unbuttoned to show off his chest hair and golden skin, a pair of aviators perched on his nose, and with his hair sunkissed and windblown.

He’d taken over driving the speedboat with a beer in his hand and the steering wheel in the other, gunning it across the lake and throwing people off their rafts into the water with absolute joy and taunting yells across the wide open spaces. It looked like he was born for this, like this was him in his element, and you had actually never been more attracted to him than you were under that May sunshine.

When the sun set, a bonfire was lit and the speakers came out. Snacks and drinks, alcohol and non, were flowing steadily as people alternated between sitting by the fire and talking, pushing each other into the lake or the pool, and a few people even started dancing down by the water. You were all sunburnt and lazy with the first heat of the summer, heavy and slow with relaxation. And honestly… Horny as hell.

The two of you had stumbled into a shed on the property with greedy hands on warm skin and in slowly drying hair. His mouth was ravenous as it trailed from your own to the salty span of your neck and down to suck bruises into the sensitive skin on your chest. He’d pulled back after a few minutes, chest heaving beneath his open shirt and pupils blown wide as he looked you over. Told you he wanted you more than anything but was worried about your first time being in a fucking shed. You, completely drunk on him and not caring about anything else, informed him you didn’t give a damn and you needed him inside you like yesterday.

The grin that lit up his face was brighter than the summer sun of the day.

It was all blooming feelings and barely contained moans until he knelt down to give you some well overdue attention between your thighs. He had trailed kisses down your stomach as he dropped down without looking before you heard him suddenly hiss out through his teeth at the same time something shifted beside you and he fell away. Still slightly dazed, it took you a few moments too long to realize he had fallen onto his ass and was gently cradling his shin because it was now quickly pouring blood.

He’d knelt down and sliced his calf on a gardening tool in the shed. A blade that, after pulling out a flashlight, you confirmed was covered in rust.

The two of you spent the next 4.5 hours in the emergency room – earning Steve a tetanus shot and 2 other injections as well as 10 stitches and a prescription for antibiotics. As soon as you both confirmed that he wasn’t going to lose his leg or something, you couldn’t help but laugh. The sun and fun had lightened your minds and made something like having to go to the ER because Steve tried to eat you out in a shed feel like a story to tell, and nothing worse than that.

While it probably could have happened sooner, you and Steve finally got your chance the day after Steve’s stitches were removed. He’d shown up to your apartment early on a Saturday with a packet of baked goods for breakfast and a cup of your favorite from the corner store. All completely unprompted and he insisted it was just because he wanted to do something nice for you after your week at work.

The two of you had a slow and comfortable breakfast on your balcony as the morning sun rose higher in the sky. The moment you were both finished eating, you’d wasted no time in climbing into his lap and making up for lost time.

It was slow and thorough; each of you taking your sweet time in learning what made the other tick and shiver. It was hours between your sheets in the late hours of the morning with all the time in the world to explore each other.

And, while it was well worth the wait, you certainly had a lot of time to make up for.

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[quinzzelx]

Don't Go

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel thought he knew what pain was. But faced with the consequences of battle, he shatters.

Word Count: 4.8K

Warnings: Heart-shattering angst. I'm sorry, this does not have a happy ending. Death. I need to still proofread this!

A/N: One of my favorite Band's songs, one that I hold very dear to my heart, is called "Don't Go"... Let's just say, this song expresses the feelings of this perfectly. If you are interested in an alternate ending, one with a happy one, let me know.

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆

I was raised in the valley There was shadows and death Got out alive but with scars I can't forget

You never imagined that drowning could be so tranquil. Drifting, falling, floating deeper into the abyss, your once-alert eyes now glazed over with a distant emptiness. The shimmering surface of the moon above reflected in the water, casting a serene glow upon the scene. Despite the turmoil raging within you, the water remained calm, almost comforting as it enveloped you.

With each passing moment, consciousness slipped further away, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. The light above grew dimmer, more distant, as you descended into the depths. A sharp pang in your chest served as a grim reminder of impending death, your lungs screaming for air that was nowhere to be found. The burning agony of suffocation clawed at your throat, the water filling your lungs with each desperate gasp.

This was the end. At the age of 347, a mere blink in the lifespan of a Fae, you faced your demise. While humans might find such longevity unfathomable, for your kind, it was but a fraction of existence. Yet, as the final bubbles of air escaped your lips and rose toward the surface, a sense of peace washed over you. Despite the fear that once gripped your heart, in this moment, all was calm.

Your death would not be in vain. You had fought until the very end. And now, as you surrendered to the depths of the lake, you found solace in the embrace of the water, welcoming you home. Your vision blurred, the edges of your consciousness fading as you struggled to stay afloat. Every movement sent waves of agony rippling through your body, your broken bones protesting with searing pain. Despite your efforts, the darkness continued to close in, suffocating you with its crushing weight.

But then, a sensation unlike any other tore through you, a visceral reaction that seized your heart in a vice-like grip. Panic surged through your veins, amplified by the frantic beating of your heart. It was as if every fiber of your being screamed out in terror, a primal instinct that screamed for survival.

Ears ringing and throbbing with agony, you felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot through your skull as your eardrums burst under the immense pressure. The pain was excruciating, a relentless assault on the last bit of strength you held onto.

An orphan and a brother and unseen by most eyes I don't know what it was that made a piece of him die Took a boy to the forest Slaughtered him with a scythe Stamped on his face An impression in the dirt Do you think the silence Makes a good man convert?

In the tumultuous landscape of the Illyrian Mountains, whispers of dissent had been stirring for years. Cassian's hunch had sparked a relentless pursuit of the rebels, their motives driven by a desire to reclaim power and revert to antiquated traditions. Their disdain for the new order, especially Rhysand's leadership, fueled their rebellion.

Months of meticulous investigation led Azriel to their hidden stronghold, nestled deep within the rugged terrain. The plan was in motion: pairs deployed, each with a specific mission. Cassian and Feyre, Rhysand and Mor, Nesta and Azriel, and you with Gwyn and Emerie tasked with liberating the captive females.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Azriel wielded Truthteller with lethal precision, dispatching adversaries with practiced ease. Yet, his focus fractured when Emerie and Gwyn rushed to his side, your absence glaringly apparent. Dread coiled in his gut as Gwyn's wide-eyed gaze met his. It was then that Azriel noticed your absence, a sinking feeling gnawing at his gut. "Where is she?" His voice was tight with worry, urgency lacing his words. Her response only fueled his anxiety. "There was a group of about ten. She's our best fighter, and she insisted we go for help." Azriel's instinctive reaction was to scowl at Gwyn's decision to leave you behind, but he knew you were capable. Still, the thought of you facing such odds alone churned his stomach. So many of them? Fuck, he had to find you. A glance at Nesta was enough as she immediately nodded. "Find her." With a silent nod, Azriel launched himself into the sky, his wings slicing through the air with a fierce determination. The urgency of his mission spurred him onward, each powerful beat bringing him closer to the treeline that marked the edge of the battlefield.

It was only recently, during your parting, that the bond between you had awakened with startling clarity. The sensation pulsed within him, a potent reminder of your connection. How had he overlooked it for so long? The question gnawed at him as he scanned the landscape below, every hut, every tent, every clearing scrutinized for any sign of you.

As he neared the cliffside, a gust of wind carried the pungent scent of blood, assaulting his senses with brutal force. Panic seized him, his chest constricting with a primal fear as he descended closer to the source of the chaos. Then, amidst the carnage, he felt it—a flicker of your presence, fragile yet unmistakable.

We all have our horrors And our demons to fight But how can I win when I'm paralyzed? They crawl up on my bed Wrap their fingers round my throat Is this what I get for The choices that I made?

Landing with a staggering thud, Azriel stumbled forward, his chest heaving as he fought to quell the rising panic. Ears ringing, he scanned the scene before him, desperate for any sign of you amidst the chaos of battle. The sight of severed limbs and pools of blood sent a shiver down his spine, his heart hammering with dread. The battlefield was a scene of utter devastation, a macabre tableau of violence and chaos. Bodies littered the ground, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, pools of blood mingling with the churned earth. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of sweat and fear.

A sudden sound to his right shattered the eerie silence, drawing Azriel's attention like a predator honing in on its prey. His eyes narrowed, scanning the landscape until they landed on a figure slumped against a tree stump. The Illyrian's battered form was a testament to the brutality of the conflict, bruises marring his face, blood staining his clothes. As Azriel approached, his shadows coiled around him like vengeful serpents, an ominous aura of danger emanating from his every movement. His broad shoulders were squared, his stare intense and unwavering, like the embodiment of death itself stalking through the battlefield.

The Illyrian male flinched as Azriel loomed over him, a towering figure of wrath and retribution. With a swift motion, Azriel snatched him by the collar, yanking him up and pressing him against the tree with a force that left no room for defiance. "Where is she?" Azriel's voice was a low, menacing growl, barely contained fury simmering beneath the surface. The Illyrian snarled in response, his bruised and bloodied face contorted with defiance. He spat into Azriel's face, a vile mixture of blood and saliva, his defiance fueling the flames of Azriel's rage. "I won't tell you a gods damn thing, Bastard," he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Azriel's fury intensified as he tightened his grip, bones cracking and snapping under his relentless grasp, the Illyrian's defiant sneer faltering as pain seared through him. "Tell me where she is," Azriel growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that reverberated through the air like a thunderclap, echoing the storm raging within him.

The Illyrian's lips curled into a twisted grin, his defiance unyielding even in the face of Azriel's wrath. "Your whore? We took care of her," he taunted, his voice laced with malice as he sought to goad Azriel further. Azriel's gaze darkened, a storm of fury brewing behind his eyes as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against the Illyrian's face. With a swift motion, he slammed him against the tree once more, the force of the impact jarring his senses. "You will regret those words," Azriel growled, his voice dripping with icy venom. In an instant, Azriel's shadows surged forward, wrapping around the Illyrian's limbs like vengeful tendrils, constricting and squeezing with crushing force. The Illyrian's defiant grin faltered, replaced by a look of sheer terror as he struggled against the suffocating darkness. Azriel's grip tightened, his fingers digging into the Illyrian's flesh as he leaned in closer, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "You will tell me everything," he snarled, his words a promise of retribution as he unleashed the full extent of his wrath upon the helpless captive.

Azriel's gaze hardened, his patience wearing thin as he pressed the Illyrian harder against the tree. "You will tell me," he insisted, his voice a deadly whisper. "Or I will make you wish you had."

With a defiant glare, the Illyrian spat back, "You can't scare me, Shadowsinger. I'd rather die than betray my comrades."

Azriel's jaw clenched, his fury simmering just beneath the surface as he stared down at the defiant captive. "So be it," he growled, his voice cold and unforgiving. "But know this, your death will be swift compared to the torment I will unleash upon those who have harmed her."

With a final, chilling glare, Azriel released his grip, allowing the Illyrian to crumple to the ground in a heap. Azriel's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like thunder in his ears as he stumbled forward, the weight of the bond pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud. Desperation clawed at him as he scanned the surroundings, his senses straining to pick up any sign of your presence.

God forgive me for all my sins God forgive me for everything God forgive me for all my sins God forgive me God forgive me

As he reached the edge of the cliff, overlooking the vast expanse of the lake, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of Azriel's stomach. Where were you? His mind raced, frantically trying to piece together the puzzle of your disappearance. And then it hit him, a searing pain shooting through his head as the bond between you wavered and dimmed. Gasping for breath, he clutched at his chest, his vision swimming with panic and fear. He couldn't lose you, not like this.

Azriel's mind reeled as the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. You were dying, and he had only just discovered that you were his mate. The weight of the revelation bore down on him, suffocating him with a sense of dread and urgency. With a fierce determination, he forced himself to focus, pushing aside the overwhelming surge of panic threatening to consume him. He cursed himself for not recognizing your distress sooner, for failing to protect you when you needed him most.

The sensation of suffocation intensified, the air growing thick and heavy around him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Then it hit him like a physical blow, his eyes widening in horror as the truth dawned on him. "No," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with fear and desperation. In an instant, he was on his feet, his movements fueled by a primal instinct to save you at any cost. The chaos unfolding at the cliffside suddenly made sense, and he knew what he had to do.

With lightning speed, he leapt into the depths below, his senses on high alert as he scanned the eerie still surface of the lake. Every fiber of his being screamed for you, a silent plea echoing in the depths of his soul. No, no, no. He couldn't lose you. Not now. Not ever.

Don't go I can't do this on my own Don't go I can't do this on my own Save me from the ones That haunt me in the night I can't live with myself So stay with me tonight Don't go

Frantically, Azriel swept over the vast expanse of the lake, his heart pounding in his chest with each beat of his wings. The enormity of the task ahead overwhelmed him, but he refused to succumb to despair. With each passing moment, the silence from the other side of the bond grew louder, echoing in his mind like a haunting refrain.

"Please," he pleaded silently, his thoughts a desperate mantra as he called out your name into the void. "Hold on, just a little longer." He tugged at the fragile thread of the bond, hoping for some sign of life, some glimmer of reassurance. But there was only emptiness, a faint flicker that threatened to snuff out entirely.

Then, like a beacon in the darkness, a glimmer of light caught his attention, reflecting off the surface of the water below. It was a small ray of hope amidst the vast uncertainty, and Azriel clung to it with all his strength. Grateful for the clarity of the lake's icy waters, he scanned the depths below, searching for any sign of you.

And then he saw it—a flash of metal glinting in the moonlight, unmistakably your sword. His heart leaped with a mixture of relief and dread as he circled the area, his keen eyes scouring the surroundings for any trace of you. With a surge of determination, Azriel dove into the clear waters of the lake, his muscles straining with the effort as he propelled himself downward. Anxiety gripped him like a vice, each stroke of his wings a desperate plea for your safety.

His heart hammered in his chest as he descended deeper into the murky depths, his senses keenly attuned to every movement, every shadow that flickered in the water around him. The pressure of the water pressed in on him, threatening to crush him with its weight, but he pushed on, fueled by the urgency of the situation.

"Please," he prayed silently, the word a fervent prayer on his lips as he scanned the darkness below. The faint outline of your form came into view, a haunting specter in the gloom, and his heart clenched with fear at the sight.

His Illyrian wings strained against the resistance of the water, their powerful beats driving him ever closer to you. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to reach you, to pull you from the grasp of the icy depths and into the safety of his arms.

With each stroke of his wings, Azriel descended deeper into the darkness, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and determination. His fingers strained, grasping for your form as he fought against the relentless pressure of the water.

When he finally reached you, his heart twisted painfully at the sight of your vacant eyes staring lifelessly into the abyss. Gently, he pulled you into his arms, cradling your limp body against his chest as he began the arduous journey back to the surface.

Tell me that you need me 'cause I love you so much Tell me that you love me 'cause I need you so much Tell me that you need me 'cause I love you so much Say you'll never leave me 'cause I need you so much

As he ascended, a sense of urgency gripped him, his movements swift and purposeful as he struggled against the weight of your lifeless form. Halfway to the surface, he summoned his power and with a flicker of shadows, he winnowed to the shore, still holding you tightly in his embrace.

Your body felt unnaturally cold against his, your skin pallid and clammy as he laid you gently on the ground. Panic surged through him as he knelt beside you, his hands shaking as he pressed against your chest, desperate for any sign of life. But there was nothing—no rise and fall of your chest, no flutter of your eyelids. Tears stung his eyes as he stared down at your motionless form, the weight of his failure crushing him with each passing moment. "No," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion as he fought to suppress the rising tide of despair. "No, no, no."

With tears streaming down his cheeks, Azriel bent over your motionless body, his hands trembling as he began chest compressions. Each push was an agonizing reminder of his helplessness, his fingers pressing against your chest with desperate force, willing your heart to respond.

The bond between you dimmed with each passing second, a thin thread of connection that threatened to snap at any moment. But Azriel refused to let go, his mind consumed by a singular determination to bring you back from the brink. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours, breathing life into your still body with every exhale. The taste of saltwater lingered on your lips, a bitter reminder of the depths from which he had pulled you.

His movements were frantic, almost desperate, as he continued to alternate between chest compressions and breaths, his own breath ragged with exertion. His wings, normally a symbol of strength and power, drooped at his sides, soaked with water and heavy with the weight of his despair. In the midst of his efforts, he failed to notice the arrival of Cassian, Nesta, Rhys, and Feyre, their shocked gazes fixed upon the scene unfolding before them. They hovered at a distance, unsure of how to intervene, their hearts heavy with the weight of your precarious situation.

But Azriel was lost in his own world, consumed by the task at hand. He refused to acknowledge the fear gnawing at his heart, the dread that threatened to consume him whole if he dared to let it in. Azriel's hands moved with a desperation born of sheer terror, his fingers trembling as they continued to press against your chest. Each compression sent a jolt of anguish through his body, his muscles straining with the effort to bring you back to life. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears. "No, please."

His vision blurred with tears, the world around him reduced to a hazy backdrop of grief and despair. He chanted your name like a prayer, a desperate plea to whatever gods might be listening to spare your life. "You can't go," he pleaded, his voice breaking with emotion. "Not like this." Beside him, Cassian's heart shattered at the sight of his brother's anguish. Stepping closer, he placed a hand on Azriel's back, a silent gesture of support in the face of overwhelming sorrow.

"Brother," he murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears. But before he could say anything more, Azriel's head snapped in his direction, rage blazing in his eyes. "No!" Azriel snarled, his shadows swirling around him in a tempest of fury. Cassian recoiled, his heart aching at the sight of his brother's pain etched so clearly on his face. Feyre's sobs echoed in the background, a haunting melody of grief that underscored the desperation of the moment. Rhys and Cassian shared a look, their expressions mirroring the anguish that weighed heavy on their hearts.

But it was Azriel who bore the brunt of the agony, his entire being consumed by the terror of losing you. As he clung to your lifeless form, he felt the weight of despair pressing down on him, threatening to crush him beneath its unbearable burden. With each passing moment, he watched helplessly as you slipped further away from him. Your lips, once full of color, now turned a lifeless shade of blue, your cheeks growing hollow with every breath you didn't take.

"Please," he begged, his voice raw with anguish. "Do something! Rhys, please!" His words were a desperate plea, a cry for salvation in the face of overwhelming despair. But as Rhys stepped closer, a defeated look on his face, Azriel's heart shattered into a million pieces.

"I... I can't," Rhys murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I'm sorry, brother, but..." Azriel's rage boiled over, his pain spilling out in a torrent of emotion. "You don't understand!" he screamed, his voice cracking with anguish. "She is my Mate!"

Don't go I can't do this on my own Don't go I can't do this on my own Save me from the ones That haunt me in the night I can't live with myself So stay with me tonight

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, their significance sinking in with a painful clarity. Rhys and Cassian exchanged shocked looks, their faces a portrait of sorrow and disbelief. And as Feyre wept silently in the background, the weight of the truth settled over them. Azriel's cries echoed across the desolate landscape, a symphony of grief that pierced the night with its raw intensity.

With each failed attempt to revive you, his soul fractured a little more, the pain tearing through him like a relentless storm. He clung to you desperately, his fingers digging into your lifeless flesh as if trying to anchor you to the world of the living. But no amount of pleading or praying could bring you back, and with each passing moment, the reality of your loss became more unbearable.

Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked, mingling with the cold water that surrounded you both. In that moment of utter despair, he felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, leaving behind nothing but a gaping void where you once belonged. In the eerie silence that followed, broken only by the lapping of the lake against the shore, Azriel held you close, his heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

His tears mingled with the water that now cradled your lifeless form, a cruel reminder of the love that had been torn from him so suddenly. "I love you," he whispered brokenly, his voice barely a whisper against the vast emptiness of the night. "I have always loved you." Each word was a knife to his soul, carving out the depths of his grief with ruthless precision.

As his tears fell upon your face, mingling with the coolness of death, Azriel felt the weight of his loss bear down upon him with crushing force. With trembling hands, he brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle yet filled with unbearable sorrow.

And then, with a heart-wrenching realization, the bond between you flickered and died, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. The agony that tore through Azriel in that moment was unlike anything he had ever known, a searing pain that threatened to consume him whole.

A guttural scream tore from his throat, raw and primal, echoing across the desolate landscape. His shadows burst forth from him in a frenzy of writhing darkness, swirling around him like a tempest unleashed. Rhys acted quickly, raising a protective shield to contain the torrent of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them all. Clutching your lifeless body to his chest, Azriel's whole being shook with terror and despair.

"No, this isn't true," he cried out, his voice a desperate plea to the uncaring heavens. "Don't leave me." But there was no answer, no miracle to bring you back to him. In that moment, the reality of living without you crashed over him like a tidal wave, threatening to drag him under. How could he go on without you? How could he face a world that suddenly seemed so cold and empty?

Your laughter, your smile, the warmth of your touch—all of it was gone now, lost to him forever. And as he held your lifeless body against his, Azriel screamed, a primal cry of anguish that echoed into the night, a haunting lament for a love that had been stolen away too soon.

With his forehead pressed against yours, Azriel wept, his tears mingling with the water that surrounded you both. He pressed a gentle kiss to your cold cheek, his lips trembling with sorrow and regret. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I failed you. I failed us."

The shadows around him finally began to still, their frantic dance slowing to a mournful sway. Rhys lowered his shield, allowing the others to approach, their faces etched with sorrow as they took in the devastating scene before them. Cassian stepped forward first, his expression a mixture of grief and disbelief. "Az," he said softly, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I don't know what to say."

Azriel looked up at his brother, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. "Say that it's not true," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Tell me this is just a nightmare and I'll wake up soon." But Cassian could only shake his head, his own heart heavy with grief. "I wish I could," he said quietly. "But this is real, Az. And I'm so sorry."

Azriel's voice cracked with anguish as he spoke, his words a desperate plea to the heavens. "Why you?" he cried, his voice raw with pain. "You were everything good in this world, everything bright and beautiful. Why did it have to be you?"

He clutched your lifeless form tighter to his chest, as if by sheer force of will he could bring you back to life. "It should have been me," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "I'm the broken one, the one who's lived in darkness for so long. You deserved so much better than this."

Tears streamed down his face as he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hitching in his chest. "I can't do this without you," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You were my light, my reason for living. And now you're gone."

His heart shattered into a million pieces as he held you close, the weight of your loss crushing him beneath its unbearable burden. "Please come back," he begged, his voice choked with grief. "I can't bear to live in a world without you."

Don't go I can't do this on my own Don't go Save me from the ones That haunt me in the night I can't live with myself So stay with me tonight

Rhys approached Azriel cautiously, his expression heavy with sorrow. "Az, we need to leave soon," he said gently, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. "You'll freeze to death out here." Azriel's tear-streaked face twisted with fury as he turned to Rhys, his grief-stricken eyes burning with intensity. "I can't leave her here," he growled, his voice thick with emotion.

Rhys nodded solemnly, understanding the depth of Azriel's pain. "I know, brother," he replied softly. "But we can't stay here forever. We need to take her home."

Azriel's sobs echoed through the desolate landscape, his voice barely above a whisper as he pleaded, "Just five more minutes." His gaze remained fixed on your beautiful face, etched with pain and longing.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a somber glance before silently stepping back, giving Azriel the space and time he needed to say goodbye. The minutes stretched into hours, the sun dipping below the horizon and rising again, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. But still, Azriel clung to your lifeless form, his whispered pleas of "just a little more" echoing through the silent air. Each passing moment felt like an eternity as Azriel grappled with the reality of your absence. The weight of his grief was palpable, a heavy burden that threatened to consume him. But still, he couldn't bring himself to let go, as if leaving this place would make the devastating truth more real.

As the sun reached its zenith once again, casting long shadows across the landscape, Rhys approached Azriel with a heavy heart. "Az," he said gently, his voice filled with compassion, "we need to go." Azriel's voice was raw with emotion as he stood for the first time since arriving at the desolate shore, still cradling your lifeless form in his arms. His eyes, once filled with anguish, now held a haunted emptiness as he spoke to Rhys, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I can't live without her, Rhys," he confessed, the weight of his words heavy in the air. Each syllable was laden with the depths of his grief, a pain that seemed insurmountable in the wake of your absence. Rhys's heart clenched at Azriel's words, the pain evident in his brother's voice piercing through him like a blade. He could see the devastation etched into Azriel's features, the unbearable weight of loss bearing down on him.

"I know, Az," Rhys murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I understand. But we have to take her home. She deserves that much." His own grief threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand. "We'll give her a proper farewell, Az. Together." Azriel cradled your lifeless form in his arms as he followed Rhys, his steps heavy with grief. He thought of all the moments they had shared together in Velaris, the quiet nights spent stargazing on the balcony, the lazy mornings talking over coffee. He thought of the way your laughter echoed through the streets of the city, a beacon of light in the darkness.

But now, all of those moments felt like distant memories, fragments of a life that was no longer his to hold. As Azriel prepared to winnow back to Velaris, your lifeless form cradled in his arms, he couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of regret that consumed him. He would never get the chance to kiss you again, to hold you close and tell you how much he loved you. He wished he had confessed his feelings before, before the bond had been revealed, before it was too late.

You had died alone, unaware of his love, unaware that you had a mate who cherished you more than anything in this world. The thought tore at his soul, leaving behind a gaping wound that he knew would never fully heal. He would carry the weight of that regret with him for the rest of his days.

But as he prepared to winnow, to leave this desolate place behind and return to Velaris, he knew that he had to find a way to live with the pain, to honor your memory in every moment of his existence. You may be gone, but your love would live on in his heart forever.

With one last lingering look at your peaceful face, Azriel whispered a silent promise to himself, to remember you, to cherish you, to love you for all eternity. And then, with a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, he winnowed away, back to Velaris, with you in his arms, your spirit forever intertwined with his own.

Don't go Don't go Don't go Don't go

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆

A/N: I'm sorry. Whew. I made myself cry while writing this. Please let me know if you enjoyed this and if you'd be interested in an alternative ending. :)

[bonefall]

the cats of the park is just frostpaw finally getting some therapy

tbh tho I feel like them being separate from clan life would help her immensely. They’re not so wrapped up in this culture of battle so they have a new and refreshing perspective (and also frost doesn’t have to worry about ulterior motives because they are STAYING AWAY from THAT trainwreck that is the clans)

RE: Nothing in BB!ASC is set in stone until the arc is done BUT

One excellent thing ASC has done with the Park cats that is commendable, is that they're treated as legitimate. Not inferior or malicious. They're just another culture that Frostpaw is going to learn from. The bar is UNDERGROUND but we've finally hopped over it.

So I'd want to keep and acknowledge that.

I think I might have an interesting idea for Frostpaw's journey. Also, side note... I'm thinking BB!ASC will rename every book because these titles are actually awful, im sorry. So I'd call this one ASC: The Source of the River

Gonna jot these down;

So, to begin with, Frostpaw calls the human. While being heavily sedated, she has her first vision of Riverstar.

FROSTPAW DOES NOT HAVE A SPECIAL CONNECTION TO STARCLAN.

She NEVER would. Screw that. Instead-- learning to connect to this vision of Riverstar, to her ancestors and their wisdom, is a SKILL she would learn.

Frame the journey less as Riverstar's Side Quest and more as Frostpaw chasing the Revelation she had while anesthetized.

So when she wakes up, she's thinking about how incomprehensibly VAST Riverstar was. She can't even imagine how there's enough space in the world to contain such a being.

Even the Lake itself... the lake is just a droplet, being suckled like a kit on the teat of the Southern Inlet river

For a second, her troubles seemed like a small flea on the nose of a great, cosmic being. But as she reconnects with the mortal plane after her dream, the flea becomes an infestation. She doesn't know where to begin, or how she can save her Clan.

She thinks back to Riverstar. The river that feeds the Lake. Was that what he was trying to tell her? That she has to follow it to the source?

STOP 1: RIVER WARD

The BB!Tribe is massively overhauled. The Tribe of Rushing Water defines themselves as three Wards (Cave, Mountain, River), connected by living on the same stretch of river.

From them, she learns about connections. They are simply able to call upon each other for all they need, there's no need to "appoint" someone to manage everything.

Families and friends hold each other accountable, networking and negotiating constantly. When the group must act as one, it casts stones.

Their Stoneteller is a religious leader, but all cats connect with their ancestors by personally interpreting omens, even without needing to go see him.

(Contrast to BB!Clans, whose Clerics are the KEEPERS of holy knowledge, and it is a sin to interpret StarClan's will on your own)

Yet, there are downsides. She can see ostracised cats who skirt at the edges of the Ward, especially the descendants of a particular group (called Flicks) that she learns once tried to invade the River Ward.

Though they welcome travellers and have a positive view of Clan cats as "family," she learns that they freeze out those who break taboo. Even for smaller offenses-- social faux pas and personal disputes have caused rifts within the Ward.

And the personal omen interpretation means that two cats can try and justify their feelings with religious commands, leveraging any "soothsayer" (particularly religious cats) connections they have like a social pissing match, unless they're both willing to get dragged to Stoneteller.

From all this, Frostpaw learns that she CAN connect to Riverstar and her ancestors, even if she can't speak to them... and that she must LISTEN. Not allow herself to twist her ancestor's words.

And all the Wards are connected, by the source of a river. Suddenly she answers her question.

"How could the world be big enough to contain a being like Riverstar?" Because water isn't all in one place. It's everywhere. It pools where it can and flows where it cannot.

And yet-- a single people is connected by its water. Three wards, one River. Five Clans, one Lake... three siblings, one belly.

Her heart aches thinking about Curlfeather.

She thinks of when quarreling Tribemates are brought to Stoneteller to arbitrate, and be taught the truth. Brought up the river, to its source at the waterfall.

That has to be it! The source, the BEGINNING.

Stop 2 would be WarriorClan as she heads south, but I'm not sure what they'd teach her yet lmao. Monkeystar says "Hi! Do you want to learn how to play a kazoo"

STOP 3... I'd want to rename the Park Cats. Maybe the New Park cats.

(evil brain: "Neopark. Make terrible petsite joke. Be reincarnated as a lotus flower)

There would also be a BIG recap of Ancient Park culture, and the River Kingdom. Frostpaw knows they had KINGS.

And a lot of aspects that modern Clan cats have-- ceremonial sparring, mentors and apprentices, the Law of the Deputy... those came out of the River Kingdom, before its collapse in the Code Era.

But these cats are NOTHING like the glorious tales of a Kingdom warrior. In fact... this is THE park!

THE park that was destroyed, which King Arc-of-Park lead his people away from. How could it have been ruined if it's still here?

(Reality: the Park was shrunk and landscaped. It was destroyed in that time to the perspective of cats. Maybe she'll have some visions of the past through meditation...)

But the survivors, and those who chose not to follow their King... they remained. And they continue to thrive.

Like canon, have them teach her the ability to meditate. Unlike Tribe cats, meditation is about SIGNS, not OMENS. Omens are physical. Signs are psychic.

(Also i like Bee so im probably gonna keep him as Frosty's yoga coach)

She sees Riverstar a few times, has details of Curlfeather's scheme revealed to her in enough chunks to piece together,

but is eventually bowled over when her best, most productive meditation yet... results in a black shadow.

He has a shining pearlstone adorning his head, and deep, wet pools for eyes. Very few other features can be made out, besides his paw, which is shockingly normal compared to his wraith-like body.

Somehow, Frostpaw understands she is looking at a Patron. But she doesn't know who he is until he tells her, he is King Arc-of-Park.

Though remembered, he is not invoked often. The details of his appearance are lost. All that remains of him is his paw-- carried on in a few expressions and the -paw suffix. The one which Frostpaw herself currently bears.

Since Riverstar, his beloved son, so rarely speaks in straightforward terms, he has come to give Frostpaw her answers.

But before she speaks, trembling with desire for finally FINALLY getting the truth, almost frozen by the sheer volume of things she needs to know, he stops and tells her,

"You have earned the truth, Frostpaw. Be not afraid to ask for what you are owed-- but we only have time for three questions, and I shall ask three in turn."

Question 1: "What did you need me to learn?"

"Many things. How to find your own answers. The perspective of the thousand eyes you've met. The wisdom that only a pilgrimage can bestow. I, too, was no leader before I brought my people up the river, and now you too must save RiverClan. Have you learned what we sought to teach?"

She feels unsure... "I don't think I can know if I have, until I go home."

Even though he has no mouth, she can hear his smile, "That is a yes, child."

Question 2: "What am I learning about RiverClan and its history, if these New Park cats are nothing like my Kingdom ancestors?"

He hums, "You have come to the source of the river, and are vexxed to not find the water that is already swirling downstream? No cat stands in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and they are not the same cat. Are my people gone, Frostpaw, or do they live on?"

Stunned, her jaw hangs open ever so slightly. She thought she knew the answer right away, but his simple question becomes a riddle on her tongue.

He tells her not to worry. She does not need to answer his questions immediately, as they're running out of time. Ask your last.

Question 3: "...did my mom love me?"

IMMEDIATE, "she did. Child of my distant blood, she loved you like a king loves his prince. Ferociously, ambitiously... selfishly."

He cradles her face in his one, massive, silk-soft paw, like he's reaching out of the shadows, across time itself. His last question, "She put you in a terrible position, didn't she?"

A lifetime's worth of love and agony bubbles out of the kid, "SHE DID. She DID and I never did ANYTHING to deserve this, I did everything she told me, and I just wanted to make her happy, and... and i miss my mom."

When she returns from her trance, she's crying.

But her companions are here to help her unpack all of what she just learned.

Will probably end up letting her recruit a little DND party lmao... maybe one cat from each pit stop. Heartstar shouldn't be the only girlie who's allowed to get expansion packs.

Make a little found family here that Frostpaw returns home with.

RE: NOT. CONFIRMED YET. NONE of this is BB canon yet. Just thoughts I need to get down.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Ever

When Bea first arrived at the abbey -whose name sits on the tip of her tongue, but bears no flavor of familiarity- she had been impressed by the size of the building, and its grandiose architecture, being met with tall spires and chiseled stone from the onset... but as the years had passed, she found herself less intimidated by it's size, and more so annoyed by the magnitude of the grounds themselves.

With a population of some hundred or so proclaimed siblings of sin, and other, fancier named members of the clergy, there were few with a firm knowledge of how to maintain the property, inside and out, though, much to Bea's immense relief, she was only responsible for its exterior... and the several acres of land surrounding it.

A steep task for one individual, made all the more bothersome by the actions of one small group in particular; The earth ghouls.

Initially, you might think their existence and ability to shape the landscape and plant life to their will would be useful for taking care of the property, but no.

No.

When an earth ghoul's magic runs rampant, it leaves an undeniable mess in its wake, one that is not easily erased, and requires the diligent, calloused hands of a professional to flatten out the hummocks and cut through the brambles tearing across doorways and clogging the drain spouts...

Out of the lot of them, only one of them seems to have some semblance of shame or remorse for their actions, and more often than not, he's making a strong effort to annoy the ever-loving fuck out of her.

Mountain, for his part, isn't unaware of the way he makes the groundskeeper feel; He's rather self aware in that regard, but it doesn't stop him from poking the bear, because he knows, despite her constant stream of profanity and bothered looks, she's just tired, and understandably irritated by the amount of work placed upon her shoulders.

It would be nice, however, if she were to ever express some kind of... gratitude, or even just say that he wasn't a nuisance and that she enjoyed his company, but the best he gets -and much more than he could have hoped for- is this.

The two of them sat on the ridge that slopes down from the fields down to the rocky shores of the lake, a thermos of tea sat between them, passed back and forth as they watch the sun rise.

They don't talk much, sometimes they don't talk at all, but there's a peace here at her side.

For all her anger, or perhaps because of it, it seemed that Bea had a greater appreciation for life's quieter moments than most; Whatever she had endured before coming to the abbey had made her cynical, world weary, but, slowly, Mountain has seen some of that melt away.

Very slowly.

"Do you..." he starts, looking over at her curiously, "...consider us friends?"

Bea casts her gaze out over the lake, eyes catching the sparkle of the early morning sun on the water.

"You're my only friend." she says plainly, voice devoid of emotion.

"Here?"

"Ever."

The sun rises.

[thetopichot]

The Yuuriboys but they're camp counselors.

Alphonse (The Popular Camp Counselor):

He's the fav of the fandom, he's the fav of the kiddos mostly because he's hip & has similar humor to them. He also has pink hair so points for that. He also reminds me of those popular teachers who are also coaches that alot of the class likes so yeah.

Auron (The Strict One):

Yeah, he's no fun to the kiddos. He looks scary & has like this resting bitchface which you can tell that he'll be strict & hold everyone accountable to the rules. (Even though he's a rulebreaker himself) Well at least the moms that bring their kids to the camp thinks he's hot, I guess. Dark hair, bedroom eyes, moody demeanor, I totally get it/ref.

Biggs/Lucien (Probably Big Foot or sum djdjiensj 😭😭):

Kids think my mans big foot or those scary campfire story creatures that they would talk about. Seth would talk about this creature in the woods to scare the kids & Biggs just pops out to take a shit in one of the bathrooms at the camp. Mf goes like "Oh uh, Gwrah!" The kids scream & run. Finn & Auron are disappointed in both of them for scaring the kids but Auron would lowkey find it funny ajajnsjdj.

Charlie (The Sacrifice):

When one of the counselors or when one of them are trying handle a fight between kids, Charlie is the one that will be sacrificed for the greater good of just saving some counselor's time. He's also the lab rat on doing field trips or camp activities such as going on a climbling rope. If no one wants to pet the snake at the zoo, he would be the one to do it because you know damn well that Auron is NOT touching a snake cause FUCK THAT. Luckily, he's always praised for just helping kids have courage even though he doesn't want to do none of these things but hey he gets paid a extra 2 dollars so I guess sure why not?

Faust (The One That Talks Shit):

Yeah, Faust would talk shit behind a kid's back & he would gossip about everything at the camp. Like Auron has weak ass bones & if you poke his shoulder, he would be immense pain or he would gossip about a kid's crush on another camper with the camp counselors. Similar to Auron, he's also a asshole too which not many of the kids like either.

Finn (The Father Figure Of Camp):

In my experience when I was a kid, there would be always that one camp counselors that acted like a sweet parent who genuinely want those kids to grow & have a amazing experience at camp. Yup, that's Finn. I dunno anyone at camp that wouldn't like him since he does his job at being a camp counselor very well because he actually loves his job & he's a nature boy so, hell yeah! Even more of a bonus for Finn is that he could go hours & hours about talking plants & their origins & the kids absolutely find it so cool. Finn would absolutely make food for the kiddos if they were on a hike. Finn is just a wholesome boyo honestly 😭😭 I WANNA MARRY HIM NOW-

Jack (The Hype One):

Whenever the sport activities come around, he's the man for the job. Man is hype asf when it comes to team activities. Well, Jack is the guy who throws hype ass college parties & team activities are no different. Sir is the definition of YOLO & would probably bring like a speaker & fuck it up as he should‼️‼️🗣🗣

Seth (The Camp Counselor):

He is literally the definition of Camp Counselor. He hikes, he cooks meal on a camp fire, scary stories to tell at camp, swims in mountain lakes, knows things about dangerous plants, lives without fear, BRO IS HUGH JACKMAN NAME ME ONE THING THAT WOULDN'T MAKE HIM A PERFECT CAMP COUNSELOR-

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (33)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, metion of underage sex, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Even when she was a child, Alys used to have dreams about a white-haired man, arriving on a huge beast the size of a mountain to change her life. Her mother did not know what moon tea was and did not know that she could remove an unwanted child.

She was therefore born as a burden and the unpleasant result of a brief affair between her mother Lena and her father, Lord Lyonel Strong. She bore the name Rivers, like any bastard child.

For as long as she could remember she had been haunted by dreams and visions which, as it turned out later, were reflected in the future. She saw a sheep with its throat cut in a dream, and the next day she found her mother, lying on her bed with her veins cut − from then on, she managed on her own.

She was always told by the men around her that she was beautiful, that she had gorgeous hair and eyes − she decided to take advantage of this. She lost her maidenhood at the age of thirteen with a guard who smelled of sweat and alcohol.

She remembered feeling immense pain and discomfort − she tightened her lips so she wouldn't start screaming. Afterwards, he gave her some coins and the bread that he had received for meal.

Her father used to send her some coins, but not enough. When he found out how she was making money, he forbade her to do so, putting her under the authority of the maester.

He began taking her to fields full of grasses and herbs, telling her about their properties and what could be made from them.

Alys then thought that health was a supreme value and if she learned the secrets of herbalism and disease, she would be a person who could not be disposed of or killed.

She would be indispensable.

She was not wrong.

She was never wrong.

When her father died in the flames, she felt nothing. She didn't regard him as a father, but more as her protector whom she served.

She knew that he was ashamed of her existence.

After his son, her half-brother Larys Strong took over, she knew that she had to act quickly. She saw blood in her dream, a rose bush without flowers, full of thorns − she knew what it meant, she knew that evil would come with him.

She avoided him as much as she could, hiding in the shadows, wrapping his guards and fellows around her finger. She saw the way they looked at her, knew what to do, how to make them want her. She didn't impose on them, merely showing them what they could have, her gaze was enough to make sure that they couldn't forget her.

When it became apparent that she was expecting a child, she wondered whether to leave it in her womb − she finally decided to let the gods make the choice.

When she miscarried after a few months, she did not even shed a tear − she thought, however, that her breasts were full of milk that was about to go to waste.

She became a wet nurse, sizing up some gold again. Her little fortune grew slowly, her tendrils tangled around Larys like a spider web.

Still, she dreamt of the white-haired prince without an eye. She had heard of him, about Prince Aemond Targaryen − she knew that he was ten years younger than her and she knew that they were destined to meet.

She saw herself stroking her swollen abdomen and knew that this was his heir, his seed.

And then, finally, each time she heard the splash of the water, saw his body sink to the bottom of the lake along with his great dragon.

She wondered what she could do to save him, why the man who was destined for her was also destined to die like this, before he even saw their child.

She felt nothing when word reached her that Prince Aemond had officially chosen one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters as his wife. She thought it changed nothing.

Marriage was a dry agreement between families.

Passion was something else entirely.

She became concerned, however, when she stopped dreaming about him from that point on − she prayed about it before going to sleep, but no vision with him, neither in the sun nor in the fire ever came to her again. After a few weeks she wept in despair for the first time, understanding that something had happened, that destiny had changed.

That the gods had intervened.

Her dreams of him were replaced by another, recurring one − she saw fire consuming fields and forests, destroying houses, burning people, unstoppable and uncontrollable.

Then she saw black clouds coming, the sky trembling, and a warm, gentle rain falling on the scorched, mutilated earth, bringing relief, its scent filling her lungs.

And then the fire came to her.

It began to burn the fields where she had gathered herbs, it burned the house of the people from whom she had bought milk, it burned the grove where she had prayed, leaving only dust and ashes. They brought her along with other people to die and then she saw him.

She felt her heart begin to pound hard as she saw his eye patch − he stood in full armour, sure, cold, unfeeling, fire bursting in his heart.

She stared at him as if enchanted, and when their eyes met and she stopped in front of him she knew that he felt something.

Their shared destiny.

When she heard that he was suffering from pains related to the eye that he now no longer had, she made an ointment especially for him and carried it to him.

She knew that this was her moment.

As she stepped into his chamber a shiver went through her − she saw his cold gaze drop greedily to her breasts, felt a squeeze between her thighs at the thought that he desired her. She knew he did; she could feel the tension between them in the air.

She was never wrong.

"I have brought an ointment to apply to your eye, Your Grace. One of the guards conveyed me you were in pain." She said, looking at him with a light, sensual smile. She saw that he hesitated and did not know what to make of her words.

Finally, however, he nodded, pulling his eye patch off, watching her closely. She approached him unhurriedly, placing the jar of ointment on the table, leaning over him. She saw his gaze escape to her breasts and smiled with satisfaction, feeling that as soon as she was done they would fuck on that table.

She removed a sapphire from his eye socket, which she gently placed on the cloth that she had prepared earlier. She put the ointment on her finger and began to spread it over his eye socket, glancing at it carefully, so as not to miss any wound.

She sensed, however, that something was wrong − he looked away from her and stared somewhere to the side, thoughtful, his eye red.

His thoughts had left her, but she didn't know where or why.

She pressed her lips together at the thought, feeling pain and a squeeze in her throat.

She had waited so many years for him, and he was thinking of someone else.

When she finished, she placed her fingers gently on his hand, wanting to remind him of her presence, but he flinched suddenly as if she had snapped him out of a trance and took his hand away, glancing at her warningly, his lips tightened.

"You may leave." He said, turning his head away, not looking at her.

She felt as if he had slapped her.

However, she did not show her distress.

Over the years she had learned to mask her pain and discomfort well.

"I could give you an heir, Your Grace." She said and saw him flinch all over, glancing at her in shock.

She was the only woman who could give him what he wanted.

Fire and darkness, the passionate, aggressive dance of their bodies, the struggle and fulfilment full of screams and moans.

She could have given him a child.

He looked at her, in his gaze no longer desire but a darkness that shocked her.

"You may leave." He said with emphasis, menacingly, low, so that she felt shivers down her spine. She swallowed quietly and bowed respectfully to him.

"Your Grace." She said softly, turned and walked away, closing the door behind her.

She was furious with herself, but she could not hold back her tears as she walked down the corridor of the fortress.

She had waited for him, waited so many years, seen them together flying through the heavens on his great dragon towards the sky.

She had seen their son.

What had happened?

She circled around him like a shadow, not intending to impose on him, wanting him to come to her himself, to break.

She could see that he was in a fury, on fire, that he glanced at her sometimes with a look that could kill and bring her to fulfilment at the same time.

He knew perfectly well what she could give him and some part of him wanted it.

However, she woke one night to hear a commotion outside her door, to hear someone whining and moaning. She left her chamber, going down the stairs barefoot, and that's when she saw them.

He embraced her, pressing her against the wall as if he wanted to devour her, her hands clenched on his hair and shirt, her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips parted sweetly, eyelids clenched in pleasure, sweat on their bodies.

She saw his hips move greedily inside her, saw her body shudder with each of his brutal, helpless thrusts, saw him whisper to her, panting loudly. She sobbed and squirmed at his words until she came at last, and he with her.

After that, they sank to their knees, stroking their faces, looking at each other.

Her Prince desired another.

He craved his wife.

She returned to her chamber, feeling only emptiness.

She lay down on her bed and gazed at the starry sky, knowing that she had nothing − the only purpose of her life was to wait for his arrival.

Without him she was just Lord Strong's bastard, a whore who no one would ever marry.

The next day she rose at dawn as she did every day, slowly preparing ointment for the burned wounded, moaning and wailing outside the fortress.

She treated everyone who needed it, not refusing to help anyone.

She shuddered when she heard that someone come inside and recognised the girl who had moaned in the Prince's embrace the night before.

His wife.

She noticed, surprised that she was not wearing an attire appropriate to her position − she looked like a boy, betrayed only by the braid woven from her hair and her soft, gentle face and girlish curves under her attire. She bowed before her, her expression calm and gentle.

"My Lady. What brings you here? I did not expect your visit." She said softly, wondering what she might have wanted.

She thought she had found out that she wanted to seduce her husband and had come to threaten her.

Women often did that, especially when she shared her bed with their husbands.

As if she was the one who had sworn allegiance to them.

"I’ve heard a lot about the Witch of Harrenhal. I would like to help you treat the wounded." The girl said lightly, walking through her chamber with a happy smile, looking around curiously.

This was not the answer she had expected and she felt intrigued.

She thought that she would play her game.

"Truly? That’s an amazing coincidence. I could really use someone to help me." She muttered low with satisfaction.

It was true that there was so much work to do with the injured that she didn't know where to put her hands first.

A helper would indeed be useful to her.

She took a wooden board out of a drawer and placed some roots and herbs beside it, placing a second knife next to it. She pointed with her hand to the place opposite her, and the girl approached, apparently waiting for her instructions.

"I prepare an ointment to help burns heal faster. I use it the most, so I have to prepare a new one every morning. This white root is a weeper, cut it into small cubes and then squeeze the juice out of them into this jar." She said calmly, pointing to the jar standing beside her. She nodded and got straight to work.

"What do they call you? I wouldn’t want to address you as witch. It’s impolite." She said lightly without looking at her, squeezing the juice from the root exactly as she should.

She thought that this girl was more than intriguing.

"Alys, my Lady." She said calmly and they spoke no more to each other.

She had thought that she would now be listening to a tirade about her husband or hearing stories about women seducing someone else's men and what befell them.

Nothing of the sort happened, however.

She was aware of the effect she had on her husband and was not afraid of any other woman.

Who could be a threat to her when he wanted her so much?

They spent the rest of the day among the wounded, applying a jointly prepared ointment to their wounds. They worked at a distance − she was quicker, so she did not wait for her, the prince's wife, however, did not seem to care.

She saw that, despite her discomfort, the girl showed compassion and concern for the soldiers, chatting to them, even bestowing a smile on them at times. She saw that she was dirty from dust and blood, all sweaty, locks of her hair stuck to her face − she thought, watching her closely, that she was not pretending.

The girl who had taken everything from her seemed so innocent.

She looked away, but then looked at her again, something about her attire caught her eye.

She saw that there were deer embroidered on both sides of her bodice.

The Baratheon family crest.

Strom's End.

Strom.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing quietly − it was only then that she understood the meaning of the dreams that had tormented her for the past nine months.

She was the rain that had put out the fire.

By arriving in Harrenhal, she had saved her husband from ongoing self-destruction.

She realised with both pain and relief that she was no longer haunted by visions in which the Prince was drowning together with his dragon.

He's not going to die, she thought.

She had done what she would not.

She soothed his anger.

She lowered her gaze, painfully aware that she had lost the moment the Prince had chosen her as his wife.

Slowly the sun began to set, so she approached her and informed her that they should eat something − she did not want her to faint because of her.

She knew that she would be met with the fury of her husband.

They sat down on the grass near the fortress a short distance from the wounded, and she took out a piece of bread, cheese and smoked ham from her pack.

"Forgive me, my Lady, this is not a lordly meal. However, I did not think anyone would be joining me today." She said, ripping everything in half and handing it to her in turn. The girl looked at her surprised, her eyes bright, her face gentle.

"We are at war and people are suffering from hunger. A meal like this is perfectly adequate." She said calmly, taking a piece of bread into her mouth without hesitation and biting into it without even croaking.

She knew she must not have liked it, but her behaviour impressed her.

She did not behave like the high-born ladies that she had the opportunity to meet.

They would never eat stale bread, sitting on the dirt with her.

"I imagined you differently, my Lady." She said with amusement, lifting her curious gaze to her. She saw that the girl was confused, feeling that perhaps she was mocking her.

"Indeed?" She asked lightly, trying to hide her anxiety, and she chuckled lowly, unable to contain herself, looking away.

"Yes. Forgive me for this boldness, but you are a charming being." She said lowly, pressing her lips together and looking at her fingers, smiling under her breath.

"What do you mean?" She asked quietly, turning her head away, looking far into the woods, clearly afraid that she would see something in her eyes that she might not like. Alys smiled, seeing this.

"You don't suit this place…" She began, and she looked at her, furrowing her eyebrows charmingly. "…but the fire has called to you, and the scorched earth can breathe at last with relief under the raindrops."

The girl froze completely, her lips parted in shock − she thought, as surprised as she was, that this was not the first time she had heard those words.

"What does that mean?" She asked quietly. She reached out to her with her hand, touching her cheek with her fingers.

It was as soft as she had imagined.

"It means that your husband is not going to die." She said calmly, and then the prince's enraged voice rang out, summoning his wife back to him.

She saw how violently he grabbed her by the nape of the neck, how he pressed his forehead against hers, how his nose traveled down her cheek.

She thought, shocked, that despite the aggression and darkness that filled his heart, he was tender towards her.

He let her go at last, walking away, leaving her alone.

And then all hell broke loose.

The girl whose soft skin she had just appreciated was lying burnt by the dragon fire that she had barely managed to extinguish on her − she watched helplessly as her skin clumped with the material oozing and bleeding.

She thought she should feel the satisfaction of her never being beautiful again, but she didn't.

"My Lady, we have to get out of here, please!" She said loudly, trying to lift her up − the girl sobbed loudly, rising from her knees and they both moved towards the woods.

They fell beneath the trees, a large red dragon burning everything around them. She glanced at her burn and touched it, she screamed in pain − she pulled a bottle from her pocket and unscrewed it, handing it to her.

"Drink, it's poppy milk. It will hurt." She said quickly.

She watched in disbelief as the girl immediately emptied the entire contents, trusting her completely − then her eyes grew misty, her body settled into a half-sleep, and she set to work.

She did everything she could to help her, but her wounds must have left scars.

Her body would never be the same again, she thought, looking at her thoughtfully.

She wondered if he would still love her when he saw her like this.

He, however, when the battle was over literally threw himself at her, falling to his knees beside her.

"− is she alive? −" He breathed out, trembling all at once with madness, terror, happiness and despair. She lowered her gaze, looking at her.

"− yes −" She said quietly, grabbing her wrist, checking her pulse. She felt his hand push her away violently with such force that she fell to the grass.

"− don’t fucking touch her −" He hissed, looking at her with hatred and a murderous rage from which her throat tightened.

His expression changed instantly to one of gentleness when he grasped her cheeks in his hands, as if he became a different person.

She had never seen anything like this before in her life.

"− why is she asleep? −" He asked helplessly, and she sighed quietly, rising to sit up, massaging his shoulder.

"− her attire melted to her skin − I had to clean the tissue, so I gave her poppy milk − I applied the ointment, but she’ll still have extensive scars − the gods are watching over her − the flame flashed across the ground right next to her −" She said calmly.

He pressed his face against his wife's neck, sobbed loudly and froze like that, breathing heavily.

She rose and walked away, allowing him to be alone with her.

He called on her only once afterwards, to show him how to apply medicine to her wounds.

When she unwound the clothes for the first time and he saw how her burned skin looked, he covered his mouth with his hand, his eye red and terrified, his throat clenched. She lowered her gaze at this sight, continuing her work in silence.

When she finished, she saw that he was stroking his wife's cheek, looking at her sleeping face thoughtfully.

"I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I want to be unaware of your existence. If you ever touch her again, look at her, or speak to her, I will take your eyes out, rip out your tongue and cut off your hands." He said slowly, a menace and darkness in his voice from which her throat tightened.

"You may leave."

_____

Taglist 1

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[yanderes-galore]

Redson (from lmk) oneshot? If I need to be specific the darling maybe attempted to escape or leave ^^

Sure! It may be a bit short... but here you go!

Flash Fire

Yandere! Red Son with Escaping! Darling Short

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Violence, Anger issues, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Isolation, Accidental burning/Just burning, Toxic relationship, Implied punishment near the end, Forced relationship.

Ever since he took you here... heat has been all you've known. Lava lakes surrounded the fortress, always making the building hot. Meanwhile, your captor himself, was a demon of fire...

Your past two months have been suffocating.

You've been spending the past few weeks exploring the fortress's many rooms and hallways. You've had to be careful as you do so, not wanting to make Red Son suspicious. You've seen the demon when he's angry...

It isn't pleasant.

Red Son had done a lot to try and garner your attention. He's given you your own room in the fortress, he's been as patient as he can be. Sure, sometimes you've had... hiccups...

But far as he knows, you've been obedient for the past couple weeks! Lately he's trusted you around the fortress more without supervision. Red Son thinks he's broken you in, made you his perfect lover...

In reality, you've been playing a game the past few weeks... remembering every routine... every room...

Then, today, you finally made your big escape.

Sweat clung to your skin as you run across the heated ground. After running across the bone bridge, you're careful to look around. Lava pools greet your vision... the heat immense.

It's hard to breathe.

You begin to realize you didn't plan well when escaping. You knew the building well, yes... but you have failed when it comes to planning how to navigate the volcanic mountain. You bite your lip... yet are determined to not give up.

Escaping is difficult, nearly impossible as you try not to burn yourself. The heat from the lava pools makes your lungs burn. The smell of heated rock stinging in your nose.

You thought you were doing well despite you feeling your skin flare. If you could just sustain it all a little more... Maybe you can find help. You were running mostly on instinct, not quite thinking of what you'll do next... anywhere is better than here...

Then you feel a rush of heat and fire, like an eruption went off behind you.

You're quickly tackled to the ground, the black ash ground coating your clothes and skin. Heat washes over you... hotter than a summer day. Hands hold you down... it feels as though fire is touching your skin.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?" An unfortunately familiar face roars, making you look up in pained fear. Red Son, your captor and forced love, glares you down. His eyes burn with a bright inferno as he growls down at you.

"What has gotten into you!? I thought you learned by now leaving me is futile! Are you trying to get yourself killed! You can't survive alone on this volcano!" Red Son rants, anger and annoyance in his voice but... you can faintly tell he's distressed.

You failed to realize Red Son no doubt knew you couldn't escape. He was not only used to the heat, but capable of teleportation through fire as a demon. In your desperation... you failed to realize how easy it would be to catch you.

You're not being rational... stuck in isolation for months... you just want to go home.

"Should've known you'd try something...." Red Son scoffs, getting off to pull you up. "You were being way too nice...."

Shame and pain render you silenced. Red Son's grip is burning due to his rage. The heat threatens to harm you more than it already is if you push him too far.

Red Son is dangerous when angry... his rage like that of a flash fire... the tension in the air just needing one spark...

Then you'll be engulfed in flames.

"You get on my nerves, know that?" Red Son growls, preparing a portal back home. His home. "I treat you like royalty in a fortress and you do what? You run! You run and pay me NO mind!"

Fire crackles in his other hand before a portal of flame opens. He glances at you with a frustrated gaze before roughly tossing you in. You yelp, fire singeing your skin and hair as you collapse onto the dark floors of the fortress.

You look up to see Red Son step out of the portal, the flame extinguishing as he glares down at you. You recall you're back in the room he gave you. You flinch under his gaze... the burning pain on your skin is a reminder of your failure...

Along with the burning pain of shame in your gut.

"You're never leaving my sight EVER." Red Son scolds, roughly yanking you to lay on the bed. You hiss in pain, but he ignores it. Reluctantly he ignores your pain... even if you couldn't tell.

"Can I even trust you again after this? It's taken months to get this far!" Red Son rambles, exasperated. "You have been such a pain, why won't you love me?"

His last words sounded almost like a plea. The sound of a child, now man, who has been starved of proper love. It almost ignites pity...

But your new burns, accidental or not, remind you he doesn't deserve that.

"... I will not stand for this." Red Son admits, turning to face you. You ironically freeze upon seeing the burning rage in his eyes.

"Look at me." Red Son threats, fire sparking in a hand as he pulls you closer with the other. "You will not do this again..."

He pulls up your shirt, revealing your skin. He then hovers a burning hand over your stomach. You squirm, know what's to come, but it doesn't stop...

"I'll make sure you never do it again...!"

Red Son's threat is the spark needed to ignite the tension in the air, to ignite his wrath...

A flash fire of pent up rage soon enveloping your skin just as you feared... making your screams ring throughout the room...

You really will never run again after this.

[seat-safety-switch]

In much the same way that you can tell you’ve found a really good Chinese chef because she only uses a single cleaver for everything in the kitchen, a good mechanic has found a single tool that is beyond compare. No, it’s not a Snap-On, or even a Craftsman. Often, that tool is what we mortals call “power cursing.”

Scientists once thought that the amount of profanity rolling out of a professional (or amateur) mechanic was a side effect of the labour being performed. A sort of explosive verbal exhaust, if you will. It’s only in recent years that we’ve re-evaluated our previous assumptions, and discovered that the act of cursing is actually what makes the bolt come loose. Fascinating, isn’t it? Wait until you hear how they figured it out.

For years, the US government has had a secret Mechanic Training Base underneath Gloom Lake, code named “Torquemada.” While they lied to our face and told us it was some aliens, they were in fact evaluating wrenches. They captured them from all over the country. You’ve probably heard the story: experienced, seasoned folks who were good at their jobs, but for whatever reasons, “fled to the mountains and never came back.” Yeah. Sure they did, Uncle Sam.

In that underground lair, the government agents brutally experimented on them. Some mechanics who escaped have claimed they were forced to replace the rear heater cores in 2006 Dodge Caravans without being allowed to just cut a hole in the side of the van. Above all, the faceless ghouls who controlled them were looking for an advantage, any advantage, in maintaining the infinite matrix of machines that make up our world. And they found it: the aforementioned power cursing.

Even today, the federal government is working hard on an eighteen-foot-tall robot mechanic. It doesn’t lift a finger to apply a tool. It doesn’t have to. With the power of stolen alien technology, the robot just swears at things very loudly, and they become undone. Engine swaps can be done in minutes, from the tireless font of perfectly-toned cussing coming out of this immense monster’s speaker-laden mecha-mouth. Our great secret art has been corrupted by war profiteers.

[diamondwerewolf]

Some pikmin headcanons, super mundane edition:

- All of Olimar’s children are in someway named after fictional characters (from comics or old strategy board games) he has to pitch them very hard to his wife. Their middle names are zodiacs

-Louie is SUPPOSED to be wear contacts/glasses but always forgets to

-Olimar can speak more than one language, but usually only around his parents

-Sometimes photos of olimar as an adolescent are mistaken for his son. It doesn’t help that the hat he wears is the exact same one olimar had as a teenager

-olimar’s parents don’t like Tarrey. She doesn’t care.

-while they don’t make much, Tarrey has managed to curate a very lovely home. She’s immensely thrifty, an excellent craftsman, and a gardener. Her pride and joy is their backyard

-despite being a housewife, tarrey’s degree is in agriculture

-carrots are to hocotate what corn is to ohio. Or oranges to Florida

-based on what little view of hocotate we have, olimar’s family live on the planet’s desert coast. The town is situated around a critical collection of oasis ponds and lakes. Hocotate is the devil child you get when you cross Japanese mountain side with Nevada and Florida. The drive to the beach is a solid hour.

-the house is in Tarrey’s name. A wedding gift from her mother

-Louie likes to stay up late, which may be why he’s always late to work. He has never been on time, ever

-Louie drives a truck for now. He’s saving up for a new motorcycle…to replace the second one he wrecked popping wheelies on the interstate in the middle of the night with his friends. Despite being a goober he does wear good gear.

-yes Louie has friends

-Louis will drive for hours just to go do some dumb shit in another town, or satisfy a specific food craving

-Louie’s late mother was a cruise ship pilot. Which is why he got an easy job in space cruise cargo loading before working for hocotate freight

-most of Olimar’s alone time is in the family garage. He has an office of sorts set up there where he works, listens to music, or reads news. There’s a small computer desk and a shelf with his action figures and trinkets. There are barrels of scrap wood and various power tools.

-bulbie is based on a beagle, so he yodels instead of barks

-after establishing more of a relationship with olimar and his family, Louie comes and goes from the family home. Sometimes he's there to use the kitchen, the tools in the garage, or wash his clothes. He has his own fridge in the garage so Tarrey won’t kill him for eating food meant for the kids

-Louie can pick locks……

-olimar has very enthusiastically shared pictures and notes he’s taken on pnf-404. He’s shared some stories about his time with the pikmin. Though….has neglected to go into detail about being turned into a leafling as not to worry his wife. If she asks, his answers are vague

[ibrithir-was-here]

Old short story I wrote a couple of years ago and then forgot about. Remembered it the other day, gave it a bit of a brush up, and figured I'd share it. My own take on the old "Dark Snow White" retelling

Sunlight and Snowdrops

Father is sending us away tomorrow, sent for schooling at a monastery far off in the south. His new wife--The Usurper, who I will not grace with the title of queen-- tells us of the walled gardens, where pomegranates and figs grow almost year round on trees with leaves as large and tall as a man, a place where the sea still rushes up freely to meet the shore, long stretches of golden sand, forever warm to the touch.

She has talked of little else for months now, as if she and Father hope that such constant chatter will somehow soften us to the idea of our exile, make us forget the kingdom she has stolen from us, just as she has stolen his heart. And perhaps with my sisters she has somewhat succeeded . They always did take after Father, with their butter-yellow hair, and skin flushed like ripe peaches. Perhaps they were always more suited for such places. But I am my mother’s daughter, as any who look upon me can tell, and I will not be made to forget.

For how could such a flat, lurid place ever hope to compare with the beauty of my mother’s kingdom? What is a stretch of damping sea-shore to the beauty of a deep lake, forever crystallized into the finest mirror? What are walled gardens with their mad jumble of gaudy fruits to the dark towering pines, whispering to each other as the wind moves through them? What monastery could ever hope to reach heaven in the way that the mountains of the valley swell up in dark waves, to crack the egg-shell gray of the sky?

It is the blue sky of that far off place I fear most of all. What want have I for a sky of unchanging blue, suffocating in it’s immensity, with its one great burning eye beating down to peel and crack my skin in the day, and it’s thousand eyes to stare down at night? My mother’s pale sky has never once burned me, never once stared into my dreams, not with her veils of snow to protect me. Her sky is forever changing, shifting from stillness to storm on her whim. Blasting and breaking, soothing and softening, blanketing all with her beautiful covering of pure, protective white.

But my father’s new queen has poisoned its beauty for him, turning his head with her talk of salted water and coarse sand. If she wishes to retreat to such places, then I say let us be well rid of her. If my father and sisters are fools enough to follow her, to believe the lies she and her counselors and sages have spread about my mother, the rightful queen, then let them be off as well. I know the truth, I have not forgotten, I of all her daughters, have remained faithful.

There are so few of us now. So many have turned away from their true queen. But though loyalty is fragile, memory remains as firm as the ice upon the Great Lake. Despite their seeming love for the Usurper, The common people still tell my mother’s story. The Usurper thinks that because she was once one of them, a drudge plucked from obscurity by the weakness of my father’s will, that their hearts have turned to her in full.

But they can never forget my mother completely, she does not let them.

When the winds howl thick, like wolves at the door, the tale, long and wondrous and wild, is whispered between huddled crones and wide-eyed children.

A tale that takes hold of the mind and heart, as surely as the cold takes to the bones.

It begins in Winter, for indeed, how could it not?

A winter long and dark, when my grandmother, a woman wise in the old ways of the world, sat sewing at her window, looking out into the forest that spreads like an ink stain all round the castle, the snow falling heavy all around her, silencing the world as she made her request to the magic of the woods.

Three drops of her own blood she spilt to gain her heart's desire, a child for her childless king. And a child she received, a beauty such as never been seen. Hair black as the trees of the forest, lips as red as the blood she had given, and skin as white as the purest snow. A child of the winter woods, born on winter’s darkest night.

A life had been granted, and so was a life taken away. My grandmother lived long enough to bless my mother with her name, and the king, who once had so longed for a child, was now too grieved to bear the sight of his new daughter. And so my mother was given over to the wife of the castle’s woodsman, recently blessed with a child of her own, and who, most importantly, lived in a cottage on the edge of the woods, far, far away from the castle grounds, and her mourning father’s eye.

For seven years my mother grew up in the care of the woodsman’s family, as loved as if she were their own blood daughter, and the girls loved each other as sisters. They spent many days beneath the shadows of the trees, and learned much from the woods. They say even then, before she had come into her power, that the creatures and spirits of that place knew my mother as part of their blood, knew that something of her had come from something within them, and protected her for it.

It was in the winter of her fifth year that she met my father, a lad of nine, trapped within an enchanted bearskin. She and her foster sister brought him into the warmth of their cabin, saving his life, and each winter for three years after, he returned. She told me once that those winters were some of the happiest memories of her life, surrounded by those she loved in the shelter of the snows.

It was in summer that her sorrows came.

It was in summer that my mother discovered the gnome that had cursed her bear, and by his death my father was freed from his enchantment, only to then return to his own far off kingdom. It was in summer that my mother was parted from her foster family, recalled to court at last--only to find her own usurper on her father’s arm.

The people of the land adored the lady who had come to them out of the sun-drenched south, calling her their Summer Queen, praising her for the abundance that had blessed the lands since she had wed the king. And surely there was never a woman so beautiful. They say that her hair flowed like sunlight itself down her shoulders until it touched the floor, braided all over with flowers of every hew, and her eyes were as blue and bright as an August morning.

My mother said she could feel those eyes trying to melt her the moment she was brought before them.

My mother was not at court long. One day, the Summer Queen surprised her with a visit from her foster-father, and though he smiled at her, his eyes seemed grim and troubled. They traveled together down to the edge of the woods, far from the eyes of any in the castle--and there he took out the knife, carved all over with flowers, to cut out her heart.

(He claimed later, when the coup was over, and my mother restored to the throne, that he had only done so to protect his family, his own little daughter. My mother granted him the same pity he had shown her, and sent him into the woods, alone and unarmed. I do not know to this day if he fell to the animals or the cold that finally came, but by all accounts, he was never seen again.)

My mother, for her part, wandered for months alone beneath the boughs of the woods. The animals did not harm her, the woods knew its own, but she dared not venture near the edges where human souls still delt, fearful now that any might betray her to the Summer Queen. And as remarkable as she was, she was still only a child, and had never had to care for herself before, and she longed for the cheer and company of creatures like herself.

More than that, the heat of a seemingly endless summer wore at her. August passed into September and September to October and on, with nary a change to be seen. The leaves on the trees remained green, and did not fall. The rivers ran along as full and fat as ever, though there was no snow left to feed them. The sun felt like a great eye, searching for her beneath the sheltering shadows of the forest. Only at night did she find respite, and she longed for the relief of a winter that never came.

Farther and farther she wandered, seeking someplace where she might find some sign of chance, some shelter from the daylight that stretched longer and longer. At last, she found herself upon the slopes of the farthest mountain. Her feet were worn ragged from wandering, and her tongue was cracked from the heat, but with the last of her strength, she managed to stagger to the summit, and there, in a hollow tucked into the dark shadows of the peaks, so dark that even the hottest of summers could not fully touch them, she found snow.

And there her strength finally deserted her. She lay down upon the snow as contentedly as if it had been a feather bed, and might have slipped into the endless sleep beneath that cold coverlet, had it not been for the little men.

The frozen-beards, the valley people call them. Dwarfs that live in the fields of ice upon the mountains, having little to do with the valley people. They delight in the cold, they are said to be able to call up snow storms to hide their homes,and in winter they might be seen galloping along in the wake of an avalanche as happy as a child at play. But for all the ice of their beards, they are warm of heart, and they took the half-frozen child into their home as readily as if she had been one of their own.

For seven years, my mother at last knew peace. In the caves of the mountains she learned much of the songs and stories and skill of her new family. She learned the shaping of swords and the setting of gems,and the summoning of wind and fog, and was happy.

But nothing lasts forever, and at last, summer found her patch of hidden winter.

The king of a far-off land had proclaimed his intention to visit our valley kingdom, which had grown in renown-- and profit-- thanks to the summer that seemed trapped within the crown of our mountain valley. The rivers and Great Lake were never clear of vessels shipping goods out and bringing gold in. Both people and purses grew fat from the bounty, and basked in the seemingly endless sunshine.

There was one stain however, upon the glorious reign of the Summer Queen, though it was only spoken of in whispers, for it would not do to complain of such small misfortune within the wake of so many blessings.

The Draining Sickness.

It came on quickly, overnight in some cases. Those afflicted withered away, drained, pale and almost bloodless, like unwatered plants beneath the noon-day sun. No one knew how it spread, it seemed to only strike one village at a time; and oddly the most healthy and comely succumbed first, as if offended by their vitality and beauty.

Fate however, seemed inclined to some mercy. For each village that was stricken with loss soon found itself blessed with an overflowing of crops and commerce, as if Death felt some blood money was owed.

It was not only the young and lovely who were taken though. The old King, my mother’s father, was struck down on Summer’s Eve itself— along with seven young girls from each of the surrounding villages. But the grief over these deaths was short-lived, such was the glory of the days that followed, the golden sunlight drying the tears from the cheeks of the mourners even as they fell. Indeed, it seemed hard to grieve anything beneath the sun of that long, long summer. The Summer Queen, clothed in green and yellow and scarlet and blue, wore only a black ribbon around her neck for mourning, and none falted her.

It was then that the rumors came, rumors that the visiting king was not only there to see the beauty of the valley, but of its women as well. Indeed, those coming before his entourage said that he was seeking out one who was rumored to be the Fairest of them All.

The Summer Queen, shining almost to match the blazing endless sun, was more than happy to aid him in his search. And it was undoubtedly her efforts to ensure her own success in fulfilling the terms of his quest which led her to discover that my mother’s heart--which she thought she had devoured seven years ago, at the start of her endless summer --still beat it’s red,red blood within her snow white breast.

A grand celebration was proclaimed in the king’s honor, a festival of such magnificence as had never been seen outside of the old stories, and travelers came from all the surrounding lands to take part, ply their trades, and sell their wares. Up and over the mountains they came, and several passed by the cave where my mother dwelt.

Was it any wonder that my mother, still so young, having found a measure of peace in that snowy valley which soothed the burns upon her soul, and made her long to return somewhat to the world of men and look once more upon human faces, took in good faith the laces, brought by from far by the cargo boats; the comb, carved and painted so cleverly with a myriad flower; and finally, most beautiful blood-red summer apple, grown in her father’s own orchard?

When my mother woke again-- to the face of my father, returned from afar at last to find the girl who had freed him from his curse, and had now freed her in return-- she was not so naive.

My father had brought many men with him, and the people of the valley had grown slow and complacent in their bounty. When his men came with their swords, and the frozen-beards called up their icy winds, and my mother rode down upon the capitol in a sleigh made from her own glass coffin, they were not prepared to withstand the onslaught. Soon enough all had either fallen to their knees —or fallen where they stood.

The Summer Queen danced at my mother’s wedding, in shoes crafted by my mother herself, in the art taught to her by her foster-fathers. Shoes which returned upon the Summer Queen all the heat of the sun which she had stolen by her sacrifices and bloody rites.

Then my mother took up her rightful throne, and winter came at last to the valley.

My mother and father were wed in the open courtyard, as the snow fell like diamonds all around them, and all agreed they had never seen a more beautiful sight. My mother’s foster sister, who had remained loyal to her true queen, was reunited with her, and wed to my father’s brother. Children followed both of them after, and for many years, the natural order of the seasons came and went.

It was on my seventh birthday that my mother found the mirror, tucked behind a tapestry woven with fruit and flowers, in the abandoned tower of the Summer Queen.

No one knows where the Summer Queen obtained the mirror. Some have claimed it was a wedding gift from her godfather, a fallen priest who had taken supper at the Scholomance. Others that she crafted it herself, from water and moonlight, on a witch’s sabbath. But my mother told me once that the mirror was only a shard of a greater whole, and that the Summer Queen had only happened upon it, and though her own powers were great, her vain and narrow mind only able to discover the basest powers of the mirror.

But my mother-- born of blood and snow and forest, learned in the lore of the mountain folk, the perfect inversion in shape and soul of the Summer Queen-- could feel at once what was before her. She had higher aspirations than to know of mere beauty. After all, why should she trouble herself over such trivial questions?

She was, and is, the Fairest of them All.

No, my mother asked for vision and clarity, and the mirror readily supplied, showing her the darkness that lay in the hearts of men, the twisted, choking desire she had already tasted in an apple grown of blood and summer heat, and she knew what she must do.

That night, on Summer’s Eve itself, the snows began to fall.

The winters lie heavy on our land now, as heavy as summer once did. Our borders have shrunken back to what they were before the days of the Summer Queen. The rivers she once choked with cargo boats and merry-makers now flow freely beneath the protection of their own glass coffins. The flowers that once crowned her traitorous head have not been seen in many a year. The mountains are eternally capped with snow, the frost-beards no longer trapped within their narrow valley. Our kingdom, once vibrantly flushed with the blood of those taken to feed an endless summer, is now white and pure, cleansed by the endless falling snow.

My mother saved her kingdom from a blood soaked opulence, from a land made rich and fat off the hearts of their own, and yet they still turned upon her. Called her witch, demon, and worse. In the end, as the purifying snows fell heavier and heavier, The Usurper-- covered in ash from the fires she’d set to hold the snows at bay-- besieged the capitol. With her brother at her side, with an army of thred-bare shop-keepers and merchants laid low, she came up the Great Road with as much pride and assurance as if the crown sat already upon her head.

My aunt, foster-sister of my mother, and others who remained loyal, who knew their true queen for the power that she was, fought back. Indeed, my aunt and the wolves that answered to her slew The Usurper’s brother upon the very threshold. But the faithful were soon overwhelmed. The few who survived were driven into the woods, seeking the shelter that had been granted to my mother. The Usurper had the trees set ablaze, calling out that the dark powers of the forest would not be allowed to aid the followers of a witch. Her army came right up to the palace gates. And my father, my dear, foolish, fearful, traitorous father, who’s heart had been turned by The Usurper’s treacherous lies--himself unbarred the door for her.

My mother did not flee, whatever they say. She who had vowed to never be driven by anyone again, she who had bent the very elements to her will. She did not flee before The Usurper’s feeble army of ragged townsfolk and treacherous palace guards,even as they tore up her portraits, burned her books, and smashed her mirror into a thousand pieces.

No,they were not granted that victory. When she fell, she fell of her own accord, and her white gown sparkled like snow-flakes in the sun as she dived, down from the window at which her mother had once sat sewing, down, down into the blazing, waiting embrace of the woods that had heard her mother’s prayer.

When the fires at last burned themselves out, they found my mother’s body, ash covered, but untouched by the flames, as if even they could not bear to besmirch her beauty. She was placed once more in the glass coffin that bore her name, and it sat in state for three days in the royal chapel. She was, after all, a king’s daughter, and wife of another. On the third day, it was gone. Some claim she was properly buried, far beneath the ground, with a hawthorn branch in her heart. Others say that the rebels took the coffin, and burned it till the glass was melted down into a lump as black as her hair had been. The faithful say that the frost-beards came in the dark of the night, and reclaimed their daughter, carrying the coffin up once more to the high valley where my father once found her, to await the day when she will awaken again.

If she has not so already.

For though my mother’s crown sits on The Usurper’s head, and her daughters are to be sent to the far corners of the earth, in hopes the heat of the sun and the scent of the flowers will drive her from their hearts, the winter still lays heavy upon the land, and the wind has not ceased to blow since the day that she fell.

Father is sending us away tomorrow, and I do not think he shall be long in following. So many have left already. He longs for the shores of his youth, where the spring and summer follows after the winter. My uncle, his brother, has already returned there, with many of his children. The common folk are leaving as regularly as they can clear the mountain passes, which is not easy in these times. The birds and gentler animals left years ago. Soon, it will be only the wolves that prowl the dark woods, edging closer and closer into the towns as more and more people abandon my mother’s frozen kingdom. They say that the spectre of my aunt can be seen running with the wolves sometimes, when the moon is obscured by clouds, red cloak trailing behind her like blood on the snow.

They can send me away, but I shall find my way back. A thousand’s flowers scents could not make me forget the smell of the pines, a thousand bird’s songs could not drown out the howl of the wind. The bluest of skies cannot burn away the purest of snows. Not all the mirror’s pieces were ground to powder. I managed to save one, one single shard reclaimed in the chaos that shattered my childhood. I have kept it close, reworked and polished it, set it into a clasp on a chain that rests even now against my heart, hidden beneath my dress so that The Usurper cannot see. Already I have learned much, not as much as my mother, I do not claim that, but enough

And when the time is right, I know it shall lead me home. Past the guards that will be placed at the door, past the gates that will be barred, over the rivers and hills and far away, back to my mother’s mountain. And there I know I shall find her again, hair as black as night, lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow; riding in her sleigh of glass thru the eternal winter air to meet me.

[megmischief]

Seb x Reader - Moonlight Kiss

🖤 T+ rating. Fluff and smoochies 🖤

After a long day of fishing, trying to catch a sturgeon, you decide to take a small break by the lakes edge. It was approaching dusk, and the fireflies were now starting to appear; lighting up the sky like tiny stars. You lay your back into the soft grass below, taking in the ambience of the beautiful atmosphere surrounding you.

"Yo..." A gentle voice greets you from behind and you smell the familiar scent of cigarettes. As much as you weren't keen on the smell, you found it comforting in some sort of way.

"Yo." You giggled and saluted to the mysterious figure looming over you.

"So...whatcha doin' out in the mountains on your own at dusk? You tryna get picked up by a weirdo?" Seb scratched his head, smirking, and sat down next to you.

You sit up to jokingly give him a death stare. "No. I'm trying to catch a sturgeon to create caviar at a later date. It's supposed to make quick money." You let out an evil chuckle.

Sebastian shudders. "Ugh...You're starting to sound like Pierre and Morris. Please stop." Giggling, Sebastian lays down. You lay back down with him.

"Is smoking while laying down really a wise decision?"

"Of course not. But...look." Sebastian points up at the night sky. Pelican Town was devoid of light pollution, but the view from the mountains was something else. You could hear the crickets chirp around you both and see the luminescent fireflies continue to bob about.

"Wow...its beautiful." You sigh. You finally feel relaxed. During the busiest seasons you barely got time to appreciate the nature around you.

Sebastian turns to look at you. He has a glint of infatuation in his eyes. "And so are you..."

You continue looking up at the sky as you feel your cheeks begin to turn red in colour.

Seb pulls your chin to ensure you are looking deep into his eyes. He lingers for a minute; taking in every inch of your delicate facial features. "Can I...kiss you?"

You were in a state of confusion and ecstasy. A meer few minutes ago, you were alone fishing, and now the cute boy you had a crush on was asking to kiss you. You give him a small nod as you look into his eyes.

You were extremely nervous as you began closing your eyes. Sebastian leans over, gently placing a hand on your cheek. When your lips touch, you can't help but feel immense joy. Finally. After all this time. All of the gifts and visits. All of the hints. He was yours.

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✨️If anyone is interested... I may make a part two. It may be...nsfw?✨️